by Paul Doherty
‘Can I help you, Sir Hugh?’
De Craon stood in the doorway to the tower.
‘No, no, de Craon, you can’t help me.’ Corbett went down the steps. ‘Did you visit Crotoy today?’
‘Yes, I did. I came by myself earlier. Louis was alive and well when I left him. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go up there myself.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ve drunk rather deeply yet I must make sure everything has been taken.’ He brushed by Corbett and went up the steps.
‘I want to pay my last respects to Louis,’ Corbett declared, leaving the tower. He wished his companions goodnight and walked across the frozen castle yard. It had stopped snowing and, glancing up, he was pleased to see the clouds had broken and stars winked against the darkness. He spent some time in the narrow church, where three coffins now lay on trestles in front of the High Altar. He ignored the squeaking of mice, the cold which hung thick and heavy like a mist seeping through the very stones. He knelt, reciting the psalms of the dead, and started as he felt a brush on his shoulder. Father Andrew peered kindly down at him.
‘I thought I would find you down here, Sir Hugh. I’ve seen Sir Edmund and the Frenchman. We’ve agreed the Requiem Mass will be sung tomorrow. Rebecca will be buried in the churchyard. The corpses of the two Frenchmen are to be taken to Dover, embalmed and put aboard a French cog. Both I and Master Simon, the castle leech,’ he explained, ‘have done our best. At Dover there are more skilled practitioners. Anyway, Sir Edmund has said there’ll be no meeting tomorrow. The day will be given over to mourning.’
Corbett thanked him and left the church. He heard a sound deep in the shadows.
‘I thought you’d gone to bed, Ranulf. I can smell the soap you’ve washed yourself with. The Lady Constance must be pleased!’
‘I’ll retire when you do.’ Ranulf stepped into the pool of light thrown by the torches either side of the church door. ‘I thought it best to make sure you were safe.’
‘There’ll be no meeting tomorrow,’ Corbett declared, ‘and I must attend the Requiem Mass.’
‘I’m truly sorry, Master, about what happened earlier.’ Ranulf swayed slightly on his feet. He had drunk deep-bowled goblets of wine too fast during the evening meal.
‘Never mind.’ Corbett slapped him on his shoulder. ‘I’ve forgotten. Sleep well, Ranulf.’
Corbett returned to his own chamber. He knew Ranulf would follow him, at least to the entrance. He locked and bolted his door and made sure that the shutters were held firm against the window. Then he built up the fire and, taking his writing tray, sat for a while trying to make sense of the various problems which distracted him. He recalled the attack earlier in the evening, the crossbow bolts hurtling against the hard stone. How many people had seen him going there, how many people knew? But then he recalled striding across the castle yard. It would have been so easy for his attacker to see him, seize an arbalest and follow him through the darkness. Was that murderous bowman also responsible for the deaths of those young maids, or was the attack planned and plotted by de Craon? Was de Craon following orders, or was it simply that the Frenchman’s malice had got the better of him, unable to resist an opportunity to strike at his sworn foe? And the murders of these maids . . . had he learnt anything new? Nothing really, except the flirtation between the girls and that young man-at-arms, but that could be found in villages and castles up and down the kingdom. He wrote down the name ‘Phillipa’. She was different, a lonely and intelligent girl who spun fabulous tales about herself, about a landless knight, a fictitious outlaw called Goliard.
Had she gone into the forest and died? Was her corpse mouldering in some ditch, or had she run away? He recalled Mistress Feyner’s protestations. He rubbed his chin, wondering when the outlaw Horehound would meet him. Could he know anything? He glanced across at the pile of Friar Roger’s books and manuscripts, including the one from de Craon still lying on his bed. He placed the Secretus Secretorum back in the Chancery chest and returned to reflect on the deaths of those two Frenchmen, Destaples dying of a seizure in a locked chamber, Crotoy found dead between two locked doors, the keys to which he still had in his pouch. Accident or murder? Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. That would have to wait . . .
Ranulf of Newgate, Clerk of the Green Wax, was not as drunk as he pretended to be, and although his companions protested, he questioned both Chanson and Bolingbroke most closely about what had happened during his flirtation with the Lady Constance. Chanson, in particular, was only too ready to chatter. Ranulf was clearly furious, especially with himself.
‘I knew old Master Longface would go wandering off,’ he declared. ‘I should have been there. Now tell me again, exactly, what that red-haired wench said, and the man-at-arms and Mistress Feyner.’
Chanson described in great detail Corbett’s conversation with all three; he also referred to Corbett’s speculation on Father Matthew, a matter Ranulf already knew about. Bolingbroke filled in the gaps, and by the time he had finished his interrogation, Ranulf had decided upon his path.
‘What we must do,’ he declared to his sleepy-eyed companions, ‘is meet with this outlaw Horehound. Something has happened in the forest which he knows about. I suspect we’ll need his help over the murder of these maids.’
‘Do you suspect the priest?’ Bolingbroke asked.
‘Possibly, or that taverner. What I can’t understand is how the killer is able to place one corpse in a midden heap and another outside the castle, and a third on the trackway near the church.’
Ranulf kicked off his boots and, imitating Corbett, lay back against the bolsters. Chanson and Bolingbroke played a game of hazard, then retired. Ranulf sat listening to Chanson’s snores as he turned over what he planned for the following day. Lady Constance, her sweet face, was a constant distraction. Ranulf tried to ignore it; he had failed Corbett and must make amends. Eventually he fell asleep.
He woke in the early hours. Quietly he washed and changed, laying out his war belt, ensuring the sword and dagger slipped in and out of their sheaths, and took an arbalest from the chest near Chanson’s bed. Going down to the yard, he found the dirt and slush had been covered by a fresh layer of snow; only guards and cooks flitted like ghosts across to the bakehouses or kitchens. Men-at-arms were building bonfires, and few looked up as he crossed to the stable, shaking an ostler awake, urging him to prepare his horse.
‘No feed,’ he warned. ‘I want it quiet. Check the hooves, make sure it is well shod.’
He returned to his chamber and roused Chanson, almost pulling the sleepy groom up out of the thick coverlet, tapping his face.
‘Listen, Chanson, I’m leaving for the forest.’
‘But, but . . .’
‘Don’t start stammering,’ Ranulf warned. ‘Tell Sir Hugh that I’ve gone to meet Horehound. I hope to be back shortly after noon.’
‘But you’re frightened of the forest.’
‘Well it’s time I cured that. Now, while I’m gone, you follow old Master Longface like his shadow.’
Ranulf collected his cloak and left. His horse was saddled and ready in the yard. He mounted and rode through the outer bailey and across the drawbridge. The snow on the trackway outside the castle was well over ankle deep, but although the morning was grey, Ranulf took comfort that the clouds had broken, and perhaps the worst was past. He glanced at the line of trees and quelled his own fear, letting his mind go back. He had seen or heard something yesterday, but he couldn’t place it. He recalled the Frenchman’s corpse lying at the foot of the steps, the blood seeping out like spilt wine from a cup, then thought of Corbett sheltering in that ruin while the crossbowman took careful aim. He patted his horse’s neck. ‘Well, we will see who you are,’ he whispered.
He entered the line of trees, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully along the snow-packed trackway. Occasionally he passed other lonely travellers. A chapman, his bundle piled high on his back, hood up, face visored, plodded his way towards the castle. He hardly lifted his head as he passed. Ranulf rea
ched the church, which lay silent under its snow coverlet, the black crosses and headstones of the cemetery thrusting up, a sombre reminder of the shortness of life. He urged his horse on. He didn’t want to tire it, but at the same time he wanted to be out of the forest before the day began to die or the snowfalls returned. He had a fear of getting lost.
When he reached the Tavern in the Forest he left his horse in the cobbled yard. The tap room was open and he was pleased to meet the boy Corbett had paid the previous day. He ushered Ranulf to sit in the inglenook. The fire had burnt down, and as the boy remarked, the tavern was as cold as the snow outside. He brought a pot of ale and some stale bread. Ranulf chewed on this, sipping on the ale to soften the bread in his mouth.
‘Would you like to earn a piece of silver?’ he whispered as the boy crouched like a dog in front of him.
The boy’s eyes widened.
‘Three pieces of silver.’
‘Three pieces of silver!’ The lad edged away. ‘You’re not one of those strange ones who thinks a boy’s bottom is better than a girl’s breasts?’
Ranulf laughed. ‘No, I want you to come with me. I’ll put you on the saddle in front of me. I want you to lead me into the forest where I can meet Horehound.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘Oh yes you do,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘I know about outlaws. They always come to the nearest tavern to buy or sell, to collect information. I would wager a silver coin you’ve sat with Horehound out beneath the trees, haven’t you, lad?’
‘Meet him yourself.’
‘Three pieces of silver,’ Ranulf repeated. He put down the pot of ale and took out his purse.
‘One now, one when I meet Horehound, and one when we return.’
The boy’s eyes widened with amazement.
‘Do you have parents?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Died five winters ago.’ The boy’s eyes never left the coins. ‘Work here for Master Reginald I do.’ He pointed to a table on the far side of the room ‘Sleep under there at night and eat whatever scraps I am given.’
‘Three silver coins,’ Ranulf repeated again, ‘and I’ll find you a post in the castle. You don’t have to come back here. How about that, lad, eh? Clerk of the kitchen, clean clothes.’ He pointed to the leather cloths wrapped around the boy’s feet. ‘And a proper pair of boots.’
The boy jumped to his feet. In the twinkling of an eye he snatched the coin, scampered across the tap room and returned with a tattered cloak and a small pathetic bundle.
‘Good.’ Ranulf got to his feet.
‘I’ve just got one more task. Master Reginald always tells me never to douse the fire in the morning,’ and lifting his tattered tunic and pulling down his hose, the boy urinated into the fireplace, then, dancing like an imp from Hell, followed Ranulf out to his horse.
The Clerk of the Green Wax helped him into the saddle and swung up behind him. The boy stank, his hair was thick with grease, and beneath his cloak Ranulf could feel his thin body and bony arms. For a brief moment he went back years to when, garbed in rags, he had fought along the alleyways and runnels near Whitefriars. He was glad he had brought the boy; it dulled his fear of the forest, of becoming lost. The boy chattered like a squirrel, divulging all the secrets of the tavern, telling how Master Reginald was a bully but fawned on the foreigners who came and went as they wished and ate like lords. Ranulf listened intently. He did not want to prompt the boy, who, for a silver coin, would have told any lie about the taverner. So engrossed was he, it was a shock to realise how deep the forest had become. Only the occasional cawing of a rook or the rustling in the undergrowth betrayed any sign of life. On one occasion he thought he was lost, but the boy pointed their way through the trees and said they were safe. They reached a small crossroads where a forest trackway cut across their path. Here, the boy slipped down from the saddle, and stared owl-eyed up at Ranulf.
‘You’ve got to stay there,’ he warned. ‘You mustn’t move. I’ll be back before you know it.’
Then he was gone, leaving the trackway, pushing through the undergrowth, disappearing into the darkness of the trees. Ranulf had no choice but to wait. He felt tempted to ride on. It wasn’t the gloom, the snow or the greying sky above him, but that ominous silence, as if people were watching from the trees, waiting for him to make a mistake. His horse stamped and whinnied, and the sound echoed like the crack of a whip. Ranulf dismounted and hobbled his horse, which was restless at its master’s unease. He stroked its neck, talking softly, reassuring it, trying to control the beating of his own heart. He thought of Lady Constance and wondered if she would give him a token, a light kiss perhaps, a brushing of the lips. His horse whinnied again and moved. Ranulf heard a click and turned slowly. Six men stood there, garbed in rags, tattered hoods pulled over their heads; three carried weapons, swords and axes, and the leader and the two standing either side of him brought their crossbows up, bolts in the grooves, the cords winched back.
‘You have a fine horse. We could take that, the saddle and harness and sell them in the nearest town. Your weapons too. You also have silver coins.’
‘Aye, you could do that,’ Ranulf warned, ‘and the King’s men will see you hang. Are you Horehound? I’m Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk of the Green Wax, a King’s man. I have come to offer you a pardon.’
‘I told you, I told you.’ The tap boy appeared swift as a rabbit from behind a bush. ‘I told you who he was.’
The crossbows were lowered, and the outlaw leader came forward, pushing back his cowl and the ragged cloth covering his mouth and nose. A dirty narrow face, the nose slightly twisted, a scar coursing down his left cheek. He had cropped grey hair, his moustache and beard were dirty and clogged with grease, his eyes were sharp and quick. Horehound stretched out his rag-covered hand. Ranulf grasped this and pulled the man closer, gripping him tightly.
‘No, don’t worry.’ He saw the fear flare in the outlaw’s eyes. ‘I’m not here to trap you. The day you met us,’ Ranulf half smiled, ‘in the cemetery at St Peter’s, you spoke of a “horror in the forest.” What did you mean? You know something, don’t you, about the maids who have been killed?’
‘I know a lot of things.’ The outlaw leader turned to the men on his right. ‘Don’t I, Hemlock? Isn’t that right, Milkwort?’ The two grunted in agreement. ‘A full pardon,’ he turned back to Ranulf, ‘you promise that?’
‘For every one of you,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Full pardon and amnesty, as well as silver to help you on your way.’
The outlaw fished beneath his rags and took off the crude-looking cross dangling round his neck; he thrust this into Ranulf’s hand.
‘That’s been in holy water and blessed by a priest. Swear your oath and come!’
Ranulf never forgot the subsequent breathless wandering through that frozen forest. The outlaws left the boy with one of their gang to guard the horse, and in single file, Ranulf behind the leader, entered the trees; an ancient place, the outlaws confided, full of elves, sprites and demons. Ranulf hid his fear, for the forest was a truly terrifying place. The trees clustered in as if they wished to surround and trap him, icy branches stretched down to pluck at his hood or catch his cloak. Snow-covered briars and brambles tugged at his ankles. He could make no sense of where they were going; to all intents and purposes he was lost, yet Horehound trotted on like a lurcher dog, every so often stopping to warn Ranulf to follow him more closely as they avoided an icy morass or marsh. Occasionally an animal was startled or a bird burst out of the branches, making Ranulf’s heart leap and the sweat start. They crossed a gloomy clearing where the sky was only slivers of light between the trees, then ducked back under the dark canopy, following paths as treacherous and dangerous as any alleyway in London. At last they stopped at the edge of a glade, and the outlaws fanned out behind Ranulf, reluctant to go any further.
‘They be afeared,’ Horehound taunted, ‘but I’m not.’ And off he went.
Suddenly, in a clearing, they came upon the ‘horror in the woods�
��. Ranulf could tell that, despite the fresh fall of snow, someone had been here recently. Horehound pointed to the grisly find and, taking him back through the trees, brought him to the edge of the swamp and the second corpse. By the time they reached the morass, Ranulf’s stomach was queasy at what he’d just seen: a girl, flesh decomposing, eyes hollowed, cheeks pinched. He agreed with Horehound, before they covered up the remains, that it was a young woman who’d been hanged from the oak branch above them. The second corpse was different. This time the outlaws helped scrape away the snow and ice and drag the body from the oozing mud. Ranulf used the snow and the edge of his own cloak to clean the face, trying to avoid those staring eyes. His hand moved across the corpse and brushed the quarrel embedded deep in her chest. Using his dagger, he cleared away the mud to reveal the purple wound, the feathered flight and the encrusted blood.
‘Nothing to do with us,’ Horehound announced. ‘Neither of these deaths, that’s what we tried to tell you in the cemetery. We will not be blamed and hanged for the murder of these poor wenches.’
‘That’s why I came,’ Ranulf said. ‘My master, Sir Hugh Corbett, wishes to have words with you.’
‘I had heard that,’ the outlaw leader replied. ‘The taverner, Master Reginald, he told the boys to pass the message on, as if it was beneath him. I did not know what to believe. It may have been a trap but you’ve sworn your oath, haven’t you?’
‘I have.’ Ranulf stared at the man squatting before him, the rest of his companions standing in a semicircle around them. He glanced at the corpse sprawled in the snow, hair, flesh, clothing and blood-encrusted mud.
‘The end of life.’ Horehound followed his gaze. ‘No better than a rabbit.’
Ranulf got to his feet, and in a loud voice repeated his oath. Then he told the outlaws to bring the corpses back to the castle; he would ride with them. Later they must bring the whole band. They would be given fresh clothing, hot food, money and a pardon written out by the King’s own man and sealed in the Crown’s name, so no one could lift a hand against them. Ranulf would have liked to examine the corpses more carefully, but he was aware of the passing of time, how cold and hungry he had become. He had done what he had come for and was determined to be free of this dreadful forest as quickly as possible.