by Paul Doherty
The pounding was now intense, the crashing echoing through the tower like the roll of war drums. Corbett looked up the steps and noticed piles of dust and shards of timber and stone. He turned and asked Lord Henry what was happening further up the tower, receiving the surly answer that the stairwells above were being repaired: the brickwork had to be pointed and better guard rails fastened for the stair ropes.
A loud crash followed by a cheer brought Corbett back inside. Beckoning to Ap Ythel and Ranulf, he hastened up the stairs and through the press of sweat-soaked soldiers. The door to the chamber had cracked off on both sides, its leather hinges shattered, the lock and bolt clearly ruptured. The chamber beyond was dark and smelly. Corbett walked carefully forward. One of the soldiers offered a cresset torch. Corbett told him to wait. He first unbarred and opened the window shutters, the greying light poured through to illuminate the two corpses. Sterling lay close to the bed; Mallet slumped from a stool.
Corbett told the soldier to bring in the torch whilst Ranulf and Ap Ythel moved to guard the doorway. He crouched down to inspect the corpses. The flesh was cold, the limbs hardening; the faces of the two dead hostages reflected the same gruesome horror as Roskell and the other victims of poison. Corbett noticed the liverish skin, the shock-filled, startled eyes, the discoloured lips and thickening tongue and that filthy cream-like mucus that had dribbled down their chins.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Lord Henry pushed his way into the chamber.
‘Poison, my lord, just like the rest. I would be grateful if one of your guards could bring up a caged rat. No one should come into this chamber until I am finished.’ Corbett held a hand up. ‘Lord Henry, I can see you are going to object, but we are hunting an assassin. Alnwick is your fief, but I carry the king’s commission. Three hostages released into my care have been foully murdered. As for the fourth, Seton, God knows where he is, just as God only knows who is responsible for all of this. I need to examine this chamber most scrupulously.’
‘The corpses should be anointed and blessed.’ Brother Adrian now stood in the doorway.
‘Do your business!’ Lord Henry snapped, and stomped off.
Corbett asked everyone except Ranulf and Ap Ythel to leave, repeating his request for the caged rat to be brought up immediately. He then rose, gesturing at Brother Adrian to administer extreme unction. He went and sat on the edge of the bed, moodily watching the monk quickly anoint and bless both corpses. A soldier came up with a cage. Inside it was a large brown rodent with a humped back, long tail, scrabbling claws and constantly twitching nose, its ugly head going back as it beat its sharp teeth against the mesh of the cage, squealing in protest at being held captive. The man-at-arms also informed Corbett that Lord Henry had ordered a thorough search of the castle for the missing hostage Seton.
‘Perhaps he is dead as well, murdered like his comrades,’ Brother Adrian declared, putting the sacred oils back into the panniers he carried. He gestured at both corpses. ‘Poor men, to die in exile. I heard Roskell’s confession on our journey north. I shrived him, gave absolution for his petty offences. I felt so sorry for the poor soul. Sir Hugh, Roskell was homesick, tired of fighting. He talked wistfully of a lovely auburn-haired wife. These two were probably no different. They were murdered, yes?’
‘Poisoned, certainly,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But of course the potion could be anything.’
‘Lord Henry does not have a library,’ Brother Adrian murmured. ‘At our house at Tynemouth Priory we have a shelf of Palladius’s works, including a full copy of his Treatise Concerning the Virtues of Herbs, but there’s nothing here.’
‘Tell me,’ Corbett demanded, getting to his feet, ‘would the castle leech hold such noxious philtres, potions and powders?’
‘Possibly, though Master Arnulf is always conspicuous by his absence. He’s a rare sight indeed!’
‘Yes, I wondered why Lord Henry didn’t summon him,’ said Ranulf.
‘That’s because Arnulf is a born toper,’ Brother Adrian replied. ‘At times he’s so drunk, he can hardly stand. I suppose you could question him when he is sober, which is about as rare as a warm January day. But there’s no one amongst your company, Sir Hugh, skilled in physic?’
‘On our journey north,’ Ap Ythel declared, ‘I tended to injuries both human and horse. My real skill is with animals and I apply that to the cuts, bruises and injuries of my comrades. Sir Hugh, we do have a medicine chest, but Master Arnulf should have a better store.’
‘Ask him when you see him,’ Brother Adrian declared. ‘Sir Hugh, I must go. I give you my blessing.’ He sketched a cross in their direction and promptly left.
Corbett immediately asked Ranulf and Ap Ythel to scour the chamber for any food, be it a morsel or a crumb. He collected the cups, water and wine jugs and emptied their contents into a bowl. Ranulf and Ap Ythel brought what scraps of food they’d found on a platter. Corbett scraped these into the bowl too, mixing them with his dagger before emptying the entire contents through the broad gaps in the mesh of the rat cage, ladling the scraps out with the tip of his knife. The rodent squealed and snouted at the morsels before swiftly nibbling at them. Corbett watched fascinated. The rat was apparently famished and made short work of the bread and meat soaked in water and wine. Occasionally it would pause to wash itself before returning to what it must regard as a banquet. Eventually it lay sated, half asleep, fat belly quivering.
Corbett decided to search the chamber, looking for anything suspicious, yet the two Scottish prisoners had been held hostage for years and their possessions were meagre in the extreme. He also inspected the window and door; both had been firmly closed and locked, and he could not discover anything suspicious or untoward. Time passed. Corbett gently kicked the cage and the rat moved sluggishly, though it showed no ill effects. In fact, now roused, its hunger satisfied, it became more determined than ever to escape. Corbett asked Ap Ythel to take it out and release it.
‘It has done good service,’ he declared. ‘It can take its chances with the castle cats.’
Once Ap Ythel returned, Corbett asked the guard in the stairwell to leave as he swiftly summarised what had happened.
‘Our assassin, the traitor, if he is one and the same person, acted with impunity. He deals out judgement and death as if he is the Lord High Satan. I was nearly burnt alive in my chamber. Ap Ythel here narrowly escaped hideous injury. Crossbow bolts have been loosed against us. We eluded death. Sterling and Mallet were not so fortunate.’
‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ A man-at-arms came hurrying up the steps. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he repeated, ‘Arnulf the leech has come to collect the corpses for the death house.’
‘And their burial?’
The soldier took off his conical helmet and wiped the sweat from his bewhiskered face. ‘Lord Henry has yet to decide what to do with the corpses of the witch Richolda and her familiar Hockley. Brother Adrian is to celebrate the requiem for the dead Scots tomorrow just after the Jesus Mass. As for burial, there is a cemetery beyond the castle walls.’
Corbett opened his purse and took out a coin, pushing it into the soldier’s hand. ‘You were on guard in this tower?’
‘Oh yes. I know all its ways and what happens here. Lord Henry likes that. So yes, I was on guard here, I watched the Scotsmen.’
Corbett listened intently; he sometimes found the northern burr too clipped and swift to follow.
‘Did you talk to the hostages?’
‘Oh no, I just guarded this tower. I watched them come and go. I didn’t talk to them; I don’t think they wanted to talk to me. In the brief time they were with us, they kept to themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘They were soldiers, very little different from those I serve with.’
‘Did anyone visit them? I mean,’ Corbett amended, ‘anyone of significance? Lord Henry? Brother Adrian? Constable Thurston or any of those who accompanied us here?’
‘Sir Hugh, I have been on guard since daybreak. The only people who entered the tower were masons and labourers. The two hostages only le
ft their chamber to use the garderobe, which is on the stairwell above; it has also been used by myself and others with no ill effect. Ah, here he is.’
Corbett and the guard stepped back as Arnulf the leech, nose red, bleary eyes blinking, lurched up the steps followed by four men carrying stretchers. Corbett nodded at the leech, slipped a further coin into the guard’s hand then gestured at Ranulf and Ap Ythel to join him. They left the tower and hurried across the bailey through the inner barbican and up to Corbett’s spacious chamber above the dining hall; a well-furnished room with a broad bed, aumbries, chests and coffers, table and desk, stools and a chair. The walls were covered in coloured cloths; dark-green cord matting rather than rushes covered the floor. The chamber was warm, heated by braziers as well as by the chimney stack that ran up from the great hearth in the hall below.
‘Lord Henry is making amends,’ Corbett murmured, taking off his cloak, war belt and boots before indicating that his two companions should join him around the brazier.
Corbett crossed to a table. He smelt the wine jug, tasted its contents carefully and filled three goblets. Once comfortable, he silently toasted the stark black crucifix nailed against the far wall. ‘May Sterling and Mallet be allowed into the peace of Christ,’ he murmured. ‘But how in God’s name were they sent there?’
‘This is beyond me,’ Ap Ythel grated. ‘I see the problem. Two healthy men, soldiers, fairly young and vigorous, locked and bolted themselves in their chamber. They had food and drink, but that’s not tainted. Apparently they only left to visit the garderobe on the stairwell above. They can hardly have taken poison there. Both used the jakes at different times and the same garderobe was visited by others.’ The Welshman smiled bleakly. ‘Hardly the place to eat or drink, be it tainted or not.’
‘And according to the guard – and I am sure he spoke the truth – the only people who went into the tower were labourers. So,’ Corbett continued slowly, ‘how did the assassin break into that chamber and persuade, force or deceive those two Scots to imbibe a most noxious poison, men who were already rendered vigilant and careful by the murder of their comrade Roskell?’
Corbett sipped at his wine as Ranulf rose to answer a knock on the door. He opened it and Gaveston, patch over his eye, hood pulled across his head, his face grimy with dirt, shuffled into the room. Only when Ranulf locked and bolted the door did the royal favourite show his true self; he removed the patch, kicked off the scuffed boots, pulled back the hood and loosened the shabby war belts around his waist and across his chest.
‘My lord?’
‘Sir Hugh, they have searched high and low for Seton but there is not even a trace. Stranger still, no horse is missing from the stables, whilst every gate is closely guarded because of Darel. Lord Henry has also dispatched riders to scour the countryside, but Seton appears to have vanished like mist on a sunny morning.’ Gaveston stretched his hands towards the brazier. ‘Cacoignes, Geoffrey Cacoignes. I think it’s time you shared more secrets with our two friends here.’
‘Is he a danger?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Does he recognise you, my lord?’
‘No, thank God. Cacoignes was a squire in the prince’s household but one I had very few dealings with. Moreover, life moves swiftly. I did not recognise him when he joined our party, whilst I doubt very much whether he would recognise me as the king’s own brother.’ Gaveston’s voice had turned bitter. ‘However, he is a danger, a man who cannot be trusted. A squire sent north on king’s business, which floundered and disappeared in a mist of mystery. Cacoignes has joined us but there are questions he must answer, even though it’s going to be difficult to bring him to judgement.’ Gaveston rubbed his face. ‘It will be good to shave, to wash, to be myself again. Sir Hugh, tell them what we know.’
Corbett sat listening to the sounds of the castle. ‘Something is going to happen,’ he murmured. ‘I can sense it. I will be glad when we leave here.’
‘For Tynemouth?’
‘Yes, Ranulf, Tynemouth.’ He paused. ‘We do not know what truly happened to the Lily Crown. We can only conjecture on the little we have been told: that Ravinac may have hid the treasure somewhere in or around Tynemouth Priory before he fell ill of a violent fever.’
‘Poison?’
‘Perhaps. He was definitely delirious, or became so, but he still had his wits about him. He deliberately misled Cacoignes, informing him how he had hidden the Lily Crown in some caves in the cliffs close to Tynemouth. However, Cacoignes was captured by pirates and taken prisoner into Scotland. He eventually escaped and decided that the best way to survive was to join Darel’s comitatus under a different name. I can only speculate on how he would have been received, returning empty-handed to London. I am not sure whether he would even have been recognised, his appearance has changed so much.’
‘He would also have stayed in the north,’ Gaveston intervened, ‘to be close to Tynemouth; he hoped to return to the priory and discover the true whereabouts of the Lily Crown.’
‘So why did he betray Darel and join us?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘First,’ Corbett replied, ‘Darel probably still doesn’t know the full extent of Cacoignes’ betrayal. Second, Cacoignes does not want to be associated with an attack on a royal envoy. Third, he is an opportunist, a cunning one who now waits to see what will happen. He is safer with us than he is with Darel. Remember, in theory Cacoignes has done no wrong; his quarrel with Ravinac has no witnesses, whilst he has acted loyally in warning us about Darel’s intended attack.’
‘So if the worst comes to the worst,’ Ranulf said slowly, ‘he can join the English court and portray himself as a hero worthy of commendation.’ He grinned. ‘He certainly is an opportunist. But Ravinac and the Lily Crown?’
‘Ravinac died of a fever at Tynemouth. Prior Richard tended to him, administering extreme unction. Ravinac apparently told him that he had hidden the Lily Crown between heaven and earth, in God’s own graveyard. The good prior considered him to be delirious but passed that message on to us.’
‘Which is another reason,’ Ranulf laughed sharply, ‘why we are going to Tynemouth.’
‘Yes,’ Corbett agreed. ‘We will search the priory for the Lily Crown. Our king would use that sacred treasure in any negotiation with Bruce and his coven.’ He leaned over and gently clapped Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘My friend, we came north for so many reasons. Some of them were told to me, some of them were not. I decided to let things develop. The less people know – and that includes you – the better it is. We cannot afford to make a mistake. It is imperative that no one discovers that my Lord Gaveston is one of our party.’
‘So when do we leave?’ Gaveston demanded.
‘My lord,’ Corbett gestured around, ‘we are trapped here in Alnwick. True, we could ride fast to the coast and shelter behind the priory walls. As you know, Tynemouth is strongly fortified, a place of refuge. The problem is,’ he added wearily, ‘if we leave, God knows who would pursue us. Lord Henry? Darel? The Scots? Let us wait for a while. In the meantime, we must remain vigilant against the assassin who hunts us, who lurks deep in the shadows waiting for his opportunity.’
PART THREE
‘In this way the whole of Scotland is now lost and the land of Northumbria lies waste.’
Life of Edward II
Darkness had fallen when once again the tocsin bell tolled high on the walls, summoning the garrison to arms. Corbett and his companions joined Lord Henry on the parapet above the gatehouse. Corbett stared in amazement at the ghostly apparition on the broad trackway sweeping down to Alnwick’s main entrance. Six black-cloaked, cowled figures, their faces visored, stood around a handcart, now sloped and rested so watchers along the walls could clearly see the corpse sprawled there. Each of the macabre figures held a fiery cresset torch, the flames whipped to a fury by the strong night breeze. Similar torches had been fastened to the sides of the handcart so the face of the corpse could be seen in all its horror.
The wind shifted. Corbett gagged on the fetid, rank sten
ch of corruption. Ap Ythel, sharp of eye, murmured how he was sure the corpse was that of the Scotsman Roskell whom they’d buried beneath a makeshift cross in the glade where they had been attacked. He asked if he and his bowmen could loose, though he added that the sinister visitors might just be beyond the range of their war bows.
Any talk of attack was silenced as midnight figures swarmed out of the darkness, two of them carrying torches. A third held a pole with a white cloth nailed to it – the conventional way of arranging a truce, though Corbett noticed that the usual cross or crucifix was missing. The three dark-dwellers approached the edge of the moat opposite the drawbridge. The torchbearers clustered close to the pole-carrying figure in the centre, bathing her in pools of light so that when the woman pulled back her hood, cries and exclamations echoed from the walls.
‘Richolda!’ Lord Henry exclaimed. ‘Richolda the witch. But I have her corpse in my death house!’
Corbett watched intently. The woman lifted her face and the clerk suppressed a shiver. It was indeed Richolda come again. The witch-woman pointed back at the gruesome, grisly corpse clearly illuminated by the dancing torchlight.
‘As he is,’ she cried, ‘so shall ye be! You are warned.’
‘She has been brought here to shock, to frighten and to terrify,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘and,’ he pointed further along the wall, ‘she truly has.’
Corbett noticed how some of the watchers were so frightened they hurried back down the steps into the bailey. Someone loosed a crossbow bolt, which fell into the moat. Lord Henry shouted that no violence was to be offered. Corbett was tempted to ask Ap Ythel to order a blizzard of arrow shafts, but this would be a very grave violation of the customs of war: if the tide turned against them, the garrison would not be shown any mercy. Instead, Brother Adrian now arrived, with a dripping aspergillum. The monk had changed his black robes for working clothes, a common practice when confined to the castle; he had cheerfully confessed to Corbett that it helped preserve his rather costly woollen church garb. He cast holy water at the malevolent apparitions whilst loudly intoning the prayer to St Michael the Archangel for help against the armies of darkness. Others, encouraged by this, began to hurl abuse at the macabre group until the woman raised her arms and Lord Henry roared for silence.