by Paul Doherty
He paused. ‘Why?’ He lifted his head and spoke to the empty room. ‘Why didn’t the king and Gaveston tell me the truth?’ Corbett had been retired, living at Leighton in the depths of Epping Forest, when Seton and his companions had been captured by the old king’s troops. He had only recently realised how deeply ran the divisions amongst the Scottish rebels. ‘I am certainly learning now,’ he murmured. Of course by not telling him, Edward and Gaveston were protecting Seton and his companions as well as the real reason for why they were being taken north. However, Corbett also suspected that the two men knew that he, as Keeper of the Secret Seal and the king’s most senior Chancery clerk, would not be too happy assisting self-proclaimed professional assassins. The murder of Bruce sat uncomfortably with Corbett whatever arguments were deployed to justify it. ‘I will let you go,’ he decided, ‘provisioned, armed and mounted, but I will do no more.’
Item: Edmund Darel, a knight whose family hailed from this locality, a man who had cleverly exploited the growing unrest both in England and along the Scottish march. Corbett had conceded nothing to anyone on this, but he knew Darel of old. The northern baron had been a mailed clerk in the Chancery, a comrade of Corbett’s until their ways parted. Even as a clerk he had been highly disrespectful of authority, impetuous, and a born meddler in the black arts. Corbett recalled a famous occasion when Darel had returned from some midnight sacrifice in a disused church north of the old city wall. He had been quite subdued, confessing to Corbett how a witch had prophesied that he would die high on a scaffold. He had eventually returned to Northumbria, whilst Corbett had continued in the royal service. Over the years, letters and memoranda came in from the sheriff and other royal officials in the north describing Darel’s emergence as a robber baron. ‘Charming, ruthless and treacherous,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Edmund Darel, you take to mischief and mayhem as a hawk to hunting.’
Item: who had informed Darel about their approach and strength? Richolda had admitted that someone in Corbett’s group had played the traitor. According to Cacoignes, Darel had been informed that Corbett carried the precious Lily Crown of Scotland. That was preposterous! Corbett did carry gold for the secret business the king had entrusted to him, but only he was aware of that.
Item: Geoffrey Cacoignes, former court squire. He had been sent with Ravinac and others to take the Lily Crown south to Westminster. They were ambushed by black-garbed riders – who were these? Ravinac and Cacoignes had somehow escaped the trap but the rest had been slaughtered. The two survivors reached Tynemouth, where they were given comfort and sustenance by Prior Richard. Ravinac had fallen ill – some sickness of the belly – and Cacoignes had left to reconnoitre the countryside. By the time he returned, Ravinac was delirious and later died. Ravinac was the one who carried the Lily Crown, and according to the meagre evidence, he must have hidden it somewhere around Tynemouth. He certainly did not share his secret with Cacoignes. Why? Because he didn’t trust him?
After Ravinac’s death, Cacoignes had again gone out to search for a way through the war-torn territories of the north. He had arrived in a coastal village that was attacked by Scottish pirates and had been captured and taken north as a prisoner. Last Yuletide he had managed to escape across the border, only to encounter the power of Edmund Darel. Posing as a wandering swordsman, he had joined the robber baron’s mercenaries under a different name. When he heard of Corbett’s approach, he decided to flee and brought Corbett valuable information about Darel’s plan of attack. He had also petitioned Corbett to join the royal clerk’s retinue, determined on going south with him to Westminster. This was logical. Cacoignes was formerly a member of the English court, whilst Corbett could vouch for his good faith. Nevertheless, was he what he claimed to be? Had he spoken the truth?
Item: Darel’s assault on their camp quite clearly demonstrated that there was a spy, a traitor in Corbett’s company. But who was this? Was this traitor-spy also a murderer? Roskell’s death had been no accident; the Scottish prisoner had eaten and drunk only what the others had. Seton described his dead comrade as quiet and devout, a man immersed in the study of the last things: death, judgement, heaven and hell. Was there a reason why Roskell had been singled out? How had he been poisoned? And how did the murder of such a squire benefit anyone?
Item: the attack on Corbett himself and the others in the chapel of St Chad here at Alnwick Castle. Why? What did the assassin mean by shouting ‘Justice and retribution’? The voice could have been man or woman, clear and ringing. It would be very difficult to place it, as like all cries, it would sound different from someone’s usual tone of voice. Two bolts had been released, but at whom? Himself, or one of the others? Ranulf? Ap Ythel? Even the Benedictine, Brother Adrian?
Item: the two most recent murders . . .
Corbett paused at the knock at the door.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf called. ‘I think Lord Henry will soon want us to meet him in the great hall. We need to inspect the corpses.’
Corbett hurriedly strapped on his war belt, grabbed his cloak and joined Ranulf. The day was darkening. Sombre clouds were gathering over the castle, the evening breeze turning cold with a hint of rain. The news of the deaths of the two prisoners had made itself felt both within the castle and beyond. Darel’s reputation spoke for itself. He would exact a terrible vengeance on anyone or anything associated with Lord Henry Percy and Alnwick Castle. Peasants from the outlying farms, villages and hamlets were now seeking sanctuary. Carts trundled across the great drawbridge. Bothies and makeshift shelters were being erected in the outer bailey. Catapults, mangonels and ballistas were being prepared, their canvas sheets removed, ropes tested, winches turned, wheels oiled. Rows of glowing braziers and fire bins now ranged across the great yard. Sentries buckled for war patrolled the parapets. Mounted hobelars, the hooves of their horses sparking on the cobbles, prepared to leave; they would spread out across the rough, lonely countryside, searching for any sign of Darel’s approach.
‘Most people,’ Ranulf observed, ‘believe Darel will not let those deaths go unavenged. He will be calling up his mercenaries and retainers. I have spoken to Cacoignes. Blanchlands is well furnished with engines of war. Darel will attack.’
Corbett agreed. Darel had lost both his woman and a kinsman. He would have to do something.
They crossed the drawbridge and walked through the inner barbican into the enclosed bailey. Ap Ythel and his archers were on guard before the chapel entrance. The Welsh captain had seized the key, which he produced to open the door. The long, dark chamber of clustering shadows was made all the more macabre by the two corpses lying on sheets, with candles burning around them. Corbett insisted that more be lit. Brother Adrian, who had been waiting patiently outside, also joined them. The monk quietly pattered the office of the dead as he swiftly anointed both corpses; he whispered the words of absolution and bestowed his final benediction.
‘Much good it will do,’ he murmured.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Corbett asked.
‘Richolda was a member of a coven,’ the monk replied. ‘Hockley worked for a lord who supported her. One thing magicians and warlocks cannot stand is the Church and its sacraments.’ He laughed sharply. ‘It’s a wonder both corpses don’t rise in protest. As they were in life, so in death: their souls will enter the state they have chosen. They are well beyond us now, Sir Hugh. All I can do is commend them to God’s mercy, which they will undoubtedly need.’
‘Don’t we all,’ Corbett murmured. He crouched down to inspect the corpses. Ap Ythel beside him whispered how they had fed the remains of the bread and water to a rat caught in the dungeons. The rodent had suffered no ill effects.
‘And there was nothing else to eat and drink?’
‘Sir Hugh, I have looked at the corpses myself, as well as the cages: nothing!’
Corbett shook his head in wonderment and continued his scrutiny of the cadavers. Both had undoubtedly been poisoned by the same deadly potion fed to Roskell. The faces of the deceased were contorte
d in agony and liverish in colour; the popping eyes, swollen lips and thickened tongues were testimony to some noxious substance being administered to them.
‘But how?’ he murmured, getting to his feet. ‘A man and a woman, each in a cage hanging over a castle wall, with no tainted food or drink, and it’s almost impossible for anyone to get close to them. I’ve studied some strange deaths, but this . . .’
The door opened and Constable Thurston entered the chapel accompanied by his sister Kathryn.
‘Lord Henry wants them buried outside the castle,’ the constable slurred, his voice thick from the ale he’d drunk. He shrugged off his sister’s warning hand. ‘Brother Adrian, you will sing the requiem. Oh, by the way, I was in here earlier,’ he continued, ‘before Corbett had the chapel sealed. Brother Adrian, you were picking up crossbow bolts; one splintered the rood screen. Was there an attack?’
‘A true mystery,’ the Benedictine replied tactfully. ‘Some soldier perhaps, much the worse for drink,’ he added warningly.
‘Lord Henry wants to see you now,’ Kathryn intervened. ‘He needs to discuss what is happening and what the future might hold. We must take careful counsel.’
A short while later, Corbett, Ranulf and Ap Ythel joined Lord Henry around the high table on the dais in the great hall. A long, barn-like structure, with a hammer-beam ceiling, its whitewashed walls decorated with gaily coloured drapes, heavy embroidered arras and clusters of weapons. A majestic mantled hearth had been built into the outside wall with a heavy smoke stack rising up through the roof. Fire boys were busy laying logs in the grate. At Thurston’s bawled instruction, the boys, faces and hands black with soot, scampered away like imps out of hell.
The long table on the dais had been covered by a white samite cloth boasting the arms of the Percys picked out in eye-catching colours. Similar insignia displaying the white lion rampant decorated the wall behind Lord Henry’s throne-like chair. Corbett and Ranulf were invited to sit on Lord Henry’s left, his wife Eleanor to his right. The others invited included Constable Thurston, Lady Kathryn, Brother Adrian, Ap Ythel and Cacoignes, who, Lord Henry declared, waving him to a seat further down the table, knew something about Darel and his wickedness. Brother Adrian intoned grace, blessing both the company and the table.
Once they had taken their seats, food was served. Corbett found it surprisingly delicious: chicken cooked in mushrooms, white wine and herbs, fresh bread from the castle bakery and a large common dish of vegetables chopped, diced and heavily soaked in a spiced sauce. Jugs of wine, both red and white, as well as pots of local ale were placed on the table. People ate and drank, helping themselves, horn spoons busy, knives cutting at the soft white chicken meat. The conversation was desultory as servants busied themselves around. The fire boys were summoned back and the great hearth blazed with flame. The captains of the various watches came and went, reporting to Lord Henry how everything was secure against sudden and stealthy attack.
Once the meal was over, Lord Henry, who had sat morose and taciturn throughout, invited the company to stools and benches before the great hearth. The hall was turning cold and the warmth was welcome.
‘How in heaven’s name was that done?’ Lord Henry began harshly, his hard, craggy face lit by the dancing flames of the fire. ‘How were two prisoners, kept in cages hanging over my castle walls either side of the barbican, poisoned with the same potion? Now I understand they ate and drank nothing noxious before they were imprisoned. Yes?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘They were given no other sustenance except a waterskin and a small loaf of rye bread. What was left of that, I understand,’ he pointed at Ap Ythel, ‘was given to a caged rat hungry to eat and nothing happened. Is that correct?’
‘It is, my lord,’ Ap Ythel replied.
‘Constable Thurston,’ Corbett demanded, ‘did the guards feed the prisoners?’
‘No,’ he slurred. ‘They did not. True, castle folk came to look at them, but they were not friendly. They came to curse the prisoners and hurl abuse at them.’
‘So what actually happened?’
‘We don’t know,’ Thurston replied. ‘Prisoners in the cages moan, they shake the bars. It’s very difficult to see what is happening even if you climb onto the fighting platform. In fact, what eventually provoked the interest of the guards was the complete silence from both cages.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘The rest you know.’
Corbett stared around. The castle hall had grown darker. Rain pattered against the shutters, which rattled as the gusts of wind grew stronger. The fire was now roaring, the flames leaping up around the logs as if they had a life of their own. Nevertheless, he suppressed a shiver. He felt that something sinister and dangerous was slithering through this fortress. The rest of the company also seemed to sense an unease.
‘There is a killer, an assassin loose in our castle,’ Brother Adrian abruptly declared, and before Corbett could intervene, the Benedictine described the attack in the chapel.
‘What does that prove?’ Lady Eleanor snapped. ‘We know there is an assassin here, but this trouble did not begin until you arrived, Sir Hugh. You brought Hockley and that witch into Alnwick. Richolda was a true daughter of hell; where she went, chaos always followed.’
‘No, my lady,’ Ranulf retorted, ‘the trouble did not begin with us. It began when Edmund Darel attacked the king’s special envoy, dispatched under the great seal to this fortress of Alnwick. Sir Hugh is the Crown’s most senior clerk, travelling here under the royal standard. We resisted and defeated Darel’s treacherous attack. We captured two prisoners, who should have been kept more safely in some cell or dungeon rather than in cages hoisted over the castle walls.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Corbett tactfully intervened, warning Ranulf with his eyes not to say too much, ‘the die is cast, the cup spilt, the wine wasted and the goblet cracked. Richolda and Hockley are foully slain. Why, how and by whom, we do not know. Master Cacoignes,’ he turned to the former courtier, ‘what will Darel do now?’
‘Sir Hugh, I suspect you know the answer. He will attack. He has to. Darel protected Richolda and her coven, the Black Chesters. Richolda was undoubtedly his lover, his doxy, his paramour.’ Cacoignes sipped at his wine. ‘Darel was very much under her influence, though remember, I was never allowed into his place of secrets, Blanchlands’ inner bailey. Of course,’ he put his goblet down and spread his hands towards the flames, ‘Hockley was also his kinsman. Darel will have to demonstrate to the other wolves that he is fierce and will let no insult or injury pass.’
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ Corbett turned to Lord Henry. ‘Darel will wish to test your defences here. You, my lord, have taken over Alnwick. You are busy fortifying this castle. You are set to become the most powerful presence this side of the Scottish march. So yes,’ he sipped from his goblet, ‘Darel will attack and we must prepare a proper defence.’ Corbett took a further sip. ‘One thing does concern me. We have remarked on how you are strengthening Alnwick. His Grace the king watches developments, Darel too; but Robert the Bruce must also be aware of what you are doing.’
‘And?’
‘Bruce is aided by a number of redoubtable captains led by the likes of Randolph and Douglas—’
‘Sweet lord,’ Cacoignes intervened, ‘I know what you are going to say, Sir Hugh.’
‘Reflect on Bruce’s history,’ Corbett insisted. ‘Time and again he and his captains have captured castles the length and breadth of Scotland by stealth and sheer cunning. Alnwick may be a mighty fortress, but I do urge you to take the most careful precautions.’
The following morning Lord Henry dispatched more mounted hobelars to scour the countryside around Alnwick. Corbett kept revising and reviewing what he had written whilst keeping a sharp eye on what was happening in this bleak, formidable place. He quietly admitted to himself that he was becoming increasingly uneasy, deeply uncomfortable. He certainly missed Maeve and the children, the green softness of the woods, fields and meadowlands of his manor at Leighton. The
world he now lived in was different. Alnwick was truly grim, a house of war set in desolate countryside, wild open moorland where already the very first hints of winter were making themselves felt.
His discomfort deepened as he walked around the castle, a coldness that touched his soul and set his nerves on edge. Alnwick was preparing for war. Soldiers scurried here and there; carts and braziers and all the impedimenta of battle were being readied. The prospect of an imminent and ferociously bloody assault darkened Corbett’s mood. Yet there was more. He also believed he was being watched, followed, even hunted by a malevolent presence. Ap Ythel felt the same. Accordingly, when Corbett decided to broach the next item of secret business, he decided to ride out as if helping Lord Henry and his garrison in their vigilance against attack. He, Ap Ythel, Ranulf and the one-eyed bearded archer thundered out through the main barbican and onto the wind-tossed moorland. Corbett led his party along a trackway going deeper into the heathland until they reached an outcrop of ancient rock, battered by storms but still displaying archaic signs and insignia carved by tribes long gone.
‘We can watch any approach from here,’ he declared, dismounting and telling the others to do the same. They hobbled their horses and Corbett gathered some bracken. In the shadow of one of the rocks he lit a fire, feeding it with twigs until it burnt merrily. They shared out a linen parcel of food – bread, dried salted bacon and some of the delicious ewe’s cheese – whilst passing round a wineskin of what Ranulf called ‘Lord Henry’s best’. For a while they ate and drank in silence.
‘Ranulf!’