by Paul Doherty
‘The Antlered Stag,’ Parson Warfeld intervened. ‘That’s it.’
‘Buy food, a cask of ale.’
‘And the money?’ Wendover was still impudent.
Corbett pointed at Castledene, then strode into that house of death.
Sweetmead was truly ill named. It was a forbidding place. Its entrance parlour was well furnished, but the dark cloths against the walls and the matching turkey rugs were all sombre-hued, whilst the central staircase of heavy oak swept up into the gloom. It smelt sour despite the pots of freshly pressed flowers and herbs standing in the corners. To his right, through a half-open door, Corbett glimpsed a small hall with a mantled hearth, long trestle tables, painted arras and table screen. To the left lay Sir Rauf’s chamber; its door, snapped clean off the leather hinges, leaned against the wall, the bolts and clasps at both top and bottom twisted or broken. Corbett crouched down and inspected the heavy inside lock. He recognised the subtle, intricate work of a truly skilled craftsman, probably a locksmith from one of the London guilds.
He walked into the chancery room and waited whilst others hastened to pull back shutters, light lamps and tend to the hearth. The chamber was low-ceilinged, its white plaster ribbed by black-painted rafters. The walls, a faint lilac, were draped with heavy cloths interspersed with a crucifix and funereal scenes from the Scriptures. A close, soulless chamber, its shelves were crammed with tagged rolls of vellum. Against the walls stood iron-bound chests and coffers, all secured by chains and locks. A heavy oaken desk, covered in sheets of vellum, quills, parchment knives and inkwells, dominated the room. Corbett crouched down, lifted the cream-coloured turkey rug from the floor and scrutinised the dried bloodstain. Castledene came over to explain how the corpse had lain. Corbett nodded, then left and went up the stairs.
The house was freezing cold, even more so here. Castledene and Lechlade clattered up behind him. Corbett asked for Lady Adelicia’s chamber, and Lechlade pushed past and led him down a small gallery, throwing open a door. Once again Corbett inspected the lock; it was very similar to the one to Sir Rauf’s chamber. He pushed the door open and entered a comfortable bedchamber. Its walls were painted a restful green, and the furniture was unlike that in the rest of the house; its table, chairs and quilted stools were fashioned out of gleaming polished elm. To his right stood a four-poster bed draped with gold-fringed blue curtains; next to that was a large aumbry for clothes. Brightly coloured drapes and vividly painted triptychs gave the room a light, elegant look. Castledene explained where the bloody napkins had been found. Corbett simply nodded, left and clattered back down the stairs and through the door leading to the buttery, scullery and kitchens. The rear door, already unlocked, led out into a derelict wasteland. Once this must have had the makings of a fine garden; despite the snow, ice and blustering bitter-cold breeze, Corbett could still make out the outlines of lawns, tunnelled arbours, turf seats, a broken fountain, a shabby pavilion and broken-down trellises. He heard a sound behind him and smelt Lady Adelicia’s perfume.
‘When you saw Sir Rauf with what you think was a corpse that evening, where did he go?’
Corbett turned. Lady Adelicia stood just within the doorway, her face shrouded against the cold. She pointed to a clump of old cider-apple trees. Corbett led everyone across. The trees clustered together, but a narrow space stretched between them and the wall; it was choked with tangled undergrowth, but Corbett noticed one area, about a yard long and the same across, which was thinned as if recently weeded. He ordered the guards, who’d brought picks and mattocks, to dig in that spot, rejecting Castledene’s protest that the ground would be iron-hard.
‘It may well be,’ Corbett smiled thinly, ‘but this would be a shallow grave. Sir Rauf was an old man; he would not have dug deep. He would never have realised that anyone would come into his garden specifically looking for what he had hidden. Moreover,’ he gestured round, ‘this part of the garden is shrouded by trees and undergrowth; the soil may not be so difficult to break.’ He beckoned the guards forward. ‘Half a mark between you,’ he offered, ‘if we can have what’s buried here within the hour.’
There was no further protest. Corbett walked back into the house, ordering Lady Adelicia to be detained in her own chamber. He asked Ranulf to make a quick search from garret to cellar, and excused Parson Warfeld and Desroches from further attendance but warned them that they must return before sunset.
As they left, the guards arrived from The Antlered Stag with pastries, ale and two covered dishes of diced vegetables. Chanson saw to their distribution while Corbett walked back into Sir Rauf’s chamber, now warmer and better lit. He sat down in the high-backed leather chair in front of the desk and felt the weals in the wood beneath the leather-topped arms. Curbing his own angry frustration, he began to sift through Decontet’s ledgers for the last four years, insisting that the shuffling, ale-reeking Lechlade assist him. Once he’d started, Corbett discovered this to be an easy task. Decontet may have been a merchant, but he was also a clerk to the bone. The ledger entries were all neatly written up for each quarter, both income and expenditure. Corbett quickly learnt of the vast array of Sir Rauf’s wealth: sheep, wool, skins and parchment, wine from Gascony, cereal, timber and furs from the Baltic, as well as loans to various individuals and groups including the King and leading courtiers. Nevertheless, despite such wealth, Decontet was extremely parsimonious, even with his own wife, who was only given meagre amounts. One set of expenditure entries, money sent through trusted merchants to unnamed individuals in the ports of Hainault, Flanders and Brabant, caught Corbett’s eye. No reason was given, nor was the generous income – ‘a certis navibus, from certain ships’ – explained. Corbett smiled to himself. He had worked for many months in the Exchequer of Receipt at Westminster under the eagle eye of Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, Treasurer to Edward I: in various ledger accounts seized by the Crown, he had come across similar entries. In truth, Decontet, like other leading merchants in London and Bristol, had engaged in more than a little piracy, secretly funding fighting ships in return for a percentage of their profits, with the Crown turning a blind eye. Was Castledene correct? Had The Waxman been one of Decontet’s investments? After all, Sir Rauf was a Canterbury man, like Blackstock and his half-brother.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene stood stamping his feet in the doorway. ‘Sir Hugh, they have found it.’
Corbett and the others gathered in the kitchen, where the decaying sacks had been laid on the square-paved floor. Corbett paid the half mark to the guards, dismissed them, then undid the folds. The skeleton they concealed was complete, all flesh had long rotted, nor was there any trace of clothing, belt or boots.
‘He, and I think it was a man, must have been buried naked,’ Corbett observed. ‘Flesh rots quickly, leather not so.’ He picked up the skull, still hard but yellowing, turned it and pointed at the shattered bone. ‘Killed by a fierce blow to the back of his head, but who was he and why was he murdered?’ Corbett’s questions, of course, weren’t answered, and he recalled those mysterious entries in the ledger. He had no proof, no evidence, yet he was certain that this unfortunate victim was related to The Waxman or some other nefarious dealings of Sir Rauf. Indeed, he was convinced that all these grisly murders were connected to the capture of Blackstock’s ship.
Corbett returned to the chancery chamber, where Lechlade was carefully filing everything back. The servant mumbled something under his breath, but Corbett was tired of conversation in hushed tones. He must act and do so determinedly. He instructed Lechlade to tell the guards to take the remains found in the garden to Parson Warfeld’s church for burial, whilst he turned to the sheaf of documents sent from the Guildhall relating to Adam Blackstock and Hubert the Monk. Slouched in Decontet’s chair, he sifted through these, finding nothing much but listing the important relevant facts.
Corbett now decided to take more public action. Chanson was sent across to St Alphege’s to borrow a Book of the Gospels, then returned to prepare the h
all for Corbett’s summary court. Outside, the wintry evening gathered in, but the fires and braziers were now crackling merrily. Corbett dispatched exchequer notes to levy more purveyance from shops and nearby alehouses. Ranulf, who always surprised his master with his culinary skills, busied himself in the kitchen, assisted by a pink-cheeked Berengaria and a sweaty-faced Chanson. They prepared manchelet, a veal stew in white wine, honey, parsley, ginger and coriander. Shortly before it was ready, the savoury odours trailing through the house, Ranulf searched out his master.
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett, reflecting in front of the hearth, turned sleepily. ‘Is the meal ready, Ranulf?’
‘Soon.’ Ranulf smiled. ‘It’s just that . . .’ He walked over, put his hand on the back of the chair and leaned down to whisper into Corbett’s ear. ‘Master, I have been through this house as you told me, from cellar to attic. I have searched for food, pots . . .’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘Everywhere I go, master, I have the feeling it has already been inspected very cleverly, thoroughly scrutinised for something.’
‘You are sure?’ Corbett turned in the chair.
‘Certain, master. Not just an ordinary search, but something else. Now whether it took place before Sir Rauf was killed or afterwards . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Under Ranulf’s direction, the meal was hastily served to all who wanted it in the hall, a long, gloomy chamber warmed by the fire roaring in the hearth. Desroches and Parson Warfeld returned, but Corbett kept his own counsel. The meal continued quietly; even the guards, sitting at tables or on the floor with their backs to the wall, whispered amongst themselves, aware of the oppressive atmosphere. Afterwards Corbett had the hall swiftly prepared. A high-backed chair was placed at the centre of the high table on the dais, a similar chair on the other side, with stools at either end for Ranulf and Parson Warfeld. Corbett ignored protests from Castledene and others at being kept waiting so long. Ranulf undid the chancery bags, taking out a replica of the privy seal, a crucifix, and Corbett’s commission with its huge purple seals. This was unrolled in the centre of the table, kept flat by weights placed at each corner. The crucifix on its stand was moved to the right of this, the royal seal to the left. Corbett called for his war belt, drew his sword and laid it across the commission. Ranulf busied himself with his own chancery tray, aware of the deepening silence amongst the others gathered further down the hall. They knew what was about to happen. Corbett had the candelabra lit and brought closer. He grasped the sword in one hand, the seal in the other, then held them up.
‘Edward, by the grace of God,’ he intoned, ‘King of England, Lord of Ireland and Duke of Aquitaine, to all sheriffs, bailiffs, officers of the crown and all faithful subjects, know you by these letters patent I have appointed Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, to investigate all matters affecting our Crown and Person in our royal city of Canterbury. All subjects on their loyalty to the Crown . . .’ The solemn words rolled out, Corbett’s powerful voice echoing through the hall as he laid a duty on each and every one to tell the truth, which they would swear on the Book of the Gospels, adding that anyone who told a lie was guilty of perjury and would suffer the dire consequences. Corbett knew the commission word for word, and he emphasised the power and the strength of the royal warrant. At the end, having given the place and date of its issuing, he put the seal back on the table, his sword across the commission, and gestured at the others to approach the dais.
‘You have heard what the King has ordered,’ he declared, his voice still carrying. His gaze moved from face to face. ‘These are important matters. Master Ranulf here will keep a fair summary of what is said. Parson Warfeld will swear each person on oath that they tell the truth. I shall call you one by one. You shall answer my questions!’
The hall was cleared. Corbett declared he would have no need for the city watch; Chanson would guard the door. Ranulf bowed his head to hide his smile, then gazed cheekily across at the Clerk of the Royal Stables. Chanson was full of his own importance as he took up position, war belt strapped about him, an arbalest already primed on a bench beside him. Ranulf knew the truth. There were two things you never asked Chanson to do: the first was to sing, and the second was to touch any weapon, as Chanson would do more harm to friend than foe.
Corbett coughed, and Ranulf’s smile faded. With the hall empty except for a highly nervous Parson Warfeld, Corbett took his chair, snapped his fingers and beckoned Warfeld on to the dais. The parson sat on the high stool and placed his hand on the Book of the Gospels, repeating the words Corbett said, promising to tell the truth or face the full penalties of statute and canon law, under which anyone guilty of gross perjury would face the hideous sentence of being crushed to death.
‘Very well.’ Corbett relaxed in the chair and stared hard at the cleric. ‘Parson Warfeld, you are a priest at St Alphege?’
‘I am, Sir Hugh.’
‘For how many years?’
‘Two.’
‘Did you know Adam Blackstock, Hubert the Monk or Blackstock’s ship The Waxman? Is there any connection between you and that ship, its captain or his half-brother?’
Warfeld opened his mouth, then glanced quickly at the Book of the Gospels, its leather covering etched with a brilliant cross of gold.
‘I . . .’
‘The truth!’ Corbett insisted.
Warfeld lifted his face. ‘I had a cousin,’ he declared, ‘a sprightly young man. He lived near Gravesend.’
‘He was a sailor?’
‘Yes. He worked the cogs between London and Dordrecht; sometimes he joined the wine fleet.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked. ‘Parson Warfeld, you are on oath. Be brief and succinct.’
‘His ship was attacked by The Waxman. My kinsman was his widowed mother’s only son. Blackstock took no prisoners; the ship and all its crew simply disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘And revenge?’ Corbett asked.
‘What revenge, Sir Hugh? Blackstock is dead. Hubert has disappeared. My cousin’s death was one of those tragedies; there are many in the city of Canterbury who have suffered similar.’
‘And there is no other link or connection between you and The Waxman?’
Warfeld pulled a face and shook his head.
‘Though you didn’t tell me that at the beginning?’
‘Sir Hugh, you didn’t ask.’
Corbett half smiled. ‘Very well, very well.’ He tapped the table. ‘Were Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia ever shriven by you?’
‘Yes,’ Warfeld replied. ‘At Easter or thereabouts, as canon law dictates. Sir Hugh, I cannot break the seal of confession.’
‘I’m not asking you to. Their marriage was sterile, loveless?’
Warfeld nodded. ‘From the little I know.’
‘Was Sir Rauf impotent?’
‘Sir Hugh, Desroches and I have spoken on that. I was his priest, not his physician.’ Corbett sensed the good parson knew more, but decided not to press the matter.
‘Did you know Lady Adelicia had a lover?’
Warfeld’s eyes slid away. Corbett studied this priest, fresh-faced, plump, well fed, with a glib tongue for ready answers. Warfeld stared down at the tabletop. Corbett realised how they were both circled by pools of light from the candelabra, and beyond that was the darkness, threatening, quiet, concealing the truth about what had happened in this dreadful house.
‘Parson Warfeld, I asked you a question. You are on oath. Did the Lady Adelicia have a lover?’
‘I’ve told you the rumours,’ the priest replied grudgingly. ‘She was seen at The Chequer of Hope, as was Wendover, captain of the city guard.’ Warfeld joined his hands as if in prayer. ‘Sir Hugh, I can join with Desroches and speculate about Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia, but I cannot tell you facts. Canon law very clearly states a confessor must be prudent—’
‘Very good,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘but there were rumours that Lady Adelicia had a lover, and Wendover
was the man named?’
‘Yes, but no one dared speak about it. Sir Rauf could be a vicious man. He may only have had Lechlade as a servant, but if he wanted to, he could whistle up bully boys from the city.’
‘Did you know anything about Decontet’s past?’
‘No, only that he was born in Canterbury. He prospered, he used the riches of this life to buy the world and so lose his immortal soul.’ The priest shrugged.
‘And on the day he died, that Thursday, where were you?’
‘I have told you, I was in my church. A boy burst in; he said he’d been sent by Physician Desroches and that there was something very wrong at Sir Rauf’s house so I must come swiftly. I gathered my cloak, put on some boots – the weather was cold as I remember – and hurried over.’
‘And when you arrived?’
‘Desroches and Lechlade were inside the house – standing in the porch. Sir Rauf’s chamber was locked. Desroches hammered on it but there was no answer. We made the decision to break down the door. Desroches told us to concentrate on the hinges. Lechlade had informed us about the lock, how it was special and its key held only by Sir Rauf. We snapped the hinges, forced the door and entered the chamber. It was confusing. The door itself had slipped out of the lock so it had to be held, then leaned against the wall. Candles were burning, though some had guttered out. Sir Rauf lay on the floor, face towards his desk. The base of his skull,’ Parson Warfeld tapped the back of his own head, ‘was smashed, the blood forming like a puddle around him. I did what I could. I whispered the words of absolution, the rite of the dead, then we waited. Oh yes, we did search the house, but we discovered no further disturbance. We tried Lady Adelicia’s chamber and found it locked, then she returned and came into Sir Rauf’s chancery chamber. By then Desroches had sent for Castledene, who also arrived.’