by Paul Doherty
‘Why?’ Ranulf asked, as if suspecting what Corbett was thinking. ‘Why kill Griskin?’
‘Why?’ Corbett stared up at the crucifix on the wall. ‘Adam Blackstock was killed by Paulents and Castledene, but they were supported by His Grace the King. He loaned them a company of Welsh archers, longbowmen, and allowed them the use of charts, and harbour facilities at London, Dover and the Cinque Ports. Hubert is waging a war of vengeance; this is not only about lost treasure, but revenge! Revenge against Paulents, which has already been carried out. Against Castledene . . .’
‘And against the Crown?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, Ranulf.’ Corbett turned. ‘Against the King. I warned Castledene to be careful, yet it would seem we are as vulnerable as he.’
Corbett stared round the chantry chapel, then rose and left. For a while he stood in the nave, staring up at the rood screen, lips moving as he mouthed a silent prayer. Griskin’s fate was his own nightmare: of being involved in secret, murky business until one day a knife or an arrow came whipping out of the darkness. He fought to control his own fears. Behind him Ranulf stood watching his master carefully.
‘If he is hunting us, let us hunt him,’ he whispered.
Corbett nodded, crossed himself, genuflected towards the high altar and left the church.
A short while later they had saddled their horses and were about to leave the slush-strewn stable yard when the guest master came hurrying up.
‘Sir Hugh,’ he gasped, ‘there’s a company here called Les Hommes Joyeuses . . .’
Corbett leaned down and pressed his gauntleted hand against the guest master’s shoulder.
‘It’s Brother Wolfstan, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’
‘Where are Les Hommes Joyeuses?’
‘They are camped out in the cemetery near the Langport Road . . .’
‘They’ve come for shelter,’ Corbett declared. ‘Please, Brother . . .’
‘They cannot stay here,’ Brother Wolfstan murmured, bitten fingers to thin lips, his pale, bony face twitching; then his watery eyes smiled. ‘Ah, there is the old priest’s house near St Pancras’ Church. I am sure they could settle there. My Lord Abbot will surely agree. It lies to the south-east of here. I’ll see what I can do, and Sir Hugh,’ he gabbled on, ‘there’s someone else.’
Corbett suppressed a groan.
‘A leper,’ the guest master exclaimed, his hot breath hanging in the icy air. ‘He calls himself the Merchant of Souls and the Keeper of Christ’s Treasury. He left this message with the doorkeeper of the Aefleg Gate: tell Sir Hugh that he will pass our house on the trackway to Queningate; tell him I have a message.’ Brother Wolfstan opened his eyes and screwed up his face. ‘Ah yes, that’s it, say to him I have a message from Griskin.’
Corbett needed no second bidding. He thanked the guest master and left by the Theodore Gate, skirting the high curtain wall on to the main thoroughfare leading down to Queningate, the great eastern entrance into Canterbury. The broad trackway was still ice-bound, and iron-studded carts slowly creaked their way down to the city markets. It was just past midday and the bells of the city were tolling out through the murky air, marking the hour for all workers to rest, to recite one Paternoster and five Aves then break their fast. Ranulf remembered this as he stroked his rumbling stomach. However, Old Master Long Face was intent on business, so business it would be before they ate and drank again. They passed the crossroads. Beneath the broad-beamed gallows, a friar of the sack perched on a wheelbarrow. Either side of him a shivering boy held a glowing lantern horn. The friar, peaked face hidden deep in his cowl, recited the office of the dead, an act of mercy for those who’d died on that scaffold during the previous month. His words rolled awesome and heart-chilling:
He has broken my strength in mid course, He has shortened the days of my life.
Corbett recalled poor Griskin, and as he passed, quietly finished the verse of that psalm.
And I pray to God, don’t take my life away, Before my days are complete.
He pulled the folds of his cloak up over his mouth and nose and glanced warily to his right and left, where snow-filled fields stretched to frost-covered trees.
A short while later, muttering at the cold, Corbett took directions from a tinker shuffling towards the city. They turned off the thoroughfare, following a lane down to the leper hospice. Ranulf was full of objections. Corbett pulled down the folds of his robe, leaned across and patted his companion on the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Ranulf, your death is not waiting for you here; the contagion is spread only by touch and close familiarity, so we will be safe.’
The grey ragstone wall of the hospice came into view. The lychgate was closed and barred though the narrow path leading up to it had been cleared of snow. Corbett dismounted and pounded on the gate. Immediately a bell tolled within and Ranulf heard the fearful clicking of the leper clappers. The gate rattled as bolts were drawn back. Corbett returned and mounted his horse. Three dark-garbed figures slid through the half-opened postern door as both Ranulf and Corbett fought to control their horses. All three were dressed in motley rags, mantles about their shoulders, hands and faces swathed in bands with only slits for their eyes and mouths; their fingers were similarly covered whilst their feet were protected by heavy wooden galoshes.
‘What say ye?’ The figure in the middle walked forward.
‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s emissary to Canterbury . . .’
‘Well, Sir Hugh, king’s emissary to Canterbury,’ the man declared, his voice soft and mellow, ‘I am the Merchant of Souls and I hold,’ he stretched out a hand, ‘the key to Christ’s Treasury, namely His poor.’
Corbett opened the leather bag fastened to his saddle horn and drew out a small purse of clinking coins. He edged his horse forward, dropped the pouch into the man’s outstretched hand and stared down at eyes full of laughter.
‘Why do you call yourself the Merchant of Souls?’
‘Because, Sir Hugh, I promise those who care for us, as any good merchant vouches, that I will sell their souls to God.’ He held up the purse. ‘I thank you for this. These,’ he gestured to his companions standing slightly behind him, ‘are Christ’s poor. Fill their bellies, Sir Hugh, and you fill Christ’s treasury. For if you give a cup of water to one of these, then you have given it to Him.’
‘And Griskin?’ Corbett asked. ‘You said you had a message for me.’
‘I knew Griskin,’ the Merchant of Souls replied. ‘I met him.’
‘You met him.’ Corbett closed his eyes and smiled. ‘Of course,’ he whispered.
‘Griskin’s parents were lepers,’ the Merchant of Souls continued. ‘He looked after them and suffered no ill effects, no contagion. He was not frightened of us.’
Corbett nodded. He had forgotten about his former comrade’s complete lack of fear of other lepers.
‘That is how he travelled the countryside,’ the Merchant of Souls went on. ‘Who would approach a leper? We stand outside city gates, we beg for alms. Our ears may be rotting, but we hear about this person or that. I can tell you all about Canterbury, Sir Hugh. How Lady Adelicia Decontet is held in the dungeons in the Guildhall accused of murdering her husband, as well as that other great abomination perpetrated at Maubisson Manor. You see, Sir Hugh, all things come to us. People think we do not exist. We are like the trees, something they pass and ignore, yet we stand and listen. Master Griskin travelled the countryside. He visited our brothers in Suffolk, its towns and villages, and then he came back to Canterbury. At times he played the boisterous clerk, but when he wanted to, he assumed the garb of the leper.’ The Merchant of Souls tapped the yellow star sewn on his left shoulder. ‘Then he would come here. He was a good man, Sir Hugh.’ The Merchant of Souls grasped the reins of Corbett’s horse.
‘And what did he say?’ Corbett asked.
‘He believed he had found the truth about some matter from a hermitage near Orwell.’ The leper looked down at the trackway
. ‘Ah yes, he said he was going to meet his good friend, though he never gave your name, Sir Hugh. I learnt that later. He said the secret was bound up with the hermitage and its chapel, St Simon of the Rocks, and that’s all he would say.’
‘And then what happened?’ Corbett asked.
‘He left us. He said he was going back to Suffolk. Why, Sir Hugh? Will he return?’
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘Brother Griskin is dead.’
The Merchant of Souls hastily crossed himself. ‘Then God assoil him,’ he whispered. ‘How, Sir Hugh, an accident?’
‘Murder!’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am God’s vengeance.’ He leaned down and patted the leper on the shoulder. ‘I promise you that, Merchant of Souls. Remember me in your prayers, and here.’ He opened the leather bag again and pressed another small purse into the man’s hand. ‘Give that to Christ’s Treasury.’
He was about to turn his horse when the leper spoke.
‘Sir Hugh, have you forgotten something?’ Corbett soothed his horse. ‘What, sir? What have I forgotten?’
‘Brother Griskin was searching for a man called Hubert the Monk, a man who hunted down outlaws, half-brother to the pirate Blackstock.’
‘Do you know of him?’ Corbett asked. ‘Indeed, how do I know you are not he?’
The Merchant of Souls laughed, a merry sound. ‘Trust me, Sir Hugh, I am not Hubert the Monk. Griskin talked about him and said he was a man of great deceit and subtle wit. They say he, too, was one of the few men not frightened by the likes of us.’
‘Have any of your brothers ever met him?’ Corbett asked.
‘Many, many years ago. One of our brothers, now deceased, went to the cloister school with him; Magister Fulbert taught them both. That is all. But as I said, we stand by gateways and porchways; we listen to the chatter of everyone. You are hunting him, aren’t you, Sir Hugh? I wish you well. God’s grace go with you, for I have told you all I can.’
Corbett thanked him and rejoined Ranulf, and they made their way back up towards Queningate. They passed through that yawning arched entrance into the city and Ranulf stared around. He’d been to Canterbury with Corbett once before, but that had been through the outskirts, not the city itself. This was a stark contrast to the silent countryside. Despite the snow and ice, the place was busy as an upturned beehive. The broad pathways and lanes were packed with people, a sea of surging colour as the crowds moved to and from the markets. Corbett and Ranulf had no choice but to dismount and lead their horses, forcing their way through, following the old city wall down beneath the glorious massy-stoned cathedral and on to Burgate Street, which cut through the centre of Canterbury.
On either side of this main thoroughfare rose the beautiful mansions and stately homes of the merchants and burgesses of the city. These were sumptuous houses of pink and white plaster and black beams, each storey jutting out above the other and resting on a solid stone base. The doorways and gables of these mansions, carved, gilded and painted, overlooked the cacophony of sound along Burgate as pantlers, grooms, buttery boys and other servants bustled out to buy provisions for their masters. Herb wives and milkmaids were eagerly selling their produce. Apprentice boys scampered up to attract their attention by plucking at their sleeves before retreating back behind the broad stalls, erected against the front of houses under their billowing striped awnings. The poor clamoured for alms as the rich, with sparkling eyes, red lips and lily-white skin, processed by in their satins and samites, heads covered in short hoods with the liripipes wrapped around their necks, their shoulders mantled in wool, their waists girdled with belts studded with silver and gold. Dirt-smattered blacksmiths in bull’s-hide aprons stood outside their smithies shouting for custom, whilst beside them water boiled in buckets from the red-hot irons thrust there. Merchants’ wives in costly robes furred with ermine, multicoloured and lined with soft vair, surveyed the stalls and made their purchases. A jester offering to do a somersault wandered amongst them, his head, completely shaven, covered in glue and decorated with duck feathers. An old woman with a tray shrieked how she had night herbs which would cure all ailments. Beside her a chanteur, a professional story-teller, explained how in Ephesus the Seven Sleepers had turned on to their left side, a gloomy sign of how the times were growing more perilous. Carters tried to force their way through, whilst more enterprising citizens pulled sledges full of produce. Dogs yipped and yelped; a piglet, specially greased, had been released by a group of children and ran loose across the thoroughfare, pursued by a legion of its young tormentors.
They passed the main entrance to the cathedral. Ranulf wished to go in but Corbett replied that they would visit it later. They continued on their way up into the great courtyard of the Guildhall, a three-storey building, wattle-daubed and timbered on a honey-coloured stone base. Servants ran up to demand their business, but as soon as they saw Corbett’s warrant they immediately became obsequious, offering to take his horses. Once Ranulf had dealt with this, they entered the Guildhall, turning right into the main chamber, a long, draughty room, its doorways and windows protected by heavy cloths.
For a while they just sat on a bench whilst a common serjeant loudly listed the goods of some dead citizen: ‘three canvas cloths, twelve barrels, two tubs, four bottles, six leather pots . . .’ Corbett listened to the man’s sonorous voice rise and fall. He could have stood upon his authority, showed his seal, demanded immediate access to the Mayor, but he wanted to collect his thoughts, and looking at Ranulf, he believed his companion felt the same. At last the cold began to seep out of his fingers and he relaxed in the glow of warmth from the braziers, piled high with charcoal, which spluttered and sparkled in every corner. He was about to rise to his feet when an usher suddenly burst through the door and gestured frantically at them.
‘Sir Hugh, Master Ranulf!’ he gasped. ‘His Worship’s apologies, please, please follow me.’
He took them up some stairs to a richly furnished room draped with thickened arras and warmed by chafing dishes laid out along the great table which ran down the centre. Corbett and Ranulf had scarcely arrived and taken off their cloaks when Sir Walter Castledene entered. He was dressed in a long robe of dark murrey, a silver cord around his waist, a gold chain of office about his neck, soft buskins on his feet. He had shaved, his hair was freshly oiled, and he looked more calm and composed than earlier in the day. He greeted Corbett and Ranulf and gestured to the high-backed chairs placed before a specially carved brazier; this was capped with a pointed lid and perforated with small holes to allow the sweet fragrance of the herbs sprinkled on top of the coals to seep through the room. Once seated, ushers served them biscuits sweetened with saffron together with mulled wine smelling strongly of cinnamon. After the usher had left, securing the door behind him, Sir Walter explained that this was his own private parlour. He pointed out its various treasures: the gilt-edged jasper salt-cellar; the spoons, porringers, dishes, ewers, bowls, cups, jugs and goblets, all precious metalled and studded with gems, which adorned the open-shelved aumbry against the far wall. He then described the origins of the diptychs on the tables and chests as well as the pictures on the embroidered arras, which depicted the city arms, those of Castledene as well as grisly scenes from the martyrdom of Becket.
After these pleasantries had finished, Corbett politely brushed aside Castledene’s speculations on what had happened at Maubisson and succinctly informed the Mayor about what had occurred since he left that brooding manor earlier in the day: the attack in the woods, the crossbow bolt smashing into the shutter of the guesthouse chamber, the disappearance of Griskin and the strong possibility that he had been murdered. Castledene grew agitated, lacing his fingers together, and now and again leaning forward towards the brazier to catch some of its warmth.
‘You have been threatened again?’ Corbett asked harshly.
Castledene nodded. ‘You know I have, the same as Paulents.’ He closed his eyes. ‘“You have been weighed in the balance . . . you have been found wanting.” I am to be pun
ished for the death of his brother.’ He opened his eyes and glanced at Corbett. ‘Beneath this robe, Sir Hugh, I wear a shirt of light chain mail. I carry a dagger, and where I go, Wendover or my guards always follow. This is a time of judgement.’ He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. ‘Hubert has come back to harvest his revenge against Paulents, against me and against the Crown. He intends all three to suffer.’
He paused as an usher came in to announce that the physician Peter Desroches was waiting downstairs.
Castledene lifted a hand. ‘Ask him to wait for a while,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Then he can join us.’
‘Paulents wasn’t threatened in Germany?’
‘No,’ Castledene agreed. ‘It was only when he arrived in Dover.’
‘And you?’
‘Yesterday, and again this morning,’ Castledene replied. ‘The same way: a small scroll of parchment was found lying in the hallway below amongst other common petitions. The tag on a piece of string bore my name. A clerk brought it up. You wish to see it?’ Without waiting for an answer, he rose and moved to the small side table, unlocking a coffer and bringing back what Corbett had expected: a yellowing piece of parchment which could have been cut from anything. The words inscribed in thick ink, like those in a child’s horn book, repeated the earlier warnings.
‘Anyone,’ Castledene muttered, ‘could have written that.’
‘Do you have a description of Hubert the Monk?’ Corbett asked. ‘If he was Canterbury born, people must know him.’
‘As a young man in the Benedictine order,’ Castledene sat down, ‘they described him as comely faced, always personable, courteous, a brilliant scholar. He later joined the community at Westminster but left to become a venator hominum. One thing I have discovered: Hubert very rarely, at least to our knowledge, came in to Canterbury. He tended to prowl between the Cinque Ports on the south coast and as far north as Suffolk, around the town of Ipswich: good hunting ground for the likes of him. He would trap outlaws and bring them in. Of course when he did, he would always be hooded and visored; there is no law against that. After all, he could argue that he needed to disguise his appearance so as to apprehend those who lurk in the twilight of the law.’