Devil's Wolf

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Gone to his eternal reward, God rest him. He did wonder if Ravinac, deeply interested in St Oswine, hid the Lily Crown somewhere in or around the shrine. However, I have searched there, and short of actual desecration, I cannot find any trace of it.’

  ‘And the Black Chesters?’

  ‘I suspect very much that they have dispatched adherents of their filthy practices here under the guise of visitors in order to spy and to search. So far they have made no attempt to damage either the shrine or the church. According to Rachaela, a former member of the coven – oh yes, she was – they would love to do that.’

  ‘I must meet with her.’

  ‘Do so. You should also talk to Lady Hilda if you want to know about St Oswine. She and her community have come here because it will soon be his solemn feast day. They must have been only too pleased to travel here under the protection of the royal banner.’ Prior Richard paused, straining his neck as if he was listening to the sounds of the church. ‘As for any other business,’ he declared, ‘I believe we will have to wait until The Golden Dove returns.’ He glanced warningly at Corbett. They had agreed during their meeting the previous evening to make no reference to Gaveston and his planned escape.

  Prior Richard asked if there was anything else. Corbett replied that there was nothing for the moment, except he would like to question the recluse. The prior led him out of the sacristy and across the sanctuary, and whispered through the eye squint. Corbett heard the recluse laugh, a merry, tinkling sound, before she pushed open the small door. He unstrapped his war belt and took off his cloak; he handed these to Ranulf and then, stooping, squeezed through into the anker-hold.

  He straightened up and stared around. The cell was surprisingly large, about five yards square and of the same height, though its ceiling was cleverly sloped to incorporate a lancet window, which, when unshuttered, provided both light and air. Rachaela sat on a stool. She was dressed like a Benedictine nun in a black gown, her face framed by a white wimple and dark-blue veil. To her left was a narrow cot bed beneath a crucifix. She gestured at Corbett to take the stool opposite her. He did so, moving close so he could clearly see the anchorite’s round pale face, small mouth and dimpled chin. A plain-looking woman except for the large, deep-set eyes, which seemed full of laughter, as if she looked on the world and found it a constant source of merriment. She was busy embroidering an altar cloth, and Corbett admired the fine, intricate cross-stitching. He glanced around. The cell was very homely; it smelt sweetly of the crushed herbs floating in water pots. The hard-tiled floor was clean-swept. The few remaining sticks of furniture – a lectern, prie-dieu and small corner coffer – were polished to a shine.

  ‘What do you want, king’s man?’

  ‘You are a recluse?’

  ‘That’s obvious.’ She laughed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To make reparation for my sins.’

  ‘What sins?’

  ‘I was an adherent, a retainer, a liveried servant to the Black Chesters. I became a child of hell. I rejected the light to attend the church of the damned, to worship the powers of darkness. I rejected the teaching of Christ and his followers. I wanted to become skilled, a witch-queen, a lady of the midnight sacrifice. I felt as if I had been called to it.’

  ‘How so, mistress?’

  ‘I was born in Durham. From a very early age I was skilled in needlework. I also had a deep and lasting curiosity about things of the spirit. To learn more, I became proficient in my horn book. I begged and wheedled the local priests to instruct me on all they knew. I married a wealthy man, but he died of a sickness, leaving me as his sole heir. King’s man, I had a trade, I had wealth. I had my freedom and my youth. I was given a deep-bowled cup of self-indulgence few women can even dream of. I was beholden neither to parish nor to palace and I did not care for either. I visited this fair or that market. I was always fascinated by magical tricks or sleight of hand. I formed new friendships with people who shared my interest, and so it began.

  ‘I was invited to this banquet, that festival. Slowly but surely I was singled out, or so I realise now. I was invited to ceremonies, festivals held at the dead of night on some desolate moorland: the Night of the Harrowing, or the Vespers of Midnight. I’d sit, squat or kneel amongst ancient, twisted rotting trees before stones that shimmered with blood. Memories, king’s man! Images that float through your mind. Torchlight glowed. Voices chanted. Feet pounded to the constant beat of the tambour and the lilting tune of the lute.’

  Rachaela fell silent. All merriment had faded from her eyes and face. ‘You open certain doors, king’s man, and you walk into a world of shadows. You drink rich red wine laced with all kinds of juices and potions. You swim in the air or ride the winds to the furthest edges of the dawn. Before you even realise it, you are a member of a satanic coven. You ride with the Black Chesters. You celebrate rites deep in the darkness of the forest. You drink their perfumed wine and stuff your belly with their rich food. You live for that life. You wait for the summons, a simple message whispered to you as you move amongst the market stalls. You are given the place, the date, the time. You come to love the mystery, the secrecy, the feeling that you are different. At first the sacrifices are a mockery of the Mass, with bread, wine and fruits of the earth, the blood of cockerels or other birds. Then it changes!’

  She picked up the pewter beaker beside her and sipped noisily. ‘One night we gathered outside a shepherd’s dwelling, down near the ancient wall. They say the Romans used magicians to build it, truly a place of deep mystery. We met there on horseback, full of our own arrogant importance . . .’

  ‘Did you know each other, recognise anyone?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘No, very rarely. We were only given the time, date and place where we were to assemble. We were provided with horses and weapons as well as cloak, mantle, visor or cowl, but never information about each other. On that particular evening I gathered with the rest of the coven. We abducted the shepherd and his daughter, a wench of no more than fifteen summers. We bound and gagged them both and dragged them off at the heel of our horses to one of those ancient high places with its standing stones and sacrificial slabs. We plucked their hearts out and burnt them.’ She paused, all poise and calm disappearing as she put her face in her hands. ‘They were offered no opiate, no perfumed wine to soothe the pain.’

  ‘They were alive when they were cut open?’

  ‘Like those condemned for treason, they are sliced so their innards can be plucked out and burnt before them. The shepherd perished under the knife, but his daughter died a horrible death. In my sleep, king’s man, I still hear her shrieking, a soul-wrenching cry that will never be stilled.’

  ‘Why do they practise such barbarity?’

  ‘The Black Chesters claim that the victims’ cries are offered to the demons, who hear them and come to feast on such cruelty. I shall never forget that night. The flames on the stone leaping and dancing like devils from hell, the blood streaming everywhere. The ruptured chests and stricken faces surrounded by black-garbed figures. And yes, I was one of them, but something happened. I could never forget that poor wench’s face pleading for mercy; her eyes, her gaze came to haunt me. For the first time ever, I felt guilt, a deep sorrow, a desire to change. It’s like when you drink too much wine: you wake and know you have done wrong. You vow to break free of the effects, change your habits and so change your life. I came to resent the Black Chesters, which soon deepened into an utter detestation of them. I had few relatives, and those I did have were not concerned about me. I went into hiding. I removed all trace and sign of myself until about eighteen months ago, when I fled here for sanctuary. At first Prior Richard did not trust me, but now he does.’

  ‘And apart from the sacrifices, what else did the Black Chesters do?’

  ‘Sometimes we met and feasted at a deserted farm or derelict manor house. You see, king’s man, we were feared. A group of horsemen, black cloaks flapping, armed and dangerous. Who could oppose us? Men like Lord Hen
ry Percy, locked in their own ambitions? The other lords of the march, terrified of Bruce creeping closer and closer? Oh yes, we saw ourselves as lords of the air and acted as such. We’d enjoy truly lavish banquets with the finest wine and the most succulent meats. The retainers of Paracelsus were not ill-educated peasants but merchants, knights, very much lords and ladies of the manor.’

  ‘But you never recognised anyone or saw their faces?’

  ‘Leonora and Richolda, Darel’s doxies? Well, we knew who they were, but for the rest, we wore visors, soft face masks that moulded with bone and skin. We were cloaked and sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘And at such banquets and feasts?’

  ‘We would pray for the destruction of Crown and Church. Plead for a time of great chaos, of anarchy, and to strengthen our pleas to the dark ones, we made the blood sacrifice. Disgusting, disgusting . . .’ Rachaela’s voice trailed away as her face hardened. She glanced swiftly at the crucifix nailed above her bed, eyes blinking, lips silently mouthing some prayer. Corbett sensed the woman was both haunted and very, very frightened.

  ‘You never leave here?’

  ‘To relieve myself in the outside privy. But no, apart from that, I will stay here, God willing and Prior Richard assenting, until I die.’

  ‘But you are frightened?’ Corbett glimpsed the small arbalest resting against the wall next to a handbell.

  ‘Of course, king’s man. Once you are an adherent of the Black Chesters, you are committed in both this life and the world to come. I have heard stories about how those few who fled the coven were hunted down wherever they sought refuge. I have no illusions, king’s man. I have not forgotten the Black Chesters and they have certainly not forgotten me.’

  ‘And their leader, Paracelsus?’

  ‘Paracelsus,’ Rachaela hissed, staring wildly around her small cell as if the very mention of the name summoned up terrors.

  ‘Paracelsus,’ Corbett repeated. ‘You have met him?’

  ‘Only once,’ she replied. ‘On the eve of All Hallows, we and other covens met in the ruins of a great Roman fortress along the wall. Paracelsus appeared like a king on a dais. He wore a purple visor and had golden hair falling to his shoulders. His voice was like that of a trumpet, deep, rich and carrying. He spoke jubilantly about the growing chaos in England and the war in Scotland. His henchmen were there, his close retainers. I recall seeing Richolda and Leonora; they were notorious as witches. They could flaunt who they were and what they did because they were protected by the power of Lord Darel.’

  ‘Could he have been Paracelsus in a different guise?’

  ‘Most certainly!’

  Corbett noticed her right hand trembling. ‘You are very frightened,’ he murmured. ‘Surely you are safe here?’

  ‘Sometimes at night I can hear the waves rushing in to hurl themselves against the foot of the crag. I recall a story telling how the rolling waters of the deep are ridden by the legions of the damned. I am frightened.’ She pointed across the cell. ‘Out there near the sanctuary stands the tomb of St Oswine. That saintly king protects me.’

  ‘You think the Black Chesters will come and hurt you here?’

  ‘If they can, they will. More importantly, they would love to destroy Oswine’s tomb, pollute his remains and rid this region of a source of great holiness.’

  ‘Did they discuss this?’

  ‘Of course. Times have changed, king’s man. The sheriff is powerless. Royal forces are committed to fighting the Bruce. Tynemouth stands isolated. The Black Chesters hunger to exploit the chaos, but of course the priory is also fortified and embattled, defended by a prior who is both a churchman and a stout warrior . . .’

  Corbett left the anker-hold. Ranulf was waiting just within the church porch.

  ‘Fetch Cacoignes.’ Corbett patted the clerk on the shoulder. ‘It’s time we questioned our noble squire.’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett turned as Prior Richard, who must have come in through the corpse door further up the church, strode across.

  ‘You have spoken to Rachaela?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did. Why?’

  ‘The Black Chesters are fervent adherents of the dramatic. I don’t know if it’s because of your arrival, but they have begun to manifest themselves more blatantly. Recently watchers along our walls have, early in the morning or at dusk, just before the darkness descends, seen sinister black-garbed figures on the beach or along the edge of the moat just beyond bowshot. Anyway,’ the prior rubbed his hands, ‘I’ve broken bread with Lady Hilda. In two days’ time, she and her community want to make their own special devotions to St Oswine’s shrine on the saint’s great feast day. Perhaps an evening Mass of thanksgiving followed by a special vespers, after which we could all celebrate with a banquet in our refectory.’ He bowed mockingly. ‘Sir Hugh, I will leave you to what you have to do whilst I attend to what I must do.’

  The prior had hardly left when Ranulf and Ap Ythel ushered Cacoignes into the church. Corbett welcomed him, clasping hands and leading him up into a soft-carpeted chantry chapel dedicated to St Alban, a serenely beautiful place with its oaken altar, glowing triptychs and perfumed air. He waved Cacoignes to a stool, then sat down himself in the celebrant’s chair and stared at this royal squire who for the last five years had lived so dangerously on his wits.

  ‘Geoffrey Cacoignes, king’s squire, emissary, comrade of the now dead Ravinac, gambler and toper. No,’ he gestured at Cacoignes to remain seated, ‘I know who you are, whilst we have rehearsed a number of times why you are here and what you have done. However, you omitted one very important matter, which always puzzled me. Something you never explained to my satisfaction.’

  ‘Which is?’ Cacoignes brusquely demanded, fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘Don’t do that.’ Ranulf, standing beside Corbett, waved a hand. ‘Don’t touch your dagger when you are in the presence of a royal envoy here in the holiest of places.’

  Cacoignes’ face creased into a forced grin and he held both hands up. ‘Pax et bonum,’ he whispered. ‘I know what you are going to ask, Sir Hugh. When I escaped, why didn’t I immediately journey south to London?’

  ‘Very good,’ Corbett breathed. ‘Yes, you claimed you had to join Darel. Perhaps you lacked the sustenance to journey south, as well as worrying about what reception you might receive at Westminster. Now you are a toper, or at least you were, but you are also the most fervent practitioner of hazard, the game of chance, the shaking of a cup and the roll of a dice. Yes? You lost, lost and lost again till you were steeped in debt, which is probably why you volunteered to journey north into the wastelands of the war-torn Scottish march. Then disaster struck, though I am not too sure of your involvement in that or what responsibility you bear.’

  Cacoignes swallowed hard and glanced nervously away.

  ‘I will move swiftly to the end of my story,’ Corbett continued. ‘You did not return to London because you could not. You dared not because you owed so much money to the hazard-makers, the lords of the dice, miscreants who are ruthless in pursing what is theirs. True?’ Cacoignes nodded, and Corbett leaned forward. ‘Master Cacoignes, you did me and mine great service alerting us to Darel’s impending treachery. You should be, and you will be, rewarded and restored, but first the truth.’

  Cacoignes closed his eyes, lips moving soundlessly as if he was praying.

  ‘Come on, man,’ Corbett urged. ‘The hours pass, the light will fade, the darkness comes. An opportunity is here: grasp it.’ Cacoignes opened his eyes. ‘A full pardon,’ Corbett continued, ‘for all past crimes, a grant from the Exchequer to settle your debts and, in the months ahead, perhaps some lucrative chancery work that will take you far away from London.’

  Cacoignes rubbed his face with his hands and again talked silently to himself before glancing up. ‘It is as you say, Sir Hugh. You know the way of the world. I was a royal squire, one of those young men who hung around the court. I was given over to lechery, drunkenness. I was steeped,
’ he grinned sheepishly, ‘in all those delicious, enjoyable sins. I was no different from the rest of the fops, the young court gallants with more than an eye to their own advantage. I hoped to join one of the old king’s chevauchées into Scotland, perform some valiant deed like the paladins of old. I wanted to be noticed by the king, win my spurs, be knighted and granted manors, estates and a profitable marriage.’

  ‘And that never happened?’

  ‘Of course not. So I turned to hazard, the roll of a dice, to win my fortune. I lost and lost again. I sank deeper into debt to a group about whom, certainly at the time, I knew little. The Black Chesters.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘That’s what they called themselves. A company of twelve or thirteen traders, merchants and other wealthy citizens who could loan you money as well as make sure you lost it at the gaming tables, the cock pit or the dog-fighting arena. Shadowy figures who used city rifflers as their heralds and servants.’

  ‘So they loaned you money at exorbitant rates, then helped you lose it? Master Cacoignes, we are all sinners, but God doesn’t expect us to be stupid with it.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, a real gambler is possessed. A demon seethes inside him. Whatever you promise yourself and your guardian angel in the cold light of dawn doesn’t even last the day. When the sun sets, the wine goblet beckons, the hazard cup rattles and the dice are rolling, you forget everything. Everything except the thrill of the throw, the excitement, the chance that you might roll a double six. You simply do not care, and every time it happens, the demon grows stronger within you.’

  ‘Did these Black Chesters give any indication of being practitioners of the black arts?’

  ‘Never. I just thought they gave themselves that name in the way that companies of mummers assume this title or that. There are scores of fraternities in London who enjoy the most spectacular names. The Black Chesters may not have been witches or warlocks at the time, but they soon proved sinister enough. They turned threatening and became even more so as my debts mounted. And then it happened.’ He paused. ‘One night,’ he lifted his head, ‘I arrived at the Key to Jerusalem.’