by Paul Doherty
Corbett stepped closer.
'You are sure?' he hissed.
'Sir, now you know what I do.'
Corbett handed over the coin, let the man go and leaned against the wall.
'Oh, God,' he muttered. 'Ranulf, if the Prince knew before the porter arrived here, there can only be one explanation. He must have had a hand in Lady Eleanor's death. And how,' he whispered, 'do we tell the King that his son is a murderer?'
'Corbett! Master Clerk!'
They both turned. Gaveston stood at the end of the gallery, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.
'Master Corbett!' he called. 'I have come to apologise. Your reception was not courteous, but the Prince and I had other matters to discuss. Come! Let me show you Woodstock.'
Corbett glanced warily at Ranulf and raised his eyes heavenwards.
Gaveston sauntered over. He smiled dazzlingly at Ranulf and linked his arm through that of the clerk.
I understand the King has granted you a manor? You have stables? You like hunting?'
'I am more of a farmer, My Lord. More interested in the planting of crops and the clearing of scrubland, though, yes, I hunt.'
'Then I must show you something,' Gaveston replied. 'New hunting dogs from Ireland, great shaggy beasts. They are the Prince's pride and joy. Well,' he added mockingly, 'besides me!'
The Gascon led Corbett and Ranulf through a maze of corridors which led out to the back of the palace, across a deserted dusty yard into one of the large outbuildings there. Inside, the walls were cold, dank and rather slimy. Gaveston bustled about in the darkness, found a tinder, and a cresset torch flared into life.
Corbett became uneasy. He heard a howl which seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth: long, cruel and haunting. He shuddered, his hand going to the bone handle of his dagger though he dare not pull back. Gaveston opened a door in the far wall and led them down some steps, dimly lit by torches fixed in iron brackets. These flickered and danced wildly as if blown upon by unseen lips.
Corbett glanced at Ranulf. In the pale tight he noticed his servant's face was ashen, covered with a sheen of sweat. Corbett sensed menace and malevolence, and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. They went down the dark tunnel. They had not gone far when again the clerk heard that long, moaning howl. He quietly drew his dagger and braced himself. They turned a corner and Corbett had to hide his trembling at the appearance of the small, squat, one-eyed man who seemed to rise out of the darkness before them. His head was covered by a tarred leather hood. He wore a dirty brown apron and sweat gleamed on his naked forehead. The black patch hiding one eye gave his cruel, sharp face an even more sinister aspect
'Ah, Gyrth!' Gaveston talked as if they were in some pleasant garden 'I have brought our guests to see the dogs.'
The fellow grinned. He had no teeth; nothing except dripping black-red gums. He opened his mouth wider, making a strange grunting noise.
'Gyrth has no tongue,' Gaveston observed. 'The unfortunate result of a disagreement, is it not, Gyrth?'
The mute looked warily at the Gascon and nodded his head.
'Come, man!' Gaveston said. 'We wait. The door!'
The creature scuttled ahead of them like some small black spider, opened the padlocked door and waved his guests forward. As he did so the most furious howling broke out. Corbett walked forward. Beyond the door was a slight recess blocked by a thick metal iron grille, and behind it four pairs of cruel red eyes gleamed in the darkness. Gaveston pushed Ranulf behind him.
'You stay,' he whispered, and walked gingerly forward
The four huge black mastiffs came to life, smashing their great muscular bodies against the grille, lips curled, white teeth flashing, jaws slavering. They would have torn Corbett to shreds if the grille had been raised. He stood his ground, carefully inspecting the dogs. He had seen this breed before. King Edward had used them in Wales as war dogs but later had them killed because, in their blood lust, they had failed to distinguish between friend and foe.
The four dogs were massive, the muscles bunched high in their shoulders above long, strong legs. Their heads were rounded, ears flat. They gave the impression of being nothing more than killing machines with their huge jaws, white jagged teeth and mad, red eyes. They stopped their howling, eyes fixed on Corbett, and again, as if controlled by one mind, threw themselves against their iron cage, the leader of the pack standing on his hind legs and pounding his muzzle against the grille.
Corbett estimated the dogs were taller than any man. He smelt their fetid breath and tried to control the shuddering of his body, fighting against the nauseous panic which curdled his stomach and made his legs so weak he longed to sit down. Gaveston was playing with him, testing his nerve in this cruel game. He could hear the Gascon behind him, taunting Ranulf, inviting him to draw closer, and his servant's angry refusal.
'Ranulf does not like dogs.' Corbett turned and spoke over his shoulder. 'Ever since he was a boy he has had a fear of them. He was attacked by a vicious mongrel.'
Corbett looked around: near the foot of the grille was a tub packed with juicy red chunks of meat. He stepped over, pierced one of the raw chunks with his dagger and held it up before the mastiff. The dog whimpered. There was a square in the grille larger than the rest, probably used to feed the dogs. Corbett pushed the meat through and watched the leading dog seize it in his huge jaws, throwing it up and devouring it, the blood streaming down his black, slavering mouth. Corbett cleaned his knife on the toe of his boot, re-sheathed it and walked back.
'Fine beasts, My Lord! You are to be complimented, though I urge caution. They may well be animals who trite the hand which feeds them!'
Gaveston laughed and clapped his hands gently.
'Un bon mot, Clerk,' he said. 'Come! You have seen enough.'
They walked slowly back up the tunnel. Behind them the howling of the dogs rose like some demonic music. Gaveston led them back to the heart of the palace whence a servitor took them up to a chamber high in the building. A simple room with stark white plaster, but at least they were provided with rosewater, a set of clean napkins, and a jug of wine which Corbett told Ranulf not to touch. They whiled away the time, Ranulf playing dice against himself, the only time he ever lost. Corbett lay dozing on the bed, idly wondering what Maeve was doing, and thought again of Sister Agatha. She and the other nuns would still be involved in the official mourning for Lady Eleanor and Dame Martha. He stirred uneasily at the suspicions the steward had provoked. How could the Prince have known of Lady Eleanor's death so early? Corbett viewed the mystery as a logical problem. There were two routes to follow: on the one hand he could try and solve the murder, but that might make a bad situation worse. On the other he would concede the Prince was involved, perhaps even guilty of Lady Eleanor's death, in which case, for the sake of the crown, the scandal would have to be hidden.
Swallows fought under the eaves outside the window, a lonely bell sounded, and Corbett heard faint shouts from the courtyard. He dozed but woke with a start, dreaming that the Hell-hounds he had just visited were snuffling at the door, but it was only Ranulf dragging a stool across the dusty rushes. A servant knocked and announced that the banquet would begin in an hour. Corbett rose, washed, and made himself as presentable as possible. Ranulf scooped his dice into his leather wallet and they went down the spiral wooden staircase and into the hall.
The banquet was a sumptuous, luxurious meal. Huge banners hung from the heavy, black beams bearing the Royal Arms of England, the Golden Leopards snarling next to the White Lilies of France and the Red Dragon of Wales. Trestle tables had been arranged in a square and covered with white lawn sheets. Multi-bracketed candelabra placed along the centre helped the sconce torches to bathe the room in light Corbett could smell the heavy, thick fragrance of those mouth-watering dishes he had seen being prepared in the kitchen. Servants in the blue and gold livery of the Prince and the Lord Gaveston scurried round with silver plates which the guests would use as dishes instead of the usual tra
unches of thick square slabs of stale bread. Musicians played quietly on tambour, rebec and lute in the minstrel gallery at the far end of the hall, accompanied by a group of beautiful young boys all dressed in silver and gold who softly sang some troubadour's lay. A greyhound cocked his leg against the table and was promptly shooed away.
A chamberlain showed them to their seats just beneath the high table, which was dominated by a pearl-encrusted silver salt cellar. Corbett looked around. The other diners were all henchmen of either the Prince or Lord Gaveston: clerks, household officials, captains from their mercenary retinues, and the occasional priest or almoner. He and Ranulf were ignored, which made him uneasy. A flourish of silver trumpets, their shrill fanfare stilling the chatter, and the Prince entered, holding Gaveston's hand. Both wore silver chaplets and were clothed from head to toe in robes of gold. Their appearance drew 'Oohs' and 'Ahs' from the group of sycophants. The Prince acknowledged their greetings as he and his favourite sat in the two great throne-like chairs at the high table. Corbett shuddered and looked away. If the old King saw this he would have apoplexy, for the Prince was openly treating Gaveston as if he was his wife. Another braying of trumpets and the banquet began. The French chefs in the Prince's kitchen had used all their arts and skills; soups and broths thick with herbs, pheasant and quail meat, were served, followed by salmon, turbot, pike and tench. Boar's heart stuffed with cloves, lamb garnished with mint and marjoram, a swan cooked and restored so it sat upon the sdver platter as if swimming on some magical pool. Haunch of venison, jellies and sugared pastries, and jug after jug of the best Bordeaux or chilled white wine from the Rhinelands completed the feast.
Of course, Ranulf ate as if there was no tomorrow, Corbett more sparingly. He felt uncomfortable, uneasy at the way the Prince and Gaveston hardly spared them a glance whilst their companions at table treated them as if they simply did not exist. The wine bowl circulated more freely, the conversation and laughter grew louder, the silver-white cloths became stained. A jester, a tiny woman no taller than three foot, appeared, doing somersaults along the table whilst dodging the bowls and bits of food thrown at her. Corbett suddenly realised he was in the comer of the hall. If a quarrel was provoked, he and Ranulf would be trapped. Gauging a suitable moment he dragged his servant to his feet, bowed towards the Prince and quietly withdrew. Once outside he sent Ranulf back to their chamber. The servant came hurrying down with his cloak but only one glove.
I could only find one, Master.'
The clerk shrugged.
'No matter. I may have lost it, and I am certainly not wandering around the palace looking for a glove!'
'We could go and try to borrow horses from the stables?' Corbett shook his head.
'No, Ranulf, I feel uneasy. The sooner we are out of here, the better. The night is fine, the walk short, and the evening air will clear both our heads.'
They slipped through a side door and made their way out via one of the postern gates of the palace. They easily found the track they had followed earlier in the day. A full harvest moon bathed the sleeping countryside in a silver light, the night air was warm and the fields slept under clear autumn skies. Corbett and Ranulf followed the dusty track past green hedgerows and up a hill. The clerk listened with half an ear to Ranulf's chatter about the banquet and the Prince's open display of affection for Gaveston. They had reached the top of the hill when they heard the first soul-chilling, baying call. Both stood still, the warm blood freezing in their veins. Corbett felt his head and neck tense as if someone had slipped an iron helm over his hair. He wanted to turn round but dared not do so. Again the howl, as if one of Satan's demons was rising from the pit of Hell. Corbett turned and looked back down the moonlit path. He felt he was in a nightmare. His heart hammered in terror as he glimpsed those shaggy, hulking shapes of shadowy grey speeding across the meadows. He remembered those mad, red eyes which had glared at him earlier that day through the grille, and those great death-bearing, slavering jaws. He grabbed his servant.
'Run, Ranulf!'
Corbett undid his cloak and dropped it on the ground. Ranulf hesitated as if intending to pick it up.
'Leave it!' Corbett screamed. 'It will divert the dogs for a while. Run!'
Ranulf needed no second bidding but sped off like an arrow. Corbett followed, past the dark, open fields and into the trees that stood like silent soldiers in some bewitched army. They fled for their lives as the great Hell-hounds caught their scent and bayed in savage glee. A howl showed that the dogs were beginning to close. The cool night air burned in Corbett's straining lungs. The trees thinned and they fled across an open meadow. He looked up and, in the clear moonlight, glimpsed the roofs and towers of Godstowe Priory. They stopped just over the brow of a hill.
'Ranulf!' he gasped. 'It's my scent. The glove – it was taken. You go for some tree. Climb and hide!'
Ranulf, his face white as a sheet, hair matted with sweat shook his head.
'If I'm to die, Master, I prefer to be with you. There might be huntsmen who could bring me down.'
Corbett nodded and they staggered on, bodies soaked in sweat, eyes blinded with panic, legs and feet threatening to turn into the heaviest lead. They ran on, sobbing for breath, across a ploughed field. Corbett could have sworn that momentarily he glimpsed another figure, shadow-like, but fled on. Behind him the dogs bayed in triumph, then suddenly there came a terrible scream which clutched Corbett's heart – a cry of dreadful despair. He turned. The hounds had not breasted the hill. Ranulf… where was he? He looked around and felt so dizzy he had to steady himself. He saw Ranulf on his knees, his arms wrapped around his straining chest.
I cannot go on, Master!'
'Yes, you can!' Corbett snarled.
He picked Ranulf up, hustling him towards the wall of the priory. They leaned, sobbing, against it. Behind them the dogs had fallen strangely silent.
'It's too high to climb,' Corbett hissed. 'Come on!'
He pushed Ranulf round the wall, past the Galilee Gate, which was locked, to the main door. The clerk hammered on it with the pommel of his dagger.
'Open up!' he screamed. 'For the love of God, open!'
The drunken porter opened the postern door. Corbett dragged Ranulf inside, turned and kicked the gate shut.
'Secure it, man!' he roared.
The porter looked at him drunkenly, then beard the low, mournful howl of the dogs and quickly pushed the bolts home. Corbett ran inside the porter's house. The two soldiers were sprawled there half-asleep. He took a torch from its iron bracket, picked up an arbalest leaning against the wall, as well as a stout leather quiver filled with vicious barbed quarrels. He hurried up the narrow steps on to the parapet of the curtain wall. He leaned against it, winching the arbalest back, cursing, his eyes stinging with sweat as he placed the quarrel. Corbett heard a savage barking and two of the great dogs pounded round the corner of the wall beneath. Corbett picked up the torch and threw it down. Both animals stopped, looked up and snarled. In the flickering light Corbett could see their muzzles caked in blood.
'Bastards!' the clerk bellowed. 'Devil-sent bastards!'
The hounds threw themselves at the gate. Corbett suddenly found himself laughing.
'That's right, you bastards!' he screamed. 'Stay there!'
He positioned the arbalest, leaned over the wall and released the catch. He heard the whirr of the bolt and shouted with pleasure as it struck the leading dog just behind the head, digging deep and slicing its spinal column. The animal suddenly leapt in the air in a terrifying spasm of pain before collapsing, choking on its own blood. Corbett, muttering to himself, fitted a second bolt. This time he was too clumsy. The crossbow bolt whirred out, nicking the hindquarters of the second dog, which turned and fled howling into the darkness. Corbett leaned against the wall and promptly vomited. He paused for a while to compose himself then staggered down to the porter's lodge.
Ranulf sat just within the door, his back to the wall, his face ashen and wet with sweat, the front of his j
erkin stained with vomit. The porter crouched beside him, too drunk to offer any succour. Corbett filled the wine cup, drank some himself and then forced the goblet between his servant's lips, snarling at the porter to bring a blanket.
There was a knock at the door. Lady Amelia, accompanied by Dames Catherine and Frances, bustled in. They were shrouded in blankets, their faces pale and heavy-eyed with sleep.
'What is it, Clerk?'
'Nothing, woman!' he rasped angrily.
He saw the colour come back into Ranulf's cheeks and stood up.
I am sorry,' he muttered. 'We were returning from Woodstock and were chased by war dogs.'
Lady Amelia gazed back, her eyes puzzled.
'Hounds,' Corbett said slowly, 'trained to hunt and kill men. You must not open the gates tonight. They would have killed us. I tell you this – somewhere out in the darkness, some poor unfortunate, a tinker or vagabond, paid for our escape with his life!'
As if to mock his words a low, moaning howl came out of the darkness beyond the wall. Lady Amelia stared coolly in the direction of the noise.
'Dame Catherine!' she snapped. 'You are to rouse the labourers. Sound the tocsin! Everything is to be made secure; all gates are to be kept closed and locked. No one is to leave. Corbett, follow me!'
To the sound of hurrying footsteps and the clanging of the tocsin, Corbett and Ranulf were led across to the infirmary, a pleasant, two-storey house just past the refectory. An old battle-axe of a nun wrapped them both in heavy blankets, forcing cups of mulled wine down their throats. It was only as his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep that Corbett realised the wine must have been lightly laced with a sleeping potion.
He woke clear-eyed late the next morning. Ranulf was already up, squatting on the side of his bed, his face clean and washed. He had donned a new set of clothes and brought fresh doublet and hose for Corbett.
'A nightmare, Master?'
'Yes, Ranulf, a nightmare.'
He cast the blankets aside, pleased that he felt no ill effects from the terrible chase of the previous night.