by Paul Doherty
‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett turned in the saddle. Bolingbroke hastened down the steps from the Hall of the Angels and, cloak flying, came running across. ‘Do you wish me to accompany you?’ The clerk pushed back his thinning hair and wiped the drops from his face. ‘I’m wasting my time here. Sanson and I are comparing the manuscripts. They are the same, but as for their meaning . . .’
Corbett leaned down and patted Bolingbroke on the arm.
‘No, no, stay here and watch what happens.’
They crossed the outer bailey, silent under its carpet of snow. Most of the garrison had now withdrawn indoors. They clattered across the drawbridge, the smells of the castle fading as they reached the trackway leading down to the fringe of trees. It was a bitterly cold landscape, the sky iron-grey and lowering, and beneath it only two colours, black and white. The trees and bushes, stripped of their leaves, made a sharp contrast to the silent whiteness around them. Corbett was glad of his heavy cloak and warm gauntlets. He guided his horse carefully along the trackway whilst above them two crows disturbed from their tree cawed noisily. He could tell from the track that few had left the castle. Here and there he could see the prints of birds and animals. A splash of blood and a few pathetic feathers showed where an animal had gorged on warm flesh in this icy wilderness.
Slumped in his saddle, Corbett reflected on the various problems facing him. He was so absorbed, he started with surprise as Ranulf called to him that they were approaching the Tavern in the Forest. They entered by the main gateway, an arrowshot from the trackway. The inn was a two-storey wooden-plaster building on a red stone base; it boasted a tiled roof and a small stack for the smoke to pour out. The yard was empty apart from two ostlers, one breaking the ice in the water trough whilst the other swept manure into a pile in the corner. The reek of horses mingled sharply with the sweetness from the nearby bakehouse and kitchen.
Corbett, throwing back his cloak, walked into the tap room. Ranulf followed, noticing the various doors and windows, just in case they had to leave more quickly than intended. It was a comfortable room with clean, whitewashed walls, and a black-beamed ceiling from which small sacks of vegetables and rolls of smoked meat hung to dry in the heat, well away from the rats and mice. A brazier stood in each corner, a large one in the centre. At the top of the communal table a fire glowed in the hearth built into the outside wall. At one end, near the kitchen, were a range of vats and barrels, and from the kitchen Corbett could hear the clatter of pans and pots, the shouts and cries of slatterns and servants. A few villagers were seated around the table; they looked up as Corbett entered and huddled closer to discuss the newcomers. In the far corner, grouped around a brazier, were five men, their dress almost hidden by cloaks and cowls. They too turned. Corbett glimpsed swarthy faces, black beards and moustaches.
The three newcomers took a table just near the door. One of the villagers turned and gave a chipped-toothed smile, lifting his hand, palm exposed, the customary greeting for peace. Corbett responded. A tap boy came running up with a tray of leather blackjacks full of ale, and without being asked, placed them on the table.
‘Is Master Reginald here?’ Corbett asked him.
‘I’m here.’
The taverner emerged from the shadows around the barrels and vats where he had been working, a dark-haired, sour-faced man, small and thickset but quick and soft-footed. Unlike other taverners, there was none of the hand-wringing or wiping of the hands on the apron, the greasy smile or bowing of the head.
‘You are strangers here? Why should strangers be travelling in such weather?’ Master Reginald glimpsed Corbett’s silver chain; now he did smile, the quickest of bows, and snapping his fingers, he called the tap boy back, gesturing at the blackjacks. ‘Proper tankards,’ he demanded, ‘and the best ale from the barrel.’
He paused as an old woman, resting on a cane, staggered out of the kitchen and came to sit in a chair directly opposite him. She had a scrawny neck and the face of an angry chicken, hair piled high on her head. She beat her cane on the floor as she glared at the newcomers.
‘My mother.’ Master Reginald’s smile was genuine. ‘Sirs, would you like something to eat? I have a fine venison stew, the meat is fresh and cured, newly baked bread and a bowl of onions and leeks fried in butter?’
Corbett nodded. He took his horn spoon from his wallet and waited for the taverner to bring the food from the kitchen.
‘You’re the King’s man, aren’t you?’ Corbett nodded and made the introductions, then pointed at the tankards. ‘There should be four. I would like you to join us, sir.’
‘I’m busy.’
Ranulf grasped his wrist. ‘We are King’s men,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘I want some food,’ the old woman shouted.
‘Ask the cook,’ Master Reginald shouted back. He tried to pull free from Ranulf’s grasp.
‘We are King’s men,’ Ranulf repeated, ‘and carry his seals. We wish to buy you a tankard of ale and share local gossip.’
The taverner agreed reluctantly and sat like a prisoner at the bar. Corbett ate hungrily, while Master Reginald became more nervous and wary. When he had finished his meal, Corbett wiped his bowl with a dollop of bread, cleaned his spoon on a napkin and put it away.
‘Do you know the outlaw Horehound?’
‘I’ve never—’
‘Yes you do.’ Ranulf picked up his dagger, which he had used to share out the bread. ‘You’re a taverner, on the edge of a forest where outlaws lurk. They come to you for food and sustenance, they sell you fresh meat, they tell you who’s on the road.’
‘Tell the outlaw Horehound,’ Corbett continued, ‘that the King’s man wants urgent words with him. It will be to his profit. You won’t forget, will you? Secondly, these young women who have been killed. Some of them served in this tavern. Do you have a crossbow, Master Reginald?’
‘Yes, I’ve got a crossbow, as have many of the villagers and castle folk. I also have a longbow, a quarterstaff, a sword and a dagger. I served in the Earl of Cornwall’s retinue in Gascony. My mother owned this tavern, as her grandfather did before her.’
‘And you have made it splendid with the plunder of war. Did you know any of those dead girls?’
‘Of course I did.’ The taverner kept his voice low. ‘I often need help in the kitchens and tap room. In winter trade is poor, but once spring comes, the roads and trackways are busy with people coming into the castle.’
‘Did you have a grudge against any of them?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Were they surly or impudent?’
‘Some were, some weren’t. Some had light fingers, others were prepared to sell themselves to customers. Some I liked, others I did not.’
‘And you often go to the castle?’
Corbett was now closely watching the group in the corner.
‘Well of course I do. I consider myself Sir Edmund’s friend.’
‘Who are those?’ Corbett asked, nodding toward the group he had been watching.
‘They are Castilians, trapped here by the snow. They are visiting the farmsteads and manors. They wish to buy up this year’s crop of wool. Such visitors are quite common now, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett nodded; English wool was as precious as gold in foreign markets. Many cities and powerful groups of merchants sent their envoys to England to buy the wool direct.
‘I go to the castle, and Mistress Feyner, the laundrywoman, comes here.’ Master Reginald chattered on. ‘Sir Hugh, I know which path you are leading me down, but I am innocent of any crime.’ The taverner finished his tankard. ‘I do not know why these young women were killed, but now, sir . . .’ He scraped back the stool, got to his feet and walked away.
Corbett asked for the tally, and as he paid he studied the wool merchants, heads together, chattering in a tongue of which he caught a few words. He paid the boy and walked over to the foreigners. At his approach one of the Castilians turned, then rose to his feet, hand outstretched.
‘Monsieur,’ he spoke in accented Norman Fre
nch, ‘you have business with us?’
Corbett gripped the outstretched hand.
‘No, sir, I am only curious.’
He glanced quickly at the man’s companions; black-haired, moustached, swarthy-faced, about the same age, they could have been taken for brothers, although up close Corbett recognised the differences in both dress and manner. Two were apparently merchants, whilst the others, by their ink-stained fingers, were clerks or scribes. The table in front of them was littered with scraps of parchment and a small box of lambswool.
‘You have been in England long?’ Corbett asked.
‘About six weeks.’ The Castilian now spoke English, in a harsh, guttural way; lean-faced and weary-eyed, he glanced over Corbett’s shoulder at Ranulf standing in the doorway. ‘Sir, I understand you are a King’s man?’
‘In which you understand correctly, sir. I wonder if I can see your letters of commission?’
The smile faded from the Castilian’s face.
‘Sir, we are merchants. We have letters of protection.’ He sighed at the way Corbett kept his hand outstretched, then talked quickly to his companions, one of whom handed over a large leather wallet. The Castilian introduced himself as Caratave; he undid the leather pouch and took out a sheaf of documents. Corbett scrutinised them. They were written in Latin and Norman French. The first was from the King of Castile asking that these merchants be given safe passage. The others were letters from the English Chancery. Corbett even recognised the clerk’s hand on licences issued to enter Dover.
‘I thank you, sir.’ He handed the documents back. ‘But now, if you are approached by the sheriff’s men, you can say that Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, has confirmed your documents. May I buy you some wine?’
The offer was curtly refused. Corbett bowed and walked out into the stable yard.
‘What do you make of that?’ Ranulf whispered.
‘Curiosity, Ranulf, curiosity, that’s all.’ Corbett gazed up at the sky and turned his face against the stinging cold wind. ‘Here we are, Ranulf, in the King’s own shire of Dorset, at Corfe Castle. Monsieur de Craon weaves his web and spouts his lies. Offshore Flemish pirates come close to land, and now we have Spanish merchants.’ He shrugged. ‘They seem legitimate enough.’
Chanson brought their horses from the stable and paid the grooms. Corbett grasped the reins and led his horse out on to the trackway. He had hardly mounted when it shied violently at the boy who burst out of the bushes on the side of the path, knocking the snow from his hair and ragged clothes. Corbett steadied his horse and quickly dismounted.
‘You served us.’ He recognised the boy from the tavern.
‘Aye, Master, I did, and my ears are sharp.’
‘Are they, boy?’
Corbett patted his horse’s neck and, feeling beneath his robe, took out his money purse. The boy’s eyes rounded.
‘I’ll make sure Horehound gets your message.’ He deftly caught the coin Corbett threw.
‘And the foreigners?’ Corbett asked.
The boy, grasping the silver coin tightly, shook his head. ‘They talk in their own tongue; sometimes it’s difficult to understand. All they are interested in is wool and which farms are to be visited or which manor lord has the best flocks. They gave Master Reginald good silver for that information.’
‘You didn’t come for that, did you?’ Ranulf drew his horse alongside Corbett’s.
‘No I didn’t.’ The boy licked his lips and looked furtively back towards the tavern. ‘It’s the young girls who were killed. I don’t like Master Reginald, too free with his fists, and he is always trying to put his hand up some wench’s skirt. They make fun of him, you know.’
‘Who?’ Corbett asked, leaning down again.
‘The wenches. They composed a song about him. One night, just as autumn broke, they came down and sang it beneath his window, a truly rude song with lewd words. Master Reginald drove them off.’
The boy jumped with glee as Corbett spun him another coin. He caught this and, quick as a rabbit, disappeared back into the bushes. Corbett turned his horse and glanced at the gateway. He thought of Master Reginald with his cart going in and out of the castle, of that crossbow carefully stowed away.
‘Some of the wenches,’ Ranulf declared, reading Corbett’s mind, ‘might have been friendly with him; they would allow him to come close.’
‘Aye, they would,’ Corbett replied. ‘I wonder if we have just supped with their assassin.’
They continued their journey down to the church, and by the time they had hobbled their horses just inside the lych gate, they could tell by the tolling of the bell that Father Matthew had already begun his Mass. Corbett walked into the church and paused in the porchway, sniffing the air. It was not the usual incense or wax, or even the mustiness of an ancient place, but an odour he couldn’t recognise or, as yet, place. Ranulf was also intrigued, and pulled a face at Corbett’s questioning look.
From the small sanctuary Father Matthew’s powerful voice echoed.
‘Respice mei Domine, respice mei Domine.’ Look at me, Lord, look at me.
Corbett joined the small congregation of villagers, charcoal burners and woodmen who had drifted into the church for the Mass arranged to suit their hours of labour. They worshipped God, ate and drank in the nearby tavern and worked until it was too dark to continue, a motley collection in their fustian jerkins, hose and shabby boots. The women wore high-necked gowns and dresses, dark greens or browns; they stamped their mud-encrusted boots against the sanctuary floor, pulling back hoods to reveal faces turned raw by the biting wind. They were friendly enough, peering shyly at these King’s men, openly admiring the leather riding boots and Ranulf’s quilted jerkin.
Father Matthew, however, standing at the altar in his purple and gold vestments, was intent on the Mass. Corbett listened carefully to the Latin and recognised that the priest had not only a good knowledge of the classics but a sure grasp of the Roman tongue. The Latin of many village priests was sometimes difficult to understand, but Father Matthew enunciated every syllable. Corbett watched with interest as he celebrated, turning to lift the Host, calling on the congregation to adore the Lamb of God.
Once Mass was finished, Corbett waited in the porch for the priest to join them.
‘Well, well.’ Father Matthew came striding down the nave, black robe fluttering. He clasped Corbett’s hand. ‘Sir Hugh, you wish to have words with me?’
‘First, Father, the smell?’
‘A little sulphur,’ the priest replied. ‘Sometimes I leave the door open; we’ve even had the occasional vixen nest her cubs in here. They always leave their offerings to the Lord!’
‘Could we go to your house, Father?’
‘I have to take the Viaticum to some of our sick,’ the priest apologised. ‘But one day soon, Sir Hugh . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘Tell me, Father, do you have a crossbow?’
‘Yes, I do,’ the priest replied wearily. ‘And a quiver of quarrels. I wondered when you would come and question me, Sir Hugh, yet I’ve told you all I can. As regards those young women, I school them here in the nave, I hear their confessions, and on Sundays and Holy Days I share the Eucharist with them.’
‘They are not unruly or disobedient?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir Hugh, if you wish to find out what they think of me, why don’t you ask them? On the morning I found poor Rebecca, I was here in the church. I heard Alusia scream. It cut like a knife.’ Father Matthew stared at this sharp-faced clerk and the other one standing deep in the shadows. ‘I really must press on.’ His words came out in a rush. ‘Soon it will be the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and after that comes Christmas. I must start collecting wood for the crib, as St Dominic taught us.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Sir Hugh, you are always welcome to return.’
‘I think he wanted us to go.’ Ranulf grinned as they unhobbled their horses.
‘He did seem nervous,’ Chanson intervened.
‘
Yes, yes, he did.’
Corbett gathered the reins in his hands and stared back at the church, an ancient building with crumbling steps, though the door was new and reinforced with iron studs.
‘A strange one, Father Matthew,’ he mused as he thrust his boot into the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. ‘His Latin is perfect, yet he held the Host in a way he should not. After the consecration, Ranulf, the priest is to keep his thumb clasped against his forefinger; it’s a petty part of the ritual.’
‘Perhaps he was cold, as I was,’ Ranulf snapped.
‘And for a poor parish priest he seems to know a great deal about the Virgin Mary and the teaching that she was conceived without sin, and yet,’ he urged his horse on, ‘he doesn’t seem to remember that it was St Francis, not St Dominic, who fashioned the first crib.’
The Secrets of Nature are not to be committed to the skins of sheep and goats.
Roger Bacon, Opus Maius
Chapter 7
Horehound sat on the edge of the snow-fringed marsh. He was freezing and famished. He wanted to sleep and dream about a charcoal fire above which venison steaks, basted with oils and herbs, slowly roasted. He shook himself from his reverie – he had seen men of the woods lose their wits; hadn’t that happened to Fleawort three winters ago, when he had run himself to death chasing a stag no one else could see? The cold was intense. Horehound’s belly had had nothing more than watery viper soup, and he realised how desperate the situation had become. Game was growing scarce, or was it simply that they were losing their skill? Foxglove had died chattering his sins whilst Horehound pretended to be a priest and mumbled words which sounded like Latin. One day he would ask a priest if Foxglove would have escaped the pains of Hell. Horehound stuck a finger in his mouth and rubbed his sore gum. The idea which had occurred to him in the warmth of Master Reginald’s kitchen had grown like a seed in the ground. He’d crouched behind the tombstones and watched that King’s man. The stranger was like Sir Edmund – a just, honest officer of the law.