by Paul Doherty
‘I know that.’
Smallbone sniffed. ‘He believes Gaveston is back in England.’
‘What! But he was exiled on pain of forfeit of life and limb!’
‘Some life, some limb!’ Smallbone scoffed. ‘He’s been seen in London and there’s similar gossip from the port reeves but whether he’s still here is not known.’
‘Continue.’
‘The King is deeply interested in the dead Fitzalan’s physician. You know Lord Henry had, for some time, patronised an Italian, Pancius Cantrone. He hired him during his travels.’
‘And why should the King be interested in him?’
‘Because he once worked with Gilles Malvoisin.’
Corbett lowered his blackjack of ale.
‘Malvoisin? He was formerly physician to the French court. In particular, Johanna of Navarre, Philip IV’s dead wife. I thought Malvoisin died in a boating accident on the Seine?’
‘He did,’ Smallbone replied, gulping the venison, allowing the juices to dribble down his chin.
‘And what else, Master Smallbone?’
‘Well, the King is so interested, Simon Roulles has been despatched to Paris.’
‘Roulles!’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Who is he?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I trained with him,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s a merry rogue, Ranulf, a nimble dancer, a chanteur, a troubadour, a man who loves the ladies. I thought he had been killed in a street brawl in Rome.’
Smallbone shook his head. ‘He’s alive and kicking in Paris and, if the truth be known, paying assiduous court to Mistress Malvoisin. That’s all I have to sell.’
‘The dead physician’s wife?’
‘The same.’
‘My, my, my,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘Do you know why, Master Smallbone?’ Corbett asked.
The little clerk shook his head.
Corbett pushed away his trauncher of venison, gave his thanks and, followed by Ranulf, left the chamber. At the top of the stairs Corbett paused.
‘Mark my words, Ranulf. When we reach Ashdown, you be on your guard: that place will prove to be a pit of treason and murder!’ He paused. ‘There’s something very nasty, very secretive about all we’ve been told.’
Chapter 3
Robert Verlian, chief verderer of the deceased Lord Henry Fitzalan, would have agreed with Corbett. He had not bathed or changed, and his face and hands were stung by the nettles and brambles he had crawled through.
He had returned to Savernake Dell and seen Lord Henry’s corpse, the yard-long arrow embedded deep in his chest. Verlian had crept back to the manor only to realise he was the prime suspect; tongues were soon wagging, fingers pointing. Verlian had killed his master! He was to be captured and tried! Verlian had fled, like the wolfs-head he had become, back into the forest. What justice could he expect at Sir William’s hands? The manor lord had the power of axe and tumbril. Verlian could be hauled before the manor court and hanged before the day was out, his possessions confiscated, and what would happen to Alicia then?
Verlian crouched beside an oak, an ancient tree which, forest lore maintained, had once been used by the pagan priests for their sacrifices. Verlian hadn’t eaten, apart from some bread and rotten meat he had filched from a charcoal-burner’s cottage. Now he listened, like the many animals he had hunted, for any sound of pursuit on the morning breeze.
Verlian folded his arms across his chest. He had slept at night out near Radwell Brook, and his body now ached from head to toe, but what could he do? Ashdown Manor was a hostile place, the local sheriff was many miles away. His tired mind went back to the events of the last few weeks. Lord Henry’s infatuation with his daughter Alicia had grown by the day. He would never leave her alone. There had been presents of sweet meats and wine, costly cloth, gifts, even a snow-white palfrey. Alicia had been obdurate.
‘I am no man’s whore!’ she had snapped. ‘And no lord’s mistress!’
She had sent the gifts back. Lord Henry had only become more importunate, even forcing himself into the cottage they occupied on the Ashdown estate. Alicia, her temper knowing no bounds, had taken a bow and arrow from his war chest and threatened Lord Henry that, if he did not leave, she would kill him and claim it was self-defence. Fitzalan had turned nasty, mouthing threats and warnings. He had reminded them that Verlian and his daughter were his servants; he owned the roof under which they lived and the roads of Sussex were no place for a landless man and his daughter. Verlian had gone to Sir William for help but that secretive younger brother could provide no assistance.
Verlian heard the undergrowth crackling and scanned his surroundings, but it was only a badger coming out of his sett to sniff the morning air. Had Sir William killed his brother? Verlian wondered. To seize his wealth and put the blame on a poor verderer? Verlian was not sure of anything. He was weak from hunger, his mind fitful, his wits wandering. Hadn’t he dreamed of killing Lord Henry? Or, even worse, Alicia, where had she been that morning? Could it have happened? He suddenly started. Was that his imagination? No, the sound of a hunting horn brayed through the forest. Verlian had heard the rumours: how Sir William, now lord of the manor, was determined to hunt down his brother’s killer. Already rewards had been posted, a hundred pounds sterling for his murderer, dead or alive. Verlian, a soldier who had seen experience on the Scottish march, whimpered with fear. Perhaps he had it wrong? Again the blast of a horn, perceptibly nearer, followed by the bellowing of the Fitzalan hunting dogs, mastiffs trained in tracking a man down.
Verlian rose to his feet and ran at a half-crouch as fast as he could from that terrible sound but, the further he went, the closer the hunt grew. Verlian tried to remember where he was. He recalled his own hunting days. If he could get to Radwell Brook, he could use the water to hide his scent, but where would that lead him?
He broke into a clearing and saw a cottage. The door was open, a plume of smoke rose from the middle of the thatched roof. He tried to recall where he was and squatted down for a while taking his bearings. Yes, yes, that was it: Jocasta the witch lived here, she and her fey-witted daughter. Surely they would help? He ran across to the open door. The women inside were seated at the table. Jocasta was a tall, swarthy-faced woman, with coal-black hair tumbling down her strong face. Her eyes never flinched. Her daughter, with mousey-coloured hair and vacant eyes, just lifted a hand and went back to crooning over the little wooden doll in her lap.
‘I need food!’ Verlian gasped.
‘Then you’ll find none here, Robert Verlian!’
‘I am innocent.’
‘No man is innocent.’
‘For the love of God!’ Verlian screamed as the sound of the hounds drew nearer.
Jocasta went to a basket near the door and thrust two apples into his hand.
‘You are a dead man, Verlian. If Sir William doesn’t kill you, his hounds will!’
‘Please!’
‘Use your noddle! Are your wits as wandering as my daughter’s? You have appealed to God, then to God you should go!’
She slammed the door in his face. Verlian bit at the apples. They tasted sour; he found it hard to chew, his mouth was so dry. He was about to run on when he remembered what the witch-woman had said and gasped in relief. Of course, there was only one place which could house him. He fled across the clearing. Gasping and retching, Verlian forced his way through the brambles, desperate to seek the path he needed. The hunt grew closer, the howls of the mastiffs sounding like a death knell. On and on Verlian ran, ignoring the bile at the back of his throat, the tears which stung his eyes, the shooting pains at the back of his legs and the terrible cramp in his left side. He stumbled, falling flat on his face, the hard pebbled tracks scoring his hands, bruising his cheeks. He got up, ran on and, at last, he reached the clearing where before him stood the open doors of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Gasping and stumbling, Verlian threw himself inside, slammed the door shut, pulling the bar down and leaning against it. The little church was dark, with only
a glow of light from beneath the crudely carved rood screen. He was aware of benches and stools in the darkening transepts.
‘Who is there?’
A figure came through the rood screen. Verlian recognised Brother Cosmas. He stumbled up the church. The Franciscan held a knife in one hand, a candle he had been tapering in the other. Verlian reached the rood screen, pushed by the priest and staggered up the narrow steps. The verderer touched the altar then crouched down beside it as the Franciscan towered over him, a ghostly figure in his brown garb, the lower half of his pale face hidden by the shaggy black beard which fell down below his chest.
‘You are Robert Verlian!’ he declared. ‘Once chief verderer to Lord Henry. They say you are a murderer, an assassin!’
‘I am no assassin!’ Verlian spat back. ‘I am innocent of any crime! I claim sanctuary!’
The Franciscan sniffed and crouched beside him.
‘There’s little I can do for you, man.’ The hard eyes were kindly. ‘Sir William is lord of the manor.’
‘But not lord of this church!’ Verlian retorted.
‘No, no, he isn’t.’
The Franciscan rose to his feet at the hammering which rained on the door.
‘And, perhaps, it’s time I reminded him of that!’
In the spacious, well-timbered house which stood on the corner of the Rue St Denis within earshot of the bells of Notre Dame, Simon Roulles, the perpetual student, the wandering scholar, the loyal servant of King Edward of England, had found his own sanctuary in the opulent bedchamber of Madame Malvoisin. Simon, who now was known to his rather venerable lover as Bertrand, rolled over on the bed and stared down at his latest conquest.
‘You are indeed,’ she whispered, ‘a veritable cock, a strutting stag!’
Simon laughed and threw himself back on the bolsters.
‘Why me?’
The question had been asked many times over the last few days. Simon always tried to be honest. After all, what was he, just past his twenty-fourth or was it twenty-fifth summer? Well, the grey-haired lady who lay beside him was at least twice that age. In her youth Madame Malvoisin must have been comely: lustrous eyes, generous lips and the paint she had put on her face hid the seams and wrinkles of passing time. Her body was plump, warm, soft as silk and, if Simon was honest, a comfortable berth for a wandering soul such as himself.
He had met her in the marketplace, his hair crimped and prinked. He was wearing his best scholar gown, displaying the coloured silks of the student of the Quadrivium and Trivium at the Sorbonne. She had lost her maid and the bale of cloth she was carrying was heavy. Simon had helped. When they returned to the comfortable mansion with its wooden panelled chambers, Simon had agreed to a goblet of sweet wine and a plate of marchpane. Of course, he had been invited back and, of course, he accepted. He had taken Madame Malvoisin around the Latin Quarter, to those taverns full of devil-may-care, merry students, who drank, carolled and danced so expertly; then in the fields or a boat along the Seine, Simon had proved himself to be an assiduous suitor.
Madame Malvoisin had thrown discretion to the winds. This young student was the master of both her heart and her bedchamber. She really couldn’t care about the whispers and giggles of her maids or the gossip of her sharp-eyed neighbours. After all, what were they but jealous? Envious of her good fortune? Didn’t she deserve all this? She, the wife of a royal physician, until poor Gilles, too full of wine, had suffered that boating accident. He had been returning from a meeting of fellow physicians: according to the boatman, Gilles had insisted on standing up; the wherry had capsized, and only days later had poor Gilles’ fish-pecked body been dragged from the Seine.
Madame Malvoisin contemplated the golden tester over the four-poster bed. She often wondered about her husband’s death. Was it an accident or was it murder? Hadn’t Gilles hinted at certain dark secrets about the court, things no man should ever know? In turn she had poured out her heart to this handsome young clerk whose hands, once again, were caressing her breasts, running down her stomach to her secret place. She rolled over on her side, knocking his hand away.
‘You say you are going away?’
He kissed her on the lips. ‘Soon, my dear, but I will be back. A little business. My cousin owns a farm on the Calais road. I’ve been promising him a visit since midsummer.’
‘And when will you go?’
‘Around Michaelmas. But I’ll be back before October is halfway through.’
Simon tensed as he heard a creak in the gallery outside.
‘I thought you told your maids not to come up here, at least not until you had risen.’
Madame Malvoisin giggled like the young girl she felt. Simon was such a lusty lover and she could not help her cries and moans. She’d banished the servants from this gallery, strictly forbidding them to come anywhere near her chamber until she had risen and dressed for the day.
‘Why are you so nervous?’ she accused playfully. ‘That only intrigues the servants.’
‘Which servants?’ Simon’s voice was sharp.
‘My maid Isabeau. She’s always asking questions.’
Simon sat up. He heard another creak. He always prided himself on his prudence and cunning. Hadn’t he seen Isabeau talking to a stranger the afternoon before? He was sure he’d glimpsed coins being dropped into her hand. Again a sound. Ignoring the protests of Madame Malvoisin, Simon jumped from the bed. He hastily pulled on his woollen leggings and white cambric shirt. Madame Malvoisin was now sitting up, round-eyed. Simon looked at the door. The latch handle went down, and he was drawing both sword and dagger when the black-garbed assassins slipped into the chamber. Madame Malvoisin screamed, pulling the sheets up under her face. She gazed appalled at these horrors, hoods over their heads, masks across their faces. This could not be happening! This was some nightmare! Five, six figures she counted. They ignored her, intent on the young clerk. They could not be house-breakers. Where were her servants? She opened her mouth to scream but found the sound would not come. One of the black-garbed figures edged forward.
‘Monsieur, you are to come with us.’
Simon darted forward, sword and dagger snaking out. His opponent met him in a clash of steel. Simon withdrew. He looked back towards the window but the casement was too narrow and he knew the drop was too far. He cursed his own stupidity. He had made a mistake, one he’d vowed he never would: to be in a room where there was no escape, no other door or window which he could jump through, as he had so many a time. Again he closed but this time his opponent moved faster, twisting and turning as his sword dug into Simon’s shoulder. The English spy dropped his sword, doubling up at the fiery shaft of pain which raced across his chest. His opponents closed in, forcing him to the floor, twisting his arms behind him, before dragging him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder was intense.
‘Monsieur, you are under arrest!’
‘On what charge?’ Roulles gasped. ‘I object!’
‘Murder!’
‘Whose murder?’
The leader went across to Madame Malvoisin, still transfixed in terror. She struggled as he forced her back down the bed and, taking a bolster, clamped it over her face. Roulles stood horrified, watching his former lover struggle for her life, her body jerking, legs and arms lashing out. The assassin held firm until at last Madame Malvoisin lay still.
‘There’s your victim,’ the assassin replied. ‘Take him away!’
Corbett shaded his eyes to survey Savernake Dell and bent down to dig with the tip of his dagger at the dark patches still staining the dew-wet grass.
‘Your brother was standing here?’
Sir William Fitzalan nodded. ‘He’d notched an arrow to his bow; he was about to shoot when the assassin’s shaft took him full in the heart.’
‘And that assassin?’ Ranulf asked.
Sir William’s sweaty face twisted into a grimace.
‘You know full well: our verderer Robert Verlian, who fled! He has now taken sanctuary in St Oswald’s-in-the
-Trees.’
‘How do you know he’s guilty? Because he’s fled? Because he’s taken sanctuary?’
‘He was the only one that wasn’t here when my brother died. Verlian knew this forest and he’s a master bowman.’
Corbett looked back to where the dark-garbed Italian physician, Pancius Cantrone, stood beneath the outstretched branches of an oak tree. A further distance away stood Fitzalan’s retainers holding the horses. A quiet, peaceful place, Corbett thought. The early morning mist was still lifting. Even the birds were quiet, not stirring until the sun fully rose. A ghostly place where tendrils of mist hovered and shifted. The early morning glow caught the dew on the leaves and grass, making the dell shimmer in the strengthening light. It reminded Corbett of Leighton, of his walks with Maeve down to the great meadow. They’d sit by the stream, cloaks wrapped around them, and watch the sun rise. A quiet part of the day and one Corbett loved, but this was different.
‘Verlian wasn’t the only one absent, was he?’ Corbett asked.
Sir William looked askance.
‘You weren’t here.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I talked to your servants. I made careful enquiries.’
‘You only arrived in Ashdown last night.’
‘Yes, but a tavern like the Devil-in-the-Woods is full of gossip. Mine host has a nose for all the news but, if he was wrong, I can set the record straight.’
Sir William glanced away. He was a warrior, a hunter, who prided himself on being frightened of no one, but this dark-faced clerk with his royal commissions and warrants, his cat-eyed servant, unnerved him.
‘I’d walked away,’ he replied. ‘I went into the trees to relieve myself.’
‘An inappropriate time. I understand that at least two deer had raced into the dell. The huntsmen were close,’ observed Ranulf.
‘I couldn’t care if the Holy Father galloped in!’ Sir William snapped. ‘A loose belly is a loose belly! I’ll not soil myself for anyone!’
‘Yet you have a physician on hand?’