Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Lady Adelicia stood accused of murdering her miserly husband, of smashing his skull with a fire-tong, splattering his chancery chamber with blood and brains. Yet how could she have done that? Wendover knew she was innocent. On the very afternoon the heinous crime had been committed, Adelicia had been with him in his chamber at The Chequer of Hope, ripe and rich, turning and twisting under him. She’d arrived as she always did, in disguise. The tavern was so busy, it was easy for her to slip like a shadow up its outside staircase. Yet such secrecy had not saved her from disgrace. Now she had been imprisoned and accused of murder. So far she had said nothing, yet soon the justices, led by that hard-hearted bastard Castledene, would force her to plead either way under peine forte et dure – she would be laid in the cobbled yard of the Guildhall and pressed with wood and weights until she did so.

  Wendover was in such an agony of mind, he was hardly aware of his duties or his surroundings. He was oblivious of the biting cold, the stark, empty, white-sheeted enclosure, the soaring curtain wall he was resting against and, in the distance, the brooding manor house of Maubisson. He was truly facing his own sea of troubles. Not only did he have Lady Adelicia’s imprisonment to deal with, and the charges which might be laid against him; there was also the business of the Cloister Map and, of course – Wendover shook himself from his day-dreaming – the safeguarding of Maubisson. He left the shelter of the curtain wall and gazed across the hard-packed snow at the manor house, a huddle of dark buildings ranged along the brow of a hill. He could glimpse slivers of light between the shutters over the narrow windows. As he walked closer, straining his eyes, he could make out the outline of the great hall with its gabled wings either end, as well as its porch and steps lit by flickering cresset torches fixed in sconces on either side of the cavernous main door. A strange place, Maubisson. Given a French name by a God-obsessed merchant who had decided to build a church in the old English style that existed before the Conqueror came. A long nave had been raised, really nothing more than a hall; a tower was supposed to be added, but the merchant went to his eternal reward before his idea ever took shape. There had been no consecration and Maubisson had fallen into the hands of the Crown and the city corporation. Over the years other wings had been attached: two-storey buildings of plaster and wood on a stone base which formed a quadrangle with an arched double gateway at the back; that gate, together with the courtyard within, was closely guarded by Wendover’s men, as was each side of the building as well as the front door.

  Wendover stared up at the sky. Night was fading; soon it would be morning. He moved further away. All was still. The owl in the trees had flown on, whilst the dog fox yipping at the cold as it hunted in the undergrowth along the curtain wall had fallen silent. Wendover began to walk the perimeter. He checked the guards as far as he could see, but the snowdrift was rather too deep for the arduous climb up the hill to the porch, so instead he returned to the main gate, sighing with relief at the shelter it provided. He wondered how the foreigners inside were coping. Had they recovered from their journey sickness? Castledene, as well as that interfering city physician Desroches, had been most insistent that Paulents and his family be kept safe and secure. Wendover suspected that the knight was more concerned about protecting the precious possessions of the merchant than anything else.

  Wendover walked across to the campfire, crouching down amongst the other city guards to warm his hands and take his share of the strips of meat cooked to almost black on the oil-soaked pans thrust into the flames. He drank some watered wine and waited. At last it came: the bells of the cathedral, St Augustine’s and other city churches tolling the hour for Lauds and the Jesus Mass. He rose to his feet, tightened his belt, pulled his cloak about him and walked towards the main door. He felt tired, and the journey up the slight incline where the snow had drifted deeply seemed to take an age. He shouted at one of the guards on the main steps to come and help him. The man floundered down to meet him holding a lantern.

  ‘Thanks be to God,’ the guard yelled, extending a staff for Wendover to grip. ‘At least it’s stopped snowing.’

  Wendover grunted in reply as he grasped the pole and pulled himself forward, free of the drift. He climbed the steps to where the rest of his guards were grouped around the fire at the top, lifted the heavy brass door weight, carved in the shape of a mailed fist, and brought it down. He could hear the crashing echo through the hall beyond, but it brought no response . . .

  The dungeons beneath the Guildhall in Canterbury were fetid, rank holes, but Lady Adelicia Decontet had been given the best: this stood at the end of a mildewed passageway, a small, narrow chamber sealed off by a heavy door with a grille at the top. The jailor liked to joke that it was the most luxurious of his lodgings, reserved for prisoners awaiting either trial or their final journey in the hangman’s cart to the gallows outside the city gates. Lady Adelicia now sat in the corner of the cell, warming herself over a dish of coals and staring around in the light of a thick, evil-smelling tallow candle which she’d paid the jailor to fix on an iron hook driven into the wall. She had read and studied all the graffiti etched there: names and initials, sometimes prayers – ‘Jesu Miserere, Maria Mater’ – but in the main curses or lewd and obscene drawings. She was manacled like the rest of the prisoners, though the chains were long enough for her to move to the small table and the scraps of food on a pewter dish, shreds of salted beef, rye bread and hard cheese, which she’d also purchased from the jailor. She stared up at the great cobwebs spanning each corner under the filthy roof, and down at the straw on the floor which, despite her pleas, hadn’t been changed. It was wet, stinking and rotting black. Thankfully the cell walls were thick and kept some of the cold out, while the chafing dish was generously heaped with sparkling charcoal. The smell of burning was a welcome relief from the foul odours which curled everywhere. She tried to close her ears to the cries and shouts of other prisoners, the banging at doors and the cursing of jailors. She’d been supplied with silver and had bribed her keepers well. At least she could eat, was allowed some form of movement, given a jakes pot and, every third day, handed a bowl of water and a rag to wash and clean herself. The pallet bed had also been sheeted and provided with two woollen rugs to wrap herself in when she eventually did decide to sleep.

  Any other woman would have been terrified at the prospect facing her, but Lady Adelicia was cold and impassive, her mind teeming like a busy beehive. She knew she was no murderess. True, she’d hated her husband – who wouldn’t? – with his dirty, cunning ways, slobbering mouth, and small hard eyes like two piss-holes in the snow! An old fox, with his pointed face, scrawny red hair and protuberant ears. A man wealthy enough to buy anything he wanted, yet he ate, lived and smelt like the poorest peasant, a miser to the bone, hard of face and hard of heart, with a foul temper and a tongue coated in venom. Adelicia, a royal ward, had been married off to the King’s money-lender; she had never forgotten that, and neither had Sir Rauf.

  Adelicia shivered, not so much from the cold but at the thought of her dead husband’s hands on her, forcing her head down, making her perform all sorts of abominable practices. In despair, she had prayed. She had visited the House of the Crutched Friars, sat in their shriving pew and whispered her confession, but what relief could they offer? She’d gone before the lady altar, lit tapers, prayed her Ave beads, but there was no escape or respite until Berengaria had arrived. She was a foundling raised by the parish who had done great service in the household of one of Sir Rauf’s clients. When the man had gone bankrupt, Sir Rauf, true to form, had seized all his goods, and Berengaria, a sly minx of about sixteen summers, with saucy eyes and a cheeky mouth, became part of their household. In a short time she and Adelicia had become allies, though not friends. They understood each other. Adelicia would give Berengaria coins, favour her, and allow her liberties never permitted before, and when she had met Wendover, the girl had come into her own.

  Adelicia closed her eyes. The Crutched Friar who’d advised her in the shriving pe
w was right! The road to hell was broad, easy and slippery. One sin led to many greater. Small gifts, coy glances, secret meetings and furtive kisses: in the end they had become intimate and Wendover had proved to be an ardent lover, a welcome relief from Sir Rauf, though recently Adelicia had grown tired of the chattering youth behind Wendover’s tough warrior pretence. Oh, and how Wendover liked to talk, especially about himself and his past exploits as a mercenary, and how they would find the Cloister Map, their path to wealth and riches. What golden prospects the future held! Adelicia would listen to him, as she had on that cold December afternoon before falling asleep. When she’d woken, Wendover had gone. He often did that. Sometimes she found coins or petty gee-gaws missing. At first she couldn’t believe he was a sneak-foist, a pilferer of pennies, when he was supposed to be her accomplice in the search for greater things, yet the evidence was there. Was he also a murderer? Adelicia wondered. On that fateful afternoon had Wendover slipped towards her house and killed Sir Rauf? He had often talked of her being a widow, about what would she do if Sir Rauf died. True, the preachers sermonised about God’s will, but would a man like Wendover be prepared to give God’s will a helping hand? Had Wendover killed Sir Rauf?

  Adelicia turned quickly and screamed at the rat racing across the table; she shook her chains and the vermin disappeared. She thought again of that afternoon. She stood accused of murdering her husband after a violent quarrel. She had rejected such a charge, pointing to the nonsense of it all, yet the accusations remained and now hung over her like a hangman’s noose. Lady Adelicia was no fool. She was a high-born lady accused of dashing out her husband’s brains. Her cloak had been stained with his blood; gore-soaked napkins had been found in her bedchamber, so what hope did she have before twelve good burgesses whose ears would have been bent by their wives as they whispered their honeyed poison?

  So far, Adelicia had kept her own counsel. She had said nothing about Wendover, or their trysts at The Chequer of Hope. Who would believe her? She was cunning and quick enough to realise that it would only go against her. She would be cast as an adulteress as well as an assassin. No, Adelicia had other plans. She knew a little of the law; she would turn King’s Approver. If Castledene accused her of being an assassin, well, she would accuse Sir Rauf of being a murderer. After all, she knew about Stonecrop, what her husband had done; the evidence was there for all to see, that corpse rotting away in the desolate garden of Sweetmead Manor. She would blame Sir Rauf for that and make no mention of the Cloister Map or her relentless search for it. What else should she fear? Berengaria? The little minx was now lodged with Parson Warfeld, apparently unmoved by the horrors around her. Berengaria acted like a cat who’d licked the cream bowl clean, as if savouring secrets known only to herself. Sharp memories pricked Adelicia’s mind, glimpses caught through a half-open door of Sir Rauf stroking Berengaria’s hair. Would the girl remain loyal? And Wendover, with his arrogance and pilfering ways, what would he say?

  Lady Adelicia clutched her stomach. Whom could she trust? In the end she had made the right decision. Castledene knew she had been a royal ward and had forwarded her petition to the King. Edward was now sending his own man into the city. Adelicia nodded to herself and moved towards the table, eager to take another mouthful of watery ale. She would talk to the King’s man and no one else.

  Chapter 2

  Ecce, nocturno tempore orto brumali turbine.

  Behold, at night-time the storm breaks.

  Columba

  Sir Hugh Corbett was roughly roused from his bedchamber at the guesthouse of St Augustine’s Abbey by a heavy-eyed lay brother, hands fluttering, who stammered the usual monastic benediction before hastily adding that Sir Walter Castledene had arrived. The Mayor of Canterbury was deeply agitated, so the lay brother declared, waiting below with his retinue in the refectory. Castledene was insisting that the King’s emissary accompany him immediately to Maubisson.

  Corbett aroused Ranulf and Chanson in the adjoining chamber, going in and out as he hastily dressed, kicking Chanson’s bed, leaning over Ranulf to shout at the heavy-eyed clerk to prepare himself. Corbett pulled on his spurred boots, gathered up his war belt and cloak and hurried down the torchlit staircase. Sir Walter had left the refectory and was waiting impatiently in the hallway; his horsemen milled in the cobbled yard beyond, their mounts snorting and kicking at the cobbles. The torches carried by the riders spluttered sparks through the freezing cold air, making the horses even more skittish. The greetings between mayor and clerk were brief but cordial. Corbett knew Castledene of old. They’d fought in Segrave’s mounted brigade at Falkirk five years earlier. Corbett would never forget that fight. The English longbowmen had broken Wallace’s schiltrons and the heavy mailed cavalry of Lord Segrave had poured in, phalanx after phalanx of armoured knights, to bring the remnants of the Scots to battle, mace against club, sword against stabbing dirk, a frenzy of blood-spilling which still haunted Corbett’s dreams.

  ‘Sir Walter.’ Corbett stepped back. ‘What is the matter?’

  Despite being a wealthy man, a powerful citizen, Castledene looked dishevelled and tired; his wiry frame cloaked in a simple cote-hardie, quilted jerkin and hose above battered riding boots, his lean face drained of all colour.

  ‘You’d best come to Maubisson, Sir Hugh. I have dreadful news.’ Castledene glanced fearfully over his shoulder at his retinue. Mailed men-at-arms clustered in the entrance; others stood outside amongst the horsemen. The mayor hardly gave the guest master, who now came hurrying down, a second glance whilst he curtly nodded at Ranulf and gestured at the door.

  ‘Sir Hugh, come, for God’s sake! We have to go to Maubisson! Paulents and all his family are dead!’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Hanged like a coven of felons! Do you understand me, Sir Hugh? Hanged here within the King’s peace and under our protection!’

  ‘How?’

  Castledene didn’t answer; he was already moving towards the door. All thoughts Sir Hugh had had of joining the good brothers in their stalls and participating in the glory of plainchant were quickly forgotten. He muttered his apologies to the guest master and followed Castledene. Horses were hastily trotted out and saddled, the yard noisy with hooves clattering over cobbles. Ranulf shouted at the grooms to check girth and stirrups. Corbett, half asleep and freezing cold, mounted, gathered the reins and then they were away, cantering out of the abbey yard along a narrow icy lane leading down to the Dover road. Corbett was aware of the jingle of harness, the snorts of horses and the quiet curses of men cantering through the freezing grey dawn. They passed carts lumbering into the city. He glimpsed lantern lights, flickering flames, a lonely lamp glowing in an arched window, but then the dark swept in around them. The road was slightly raised; carts and wagons had already shifted the fallen snow but it was still dangerous going. Two horses went down and they and their riders had to be left behind. At last the comitatus reached the trackway stretching down to Maubisson. Here the snow was so deep they had to dismount and walk their horses towards the iron-studded gateway in the curtain wall of the manor. This was ablaze with torchlight from flambeaux fixed in sconces or on poles driven into the ground. More guards clustered here, all wearing the livery of the city beneath their cowled cloaks: three ravens against a blue and gold background.

  The captain of the guard, Wendover, hastily introduced himself and led them along a narrow path, still buried deep under snow, up the main steps and into the manor hall. The rest of the retinue hung back. Castledene went forward, followed by Wendover, Ranulf and Chanson. As Corbett entered, he gazed around and gasped. He had experienced all forms of horror: he had wandered battlefields where the dead lay thick like some blood-coated robe strewn across God’s earth; he’d stumbled over corpses hacked and cut, past cadavers swinging from trees, eloquent witness of man’s cruelty to man; he’d ridden through villages annihilated like any City of the Plain in the Old Testament, where cottages and houses were blackened shells and the wells were crammed to the brim with
the blue-black remains of the decomposing dead.

  Maubisson Hall, however, possessed a unique, frightening dreadfulness. At first glance the chamber was an exquisitely comfortable one, with dais, tables, benches and chairs; tapestries and coloured stiffened cloths hung against the walls. Candlelight glittered from precious vessels, whilst smoke still curled from the mantled hearth and the air was faintly sweet with the odours of cooking. These just emphasised the hideousness of the corpses: silent, twisting shadows hanging by their necks, held tight by thick tarred rope. Dangling from ugly iron brackets driven into the wall, the corpses were suspended like half-empty sacks; legs, feet, arms and hands trailing, heads slightly turned as if peering into the darkness beyond.

  Corbett ignored the exclamations of those around him and walked across. He studied the stout L-shaped brackets, pieces of iron hammered into the wall either side of the shuttered windows from which lanterns could be slung. Near each corpse a stool or chair had been pushed away. Corbett had seen enough hanged men and women to last him a thousand lifetimes: corpses blacker than charcoal, cavities carved from their eyes by yellow-beaked crows, faces pitted and holed by kites, hollow bones rattling beneath tattered rags. In contrast the Maubisson corpses seemed almost alive, except for those half-open glassy eyes, gaping mouths and protuberant tongues.

  ‘An entire family,’ he murmured.

  ‘Where is Servinus?’ Castledene exclaimed. ‘Their bodyguard? He’s not here!’

  Corbett only half heard him, eyes straining up through the darkness. He wanted to catch the expressions on those dead faces, to remember their ghastliness so that when he began to pursue their assassin he would never forget, show no mercy, offer no pardon.

  He stepped back. ‘Cut them down!’ He gestured at Ranulf, shaking his head in an attempt to clear from his mind the nightmare image of his own family in such a hideous situation. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ he added to Castledene. ‘This is an abomination! Have them cut down.’