by Paul Doherty
Prior Richard, a tall, sinewy Benedictine with the hooked features of a falcon, had dismounted and was now blessing the condemned with an aspergillum. Corbett felt strangely comforted by his presence. A former commander in the royal levy, Prior Richard knew all about the rigours of war and the horrors of conflict, be it in Wales, Gascony or Scotland. He and Corbett had had a swift conversation the night before whilst sharing a jug of posset and a dish of fruit. Corbett found the prior well aware of events both along the border and throughout the shire. He called Darel ‘a true son of Satan, a child of hell’, adding that the Black Chesters were nothing more than a legion of demons who were acting with greater and greater impunity. Even watchmen on the priory walls had seen sinister black-garbed figures galloping across this very cove, and had also glimpsed both to north and south the glow of midnight fires that, Prior Richard was certain, marked the gathering of the Black Chesters for their infernal rites.
Corbett wiped the spray from his face. Another Benedictine, Brother Ailward, had joined his prior and was busy shriving the last of the prisoners, a woman who, in desperate hope of lengthening her life, now begged for the sacrament. Once absolution had been delivered, she too, like her colleagues, was gagged to stifle any further cry or protest. Gulls screeched and circled, swooping and rising over the coming banquet. Once the sea had done its work, the prisoners would, for at least three turns of the tide, remain lashed to the execution stakes so the birds and other creatures could gather to feast on their corpses.
A strange, eerie place, Corbett reflected, seemingly caught between heaven and earth. The ground underfoot was soft, yielding and clinging, the shifting sand peppered with black pebbles and shells. The distant sea growled like some monster creeping slowly but surely towards the land under a peculiar whitish-blue sky. The beach seemed to be a ghostly, alien country bereft of any real human presence; only the dead came here. Further along the sand Corbett had glimpsed the corpse of a beggar probably caught by the tide and drowned. Once the execution was over, that corpse would be collected, blessed and, after a requiem, buried in the poor man’s lot of Tynemouth Priory.
Brother Ailward was now finished, and remounted his horse, joining Ranulf, Chanson, Ap Ythel, Brother Adrian and the Thurstons along with the priory man-at-arms and two burly lay brothers.
‘I consign you to God,’ declared Prior Richard, standing high in the stirrups and sketching one last cross in the air. ‘It is indeed,’ he continued, ‘a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God. May the kind heart of Christ show you mercy. It is over.’
He turned his horse to lead his cavalcade back along the beach towards the winding, sand-strewn pathway that cut through Tynemouth village, across the drawbridge and under the fortified barbican into the priory proper. Corbett did not spare the condemned, lashed on that long line of execution poles, a second glance. He had seen their handiwork, to which they’d openly confessed: the mangled remains of those poor fishermen, father and son, slit from craw to crutch, stretched out on the great corpse table in the priory death house. Prior Richard had apologised for having to draw Corbett into king’s business. Sir Hugh, however, was pleased that at least someone in Northumberland was committed to maintaining the peace.
He had certainly seen the effects of the growing disorder as he had journeyed south. Of course the royal standard kept wolfsheads and any other troublemakers well away. In fact, Corbett had been pleased by the journey. The weather had proved good, the ground underfoot solid and firm. He was particularly gratified that the carts carrying his chancery coffers, now placed safely in Prior Richard’s arca, had not been obstructed or impeded.
Lady Hilda had met him outside Alnwick with about fifty members of her community. The imperious old lady had insisted on riding side-saddle, lecturing her cowled, grey-garbed community and maintaining good order amongst them as if she were a royal marshal. On arrival at Tynemouth, she’d informed both Corbett and Prior Richard that ten more members of her fraternity would soon be joining them to make fervent prayer before the tomb of St Oswine and celebrate the saint’s impending feast. Neither the prior nor Corbett dared demur, especially when Lady Hilda added that she and her community must pay their way and did not expect to be a burden on the priory. Prior Richard was relieved. He had confided to Corbett on their way down to execute the wolfsheads that Lady Hilda’s arrival would not crowd the priory, as a number of his monks had sailed on The Golden Dove for London to visit their mother houses at St Albans and Westminster.
The priory was certainly spacious enough. Corbett had been allocated a comfortable chamber in the guest house, which overlooked the great cloisters opposite the main priory church. Once he’d locked the door behind him the previous evening, he had felt deeply relieved, unstrapping his war belt and kicking off his boots. He was pleased to be free of Alnwick and its darkly oppressive, ominous atmosphere; that sense of fearfulness, of being watched and not being really safe either within or without. Tynemouth was different. Prior Richard was a king’s man to the very marrow of his being.
‘Sir Hugh? You’re not sleeping?’ Corbett grinned at Ranulf and gathered his reins as the pace of the cavalcade quickened. They cantered through Tynemouth village, up its main street and onto the approaches to the soaring fortifications of the priory. The great drawbridge was already lowered, the porticullis raised, and they quickly clattered across, turning left past the gatehouse, the lodgings for the men-at-arms and the priory kennels and entering the great court, which stretched to the poultry yard, then on into the smaller court containing the church, chapter house, guest house and all the various lodgings of the priory community.
Here they reined in, and Prior Richard formally ordered his standard bearer, who had ridden ahead of the cavalcade, to furl the banner proclaiming the arms of the priory: three red crowns against a white background. Once this had been taken away to be stored behind the high altar of the church, they all dismounted. The prior, murmuring how such occasions sharpened his appetite, led Corbett’s party through the warm, sweet-smelling refectory and into the comfortable buttery with its polished oak tables and cushioned stools. A light morning ale brewed at the priory was served along with squares of freshly toasted bread topped with cheese and a sharp herb sauce. One of the brothers blessed the food and drink and they all ate in silence, hungry after the cold ride down to the beach.
After they had finished, Prior Richard indicated that Corbett, Ranulf and Ap Ythel, along with Brother Adrian, should follow him across to the priory church. Once there, the doors were closed and bolted from the inside. The prior told Corbett and the rest to wait whilst he and Brother Adrian quickly went around the church to ensure that all other doors were closed and locked and no one else was present.
Corbett stood near the ancient baptismal font, its deep-bowled cup decorated with the most intricate Celtic designs. He was fascinated by this ancient church, which, by the scaffolding raised along the transepts, was being completely refurbished. He breathed in the fragrant air, a mixture of incense, candle smoke and polish. It was dark in here, yet majestically glorious. The windows were high in the walls and narrow, but many of them were filled with exquisitely painted glass. The effect was quite magical: the sunlight poured through the lancets in a myriad of rays to shimmer and shine on the polished oaken rood screen with its life-sized crucified Christ above the entrance. Beyond this lay the choir, with tiers of stalls on either side where the good brothers gathered to sing the Divine Office. The adjoining sanctuary was especially magnificent. The high altar was covered in precious metals, the oaken furniture had been carved by the most skilled craftsmen, whilst the gold and silver candlesticks, pyx and sanctuary lamp glittered like heaven’s own treasures through the dark. The floor of the nave was paved, but the section between the choir and the sanctuary was covered in tiles boasting skilfully painted designs, be it the three crowns of Tynemouth, a fire-breathing dragon, a king on horseback, mythical beasts or golden angels.
Prior Richard and Brother Ad
rian were busy with some business in the sacristy, so Corbett and Ranulf crossed to an enclave built into the wall between the sanctuary and the choir. It contained a table-top tomb, a rectangle of shimmering white Purbeck marble. On top of this stretched a life-size effigy of a king in his coronation robes, in one hand a sceptre shaped in the form of a lily, in the other a rounded orb topped with a cross. The effigy exuded an eye-catching majestic beauty. Corbett crouched to translate the Latin script carved on the side of the tomb. ‘King Oswine,’ he declared. ‘The great Anglo-Saxon historian the Venerable Bede wrote how Oswine was an extremely holy and devout man. A prince deeply loved by his subjects, a king of great charity and munificence until he was murdered by those who hated his goodness.’ He was aware of his voice echoing, and he startled when a woman’s voice answered.
‘King’s man! A king’s man praying before the tomb of a prince who in his life was the very mirror of justice.’
‘In God’s name!’ Ranulf exclaimed, glaring around, hand on dagger.
Corbett stared across at the enclave against the opposite wall. It was very similar in size to the one that housed the tomb; however, it had been freshly bricked up and covered in an alabaster-white plaster that looked as if it had been recently primed to receive a wall painting. A gap squint high in the wall had been opened, whilst a small door to the right of this hung unlatched.
‘An anker-hold,’ Corbett breathed, walking across. He gestured at Ranulf and Ap Ythel, who had also just entered the choir, to stay back.
‘Welcome, king’s man.’
Corbett glimpsed the eyes peering out through the squint. ‘And you are?’
‘Rachaela; Rachaela the Recluse, as I have been for the last two years.’
‘So you have met?’ Corbett glanced over his shoulder. Prior Richard and Brother Adrian stood in the entrance to the rood screen. ‘Come.’ The prior beckoned. ‘More about Rachaela later. You have walked our church?’
‘And I am most impressed.’ Corbett crossed to stand beneath the figure of the crucified Christ that dominated the entrance to the rood screen. He gazed up at the tortured life-size image, the contorted face, the head circled with sharp thorns hanging down in death, the nails through the crucified hands and feet. ‘All done in a black metal,’ he murmured. ‘Most original.’
‘Brother Oswald,’ Prior Richard explained, ‘was a former smith and smelter: a truly talented artist.’ He pointed up. ‘He produced an originally cast metal, what he called an alloy, which made it easier to paint. At first I wasn’t at all happy. The mess and disturbance in the church was quite considerable, the reek of paint most offensive. I was also not too certain about the colour. Christ is always depicted in shimmering white ivory, but Oswald loved to turn everything on its head. He argued that his sculpture would make the figure of Christ more striking and compelling. Members of our community supported this, as indeed did Master Ravinac. He was sheltering here at the time and loved to come into the sanctuary and stare at King Oswine’s tomb. He and Oswald became firm friends; they liked nothing better than to study the shrine and discuss the great king. But come . . .’
The prior led them into the small sacristy, which he and Brother Adrian had prepared, pulling out a table with chairs around it. Prior Richard sat at the top, gesturing at Corbett, Ranulf and Ap Ythel to sit either side of him. Brother Adrian closed the door, turning the key and drawing the bolts across before hurrying to join them.
‘The most secure place in Tynemouth.’ Prior Richard laughed as he swiftly crossed himself. ‘So, to the business in hand.’
‘The Lily Crown?’
The prior shook his head. ‘Sir Hugh, I am an ageing, gnarled and sometimes bitter-tempered Benedictine. I have no need for treasures; well, at least not on earth. I prefer to have them stored in heaven. Accordingly, I have no desire to find the Lily Crown. Others may. However, believe me, out of loyalty to the king I have searched this priory from cellar to bell loft, but there’s no sign of that crown.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, Sir Hugh, the story Master Cacoignes told you, and that you related to me last night on your arrival as we toasted the shadows and the dancing flames, is true. In the main, events occurred as he described them.’ The prior smiled thinly. ‘He had to tell you the truth, or most of it, for he must have realised that one day you or some other royal official would come here to discover what really happened.’
‘Did Ravinac have the crown with him?’
‘Oh yes, he certainly did. He showed it to me. But what happened afterwards,’ the prior shook his head, ‘I truly don’t know.’
‘Did Ravinac ever leave Tynemouth?’
‘No, he did not. He declared that he felt safe here. The accepted story was that a roaming Scottish war party attacked his comitatus, but Ravinac didn’t believe this. He maintained that the attackers were different. They swept in all masked and hooded, garbed in black. On reflection, I concluded that these attackers were the Black Chesters, desperate to seize the Lily Crown with its much-vaunted mystical qualities.’
‘But Cacoignes?’
‘According to Ravinac, Cacoignes was in a drunken stupor when they were attacked, and escaped by mere chance or good luck. No wonder he can provide you with very few details: he was malmsy with drink.’
‘That is true,’ Corbett conceded. ‘Cacoignes has actually told us very little. He repeats the story with a few additions here and further details there.’ He scratched his chin. ‘What was the relationship between the two, Ravinac and Cacoignes? Friends, enemies, rivals?’
‘Ravinac liked Cacoignes but didn’t trust him.’ Prior Richard played with the cross on a chain around his neck. ‘He believed Cacoignes to be a toper and, above all, a gambler. Oh yes, a true lover of hazard and the roll of the dice. Rumour had it amongst Ravinac’s cohort that Cacoignes had fled from London to escape his creditors.’
‘The hazard-makers?’ Ranulf intervened from where he had been sitting next to Ap Ythel, who lounged heavy-eyed against the table. ‘Lords of the dice; throwers who play with cogged dice and other deceits. You gamble and gamble again but you never win. If you become caught in their traps, God help you.’
‘I agree,’ Prior Richard declared. ‘In my youth I shook the cup and rolled the dice.’ He smiled thinly. ‘And see where it led me. But to go back to your original question, Hugh, Ravinac never left Tynemouth. He was frightened after the attack and became even more so when I described the Black Chesters and their evil reputation.’
‘You have crossed swords with that coven?’
‘Time and time again.’ The prior gestured around. ‘This is the church, the shrine, of Oswine, king and martyr. Do you know his story?’
Corbett shook his head.
‘Oswine was an Anglo-Saxon prince, a true son of the Church. He reigned in Northumbria before this shire rose to greatness. To the south stretched the kingdom of Mercia; its overlord King Penda was a fierce warrior and warlord, but he was also a pagan who hated our church and all it stood for. He surrounded himself with witches and warlocks who worshipped demons and darkness. Oswine opposed them, day and night, physically and spiritually, in every way he could, and for that, he was foully murdered.’ The prior rubbed his mouth. ‘I suspect, though I have no proof, that the Black Chesters and their ilk see themselves as the spiritual descendants of Penda and his court. “The children of hell”, I call them. From the little I have learnt, the Black Chesters would love to seize and destroy Oswine’s tomb and this church with it. They regard us as a beacon of light at a time of deepest night.’
‘Are you saying,’ Ranulf asked, ‘that they would actually raze this priory and the tomb to the ground?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Prior Richard replied. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Brother Adrian?’
‘This is a most holy place,’ the Benedictine intoned. ‘A sacred sanctuary.’
Corbett nodded, tapping the table with his fingers, allowing the silence to deepen. He had come to Tynemouth expecting to finish h
is business and be gone. He now quietly conceded he was wrong. Tynemouth could be the very place where these matters reached a head and were resolved by the most violent confrontation. He recalled his meeting with Darel. Something was very wrong. Darel had kept his word: the journey to Tynemouth had certainly not been dangerous or fraught with any peril. The robber baron undoubtedly wanted a pardon, but Corbett recalled those clever eyes, the mockery behind the mask, the way Darel had totally ignored the doings of his dark companions both dead and alive.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘So Ravinac learnt more about the Black Chesters here?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’
‘And he visited the tomb?’
‘He was a regular visitor and struck up a warm friendship with Brother Oswald, who was working on the rood screen. Well, that was before Ravinac fell ill.’
‘Was his sickness caused by human wickedness or human frailty?’
‘The latter. Ravinac arrived here weakened by what he’d been through, a lack of good food and rest, the threat of danger. Isn’t that true, Brother Adrian?’
‘You were here at the time?’ asked Corbett.
‘I was, Sir Hugh. It was a busy time for our priory. Lord Henry and the Bishop of Durham met here to discuss the sale of Alnwick. I assisted in preparing the documentation, laying out charters, rolls.’ Brother Adrian shrugged. ‘I had very little to do with either Ravinac or Cacoignes. I only saw them from a distance, as Prior Richard will attest.’
‘Is Brother Oswald still here?’