by Paul Doherty
‘Dead!’ he called. ‘Strip his corpse.’ He gestured to his right. ‘The morass we rode around, toss the body there. Take his horse and harness and let us be gone.’
PART FOUR
‘Such things were spoken of openly: whether they are true or not, God knows.’
Life of Edward II
Corbett was surprised. He had hardly returned to his chamber that morning when there was a knock on the door and Brother Adrian, his face wreathed in a benevolent smile, slipped into the room. He asked to sit, and Ranulf vacated his stool, gesturing at the monk to take it. Brother Adrian put his leather chancery satchel on the floor, then sat, hands on his knees, staring at Corbett, who held his gaze. The Benedictine normally busied himself around, the good, caring priest almost frenetic in his activity. Now he sat calmly, watchful, and Corbett realised that he’d misjudged him. He glimpsed the humour in Brother Adrian’s deep-set eyes, the cynical twist to his mouth. The monk was a soul whose waters ran very deep, Corbett concluded; he was certainly not what he pretended to be.
‘Father?’ Corbett gestured towards the tray of wine cups.
‘Oh yes, Sir Hugh. Let’s take a little wine for the stomach’s sake, as St Paul so rightly says.’
Ap Ythel, who had been lying on a wall bench, got up and served the wine, pulling a face in mock surprise as he moved behind the monk. Corbett just smiled and watched the Benedictine pick up what the clerk considered to be a very costly chancery satchel fashioned out of the best North African leather, fastened and secured by intricate clasps and buckles.
‘Your clerk of the stable is on guard outside.’ Brother Adrian looked up and smiled. ‘Whilst Ap Ythel and Ranulf, your henchmen, protect you here. We have to be safe, Sir Hugh. God knows who attacked us in that chapel. In other circumstances . . .’
‘What circumstances?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Sir Hugh,’ again the benevolent smile, ‘I shall tell you. I should really ask for this chamber to be cleared except for me and thee.’
‘No,’ Corbett declared. ‘I trust both these men with my life.’
‘I thought as much. Anyway, at least that one-eyed archer is not here.’
Corbett remained impassive even as he felt a spurt of alarm. He dared not glance at Ap Ythel or Ranulf, though he trusted them not to betray any concern.
‘Very good, very good.’ Brother Adrian opened his chancery satchel and took out two leather containers. He removed the top from one of these, shook out the creamy scroll of parchment and gave it to Corbett, who unrolled it carefully. From the very touch he could see that the vellum was the costliest, the script in dark-red ink, elegantly written. A small illumination lightened the first two words of the document: ‘Clemens Papa’. He glanced at the bottom, translating the Latin: ‘Given at Avignon in the fifth year of our Pontificate . . .’ The clerk bit back his exclamation as he read how Pope Clement V, exiled in Avignon, recognised Adrian Ogilvie, otherwise known as Adrian of Rievaulx, as ‘Primus Mallus Maleficorum’ – the First Hammer of Witches – throughout the kingdoms of England and Scotland. Adrian Ogilvie was endowed with legatine powers ‘to pursue such evil and nefarious souls’ with all the power of the Church and must be given the full support of every legitimate secular authority both within and without.
The monk then opened the second scroll container and shook out a similar letter signed and sealed by Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury, which faithfully repeated the contents of the papal missive. Corbett, with the Benedictine’s permission, showed both documents to Ranulf and Ap Ythel before handing them back. He tried to hide his astonishment, Brother Adrian was not some simple parish priest or learned Benedictine monk, but a man vested with important powers. Anyone who tried to impede, block or frustrate his work could face the whole rigour of excommunication, not to mention prosecution by the Crown.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Brother Adrian demanded. ‘You accept the documents are genuine, the script, the signature, the seals?’
‘Oh yes, but why now, Brother?’ Corbett asked. ‘We met in London. We journeyed north. We have been in this castle some days. Now we find you are a witch hunter, a prosecutor of warlocks, demon-worshippers and all the devil’s disciples. Your powers are quite extensive and extraordinary—’
‘Who else knows?’ Ranulf broke in. ‘Lord Henry and his sour-faced wife?’
‘Nobody knows,’ Brother Adrian retorted, ‘apart from the people in this room. And that is how it will remain until I decide otherwise. As for why now, well why not? First, you are about to enter the devil’s den.’
‘We are not going to Blanchlands.’
‘No, Sir Hugh, but you are going to meet Darel at Clairbaux. I also understand you plan to journey on to Tynemouth, and that too is of great significance, as I shall explain. Second, I need to take you into my confidence. Sir Hugh, you may have been watching me. I certainly have been studying you and yours, including that Welsh archer – Ap Vynar, the one you sent to spy on me.’ The monk grinned at Ap Ythel. ‘I caught him watching me and I wondered if it was time to save you a great deal of work and tell you who I really am. Third, time is passing. Matters will soon move to a head. You are immersed in business of the Crown; I am involved in what is called Secreta Negotia Sanctae Matris Ecclesiae – the Secret Business of Holy Mother Church.’
‘Which is?’
‘The constant battle against the powers of hell made manifest in human affairs to the total destruction of souls.’
‘And why you?’
‘Why indeed? But there again, Sir Hugh, I could ask the same of you. Why Sir Hugh Corbett, the principal clerk to the king? Your answer would be circumstances, and the same is true of me. My name really is Adrian Ogilvie, born of good family here in Northumbria. I attended the monastic school of Fountains Abbey, though for most of my education as a young man I was at Rievaulx. Both abbeys, as you know, are set in the lush beauty of the Yorkshire Dales. I became a student of renown. As St Paul says, “I do not boast for the sake of boasting but for the sake of the truth.” I truly excelled myself. I studied exorcism, magic, witchcraft, demonic possession; you know the litany. I read the works of Albert the Great as well as the Arabs such as Khalide and Geber. I became this kingdom’s peritus, skilled in all matters of demonology, though not in the public sense; that is the duty of the Dominicans and the Inquisition. I tend to be more subtle, more private. I advise bishops and abbots on individual cases.
‘I would have stayed at Rievaulx for the rest of my days.’ He pulled a face. ‘Sometimes I wish to God I had. Anyway, as you know, the Church has been dealing with Secreta Negotia for the last thirteen hundred years, from the very beginning, when the blessed apostle Peter, our first pope, crossed swords with the warlock Simon Magus. Twenty-one years ago, Pope Nicholas III clashed with the great magician Abulafic. Our present Holy Father, Pope Clement V, is now confronted with allegations of black magic against the Templars.’
‘Do you believe them?’
‘No, Sir Hugh, I do not. I have told our king, the archbishop and the Holy Father himself that the allegations against the Templars are a farrago of lies, the work of Philip of France and his council of demons.’
‘I agree,’ Corbett declared, warming to this blunt-speaking Benedictine. ‘But Brother Adrian, why are you here? Why are you involved in these matters?’
‘The Church must continue its confrontation of the powers of darkness. It must challenge black magic, witchcraft, the midnight rites, the devil’s doings and all of Satan’s subtle ways.’ He paused. ‘Let me be blunt. Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, believes that Scotland’s present troubles are the direct work of satanic cults.’
‘The same Wishart who is now a prisoner in Porchester Castle on the south coast?’
‘The same. Wishart was a fervent supporter of the Scottish rebel leader William Wallace, and when Wallace was filleted like a piece of meat at Smithfield, the bishop shifted his allegiance to Bruce. Now, however, he and other churchmen passionately believe that the widespre
ad devastation in Scotland was caused by demonic powers. They have argued, and continue to do so, that England should desist in its war and recognise the sovereignty of Scotland, not because they champion this prince against that; they simply believe that the present war provides the most fertile ground for all kinds of evil.’
Brother Adrian rose and stretched. He abruptly opened the door, stared out onto the gallery, then closed the door and came back. ‘The royal house of Scotland,’ he continued, sitting down, ‘the House of Dunkeld, has sinister origins in the person of that dark prince Macbeth. Some people believe that he dabbled deeply in the black arts, that he was a murderer who consorted with witches and tried to kill his enemies through necromancy. They claim he would go out into the most desolate parts of his kingdom to seek the company of those who walked the alleyways of hell. Eventually, of course, he died, possibly murdered, and because of him the royal line became cursed. If that is true, the malignancy came to flower most foully some twenty-five years ago, perhaps even before then. Alexander III of blessed memory married Margaret of England. She died at the early age of thirty-five and was followed to the grave by all her children: Alexander, David and a daughter also called Margaret. This meant there was no heir apparent and the great lords of Scotland began to look to their swords.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett intervened, ‘it was a real tragedy. If their children had succeeded, Scotland would have been ruled by a prince with the blood of both Dunkeld and Plantagenet in his veins. If that had happened, perhaps an eternal alliance of peace could have been arranged. I recall the old king talking about that.’
‘Alexander III realised the danger,’ Brother Adrian took up the story. ‘No queen, no wife, no heir, so he married again: a French noblewoman, the beautiful Yolande. Alexander was hot for her, and for a son. He realised that time was passing. He was attracted to the joys of the bed, but above all, Scotland demanded an heir. On the evening of the nineteenth of March, the Year of Our Lord 1286, Alexander left a council meeting in Edinburgh to be with his darling wife, but was thrown from his horse by the sudden onset of the most violent storm in living memory. They found his corpse the following morning.’
‘And he left no heir except a granddaughter, a little girl, Margaret of Norway?’
‘Correct, Sir Hugh.’
‘And she, poor child, died on board ship whilst returning to Scotland.’
‘Hell’s teeth,’ Ranulf breathed. ‘Devil or not, a gambler would regard such ill fortune as exceptional. One king, his wife, their three children and a granddaughter, all gone. So sudden, so cruel.’
‘When Margaret of Norway died,’ Brother Adrian continued, ‘the house of Dunkeld lay in ruins and the crown was in dispute.’
‘And so we come to John Balliol,’ Corbett broke in.
‘True,’ Brother Adrian agreed. ‘He assumed the crown with permission from Edward of England, who then forced him to abdicate in humiliating disgrace. The cruel chaos intensified like one of those vicious whirlpools you glimpse swirling in the great rivers, a storm of waters that sucks everything in. Sir Hugh, look at both kingdoms as they are now compared to thirty years ago: fire, devastation, the song of the sword, the marching of troops and the savage forays of war bands are now a way of life. The countryside is blighted, the haunt of the wolfsheads. Towns and cities blaze. Famine and disease walk hand in hand like devilish twins dispatched from hell. The rottenness and decay in Scotland is spreading south, king against earl, commoner against knight.’
‘And you suspect this is the devil’s work?’ Corbett smiled wryly. ‘Well of course it is. But you believe the likes of the Black Chesters carry a heavy responsibility for all this malevolent mayhem?’
‘I do, and my belief is shared by a number of leading churchmen either side of the Scottish march, as well as the Holy Father’s experts in universities throughout Europe. Satan truly is a lion on the prowl. Scotland in particular has been grievously mauled: Alexander III’s mysterious accident, the death of his first wife and all his heirs, the humiliation of Balliol, the brutal defeat of Wallace, and now Bruce’s bloody war, but even there tragedy lurks. They claim Bruce’s father is grievously stricken with leprosy. People wonder if Robert himself is also a bearer of that dreadful disease. And so the litany of lamentation goes on.’
‘Tell me . . .’ Ranulf, fascinated by what he was hearing, pulled out a corner stool and sat down beside Corbett.
‘Tell me what?’ Brother Adrian mimicked. ‘I can guess, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. You want to ask the question so many people pose. How can witches and warlocks gather in some nightmare coven and create such mayhem? Now let me make it clear, human wickedness is caused by human wickedness. We all have free will. We all make decisions and must abide by the consequences, whatever they may be. However, as regards the likes of the Black Chesters, my answer is twofold. First, they pollute the world we live in. Watch a fire blaze. Notice how the smoke, the fumes, the reeking stench spreads, clogging the mouth and throat, stinging the eyes, smattering the skin with filthy ash. Covens like the Black Chesters pollute the spiritual air. They release a deadly miasma that has its effect sometimes long after the evil has been done, the devilish curse issued, the blasphemous sacrifice made. Second, on a more practical level, look how the Black Chesters wield power here along the Scottish march. They control Darel, Blanchlands and beyond.’
‘For what purpose?’ Ap Ythel demanded. ‘Brother Adrian, I am a simple Welsh bowman. I protect the Crown and fight its enemies.’
‘My friend,’ Brother Adrian squinted up at the bowman, ‘there is a word derived from the Greek: pandemonium. It means complete and utter chaos, devastating disruption, but the word also translates, in the literal sense, as “full of demons”. The Black Chesters want pandemonium, they want chaos, the collapse of law and order; the violation of the Church’s teaching, the shattering of all civic and religious harmony. They wish to create hell on earth and exercise power over this chaos like the lords of hell they are.’ The Benedictine paused to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘And they are succeeding; the chaos is spreading.’
‘And what have you discovered here?’
‘The Black Chesters are part of an evil web of covens across the length and breadth of Scotland, one of many though I suspect the most powerful and malignant. They shelter at Blanchlands, patronised by Edmund Darel, and are committed to waging war against the king’s peace and creating divisions wherever they can. Percy’s rivalry with Darel has been subtly exploited by them. The Black Chesters lie at the heart of the storm: English against Scot, Darel against Percy; Darel against the Crown, Percy against the Crown, or so they hope. The leaders of the coven are well known, though its ordinary members are more hidden. By day they are responsible citizens of the community but by night they practise their evil. They deal out judgement, they silence all opposition, but above all, as I shall show you, they heap horror after horror upon the innocent.’
‘How?’ Corbett demanded.
‘People disappear, Sir Hugh, entire families, never seen again.’
‘Doesn’t Lord Henry intervene?’
‘Sir Hugh, look around. Lord Henry is hard pressed. He has only been here two years and he must renovate and fortify Alnwick. Moreover, when he is not watching Darel, he turns to confront the Scots, who, as you know, are creeping closer to England’s northern shires.’ The monk put his goblet on the floor beside him. ‘I have little support. You see, I cannot tell Lord Henry or those Crown officials still in their posts who I really am, what I truly do. Even if I did, what real help could they give? They have to deal with wolfsheads, the dispossessed, wandering bands of mercenaries and the rest. In the meantime I try to track, as a hunter would a wolf, the Black Chesters and all their doings. I mentioned those who have disappeared. I strongly suspect they have been murdered, their blood used for blasphemous sacrifice. Now and again, here and there, a corpse is discovered mangled and torn, its face smashed in, the chest savagely opened, the heart plucked out.
; ‘Now publicly I am a parish priest, I tend to my flock. I cannot admit to knowing too much about Darel, Blanchlands, the Black Chesters and all that trickery; that would provoke suspicion and place me in great danger. I just want people to accept me for what I appear to be. If your watchman Ap Vynar studied me closely over the days, he would see me constantly chattering to tinkers, traders, local farmers and peasants, gathering what news I can. Naturally I hear about births, people falling ill, people dying, the need for the sacraments, Masses to be said, but I also gather more sinister scraps of news, pieces of information. How a travelling tinker has disappeared or a child been abducted. Sometimes they talk of black-garbed riders at the dead of night. The devil hides deep, Sir Hugh, and you have to be a skilful hunter.’
He took out a set of Ave beads and began to sift these through his fingers. Corbett sat listening to the sounds echoing across the castle bailey. The squealing of pigs from the slaughter shed set his teeth on edge and deepened his unease; he felt a similar apprehension from his companions.
‘You may ask what I can do, what I have done, what I shall do.’ The Benedictine lifted his beads. ‘To put it bluntly, I pray and I hunt the coven. If I can discover and trap any of its adherents, I will move heaven and earth to ensure they receive just punishment.’
‘Did you poison Richolda and Hockley?’
‘No.’ Brother Adrian half smiled. ‘In some ways I wish I had, but ask Lord Henry. I begged him not to surrender Richolda until I had closely questioned her. I needed to discover the true identity of her leader, a master warlock who calls himself Paracelsus.’ He crossed himself and murmured a prayer. ‘I have been hunting him for over two years.’
‘And you don’t know who he is?’
‘No, Sir Hugh.’