by Paul Doherty
‘And was he?’
Corbett got to his feet and stood listening to the chatter and noise of the camp, a stark contrast to the stillness stretching out across the moorland. ‘To answer your question, Ranulf, I don’t know. But matters have been given a twist. I have not seen the actual document, but according to the king and Lord Gaveston, the Chancery received a sealed letter, written anonymously, claiming that its author had been in that church when the incident took place and was prepared to go on oath that Bruce was as guilty as Herod. According to Gaveston, the letter was extremely well written in Norman French, the parchment was of the best quality whilst the document mentioned certain details that only someone present could have known about. The writer said that if His Grace sent me, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, north to Alnwick, he would reveal himself and make a statement about what he had seen.’
‘When did this letter arrive?’
‘On the eve of the feast of St Benedict, the eleventh of July. Naturally His Grace and Gaveston were deeply interested. If it could be proved beyond doubt that Bruce killed an innocent man who had agreed to meet him under a pledge of safety before the high altar of a church, then Comyn’s death is that of a martyr, in many ways similar to Thomas a Becket’s murder in Canterbury Cathedral. The Pope would have no choice but to issue a bull of excommunication, cutting Bruce and all his followers off from both the Church and the community.’ Corbett waved a hand. ‘If that happened, anyone who assisted Bruce in any way, be it within or without – even a powerful king such as Philip of France – would suffer the same severe sanction.’
‘Sir Hugh, why didn’t they show you the letter? After all, you are the Keeper of the Secret Seal.’
‘Do you know, Ranulf, I cannot answer that. I certainly put the same question to them. They maintain the letter contained something I should not see, but I don’t know. To be perfectly honest, I am deeply suspicious about that anonymous letter, as I am about the Scottish hostages and the details about possible meetings with Bruce. All I have been told is that I am supposed to wait at Alnwick, and when the Scots approach me – heaven knows how or when – I must respond. I’ve listened to Seton and Sterling when I can. What do you think is suspicious about them, Ranulf?’
‘They are surly, they keep to themselves.’
‘And that’s what makes me wary. They are warriors going home to hearth, kith and kin, yet you would think they are being taken out for execution. On a few occasions I have tried to discuss Bruce with them. Oh, they answer my questions but they seem to have little love for their leader. All I know is that the king and Gaveston are playing sophisticated games. Edward needs to protect his favourite, whilst he would love to extricate himself from the Scottish war. And that’s why we are here, or at least in part, and no, Ranulf, like you, I do not like it. I have spent years campaigning along the Welsh march, where your wits are honed to sense danger, an ambush, that something is wrong.’
‘And you feel that now?’
‘Yes, I certainly do, both now and about what the future might hold.’
‘So the fate of Red Comyn is one reason why we are here, but not the sole one?’
‘I will answer all your questions in due course. But to go back to the hostages, God knows what will happen to them. Lancaster and the Ordainers have insisted they be returned. Edward and Gaveston suspect that Lancaster and his coven hope to arrange a truce with Bruce, but on their terms. Lancaster would also like to separate Edward from the likes of myself, members of his household, his own chamber; hence he is only too pleased to see the back of me. To be honest, I feel as if we are riding into a tournament without knowing who is waiting for us in the lists.’ Corbett sighed. ‘But that is the way of the world and the plotting of princes. So for the time being, we will let matters rest and rejoin the others.’
They returned to camp to find the cooking fires burning. The captain of archers, Ap Ythel, had built up the central fire and a large bowl of pottage was bubbling noisily over the leaping flames. Corbett and Ranulf joined those sitting around. Both clerks refused a bowl, helping themselves instead to strips of dried meat and coarse, hard bread laid out on a common platter, along with a cup of watered wine. The conversation was desultory. Corbett sensed the company had all caught that sense of unease that seemed to pervade the camp.
The clerk stared around. The captain of archers was also not eating; he sat cradling his pewter goblet, staring gloomily into the flames. Like Ranulf and the rest, the Welshman had shaved his head and rugged face to ease the constant wearing of coif and helmet. The two hostages, Alexander Seton and John Sterling, along with their squires, Richard Mallet and Malachy Roskell, sat huddled in their own group. All four men were fluent enough in Norman French but they insisted on speaking in the Gaelic tongue, so Corbett and the others had little idea what they were talking about. The Scots had been held hostage for at least six years, captured and imprisoned by the old king. They showed the effects of their long confinement: their cloaks, quilted jerkins, hose and boots were scuffed and patched, their hair and beards tangled and untended. Corbett had offered all four a barber and better clothes, but they had morosely refused. They were taciturn, bitter men with wind-burnt faces that emphasised their sharp, glittering eyes. They seemed impatient and short-tempered; all four reminded Corbett of attack dogs waiting to be unleashed.
Ap Ythel’s voice with its sing-song intonation rang out above the murmuring whispers. ‘Brother Adrian,’ the Welsh captain’s face creased into what he regarded as a smile, ‘this land reminds me of the Welsh march, yet I will be glad to be out of it. When do you think we will reach Alnwick?’
Adrian Ogilvie, a lean-faced young monk, his black hair cropped to show his tonsure, brushed crumbs from his robe and turned to the two people sitting next to him, Walter Thurston, Constable of Alnwick, and his sister Kathryn. ‘Walter?’ Ogilvie smiled. ‘Our companions want the safety of Alnwick.’
‘We should be there the day after next.’ The constable put his hand on his sister’s arm. ‘We too look forward to being safe and secure.’
‘Against Darel.’ Kathryn Thurston almost spat the words out. ‘A robber and a rebel. If our new king was like his great father or had the virtues of St Oswine . . .’ She fell silent as her brother clutched her hand and changed the conversation to cover her indiscretion, quickly describing what was left of their journey.
Corbett studied the three members of Lord Henry Percy’s household. The Benedictine was chaplain at Alnwick and highly valued by Lord Henry. A young man with an old head on his shoulders, Ogilvie had studiously ignored the Scottish hostages and, when he could, indulged in the sharpest diatribe against Bruce and his coven. Corbett reckoned he was well past his twenty-fifth summer: severe-faced, with hooded eyes, a strong mouth and chin and a bell-like voice that undoubtedly made him a redoubtable preacher. He had been a member of the Benedictine communities of Rievaulx and then Tynemouth, and made it very clear that he was now loyally committed to the Percy family. He and the Thurstons had been dispatched to London as a courtesy to greet Corbett on behalf of their master, as well as to assist him on his journey north. Once the party had left Pontefract, the three had acted as scouts, eager to advise Corbett and his retinue of twenty-five Welsh archers that the sooner they were at Alnwick, the better.
Walter Thurston too was a young man, but auburn-haired and soft-featured, with ever-blinking eyes and a slight stutter; dressed in a long murrey-coloured cotehardie, he also wore the Percy colours, a blue tabard with a white lion rampant. He constantly deferred to his sister, a comely faced woman a few years his senior. Kathryn wore a tight, old-fashioned veil and wimple and hid her ‘shapely form’, as Ranulf had described it, beneath a Lincoln-green riding robe. She insisted on wearing thick, heavy dresses with cuffs that almost covered her hands. A quick-tempered, sharp-eyed woman, she had robustly rejected the attempts by various members of the comitatus to win her attention. Even Ranulf, although she warmed to him with a smile, was kept at arm’s len
gth.
Corbett leaned closer, moving slightly to one side to obtain a better look at her. Kathryn abruptly raised her head and glared at him, as she often did. Corbett forced a smile, bowed and glanced away. He wanted to go back to the edge of the camp, yet he had to make sure all was well here. The company was settling quickly. He noticed how many of the Welsh archers had simply stretched out on the ground, wrapping their blankets around them, not even bothering to clean their bowls and pewter spoons in the water of a nearby burn. Some of those around the main campfire were struggling to their feet, declaring how tired they were. Corbett felt the threat of danger sharpening, even though all seemed well enough. At the far end of the clearing the horse lines were orderly and quiet; their mounts, sure-footed garrons, were placid, with feed bags fitted over their muzzles. The four huge war carts that carried their supplies had been carefully covered with leather cloths; the dray horses, hobbled nearby, munched the sparse grass.
Corbett rose to his feet, gesturing at Ranulf to join him. He collected a small lanternhorn, lit the tallow candle within and walked back to the edge of the clearing. Ignoring his companion’s warnings, he strode out onto the heathland, pushing through the gorse and long grass milling like waves under the strengthening wind until he came to an outcrop of rock. He placed the lantern on top and made his way back through the dark.
‘An old trick I learnt in Wales, Ranulf. Place a glowing lantern in the dark; watch, the glow spreads. An enemy will avoid the flame, so keep your gaze to the left and the right of it. A friend who wishes to be identified but is fearful of being taken as a foe in the dark will seek the light. I do believe someone is out there, very close and about to manifest himself.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf grasped Corbett’s shoulder, ‘listen.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Exactly. The camp has fallen silent. I have never seen so many men tired and sleepy.’
Corbett, his gaze riveted on the lanternhorn, was about to look away when he saw a shape flit behind the light, a swift, darting shadow.
‘Walk forward,’ he called. ‘Show yourself to be friend or enemy.’ He drew sword and dagger from their sheaths on his war belt; Ranulf likewise.
‘In all things boldness,’ the stranger replied, quoting one of Edward of Caernarvon’s favourite sayings.
‘Very well,’ Corbett shouted back. ‘Pick up the lantern with both hands, and I mean both hands, then walk slowly forward, and make sure you don’t stumble.’
‘I can’t see you.’
‘That’s not important,’ Corbett replied. ‘We can see you.’
The stranger, no more than a shifting shape in the glow of the tallow candle, lifted the lantern and walked forward. Ranulf laughed softly as he watched the lanternhorn rise and dip, and heard the stranger’s curses as he forced his way through the gorse and over the broken ground. Corbett repeated his warning about keeping both hands on the lantern. He also wondered why the guards deployed to the left and right of this line of trees had made no move to discover what was happening. At last the stranger was before them.
‘Who are you?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Geoffrey Cacoignes, once a squire in the household of the Prince of Wales, recently a prisoner of Robert the Bruce till I escaped and became a reiver under a different name in the retinue of that child of hell Edmund Darel.’
Corbett grasped the lantern, lifted it and exclaimed in surprise.
‘Oh yes, Sir Hugh. I recognise you. Now you look on a man who has greatly changed.’
Corbett was shocked. Cacoignes had been one of Prince Edward’s coven, a coterie of beautiful young gallants resplendent in their puffed, quilted doublets of damascene silk or cloth of gold, tight multicoloured hose and fantastical pointed shoes; their hair constantly crimped and coiffed, their smooth-shaven faces slightly painted, dark kohl rings under their eyes, lips a cherry red. Now, though, in the light of that lanternhorn, he looked as rough and coarse as any border outlaw, his dark hair, moustache and beard uncombed and greasy with dirt, the high cheekbones burnt raw by cold winds and sharp rain. He was garbed in a filthy doublet that fell to his knees over a thick green jerkin and hose of the same colour. He was, however, firmly booted and well armed, a dagger belt across his shoulder and chest, a broad war belt around his waist with a longbow slung on his back and a narrow quiver of arrows looped over the hilt of his sword. He tapped the lantern with his fingernails.
‘Well, Sir Hugh, what are you going to do, kiss me or kill me?’
Corbett laughed, put the lanternhorn down and stretched out his hand. Cacoignes grasped it, then greeted Ranulf too.
‘Sir Hugh,’ he spoke urgently, ‘the night is passing. Danger approaches even faster. You and yours will face a bloody onslaught. We can chatter later if we are still alive to do so.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Sir Edmund Darel comes on swiftly. I know. I was with him until I seized the opportunity to desert. I have been waiting for you, but so is Darel. He intends to attack just before sunrise, and he is bringing his war dogs with him.’
‘Sweet angels of heaven,’ Ranulf breathed.
Corbett recalled the howling he had heard earlier. ‘They are very close, aren’t they?’ he said.
‘Closer than you think. I also believe your company houses a traitor. Darel and his henchmen seem to know a great deal about you.’
Corbett hid his unease. Cacoignes’ sudden appearance out of the dark was unnerving. Nevertheless, it had a logic all of its own. Something he would have to reflect on later, if God gave him life and health.
‘Come, come.’ He gestured at Cacoignes. ‘Ranulf, I am concerned about our guards.’
They’d hardly entered the camp when Ap Ythel came hastening across.
‘Sir Hugh, look around!’ Corbett did so. Apart from a few individuals preparing to settle for the night, including the Thurstons, everyone was asleep. The guards as well. Ap Ythel moved across to one of his bowmen, crouched and roughly shook him. ‘Owain, wake up! Owain!’ He kicked the archer in the leg, but the man simply groaned and rolled over.
‘They are drugged,’ Cacoignes murmured. ‘Some potion, some powder.’
‘You are correct, stranger, whoever you are.’ Ap Ythel leaned down to shake another archer; he too just moaned and shifted away.
Corbett introduced Cacoignes and gave Ap Ythel the news as he looked around. The Thurstons, now alarmed, came hurrying across. Ranulf briefly explained what was happening as Corbett, Cacoignes and Ap Ythel discussed what could be done. Ap Ythel agreed with Corbett: some malefactor, spy and traitor had mixed a sleeping powder with the pottage. Only those who had not partaken had escaped its malignant effect. Corbett whispered a brief prayer of thanksgiving that he had not been drugged. Debate about who could have perpetrated such an act was ignored in the face of more pressing danger.
Corbett organised those now conscious to fetch buckets of icy-cold water from the nearby burn to douse the sleeping men. For at least an hour there was chaos. Those who were thus roused rolled, groaned, cursed and fought back, kicking and punching until they were awake. Kathryn Thurston brought them to warm themselves by the fire that her brother had built up, at the same time advising them about what had happened. The archers, sleepy and evil-tempered at such a rude awakening, soon realised the danger confronting them. At last the heavy sleepers, Brother Adrian amongst them, had all staggered awake. The Benedictine, who had fallen asleep on the far edge of the camp, cursed so colourfully that Ranulf whistled in deep appreciation.
The effects of the potion were soon dissipated as the men drank cold water and spooned hot oatmeal freshly cooked in a carefully scrubbed cauldron supervised by Kathryn Thurston and her brother. Corbett stared around the clearing as the men gathered about the fire. It seemed an age since they’d set up camp here the previous afternoon; now it was to become a battle ground. He, Cacoignes, Ranulf and Ap Ythel swiftly conferred. Cacoignes informed them that at least a dozen war dogs would be released, followed by enemy foot, whilst horsemen would ensure t
hat no one escaped.
‘The war dogs,’ Ap Ythel explained, ‘are those massive man-hunting mastiffs with jaws stronger and sharper than any wolf. Darel knows what he’s doing.’ He pointed to the ring of trees and the heavy gorse. ‘The mastiffs will be starved; they will smell the horse flesh and make short work of the brambles, briars and whatever else the undergrowth holds. They will break through to deal out wounds and death to men and horses alike. Eventually their keepers will sweep in to finish the gruesome task. A massacre, brutal, sudden and savage. So what shall we do?’
Corbett pointed at the four great war wagons. ‘Empty those and form them into a square, then everyone – and I mean everyone – is to climb in, about eight to each cart; that square will be our castle and we will be able to fight on every flank. We will also be protected. The sides of the carts are far too high for the dogs and we will be able to pour arrows on anything that approaches. I also want fire pots prepared; flaming arrows will discourage the dogs.’
‘And the horses, if the dogs break through?’ Ranulf asked.
‘They mustn’t. Keep all our mounts hobbled and position two archers amongst them. Don’t forget, Darel and his coven will not expect what we have prepared for them.’
The camp settled down. Some of those affected by the sleeping potion were sick and had to relieve themselves urgently amongst the trees. Others had recovered more swiftly. Ap Ythel, at Corbett’s insistence, dispatched scouts to snake through the long grass and wait for any sign of the enemy. The darkness was thinning when these scouts hurried back to report how they had glimpsed figures moving, whilst the early-morning breeze carried the stench of the kennels. Corbett ordered the four groups into the carts, leaving two archers amongst the horse lines. Then he crossed himself and breathed a prayer. He thought momentarily of Maeve’s sweet face, and of his two children, Edward and Eleanor. He quietly commended them to God, then winched back the arbalest he carried and inserted the bolt.