Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders
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Corbett rose long before daybreak. He opened the shutters and peered out through an arrow-slit window. The moon was still distinct, though distant, like the brightness of a small coin. It hadn’t snowed but it was bitterly cold. Corbett had to use a pair of small bellows to fan some heat back into the braziers before he stripped, washed, and dressed for the day. He took out woollen hose from the panniers, thick socks, a heavy worsted shirt and a quilted cote-hardie. Around his waist he wrapped his sword belt, even though he was attending Mass; once there he’d unbuckle it and place it in the porch. From the noise in the chamber next door he realised that either Ranulf or Chanson, or possibly both, was preparing to join him. He put the metal caps over the braziers, made sure the shutters were closed and left, locking the door behind him.
He waited in the refectory below, refusing the ministrations of a sleepy lay brother. Ranulf and Chanson, also dressed against the cold, soon joined him. Ranulf’s face was fresh and cleanly shaven but Chanson looked as if he’d just tumbled out of bed. The three of them made their way through the cloisters and joined the monks as they filed like dark shadows into the candlelit church. Corbett and his companions sat in those stalls reserved for visitors. As so often, certain words from the Scriptures caught Corbett’s attention and made him concentrate on the battle in hand. When the lector recited ‘For it is close, the day of their ruin, their doom come at speed’, he half smiled, for the text neatly summarised what he’d said to Ranulf, though for a while that would have to wait.
Once Lauds was over, Corbett and his party stayed just within the rood screen as the Jesus Mass was celebrated. Afterwards they adjourned to the refectory in the guesthouse, where a lay brother served salted bacon, soft cheese and jugs of watered ale. When they had eaten, Corbett ordered Ranulf and Chanson to prepare for their journey into the city, whilst he excused himself, saying he wanted to ensure Les Hommes Joyeuses were settled; it was the least he could do for fellow travellers. Ranulf demanded to accompany him but Corbett refused. On the insistence of his comrades, Corbett took a small arbalest from their weapon store and left, following the trackway leading through the fields to the disused church of St Pancras and its old priest’s house. The sky was lightening, though the darkness still clung, a sharp contrast to the white shroud of snow which covered everything, trees stark and black, bushes and undergrowth all weighed down by ice. Crows and ravens, defying the biting wind, walked stiff-legged across the snow, only to burst upwards in a flurry of black feathers at his approach. Corbett passed disused outhouses with their coarse grey stone and narrow slit windows. A fox slunk by, its coat all smeared with mud, belly close to the ground. Now and again he stopped to glance back, yet there was nothing but the path sneaking behind him. He rounded a bend and immediately paused. A figure, cowled and bent, was shuffling towards him. Corbett’s free hand went to his dagger as the dark shape approached, but it was only a beggar man, grey-faced and shivering, who stared watery-eyed at him then whined for a coin, which Corbett spun in his direction. The clerk watched the beggar man pass him by, then continued on his way.
At last the grim tower of St Pancras loomed above the trees. Corbett relaxed as he smelt wood smoke and the tasty odours of food mixed with the acrid tang of horse and hay. He crossed a small footbridge, up a path and through a crumbling lychgate into God’s acre. The church was nothing more than an old barn-like structure under a much-decayed sloping roof, with a squat ugly tower built on one side. Its lancet windows were boarded up, as was the old porch door. Corbett went round the church and heaved a sigh of relief. Les Hommes Joyeuses were already aroused, their gaudily covered carts lined up before the old priest’s house. The fence around this had crumbled, its thatched roof sagged, whilst the door and shutters hung loose. Fires had been lit and women were preparing small cauldrons of oatmeal or laying strips of salted meat across makeshift grills. A man came from behind a wagon, an arrow notched to his bow. Corbett put his arbalest down and lifted both hands in a sign of peace; in this poor light he didn’t want to make a mistake.
‘Greetings,’ he called out. ‘Greetings to Les Hommes Joyeuses. I seek the Gleeman.’
‘Sir Hugh.’ The Gleeman, hood pushed back, came out of the priest’s house shouting at the bowman not to be a fool, and beckoned Corbett forward.
Chapter 7
Hominum que contente mundique
huius et cupido.
Man’s struggle with man and the
lust of the world.
Medieval poem
The clerk went into the small hall of the priest’s house. This had been cleared, the floor scoured; a weak fire crackled in the hearth and the narrow windows were blocked with blackened straw. The Gleeman asked the woman tending the hearth and the children clinging to her robe to leave. He invited Corbett to sit on a stool by the fire whilst he squatted down next to him, his back to the inglenook, as if they were old comrades, which in truth they were. Corbett waited until the small hall was emptied, then extended his right hand. The wind-chapped face of Robert Ormesby, former clerk, now Gleeman of Les Hommes Joyeuses, broke into a smile. Neither Ranulf nor even the King knew that Ormesby was Corbett’s spy. Corbett paid him directly from his own purse for the information he collected as he and his troupe wandered the wealthy towns and villages in the east and south of the kingdom.
‘A mere coincidence,’ Ormesby whispered, ‘meeting you on Harbledown Hill.’ He forced a smile. ‘The minute I heard about three horsemen led by a king’s clerk, I guessed who it was.’ He gestured round. ‘I thank you for our lodgings.’
‘You are well?’ Corbett leaned closer to the fire.
‘I still have dreams, nightmares,’ Ormesby muttered, not meeting Corbett’s eyes.
‘About Stirling?’
The Gleeman looked away, breathing quickly as he strove to clear his mind of that fatal battle six years earlier when the Scottish leader Wallace had trapped the English vanguard at Stirling Bridge.
‘I still see them,’ he muttered, ‘the Scots, a mass of men bristling with steel tips like some huge, malevolent hedgehog advancing towards us, great horns blasting, war cries ringing out. Cressingham, that stupid bastard!’
Corbett just stared into the flames. He’d lost other friends, mailed clerks, at that disaster when Hugh de Cressingham, Knight of the Swan and Edward’s treasurer in Scotland, had insisted on his hasty advance across Stirling Bridge, walking straight into Wallace’s trap. For men like the Gleeman, the only consolation was that Cressingham himself had been dragged from his saddle and killed, his fat corpse skinned to make tokens for the Scots; Wallace had even made a belt out of the piece given to him. King Edward had hurried into Scotland and reversed the defeat by his victory at Falkirk, but Ormesby had seen enough. He left the royal service, moved to a village outside Glastonbury and married a local girl. She had died in childbirth, so Ormesby had used his little wealth to finance Les Hommes Joyeuses and assumed the role of the Gleeman, their leader. Corbett had met him three years earlier during a commission of oyer and terminer in Essex, and promptly recruited him. Ormesby roamed the roads and collected all the gossip and tittle-tattle which Corbett could sift on behalf of his royal master.
‘And your news?’
‘I received your letter before the snows came,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘We moved into Suffolk, following the River Denham, making enquiries amongst the villagers, the wise women, the tavern-hunters, the wandering chapmen. It’s true, Sir Hugh.’ The Gleeman’s eyes glittered greedily. ‘There’s gossip,’ he whispered, ‘about what they call the Haunt of Ghosts.’
‘The Haunt of Ghosts?’
‘A lonely place, Sir Hugh, desolate moorland except for a dozen tumuli or grave-mounds, not far from the Denham. The gossip is that in ancient times a great king, with a treasure hoard beyond all expectation, was buried somewhere close. People have searched for it but nothing’s been found. A local priest talks of maps and charts, but . . .’ He shook his head.
‘And recently?’ Corbett asked.
‘But there has been no report of diggings, of anyone searching for the treasure?’
‘As I said, local lore and legend, recent enquiries, strangers coming in and out with heads hooded and faces hidden. You must remember, Sir Hugh, it’s a busy place, people passing to and fro from Ipswich and the other market towns. The legends are so ancient no one really pays much attention.’
‘And Blackstock, The Waxman?’
‘Well known along the Colvasse peninsula. The Waxman often slipped into the coves and inlets around Orwell. Blackstock was respected and liked, regarded as a hero. He and his men never plundered or pillaged. They paid good prices to the local peasant farmers and kept the peace. Blackstock restocked and refurbished his ship, filled water barrels and slipped away like a sea mist.’
‘And his half-brother, Hubert the Monk?’
‘Again, gossip, but no one ever saw him. People said that Blackstock would meet someone, probably Hubert, at a derelict hermitage on the River Orwell.’ He paused. ‘Ah yes, that’s its name: St Simon of the Rocks. The locals also claim Blackstock was probably heading there when he was trapped by two war cogs against the coast in the October of 1300. The villagers still talk of the sea fight which took place. How afterwards Sir Walter Castledene’s ship The Caltrop sailed into Orwell with Blackstock’s corpse dangling by its neck from the poop. To be sure, Sir Hugh, the peasants did not like that.’ The Gleeman thrust a small log and some kindling into the charcoal now glowing strongly in the hearth. He turned, wiping his hands. ‘Do you want something to eat or drink?’
‘No, no thank you.’
The Gleeman got up and went into an adjoining room, probably the buttery, coming back with a tankard of ale and a hunk of bread. He drank and ate noisily.
‘A bloody sea fight!’ he said between mouthfuls.
‘Were there any survivors?’
‘Oh yes. According to the villagers, Castledene did the same as Blackstock had done to his crews. I believe he hanged his prisoners though he may have thrown some of them overboard. They could either drown or make their way to the shore; that’s where Castledene made a mistake. You see, Sir Hugh, along most coastlines shipwrecked sailors are shown very little mercy, but Blackstock and his crew were liked. One man survived and he was helped. No one knew his name. He was sea-soaked, half dead; they gave him some hot oatmeal, dried his clothes and sent him on his way.’
‘And The Waxman, the ship itself?’
‘Taken away, given to the merchants who’d helped Sir Walter.’
‘What happened to Blackstock’s corpse?’
‘Well, Sir Walter Castledene and Paulents were triumphant. They took their ships into Hamford Water, near Walton on the Naze The crews feasted. Blackstock’s corpse was dragged along the cobbles on a hurdle behind a horse before being hung from some gallows out on the mud flats. They put a guard about it, let it dangle there for the sea birds to have their fill, and then,’ the Gleeman shrugged, ‘according to popular rumour, it was flung into the sea, certainly not given honourable burial. I tell you, Sir Hugh, Castledene and Paulents made few friends that day.’
‘And Hubert the Monk?’
‘Ask Sir Walter Castledene. Hubert rarely showed his face, and after his brother’s death he disappeared completely. No one has seen him since.’
Corbett stared into the flames, watching one of the logs crackling in the heat. Outside he could hear the chatter and noise of Les Hommes Joyeuses as they prepared for another day. Somewhere far off tambourines sounded. Corbett realised that the morning was moving on; he had to return to St Augustine’s. He undid the purse on his belt, drew out some silver coins and pressed them into the Gleeman’s hands.
‘Sir Hugh, why do you ask me? Sir Walter will tell you all this.’
‘No, Master Gleeman.’ Corbett patted him on the shoulder. ‘He’ll tell me what he wants me to know, whereas you will tell me what you saw and heard. Do you know what caused such hatred? Why did Blackstock take to the sea and Hubert leave his monastery to become a hunter of men?’
‘Just rumours, Sir Hugh, legends about their childhood.’
Corbett stared up at the rough carving above the hearth, then glanced around. A strange place, he mused; so comfortable just staring into the fire, yet he could also feel the cold, seeping draughts, and the Gleeman’s impatience: there was a day’s work ahead and he wished Corbett to be gone.
‘And so we come to Griskin,’ Corbett said. ‘You knew who he really was? You referred to him at Harbledown.’
‘He spoke to me about his golden days, being a scholar in the schools. I recognised he was your man, Sir Hugh. He would come and go like the breeze. He rejoiced in acting the leper. He used to laugh at that, the way he could move so easily; not even outlaws or wolfsheads would approach him. He came into our camp and introduced himself. He carried a medallion like I do, the one you gave us to recognise each other, and introduced himself. I’ll be honest, I’d met Master Griskin before, though in different disguises. In fact,’ the Gleeman smiled, ‘if he’d wanted to, he could have joined our troupe. He was a true troubadour, a mime who rejoiced in his various roles. He reeked like a midden heap, and his face and hands were painted and roughened as if he’d suffered some grisly affliction. I met him outside the camp and asked him what he wanted. He replied that he’d come looking for Hubert the Monk. I couldn’t help him but I told him what I told you. We met just after we’d crossed into Essex. We were staying near Thorpe-le-Soken, for we tend to lodge near the coast. Fishing communities are friendlier than villages deep in the countryside, especially in winter. I asked Griskin if fortune had favoured him. Now he’d drunk quite deeply on ale; you know he liked that?’
Corbett nodded.
‘One of his great weaknesses,’ the Gleeman continued. ‘If he didn’t drink, he didn’t drink, but once he did, he rarely stopped. Anyway, Griskin said that he knew someone called Simon of the Rocks. I didn’t know what he meant.’
Corbett recalled how the Merchant of Souls had mentioned the same name.
‘Have you ever heard of St Simon of the Rocks?’ Corbett asked.
‘Vaguely. Griskin talked about the hermitage on the Orwell. How Hubert the Monk may have disappeared, though he suspected where he was hiding. Then he mentioned Simon of the Rocks, I think that’s the name of the hermitage chapel along the Orwell. Anyway, Griskin seemed keen to press on, so I let him go. He said that if he discovered anything of interest he would return. We stayed at Thorpe-le-Soken seven days. The following week, a chapman, a wandering tinker, came into our camp to warm himself by the fire. He talked about the gallows outside Thorpe-le-Soken; of a man hanging there completely naked. Those who’d seen the corpse thought it was a leper. Of course I became alarmed. Griskin hadn’t returned, so I and some of the men went out. The gibbet is high and stark, overlooking ice-blasted wastelands. A harsh, dark place, Sir Hugh, where the clouds hang down like the wrath of God. The biting wind tugs at your clothes as if it was a fiend sent to plague you. We saw the gibbet from afar, the corpse swinging like a rag. I tell you this.’ The Gleeman leaned closer in a gust of ale and sweat-soaked clothes. ‘I knew something was wrong. That gibbet was rarely used except for the occasional cattle thief or a felon caught red-handed by the sheriff’s comitatus. I drew closer. One glance told me it was Griskin. He’d been stripped completely naked. The noose, tight around his neck, was looped through the hook on the arm of the scaffold: a monstrosity out of a nightmare. His belly was puffed out like a pig’s bladder, tongue fastened between his teeth, eyes popping out. The crows and ravens had already been busy.’
Corbett closed his eyes and muttered the Requiem.
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nbsp; ‘I knew Griskin. I couldn’t leave him, so I cut him down. We buried him there and erected a makeshift cross. I looked at the corpse.’ The Gleeman tapped the side of his head. ‘There was a blow here. I believe Griskin was enticed out on to that lonely wasteland of hell, his head staved in, then he was hanged, half alive, his breath choked out.’
‘You think Hubert the Monk was responsible?’
‘Who else, Sir Hugh? What would a leper have worth stealing? How could a leper threaten anyone? Even outlaws stay away from them. No, someone had discovered Griskin was not what he claimed to be, that he was searching for something or somebody. Of course it must be Hubert the Monk.’
‘You’ve heard what happened at Maubisson?’
‘The news is all over the city,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘An entire family hanging by their necks in that lonely manor with no sign of violence: they are talking of ghosts and demons . . .’
‘They can talk about that to their hearts’ content,’ Corbett snapped, ‘as long as they call them Hubert. Ah well, Master Gleeman, so what have we discovered? That a treasure lies somewhere out in the wastelands of Suffolk near the River Denham. That there are legends about it, and always have been; that people have searched for it but no one has found it. There has been a quickening of interest, and then what? We have Blackstock and his half-brother; did they know where the treasure was? Adam Blackstock was certainly sailing to meet his brother so they could unite and discover this king’s ransom. However, Blackstock’s ship was attacked, and Blackstock was killed and gibbeted. Only one of his crew apparently survived. I sent messages to you and Griskin to learn all you could about Hubert the Monk and the lost treasure. Nothing is truly discovered except rumours and stories, but then Griskin is murdered.’