Devil's Wolf

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And, of course, he wants the meeting now,’ Corbett murmured, ‘before either Lord Henry or I can plot any trickery or an ambuscade – not that we would. Sir Edmund Darel believes that the world thinks like him. However, if it is to be done, it’s best done swiftly. The days are passing quickly and it’s time we were gone from here.’

  ‘What weapons can we bring?’ Ranulf demanded.

  ‘Sword and dagger, nothing else.’

  Corbett reined in and stared at Clairbaux, which was built in the lea of a gently rising hill. The entire demesne was bounded by a grey-stone curtain wall with a stout wooden double gate. Admission was gained by a bell under its stone coping. There were no guards on the wall or bailiffs patrolling outside. Ranulf pulled on the bell rope, then both he and Corbett dismounted. They heard the sound of footsteps, the jingle of keys, and a postern door in the gate swung back creating a narrow gap so that only one rider at a time could walk his mount through.

  Inside the gate stretched a cobbled yard with storerooms, sheds and workshops. The hermitage itself consisted of a square of buildings built around a grassy garth with a rose garden at its centre. One side of this cloister was bounded by an ancient church consisting of a tower built on the end of a dark-stone chapel with narrow windows and a red slate roof. The other three sides were lined by small cottages built of the same stone as the chapel. A quiet place, though in the dull light of the fading day, Corbett considered it to be sinister, the clammy, cold silence that of a cemetery or a mausoleum. He tried to ignore such nagging anxiety; after all, the day was sullen, a harbinger of autumn. Nevertheless, the raucous cawing of crows from the nearby trees set his teeth on edge. He was pleased when Lady Hilda came out of the church.

  ‘Sir Hugh Corbett, Ranulf-atte-Newgate?’ she called. ‘You are most welcome. Sir Edmund awaits you within.’ She smiled. ‘No need to stand on ceremony.’

  Corbett and Ranulf followed the grey-cowled porter who had let them in across the mist-hung cloisters to the church door, where both men exchanged the kiss of peace with Lady Hilda. She fluttered her fingers at the porter to gesture his dismissal before leading Corbett and Ranulf into the musty nave. Slivers of light pierced the lancet windows. Torches fixed in their sconces on the squat, drum-like pillars cast constantly shifting pools of flame. Corbett found this disconcerting as he peered through the murk at the two figures standing behind a table placed just before the entrance to the rood screen. Lanternhorns positioned either end of this table provided more light, though this did little to make the two figures more distinct.

  ‘Hugh, for heaven’s sake! Stop standing there like some lovelorn bridegroom.’ Edmund Darel came round the table and strode down the nave, arms out ready to embrace Corbett as if the clerk was some long-lost favourite brother. Corbett took off his war belt, handed it to Ranulf and walked forward to meet his host. They embraced, then Darel, hands gripping Corbett’s shoulders, stepped back, scrutinising the clerk from head to toe. ‘The face is not so smooth, the hair not so raven black, but I’d recognise you immediately in a crowd, whilst this must be Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’ He turned and greeted Corbett’s henchman warmly, his rich, powerful voice echoing around the chapel.

  Corbett studied the man he secretly described as ‘a soul born to villainy’. The years had been kind to Darel: he was tall, muscular, his red-gold hair, moustache and beard skilfully clipped and fragrantly oiled. His face was slightly flushed but still exuded that golden look that, with the very light-blue eyes and generous lips, made him such a favourite amongst the ladies. He was dressed soberly in a dark-blue star-spangled cotehardie and hose of the richest and purest wool; his white shirt was of the finest Flemish linen whilst his riding boots and war belt were of costly Moroccan leather. Small jewels on the golden chain around his neck, the bracelet on his sword wrist and the rings on his left hand shimmered brilliantly as they caught the light. No, Edmund, Corbett reflected, you have not changed. You’re brimming with the same nervous energy you always had; you find it almost impossible to stay still.

  Darel abruptly turned from Ranulf as a woman’s voice called his name. He grabbed Corbett by the wrist and pointed up the nave. ‘Come, come! Leonora wishes to meet you.’

  Corbett glanced over his shoulder. Lady Hilda had disappeared. Ranulf stood glowering, clearly uneasy at Darel’s effusive welcome. Corbett strapped on his war belt and they walked up the dusty paved nave, the spurs on their boots jingling like little bells, the clip of their heels echoing like a drum beat. Corbett hid his smile. Darel loved the masque and the mummery, and the place he had chosen to meet was suffused with drama. This lonely chapel, which echoed to every sound, the dancing light, the shifting murk, the cracked pavestones underfoot, the cobwebbed dust piled high in corners and a mysterious woman waiting in the shadows. Corbett’s fingers fell to the hilt of his dagger, and he glanced quickly at Ranulf, whose hand was not far from the pommel of his sword.

  Leonora had not moved but remained behind the table. ‘Welcome,’ she whispered and leaned forward, right hand extended for Corbett and Ranulf to kiss.

  At Darel’s request they sat down in the high-backed leather chairs, Corbett facing Darel, Ranulf opposite Leonora, who was a truly beautiful woman, with the face of a Venus and a body like mortal sin. She was tall and willowy, with large, expressive cat-like eyes under arching brows, her dark hair, parted in the middle, rippling richly down to her shoulders. She wore no headdress or veil and very little jewellery except for a ruby ring on her left hand; a golden cincture circled her narrow waist and a crystal silver gorget emphasised her smooth, swan-like throat. She had delicate hands with the longest fingers, and when she spoke during the introductions, her voice was low and throaty. Every movement, every gesture was refined and exquisitely ladylike. In many ways she looked very similar to Richolda, but with subtle differences; Leonora seemed calmer, more poised and definitely more certain of herself.

  ‘You attacked us.’ Ranulf spoke abruptly. Corbett hid his surprise at the outburst, yet he recognised that his henchman wished to break the spell of this ghostly, eerie place and the calm assurance of these two hell-creatures. ‘You attacked royal envoys,’ Ranulf insisted. ‘You did so twice. We are Crown clerks, travelling under the royal standard; we are within the king’s love and deserving of the king’s peace.’

  ‘A terrible mistake,’ Leonora declared. ‘We were misinformed. We did not know—’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you, woman,’ Ranulf snapped. His hand fell to the hilt of his dagger as Darel’s face clouded. Leonora drew her breath in, a soft, hissing sound like that of an angry cat.

  ‘A full pardon.’ Corbett rapped the table. ‘For the sake of the peace I will accept you made a dreadful mistake.’ He pointed to the chancery tray on the table before them. ‘Write out the conclusions we reach and both Ranulf and I, as royal envoys, will seal and sign the document. It will promise a full pardon for the attack on us and the assault on Alnwick. In return, you will vow that such actions must cease forthwith, never to be repeated. As a token of our goodwill I shall arrange the release of all prisoners taken after your outrageous assault on Lord Henry’s castle.’

  He sat back in the chair and stared up the ceiling beams as if lost in his own thoughts now that he’d stated the obvious. On their journey here, he and Ranulf had discussed exactly what to do. They had decided they would show no deference, make no plea or betray any weakness. They were royal envoys; Darel’s assaults on them were heinous and treasonable.

  Nevertheless, the reality was that they had underestimated the extent of the violence and criminal depredations raging along the Scottish march. Lord Henry Percy was not as strong or as supportive as they’d hoped, whilst Darel had emerged not only as a ruthless robber baron but a powerful lord with fingers in many a pie. King Edward and his council, distracted by the crisis caused by Gaveston, had not taken full stock of what was truly happening in the north. Now that Corbett and Ranulf were here, they had to reach Tynemouth and search out, if possible, the whereab
outs of the Lily Crown. In addition, they had to ensure Gaveston’s secret and safe departure on The Golden Dove, then make their own way south without further loss. In order to do this, they would treat Darel harshly and bring him into the king’s peace, then deal with the real threat he posed once they’d returned to Westminster.

  Corbett shifted his gaze and stared across the table. ‘There’s very little to add to what I have said, sir.’

  Darel smiled dazzlingly, as did Leonora. Corbett realised the two of them were one soul, the ties between this robber baron and his witch-queen stronger than life itself. He also acknowledged that Darel was treacherous and could not be trusted. So what did he really want?

  ‘Hugh, Hugh.’ Darel leaned across the table. ‘I know you of old. We are comrades . . .’

  ‘No we are not,’ Corbett countered. ‘If I had my way, Edmund, you’d hang and your witch beside you. Indeed, if you ever break the king’s peace again in such a murderous assault, I shall personally build the gallows to string you up on. So, you will solemnly promise that I, Sir Hugh Corbett, together with my comitatus, will, as the king’s own envoys, be allowed to travel the length and breadth of this kingdom unimpeded by you or yours either directly or indirectly. And that,’ he pointed a finger at Leonora, ‘includes you, mistress, and whatever coven you belong to, for as God lives, if I am given the chance and the right, I shall see you and yours hang.’

  Corbett’s harsh voice echoed like the bray of a trumpet around the nave. Leonora flushed, her head going back. Darel coughed, cleared his throat and closely studied one of his ring fingers. Then he abruptly glanced up.

  ‘Hugh, you are being hard.’

  ‘Edmund, I am being truthful. I beg you to be the same.’

  Darel breathed in, trying to calm himself, though his clenched mouth and thin-stretched lips betrayed his anger, as did his restless, frenetic eyes. Corbett studied his opponent closely. He wondered if Darel was truly possessed by some murderous demon that had captured his soul and sent his humours all a-dancing. He shifted his gaze to Leonora, who looked equally flustered, still slightly flushed. He drew comfort from the fact that this meeting was, perhaps, not going the way this precious pair had planned.

  ‘Agreed.’ Darel breathed out a deep, noisy sigh, then relaxed, his face suffused by a friendly smile. ‘Agreed,’ he repeated, pushing back his chair. ‘Hugh,’ he gestured at the chancery tray, ‘we shall draw up a memorandum of understanding sealed by our good selves. Perhaps your henchman Ranulf could assist me?’

  Corbett just sat smiling at this most dangerous of adversaries.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Edmund, I agree.’ Corbett glanced at Ranulf, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Corbett’s henchman was skilled in sword and dagger play, a sharp, caustic observer of human foibles. Corbett also recognised how Ranulf hated what they were now involved in, seated here in this lonely, desolate church at the very heart of a seemingly never-ending northern wilderness. Moreover, he had little time for those who boasted about being skilled and adept in matters mystical. Corbett leaned across and tapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘Ranulf, a word?’

  He turned back to Darel. ‘Edmund, mistress, do excuse us.’

  Ranulf followed Corbett into the shadow-thronged transept, a gallery of darkness behind a row of stout rounded pillars. Corbett took a sconce torch and thrust it into a wall niche, bathing the transept in light. The dancing flame brought to life the slightly faded but still vigorously executed frescoes, undoubtedly a legacy of the Celtic monks who had made this place a house of deep holiness. He crouched and peered closer. There was no order to the paintings; just a series of images. One of the most striking was an insect-like demon with a human head; arrows pierced the monster’s belly and wings whilst it held its arms up helplessly against the fire burning on its head. Next to this a blazing ship floated on a blood-red sea, its sails half submerged. Beside it a scroll proclaimed, ‘Woe to the land and the sea for today Satan has come down with great wrath.’ Corbett tapped this with his fingers, then plucked at Ranulf’s sleeve and drew him closer.

  ‘Ranulf, you can tell your children’s children that on one occasion you truly did sit down and make a pact with the devil.’ He paused. He could hear Darel and Leonora whispering behind them. ‘Believe me,’ he continued, ‘we are going to do that today.’

  ‘Do you trust them?’

  ‘Does the sun set at night? Of course I don’t! I just wonder what in God’s name they really want. I am also curious as to why they have not mentioned the obvious.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Come and listen.’

  Corbett and Ranulf went back to their seats, Darel and Leonora watching them expectantly.

  ‘So,’ Corbett began, ‘Lord Henry releases his prisoners. Your son and daughter are returned. You promise to desist from all attacks on me and mine so that we may proceed safely and securely under the royal standard to any part of this kingdom. You also acknowledge your grievous offence in attacking us twice. You are fully contrite and sue for a full pardon, which I have the power to grant and will do so. Good.’ He tapped the chancery tray. ‘We shall draw up the memorandum. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No.’ Darel smiled, rubbing his hands carefully, as if he was washing them in a bowl.

  ‘Good, good.’ Corbett glanced away to hide the suspicions seething within him. He stared around the chapel. He felt sure that the angel who had once guarded it had long left: beings of the light would never dwell in such a demon-tainted place. Hermitage or not, he felt a cold darkness, which hovered over an even more dreadful abyss, a place where demons lurked amongst the roof beams and devils bustled busily in the lengthening shadows. He recalled one of the wall paintings he’d glimpsed along that twilight transept: it depicted a bat-like monster, armed with a crossbow, doing battle with a gigantic fish through whose gaping mouth poured a horde of skeletons armed with spears and shields. This was a nightmare place; a malignancy lurked here, and Corbett truly believed that Darel and his paramour were the source of such spiritual agitation.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ Darel demanded.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett moved the chancery tray to one side. ‘Edmund, let’s talk about the Black Chesters, yes? A malicious coven of demon-worshippers who haunt the Scottish march and may be guilty of the most heinous crimes. It is claimed that people very close to you are part of that coven. It is also appropriate to talk about the traitor, the creature who calls himself the Alpha and the Omega. A villain who betrayed me, the king’s envoy, both on my journey north and at Alnwick. A man who has tried to kill me with fire and sword.’ He paused, and for a mere heartbeat he caught a look of pure surprise in Darel’s eyes, as if he had just learnt something unexpected. Yes, Corbett promised himself, he must remember that. ‘Then there’s the question of Richolda, Leonora’s twin sister, and Master Hockley. Who murdered them then set their corpses alight? We have been here some time and you have not even referred to such matters. Leonora, do you not grieve for your sister?’

  ‘Hugh, Hugh.’ Darel’s voice was almost slurred. ‘What have we to do with the dead? The Black Chesters?’ He pulled a face. ‘More fable than fact. As for the traitor in your midst who calls himself the Alpha and the Omega, I wonder who he thinks he is. The truth is much more practical. A tinker gave us news of your approach. As for who told us about the secret entrance into the Abbot’s Tower,’ again Darel made a face, ‘the information was delivered anonymously. I am sorry to hear about the attempts to kill you, but like me, you live in a dangerous place at a very fraught time. Is that my fault?’ He tapped the table with his fingers. ‘Is it my fault that the king’s peace has collapsed and war rages along the Scottish march? I am no different from Lord Henry Percy. He has seized Alnwick and turned it into a great fortress. I am doing the same at Blanchlands. Can you blame us? Bruce edges closer and closer to the northern shires, but our king is busy at Westminster fighting his leading barons over his favourite, Gaveston.’

 
Darel paused. ‘Hugh,’ he leaned across the table, ‘like Lord Henry, I have to defend myself. I have to work out my own salvation. As for poor Richolda and her companion Hockley, they were killed, murdered in Lord Henry’s care. One day soon he should, and will, answer for that. And the burning of their corpses?’ He raised his eyebrows in a look of complete astonishment. ‘Perhaps Lord Henry wished to be rid of them. A strange place, Alnwick, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘With even stranger occurrences,’ Leonora added slyly.

  ‘Mistress?’

  ‘I understand that the Scottish hostages you were escorting north have all been murdered, poisoned no less.’ Corbett chose to ignore her taunting tone. ‘You have made one friend through their deaths.’

  ‘Again, mistress,’ Corbett replied coolly, ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Alexander Seton and his three companions, Sterling, Mallet and Roskell,’ Darel declared, ‘were skilled assassins. Seton in particular, a member of Red Comyn’s personal bodyguard and a most adept killer. I am sure that Lord Bruce is pleased he is dead. If Seton had escaped and rejoined the Comyns, he would have posed a real problem to Robert the Bruce.’ He put his hands down on the table, fingers splayed, staring hard as if he was trying to recall other matters. ‘Ah well.’ He got to his feet. ‘Hugh, lovely to see you, but time is passing.’ He helped Leonora to rise. ‘I believe we have an agreement. Let us draw up the memorandum of understanding and be gone.’

  Corbett sat in the darkness of St Chad’s chapel at Alnwick. The dawn Mass had long finished, the altar was cleared, the candles snuffed, the last trails of incense smoke fading away. The constant pattering of prayers had trailed into a deepening silence as people left the church, genuflecting and blessing themselves, touching the feet of the statues of their favourite saints or lighting tapers at the lady altar or in one of the small chantry chapels. Now they were all gone, busy on their own affairs. ‘And so begins another day in paradise,’ Corbett whispered to himself.