by Paul Doherty
‘You seem a little anxious, Hugh?’
Corbett shifted in the chair. He picked up the goblet and held it out. He wanted to show that he didn’t tremble.
‘What happens, sire, if Fitzalan’s death is nothing to do with de Craon?’
‘That is possible.’
‘And what happens, sire, if I travel down to Ashdown, the cheese to de Craon’s mouse? Seigneur Amaury might not be able to resist the temptation of sending one of his assassins after me.’
‘Continue.’ The King’s voice was almost a purr.
‘Wouldn’t you then turn round and lay my death at his door? Send the most irate letters to His Holiness in Avignon, loudly bemoaning the death of your senior clerk at the hands of a French assassin?’
‘Hugh, Hugh, how could you say that?’
‘You are being very blunt!’ de Warrenne snapped.
Corbett studied the old earl. You are a lecher and a drunkard, Corbett thought, but I had you wrong. You have a sense of honour. You may not like me but you, too, suspect that the King could be plotting. De Warrenne dropped his gaze.
‘I say you are very blunt, clerk,’ he muttered.
‘I’m being very honest,’ Corbett jibed back. ‘It is my life. The King himself said that de Craon may be after my head.’
‘But I’m not sending you there for that.’ Edward’s mood had shifted from stricken prince to angry lord. ‘Hugh, this is England. You are going to Ashdown Forest. If de Craon lifted a finger against you, I’d have his head! Do you understand me, Corbett? I’d take his head clean off at the shoulders. I’d stick it on a pole above London Bridge so the crows can pick at it like they do the rest of the vermin.’
Corbett began to laugh. At first it came as a chuckle but the more he thought of what the King had said the greater his laughter grew.
‘You find this amusing, Hugh? You see a jest where your King does not?’
Corbett wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.
‘Your Majesty, I am clerk of your Secret Seal. The master of your secrets, your most loyal clerk but, at last, I do sense the game.’ Corbett’s face became grave. ‘I am not some pot boy in a tavern to be sent on this errand or that. Nor am I some new clerk, his hair freshly tonsured, priding himself on his new robes, to believe everything he’s told. So, sire, perhaps we can talk? As royal master and loyal servant, prince and councillor. Or, as you said at the beginning, two friends who have seen the days and the different seasons.
‘We are being sent to Sussex,’ Corbett continued in a more even tone, ‘because you really do want to know why a leading baron of this realm has been assassinated?’
‘Correct.’
‘You also want us to find out if there is a connection between Lord Henry’s death and the grisly offering left outside the priory of St Hawisia’s?’
‘Agreed.’
‘And you want me to keep an eye on de Craon: to discover the true relationship between Lord Henry Fitzalan and the French court?’
‘I’ve said as much.’
‘And, finally, you wouldn’t weep,’ Corbett continued, ‘if an incident occurred which you could use to nullify the marriage treaty with France. You hope it wouldn’t be my murder but, if that happened, you’d use it?’
‘Yes, yes, I would.’ The King sighed. ‘I love you dearly, Hugh. I’d take vengeance for your death. But this treaty?’
‘You must abide by it!’ Corbett insisted. ‘It was decided in full council. Any attempt to break that treaty would lead to a most savage war and incur the anger of the papacy.’
‘You agree with the treaty?’ the King asked.
‘You know I do, sire.’
Edward spread his hands. ‘Then let God decide.’ Edward pushed back his chair. ‘You must be in Sussex by nightfall.’
The King walked down the hall, patted Corbett on the shoulder, winked at Ranulf and, with de Warrenne hastening after, left, slamming the door behind him.
‘You should not have said that,’ Ranulf said heatedly. He pulled back a bench and sat next to his master.
‘I should tell the truth,’ Corbett replied. ‘Oh, I know Edward doesn’t want me dead but he does want to break that treaty. But I won’t be killed, will I, Ranulf, not with my guardian angel protecting me?’
His manservant coloured, green eyes evasive.
‘You always blink when you are nervous,’ Corbett laughed. ‘Like when Lady Maeve is telling me off.’
Ranulf beat his metal-studded gauntlets against the table.
‘I’m your man, Sir Hugh, in peace and war. You saved me from the gallows. I owe you my life. No pope, no king, no priest can ever cancel that debt.’
‘No, they can’t.’ Corbett sighed and got to his feet. ‘But they can try and you are an ambitious man, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. So it’s not back to Leighton for us.’ He rubbed his chest where it was still bruised. ‘We’ll have the clerks swear out the warrants and commissions and, before the day is out, we’ll be at Ashdown.’
The door opened, and a retainer wearing the royal blue, red and gold tabard entered holding a white wand which he tapped imperiously on the stone floor.
‘Good Lord!’ Ranulf mocked. ‘It’s the Archbishop of Canterbury!’
‘Your presence is required,’ the chamberlain declared pompously, ‘by Edward, Prince of Wales. He’s in the tiltyard.’
‘Now this,’ Corbett whispered, ‘is going to be interesting.’
They followed the chamberlain out of the great hall into the courtyard. The morning sun was glistening on the rain-soaked gravel. In that busy place, grooms were leading horses out of the stables, sumpter ponies were being unpacked, carts unhitched. Chickens pecked at the ground, clucking in anger as a palace dog came running up yapping. Servants and men-at-arms milled about. A group of royal archers had taken a thief out to judgement; stripping him bare, they’d lashed him to a tree and were now flogging him vigorously with white willow wands. The man gagged, strained at his bonds, wincing and twisting as the red-purple scars scored his white pimply back.
The chamberlain led them along a terraced walk and into the sand-covered tiltyard, which consisted of a long, dusty rectangle of land with a great wooden tilt fence down the middle. A horseman waited at either end, each dressed in full plate armour. One bore the crest of the Beaumonts of Norfolk, the other, nearest Corbett, the red dragon of Wales.
A trumpet blew a long fanfare, a shrill metallic blast. Both horses lumbered into a canter then into a gallop. Lances came down, swinging across the horses’ necks as the riders hurtled towards each other. The Prince of Wales was faster, his horse lighter and speedier. His lance avoided his opponent’s shield and caught him full in the chest. The Norfolk knight swayed in the saddle, tried to regain his seat then toppled in a crash and clouds of dust to the roar and acclamation of the onlookers. The victorious Prince dropped his lance, drew his sword and cantered towards his fallen opponent. The latter had more sense than to resist but took off his helmet and extended his hands in a gesture of submission.
Prince Edward dismounted, removed his tilting helm and, with the help of a squire, began to strip off his armour. He then helped the Norfolk knight to his feet, clapping him heartily on the back. When the Prince caught sight of Corbett he walked across, still loosening pieces of armour which he simply threw on the ground for the scampering squires to pick up. Edward was a strikingly good-looking man, tall, well over six feet, with blond, closely-cropped hair, a neatly clipped moustache and beard, and a rather thick-lipped and aggressive mouth. He had an oval face with deep-set, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. He didn’t stand on ceremony but gripped Corbett’s outstretched hand and clapped Ranulf on the shoulder.
‘Sir Hugh, it’s good to see you. You’ve recovered? And Lady Maeve?’ His smile widened. ‘After all, she’s from my principality. They say there’s nothing like a Welsh woman in bed.’ He caught himself and closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh.’
‘No offence given, none taken, sire.’
‘And the noble Ranulf?’ Edward tried to hide his embarrassment by punching Corbett’s manservant playfully on the shoulder. ‘A man much loved by the maidens, eh?’
He turned and beckoned a squire who came hurrying across with a tray of goblets. Edward filled three, although the man had been running so fast the silver tray shook. Once Edward had served the three cups he cuffed the man sharply on the ear, and the squire retreated, hand to the side of his head.
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Corbett protested.
‘No, no, it wasn’t.’ Edward took a gulp of wine and turned. ‘Rushlett!’ he bawled.
The aggrieved squire came tottering back. Edward pointed to the three cups.
‘I am sorry I hit you. When we’ve finished, the three goblets and the tray, they are yours to sell.’
His squire retreated, profusely thanking him.
‘They are not mine to give,’ Edward admitted. ‘They belong to the Bishop of Winchester but, by the time he realises, they’ll be sold. Anyway, he’s rich enough to buy them back. You are off to Ashdown!’ he continued in a rush. ‘Lord Henry’s been killed and the French envoy frets for a replacement. Father’s in such a hurry to get me married, eh?’
‘You look forward to your nuptials?’ Corbett asked.
‘Don’t play the innocent fool with me, clerk!’ the Prince replied. He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to marry the bloody wench! For the rest of my life I’ll have Philip on my back. That sanctimonious, hypocritical, conniving . . .’
‘Future father-in-law!’ Corbett finished the sentence.
The Prince wiped the sweat from his face and took another sip from the goblet.
‘When Father dies,’ he added viciously.
‘May that day be far off,’ Corbett interrupted; even to discuss the King’s death was petty treason.
‘Yes, yes, but die he must! Anyway, when he dies, Corbett, Ranulf, I want you in my household. I’m going to need you. The nobles don’t like me, the bishops cluck their tongues like chickens.’
‘It’s not you, sire, it’s . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I know, Piers Gaveston!’
Corbett relaxed, now the name was out. The Prince of Wales’ favourite, some even whispered lover, was regarded as a Gascon upstart, the son of a witch who seemed to exercise undue influence over the King’s heir. Gaveston was sharp of wit, a born jouster and horseman. A beautiful man, Gaveston played Jonathan to Edward’s David. Rumours had abounded, gossip that the two had been found alone in bed and the King, infuriated, had exiled Gaveston from the kingdom.
‘I want Piers back!’ Edward stamped his foot. ‘If I cannot have my friends, what use a kingdom?’
Corbett glanced warningly at Ranulf.
‘I may join you at Ashdown.’ Edward turned away, watching Corbett out of the corner of his eye.
‘You were friends with Lord Henry?’ Corbett asked.
Edward waggled a finger playfully. ‘You stand there, Corbett, as pious as a nun with those innocent eyes and guileless face. You should have been a lawyer in King’s Bench. I had no great friendship with the Lord Henry but with his brother, Sir William, yes. And, as you well know, I have made pilgrimages to St Hawisia’s shrine.’
‘And you stayed at Ashdown Manor?’ Corbett asked.
‘There or that tavern on the Ashdown road. There’s good hunting in the forest though.’ He grimaced. ‘Lord Henry found it different, didn’t he? So, when do you leave?’
‘As soon as possible, sire. Your father has given us orders and to Ashdown we must go.’
Edward nodded. He absentmindedly clapped Corbett on the shoulder and, whispering under his breath, sauntered back to his retainers.
‘What was all that about?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘This is a tangled web, everybody’s telling lies. Philip’s a liar. De Craon wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him on the nose. Our King hides the truth while Prince Edward ploughs his own lonely furrow. What hour do you think it is?’
Ranulf peered up at the sky.
‘Not yet nine.’
‘Pack our belongings. Our two horses, the sumpter pony and make sure you bring my saddlebags.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ll walk round the palace,’ Corbett said. ‘When you’re finished, join me at the main gate. We are going to cross the moat and walk down towards the village, to a tavern, the Tree of Jesse. Its landlord rents out a chamber called the Star of Bethlehem, supposedly painted by some pilgrim who visited the Holy Land.’
‘For the love of God, master, what are you chattering about?’
‘Me?’ Corbett smiled. ‘With my nun’s face and holier-than-thou looks?’
Ranulf sighed. He stared across at a page dragging a heavy war saddle from one of the destriers.
‘I miss Maltote, master, not just because he looked after the horses.’
Corbett followed Ranulf’s gaze, watching the page stumble away, the heavy harness over his shoulder. Maltote had been their horse squire, a clumsy young man with a gift for horses. He had been murdered in a filthy alleyway in Oxford and his body now lay under the flagstones of the manor chapel at Leighton.
‘I really miss him,’ Ranulf said again. ‘I am glad I killed his murderer. I hope his soul rots in hell!’
He strode away, as he always did, to hide the tears.
Corbett wandered round the palace greeting acquaintances, being stopped now and again by other clerks who shook his hand to welcome him back. He went into the buttery and persuaded a cook to provide bread, cheese and a small pot of ale. He sat quietly and ate, watching the hour candle fixed on its iron spigot near the door; when it was about to reach the tenth red circle, Corbett went down to the main gateway where Ranulf was already waiting.
‘I was going to ask you, master, why the Tree of Jesse and this chamber the Star of Bethlehem?’
‘I told you.’
Corbett slipped his arm through Ranulf’s. They walked under the gatehouse across the bridge and on to the trackway which wound down through the trees towards the village. Corbett loosened his white collar. The day was autumnally warm, the trees shedding their leaves to lay a crisp, golden matting beneath their feet. They stood aside to allow a pack train by, horses whinnying at the scent of blood from the deer carcasses, throats cut and bellies gutted, which had been slung across their backs. The blood-daubed verderers and foresters were in good humour. It was not yet noon and they had only been hunting since dawn to provide fresh meat for the royal kitchens.
‘You were going to say, master?’ Ranulf wished Corbett would not lapse into reflective silences.
‘Well, now we are free of the palace, I’ll tell you. Everybody’s lying, Ranulf. Now, when I lay in my great four-poster bed at Leighton, being fussed and spoilt by Lady Maeve, I still received reports from spies, merchants, pedlars, tinkers and scholars.’
‘You said they provided nothing but chatter! Gossip from the village well.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘Most of it was. However, I say this, Ranulf, if I had to stay in that bed for another day, my wits would have wandered. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I love Lady Maeve more than life itself. And, as for Eleanor, well, you know how it is?’
‘And Lady Maeve is expecting again?’ Ranulf asked.
‘As full as a rose at midday.’
‘A boy this time?’
‘A living child is all I pray for. Now, my mind is like any other, you have to keep sharpening it. I know de Craon would have found out about my injuries and probably prayed for my death. We are approaching an exciting time, Ranulf. An English heir is going to marry a French princess. Philip of France is going to see his dream realised, that a descendant of his great ancestor St Louis will sit on the throne at Westminster. Edward wishes to break free. If he does, there will be bloody war. So, I listen to my spies, one in particular: Aidan Smallbone, a lonely clerk from the King’s own secret chancery.’
‘But I thought . . .’ Ranulf interrupted.
>
‘Yes, I know! I hold the Secret Seals. Such messages should come to me, but there’s one verse of Scripture our King truly believes in: he does not like his left hand to know what his right hand’s doing. Accordingly, certain messages, certain documents, go directly to him. All Master Smallbone does, when they are finished with, is place them in a secret muniment room. Edward is always present when he does that. Anyway, Master Smallbone is a friend of mine. He sent me a letter asking about my health, expressing a desire to see me, and that means he has something to sell.’
They entered the Tree of Jesse, where the taproom was sweet with the smell of hams and haunches of venison all being dried smoked and cured against the approaching winter. The landlord greeted Corbett, bobbing and bowing, and led them up the wooden stairs. Ranulf found the Star of Bethlehem a disappointment. It was a large room, well furnished, but the paintings on the wall depicting the birth of Christ were rather shabby and hastily executed, the gold stars on the blue ceiling faded and peeling. Master Smallbone was a nondescript balding man, with a perpetually running nose which he constantly wiped on the sleeve of his grubby jerkin. Corbett greeted him warmly enough and they sat round the small trestle table exchanging gossip and banter while the landlord served blackjacks of ale and strips of venison. Once he had gone, Corbett bolted the door. Smallbone was eating as if his life depended on it, but when Corbett produced a gold coin, he snatched it and dropped it into his purse.
‘Very well, Master Smallbone, the fee is paid. Let me hear your song.’
‘The King wants to break the treaty.’