by Paul Doherty
‘Why were you sent?’
‘The old king did not fully accept the news that trickled south. He entertained doubts about the accepted story and he suspected mischief. He asked questions: why was Cacoignes’ group attacked? How did he and Ravinac escape? Where was the Lily Crown? Sir Hugh, Cacoignes was a fop. He had a reputation and not a very pleasant one. Rumour had it that he came from these parts, so how could he blunder around and be captured?’ Ap Ythel heaved a sigh. ‘But there again, many of the Prince of Wales’s handsome young men were the subject of lurid tales, including my lord Gaveston. Wasn’t his mother allegedly burnt as a witch?’
Corbett stared at the rough-faced, taciturn Welshman, a skilled master bowman and a loyal member of the royal retinue. ‘Did you discover anything about the attack on Ravinac’s party?’ he asked.
Ap Ythel laughed sharply, as if to himself. ‘We gleaned the scantiest of details. Local peasants talked of a furious attack by black-garbed reivers.’
‘Black-garbed?’
‘Yes. I too was surprised. The Scots do not usually don the robes of the black monks, the Benedictines, the likes of Brother Adrian. Anyway, we then journeyed on to Tynemouth. On our travels we captured a Scottish clerk.’ Ap Ythel’s smile turned genuinely sad. ‘Matthew Dunedin. A clever, merry, very learned young man. He was a member of Bruce’s household. He was carrying valuable documents, an important figure in Bruce’s coven; his capture was some consolation for our fruitless mission. We kept him at Tynemouth, then took him south. He was imprisoned with Seton and Sterling.’
‘And he died?’
Ap Ythel looked away as if hiding his face. ‘They claim he fell down steps in the White Tower and sustained savage injuries to his head and neck.’
‘Was foul play suspected?’ asked Corbett.
The Welshman now looked at him squarely. ‘Yes. People blamed the other prisoners; some claimed it was an accident. You know how it is.’
‘And at Tynemouth?’
‘Well, Prior Richard certainly remembered both Cacoignes and Ravinac; the latter died there.’
‘Poisoned, murdered?’
‘No, no,’ Ap Ythel declared. ‘Ravinac died of some belly ailment. There’s no proof of foul play. According to Prior Richard, there had been a heated disagreement between Ravinac and Cacoignes over the custody of the Lily Crown. Ravinac refused to give it up. Cacoignes left for a while, and by the time he returned, Ravinac was dying or dead. Apparently the good prior had heard Ravinac’s confession and promised he would send a message south to Edward of Caernarvon.’
‘And this was some months after Cacoignes and Ravinac were attacked?’
‘Oh yes, in the spring of the following year. The old king was failing. Ravinac had been in his grave for months and Cacoignes had disappeared from the face of the earth. Sir Hugh, you had retired then. Everything was in confusion. I didn’t like returning empty-handed, so we came here to Alnwick. We must have spent the winter here, two or three months; a godforsaken experience. The castle was more like a mausoleum. The de Vescy family had gone, Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham, wished to sell the place as swiftly as possible—’
‘Horsemen!’ a sentry yelled. ‘Look, horsemen!’
Corbett hastened back to Lord Henry, who was pressed against the parapet wall, staring out at the fast-approaching cloud of dust. Trumpets and horns brayed. Corbett looked back down into the bailey. The two catapults were now primed, the throwing cups winched back, the iron tubs burning fiercely. Alnwick was on a war footing. Men-at-arms, archers and spearmen hurried up the steps onto the fighting platforms along the curtain wall to the left and right of the barbican. Lord Henry brought up and displayed his standards and pennants proclaiming the Percy insignia: a white lion rampant against a blue background. The beauty and calm of the autumn morning was shattered by the clatter of armour, the clash of weaponry and the rank smell of burning from the tubs and braziers.
The cloud of dust drew closer. Horsemen appeared carrying Darel’s standards displaying six black martlets against a silver background. Richolda clawed with her hands at the cage and screamed, a truly heart-chilling sound. The horsemen reined in just out of bowshot, though Ap Ythel murmured how his archers could probably find their mark. Lord Henry lifted a gauntleted hand and shook his head. Down below, a rider holding a stark black crucifix, a white cloth tied to the pole beneath it, urged his horse forward to the edge of the moat. He was dressed in a mail hauberk covered with a tabard displaying Darel’s insignia; his face was almost hidden by his coif and conical helmet with its broad nose-guard.
‘Lord Henry?’
‘I am he.’
‘My lord and master Sir Edmund Darel demands the immediate release of his kinsman Hockley and his ward the woman Richolda. They are to be freed immediately along with compensation for their capture and ill treatment in your cages. For each, five hundred pounds sterling to be paid by Michaelmas. Until then, we demand hostages.’
Corbett stepped up onto the fighting platform. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal.’
The herald peered up at him.
‘I carry the king’s mandate and ride under his colours. You attacked me. That is treason.’
The herald gathered the reins in his hands, his horse skittering backwards on the trackway. Another rider spurred forward. In a magnificent display of horsemanship, he swerved just before the moat, turning his mount even as he hurled a lance into the raised drawbridge. Both herald and lance-thrower left in a clatter of hooves and clouds of dust.
‘Two bowshots!’ Lord Henry screamed at the siege men around the catapults. Winches creaked, ropes tightened, levers were released; the wheels of the catapult grated backwards and forwards as the throwing cups were hastily filled with cloth, straw and kindling drenched in oil. The death-bearing bundles were torched and the ropes released, the throwing beams shooting forward with a screech; the fiery missiles hurtled through the air, crashing very close to the group of horsemen, who hastily retreated. The flaming bundles were followed by a hail of shafts, a veritable blizzard of arrows. The horsemen turned and thundered off, dust rising like a protective mist behind them. Thurston shouted for calm.
‘For the moment,’ Lord Henry declared, turning to Corbett, ‘all is peaceful.’
‘But they will return.’
‘Oh yes, Sir Hugh, and they will bring their full power. Darel wants the return of his woman.’ Lord Henry spat over the wall in the direction of the cage. ‘Until then, she can rot. Darel will pay handsomely.’
The castle garrison now broke off from all hostilities. Bows were unstrung, swords sheathed, helmets taken off, the soldiers streaming down the steps to greet their women and children, who had hastily retreated across the bailey. Slowly the castle returned to its normal routine. The porticullis was raised, the drawbridge lowered; riders went out and swiftly returned to report how Darel’s comitatus had fled the area. Richolda screamed her defiance, to be answered with a torrent of abuse from the hard-bitten guards, some of whom undid the points on their hose and urinated over the cages. Corbett shouted at them to stop, but the men just laughed and turned away.
PART TWO
‘Robert Bruce declared he did not care much for the King of England’s peace.’
Life of Edward II
Corbett followed Ranulf down into the bailey. They sat on a bench enjoying the sun. Corbett kept an eye on the soldiers manning the fighting platform. He did not wish further abuse of the prisoners. Moreover, he knew Darel. If the situation abruptly changed and fickle Fortune give her wheel a spin, the northern knight would inflict hideous punishment for such treatment. Brother Adrian came bustling over saying how he hadn’t been able to join them on the parapet walk as he greatly feared heights.
‘Where are you from, Brother?’ Ranulf squinted up at the friar. ‘You are English?’
‘I was born and raised on a farm between Hexham and Corbridge sacked by the Earl of Buchan in the spring of 1296.’
‘Ah,’ Corbett i
ntervened, ‘the notorious Massacre of the Little Clerks, as it was known. The Scottish rebels under Buchan are supposed to have seized a group of young boys, locked them in their school house, set fire to the building and burnt them to death. They say the old king’s sack of Berwick later that same year was in retaliation for that outrage.’
‘Yes, yes, they do.’ The Benedictine squatted down on the ground before them. ‘I escaped but my family perished during Buchan’s hideous campaign to kill all those living between Hexham and Corbridge. I was taken in by the Benedictines and . . .’ he shrugged, ‘here I am near my birthplace and close to Lord Henry, a man who hates Bruce and his ilk as much as I do.’
‘Brother Adrian, our journey here. When we came to that clearing the night before the attack, and supper was being prepared?’
‘Sir Hugh,’ the monk fingered the cross on a cord around his neck, ‘let me make it very clear, I saw nothing untoward. I agree, someone mixed a potion or powder into the meal, but that pot of pottage had been bubbling over the flames for some time. I suggest that anyone in that camp – and don’t forget that early in the afternoon we were visited by chapmen and tinkers – could have slipped the sleeping potion in. Anything is possible.’ He grinned. ‘I ate some of the pottage and paid the price. I fell asleep under a bush on the edge of the camp. When I was roused, I realised what had happened; I did some service as infirmarian at the abbey of Rievaulx in Yorkshire. I had all the symptoms of a sleeping draught: heavy eye, dry mouth,’ he waved a hand, ‘and so on. Thank God it wasn’t the poison Roskell ate, and again, Sir Hugh, God knows who approached him and gave him – what? A noxious drink, tainted food? We all know he only ate and drank what the others did. Sir Hugh, I swear on my priesthood, I saw nothing untoward.’
‘And now?’ Ranulf leaned forward. ‘You know Darel, or at least of him?’
‘I am afraid I know very little and I prefer to keep it that way. Darel has a reputation as a ruthless killer. His patronage of the Black Chesters is a mystery, but his obsession with Richolda is well known. He will certainly try to get his witch back, trust me.’ The monk rose and walked towards one of the castle men, who, to divert the children, had cooked some sweetmeats and laid them out on a tray to cool. The young boys and girls scrabbled to get these, putting them into pockets and pouches and laughing as Brother Adrian threatened to eat them all.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf broke into Corbett’s reflections, ‘what now?’
‘Ah yes, Ranulf, what now? We should really deal with the hostages, though I don’t know how and when the exchange will take place.’
They made their way back to the Abbot’s Tower, where Corbett had his chamber, with Ranulf’s on the stairwell above. Ap Ythel was waiting for them, looking ill at ease. Corbett noticed he was eating a piece of pure white cheese, a delicacy made from ewe’s milk with a unique sweetness all of its own. The captain of archers had confessed that whenever he felt agitated, the very taste of such a comfit calmed him.
‘Ap Ythel?’
‘Sir Hugh, Darel will return all embattled for war. I am concerned. My archers are the best, but we are a small comitatus. Are we going to be caught up in a bitter war between northern lords?’
‘No, my friend, we certainly are not, but there is something else?’
‘Lords Seton and Sterling, together with Mallet their squire, have adjourned to the castle chapel; they want words with you.’
‘Do they now? Then let’s not keep our Scottish lords waiting.’
They crossed the outer bailey and through the inner barbican; its drawbridge had been recently lowered, the cruel, sharp-toothed porticullis raised and held secure with chains and winches. Nevertheless, Alnwick was still prepared for war. Armoured men-at-arms, dressed in battle harness, patrolled the barbican’s yawning entrance, ready to seal off entry to Lord Henry’s inner sanctum. The bailey inside, its close-set semicircular towers now being refurbished and strengthened, only enhanced the dark military menace of the castle and the warlike tendencies of its lord.
Corbett peered up. The guards on each tower overlooked not only the countryside but the castle as a whole. St Chad’s chapel, a low, long, barn-like structure, was wedged between two of these towers. Corbett pulled back the half-open door and entered, followed by Ap Ythel and Ranulf. Inside, the nave was cloaked in darkness. Pools of light were created by candles and tapers burning before the lady altar and either side of the Percy insignia, carved and picked out with paint on the drum-like pillars close to the baptismal font just within the entrance. Lancet windows high in the wall allowed in shafts of light, but these only made the chapel even more like a haunt of ghosts, a hall of shifting shadows.
‘Close the door, Sir Hugh.’ Seton, sitting on the steps leading to the rood screen, rose to his feet. Sterling and Mallet, praying in the lady chapel before a statue of the Virgin, came out to join him. Corbett went back and closed the door, whispering to Ranulf and Ap Ythel to accompany him.
‘On their way north,’ he murmured, ‘they could hardly exchange a pleasant word with me. Now they summon me as if they are my lord. My friends, I think we are going to learn something.’
Corbett and his two companions walked down the nave and followed the Scottish lords up the steps into the sanctuary, where Seton had set out two benches. Corbett, Ranulf and Ap Ythel sat down on one of these, Seton and his two comrades on the other. The sanctuary was a stark, bleak house of prayer, its altar nothing more than a heavy black oaken table covered with a dark-red cloth, with candlesticks at either end. Above this hung the pyx box on a thick brass chain, next to the sanctuary lamp, which glowed in a red glass vase. Corbett stared around this gloomy, shadow-filled place, fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger.
‘We are alone, Sir Hugh.’ Seton pointed across to the sacristy door. ‘That is locked. There is no outside entrance, whilst Mallet,’ he indicated with his head, ‘will guard the entrance.’ The squire rose, sketched a bow and left, hurrying down the nave to stand close to the main door. Corbett watched him go.
‘You want words with me?’ He turned back. ‘I suspect you’ve summoned me here to tell me something I do not know.’
‘Red Comyn was our master.’ Seton laughed at Corbett’s surprise. ‘Red Comyn,’ he repeated. ‘Sir Hugh, your king gave you instructions to take me, Sterling and our squires – God rest poor Roskell – to Alnwick and arrange a transfer of hostages with the usurper Bruce.’
‘Yes, I believe communication with Bruce will be set up. We are to wait here for his henchmen to bring four English prisoners across the march and, under a cross of truce guaranteeing safe conduct, hand them over to me in return for you. I do wonder,’ Corbett added wryly, ‘how the death of Roskell will effect such negotiations.’
‘No need, no need.’ Sterling spoke up. Corbett noticed how the Scottish accents of both lords had diminished greatly, whilst their grasp of Norman French was as good as his. ‘There will be no exchange of hostages and never mind the oaths taken here,’ Sterling continued, ‘for we shall, at the appropriate time, slip out of Alnwick across the march and into Scotland.’
‘Will you now!’ Corbett made to rise but sat down as Seton held up a hand.
‘We shall enter Scotland. We will proclaim what we know and we will kill Bruce.’
‘You are assassins!’ Corbett exclaimed. Seton slid his hand into his loose-fitting boot and drew from a secret pocket a thin scroll of parchment, which he handed to Corbett.
‘Your king, Sir Hugh, asked me to give you this here in the chapel of St Chad at Alnwick.’
Corbett broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. Its message was brief and succinct. ‘To our well-beloved clerk Sir Hugh Corbett, greetings. We ask you to listen most carefully to Lord Seton in the chapel of St Chad at Alnwick. You are, under your allegiance to the Crown, to provide him and his with every support and sustenance to enter Scotland secretly.’ Corbett hid his smile at the concluding sentence. ‘Another, whom you know well, will explain and confirm the reasons for this. Given at
Westminster under our personal seal . . .’
Seton stretched out his hand; Corbett shook his head.
‘Not for you, sir.’ He folded the parchment and put it into his own belt wallet.
‘The letter promises us help and sustenance, surely?’ Sterling queried, his raw-boned face all severe.
‘It does, and I shall do what I am ordered. Nevertheless, let me have your tale from beginning to end. We are no longer in the safety of the Tower or the comfort of Westminster. We truly are in a land of deep shadow. Outside this castle lurk our enemies and those of the king, whilst within we have to decide who is our real friend and who our secret foe. I must make judgements, sound judgements. So first, why all the subterfuge?’
‘Your king and his . . .’ Seton smiled wolfishly.
‘The lord Gaveston,’ Ap Ythel interrupted warningly.
‘You trust him?’ Seton pointed at the Welshman.
‘With my life,’ Corbett retorted, ‘as does His Grace the king; and, Lord Seton, you may very well have to do the same in the days ahead. Now I am listening. I want to know why our king’s open instructions to me have been so radically changed. Oh, by the way, why did you ask if I trusted Ap Ythel? Why not Ranulf?’
‘The Welshman was one of our gaolers,’ Sterling replied. ‘Weren’t you, sir?’
Ap Ythel smiled thinly.
‘Did he treat you well?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Severe but fair, I would say,’ Seton replied. ‘He seemed very upset by the death of Matthew Dunedin.’