Devil's Wolf

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I know it well,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘a true den of iniquity in Queenhithe ward. Everything’s for sale at that tavern: human flesh, human life and human souls.’

  ‘A mansion of mystery,’ Cacoignes agreed. ‘On that particular night I was halfway through the door when I was seized, hooded, hustled out and put on a horse. It was dusk, but my abductors knew the streets well enough to avoid the chains and the nightwatchmen. I sensed we were journeying north to the wasteland outside the city, beyond the great ditch. I smelt its stench as we crossed. Eventually we stopped. The hood was removed. I was in a dark, moss-covered ruin. I was pushed down into a cellar, a cavernous chamber lit by torches and a myriad of candles, but the light also served as a protection, hiding the faces of those who were waiting for me.’ Cacoignes licked dry lips. ‘For the first time, I was truly fearful. A terror seized me. I knew that some nameless evil lurked in that sombre place. A man stepped into the pool of light, yet he remained hidden. His face was covered by a silver mask, and golden hair fell down to his shoulders. For the rest, he was garbed in a dark robe.’

  ‘Golden hair?’ Corbett repeated, recalling what Rachaela had told him.

  ‘Yes, golden hair that shimmered in the light. He declared that he was Paracelsus, leader of the Black Chesters and other such fraternities. He gave me a purse of silver as a guarantee and said he would cancel all my debts owing to the Black Chesters.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The Lily Crown of Scotland! Oh yes. Being born and raised in the north, I knew something about the crown. I had also heard how the old king was looking for volunteers to cross the northern march, invade the abbey of Scone and seize the Scottish regalia, a call that only the very brave or foolhardy would respond to. By then the war in Scotland had turned nasty, a fight to the death. Prisoners were shown no mercy; the Scots had even skinned alive some of the English commanders they’d captured.’ Cacoignes sketched a cross on his forehead.

  ‘I was released. Well, I was hooded, put back on the horse and returned to the Key of Jerusalem. Now at the time I did not really know who the Black Chesters were. In the past I had just fled from any unpleasant situation I found myself in. I thought I could do the same now, take the Black Chesters’ silver, go into hiding and lie low like some wolf until the danger passed.’ He paused to cross himself. ‘That was a hideous mistake. I was on very cordial terms with Lucilla,’ he smiled sadly, ‘a Cheapside courtesan. She allowed me to hide in her chambers above a draper’s shop in Farringdon. Then one morning she didn’t return as I expected her to, nor the day after, or the day after that.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘I can imagine what is going to happen next . . .’

  ‘One evening a street urchin shouted my name from the alley below. He claimed to have something precious for me. I hurried down but the messenger was gone, though he had left a small barrel in the doorway of the draper’s shop. I lifted its lid. Lucilla’s head, severed at the neck, rested inside, her dead eyes rolled back, glaring at me.’ Cacoignes crossed himself again. ‘I recognised the threat. I realised there was no escape, so I returned to the Key of Jerusalem to be welcomed as a long-lost brother. I was ordered to volunteer to journey north with Ravinac’s comitatus. You know the rest. We left for Scotland, a swift-moving armed cohort with strict instructions from the old king.’

  ‘And the Black Chesters? Paracelsus?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, I was ordered to comply unless I wanted to receive the severed heads of more of my lady friends. I was told to leave messages in certain places at certain times. To cut to the chase, I informed the Black Chesters about our strength, when we were to leave London and what route we would take, and I suspect they followed us to Scone.’

  ‘And when you left there, the same?’

  ‘Precisely. You must remember, we were very well armed. We had mailed hauberks, weapons and even extra horses against one of our mounts being injured or killed. Our very appearance made people scatter and hide. Ravinac was single-minded, a competent commander especially appointed by the king, but the rest of us had grown careless. We also thought that because we’d seized the Lily Crown with little opposition, we had been successful, but to quote the old phrase, there’s many a slip between cup and lip. We looted some wine; looking back, I wonder if we were supposed to find it. The Black Chesters’ attack came as a complete surprise, swirling in like some dark, malevolent cloud.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘did you know at the time that it was the Black Chesters?’

  ‘No, I had suspicions that hardened into certainty once I joined your comitatus and saw what happened at Alnwick.’

  ‘Why didn’t they wait for you to take the crown and hand it over to them?’ Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Though I can guess the answer. They did not trust you, whilst once you were back in England, it would prove more and more difficult to actually seize such a treasure. Anyway, the attack?’

  ‘They closed in swinging sword, axe and mace. I confess,’ Cacoignes beat his breast, ‘I was drunk. I was a toper. Ravinac, God rest him, had the crown and he also saved me. I was close to him; we crawled like children along the ground and reached the horse lines. Two mounts were saddled and so we escaped riding horses fresh after their long rest. We outpaced our pursuers and eventually came here to Tynemouth Priory. Again, you know my story. I left for a while, thinking that Ravinac might have hidden the crown elsewhere. By the time I returned, he had fallen seriously ill and there was still no sign of the Lily Crown. I began to think about my own safety. I realised it was time to escape the north. I left Tynemouth looking for a way out and was captured. After years of imprisonment I escaped. I dare not return to London. I am a professional fighting man, so Edmund Darel and Blanchlands provided some protection.’

  ‘And the Black Chesters?’

  ‘I suspect they realised the truth about what had happened: that Ravinac had hidden the crown somewhere in or around Tynemouth. As for me,’ Cacoignes shrugged, ‘the Black Chesters must have forgotten me. I disappeared for almost five years – taken prisoner by the Scots and lodged in the far north. The coven must have thought I had died or been killed. When I escaped, years later, my appearance had changed along with my name. I would wager that Darel and the Black Chesters only learnt I was alive after I entered Alnwick with you, but even then they must have deduced I was of very little value to them.’

  ‘And you have no idea where Ravinac hid the Lily Crown?’

  ‘Both before and during his illness, Ravinac liked nothing better than to come into this church and sit in the sanctuary staring at that tomb. I am sure he hid the crown close by. I do wonder about the shrine, though I am sure Prior Richard has conducted his own thorough search . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘Master Cacoignes,’ Corbett decided he would gamble with this hazard player, ‘I believe you are a man of good faith. Now you don’t know this, but Ravinac told Prior Richard that he had hidden the Lily Crown so it hung between heaven and earth in God’s own graveyard. You knew the man; what do you think he meant?’

  Cacoignes startled, fingers going to his lips as he asked Corbett to repeat the phrase time and again.

  ‘It means something to you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it does. As we approached Tynemouth a mist swirled in. We asked directions from an old villager, who said the priory hung between heaven and earth, and you can see why. The place hangs in the air, supported only by the massive crag beneath. But there again, that is not much help.’

  ‘And God’s own graveyard?’

  ‘Again, Sir Hugh, from the little I know, the crag on which Tynemouth is built was once a very ancient burial site, but,’ Cacoignes gestured down the church, ‘I still believe the crown is hidden somewhere in that tomb, which hangs between heaven and earth both physically and spiritually. It is a place where people who wish to immerse themselves in matters spiritual come to pray.’

  Corbett recalled the bracelet he had found close to where the cottager Ewen and his family
had been slaughtered. He pointed to Cacoignes’ wrist.

  ‘That bracelet you wear – why should one similar be found out on the heathland near an abandoned cottage some miles to the north of Alnwick?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cacoignes retorted. ‘And I don’t really care. I never left Alnwick until we journeyed to Tynemouth. I fashioned a good score of these bracelets when I was imprisoned by the Scots; they were cheap, easy to make, a device to distract myself. I had a few with me and gave them to some of the children at Alnwick. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ Corbett smiled. ‘It’s as I thought.’

  He rose to his feet, walked up and down, then came back.

  ‘Master Cacoignes, if I gave you letters, a small purse of silver and a good horse, do you think you could journey south, following the coastline? You should be safe. You know something of the lie of the land?’ Cacoignes nodded. ‘Follow the coastal paths, move up onto the moorland when the tide surges in. You will find that the letters offer you full pardon for all offences as well as a petition to the Exchequer for monies to settle your debts. Now,’ Corbett stood over his visitor, ‘if you can, strike inland. Make your way to any city or town of importance. The Bishop of Durham’s household may be able to assist and could send forces north either by land or sea to Tynemouth. If this is not possible, take ship to Scarborough or one of the other Yorkshire ports, where there should be a harbour bailiff in the service of the king’s Admiral to the East. Again, use the seals I shall give you. Ask for help to be sent here as soon as possible.’

  ‘You think you are in great danger, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘No, Master Cacoignes, I know we are in great danger. I feel it here in my heart. Evil is gathering and its heralds already display their standards and unfurl their war banners.’ Corbett stretched out his hands for Cacoignes to clasp. ‘We need help, and the sooner the better, so God go with you.’

  Corbett left Ranulf to look after Cacoignes whilst he walked across to the priory muniment room, which included a library and a scriptorium, three chambers leading into one other, the entire area surrounded by paved cloisters where the good brothers could sit at their sloping desks to take full advantage of the sunlight. The muniment room smelt deliciously of beeswax, polish, candle smoke, scrubbed vellum, ink and the other delightful aromas of the chancery. For a while Corbett just sat at a desk as he recalled his own secret chamber in his manor at Leighton: secure, luxurious and comfortable. A place of sweet sounds and fragrant odours, especially during spring and summer when the casement windows were open and he could enjoy the brilliance of the flower gardens and the lush greenery of the nearby woods. He wondered what it would be like now. Would Maeve be sitting in the garden listening to the cooing of the wood doves or the brilliant song of that blackbird that seemed to show no fear as it hopped its way across the close-cropped grass? He wished he was back there, but first, if he returned safe and secure, he must seek an urgent meeting with the king. The situation in the north was much more serious than the council realised.

  ‘I am a royal envoy,’ he whispered to himself, ‘and yet I am not safe. I have to make treaties with the likes of Darel and dispatch my messengers stealthily.’

  For a while he concentrated on what advice he should offer. King Edward needed to assemble a great array and make a public chevauchée, a royal progress through the north with banners displayed and standards fluttering. The sheriff of Northumberland needed to be replaced; perhaps the king would agree to the setting-up of a Council of the North with its own chancery and exchequer as well as the power to raise troops and levy a shield tax. Corbett stirred at the patter of sandalled feet and glanced up.

  ‘I am Brother John, librarian and archivist.’ The monk’s gentle, furrowed face creased into a smile. ‘Sir Hugh? It is Sir Hugh, yes? Can I help you?’

  Corbett smiled back. ‘Do you have a memoranda roll or schedule of documents on Alnwick and its sale to Lord Henry some two years ago?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes.’ Brother John hurried away and brought back a leather carrying case crammed with documents. Corbett, keeping an eye on the hour candle glowing in a glass under its thick brass cap, swiftly went through the manuscripts. He could sift these easily, as each was clearly titled: ‘Indenture of goods’, ‘Memorandum of understanding’, ‘Copies of royal charters’. He noticed how many of these had been scrutinised and checked by Prior Richard and Brother Adrian, who had scrawled their initials – ‘RT’ and ‘AO’ – at the bottom of each document. He continued his search until he found ‘A roll of maps concerning Alnwick’. Some of these were crudely done – simple diagrams of the surrounding land. Others described the castle itself, its inner and outer baileys as well as the various sections of the wall and the individual towers. Nevertheless, they could not tell him much, as they were drenched in dark ink. According to Brother John, when Corbett summoned him over, these stains were the result of some accident.

  Corbett sat poring over what he could. Bells rang. Sandalled feet echoed. There was a hum of voices and the faint sound of the choir intoning the psalms of the Divine Office: ‘When the Lord delivered Sion from bondage, it seemed like a dream. Then were our hearts filled with laughter . . .’ He was wondering if he should join the brothers when Ranulf came in to whisper that Cacoignes, armed and provisioned, had been given a good horse and had quietly slipped out of Tynemouth. Ranulf had also supplied their messenger with all the documents and seals he needed. Corbett nodded and asked his henchman to fetch Lady Hilda and Lady Kathryn Thurston, as he wanted to ask them a favour. Ranulf looked askance but Corbett said he wished to address certain suspicions he’d entertained since leaving Alnwick.

  ‘I have prepared for my meeting with the ladies.’ He opened his belt wallet and took out a silver bracelet studded with precious stones, which he laid on the table before him.

  Corbett watched Ranulf leave, then returned to the manuscripts. He felt cramped and stiff, so he got up and walked around the muniment room, paying particular attention to its wall paintings; the theme of all of these seemed to be the scrolls and books mentioned in the Book of Revelation: ‘Worthy are you my Lord to open the scroll’, or ‘A court was summoned and the books were opened’. Other paintings, quotations and monograms celebrated the apocalyptic end of time. One of these caught his eye and he stopped, heart chilled as he gazed at the painting of Christ as the Alpha and the Omega of all things. ‘So similar,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Is it possible? Is it even probable?’

  He recalled his days studying the relentless force of logic in the halls and schools of Oxford. The open disputatio when he and others defended their theses against all comers. He recalled one of his masters developing the extraordinary thesis: ‘If God is all love, why did he allow Christ to sacrifice himself on the cross? How could a loving God watch his beloved son undergo crucifixion, one of the most horrible forms of execution known to humankind? How could he let him be brutally scourged at the pillar and crowned with sharp thorns?’ He recalled the image carved by Brother Oswald in the priory church: Christ’s agonised face under that sharp black crown with its razor-like barbs fastened and beaten so they would sink into the Saviour’s skull. The magister in the schools had argued that God did not want that. That Christ’s life and his brutal departure from this world was not what God had intended or planned but was the work of the human will. People might not like this, but, the magister had argued, finding a solution to a logical problem was like being in a dark circular cavern with doors built into its wall. Only one door was genuine, and that was the only one to be opened because it was the only one that could be. Such a logical approach must be applied here.

  Corbett breathed in slowly to calm himself, even as he recalled a problem that had nagged him constantly: the poisoning of Malachy Roskell and the murder of that Scotsman’s companions. Logically there was only one conclusion, and he realised that he must confront that, resolve it and apply the same solution to every other mystery facing him. He straightened up as he heard Ranulf lead t
he two ladies into the muniment room. He picked up the bracelet and hastened to meet them.

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ Lady Hilda extended a hand for him to kiss, Lady Kathryn Thurston likewise. ‘Well?’ Lady Hilda arched her eyebrows. ‘You summoned us, for what purpose?’

  ‘To feast on your beauty,’ Corbett teased, ‘both that and this.’ He held up the bracelet. ‘I bought this for the Lady Maeve. However, I do wonder if it will fit correctly. I noticed that both of you are slender-wristed like my lady wife. Now the craftsman mentioned how the inside of the bracelet is slightly fretted to make sure it does not slip up or down or around but remains secure so the precious stones stay on display on the back of the wrist.’ He glanced warningly at Ranulf to stay silent. He had in fact been given the bracelet by the king for the Lady Maeve.

  ‘Of course.’ Lady Hilda bared her left hand and arm. Corbett slipped the bracelet up over her bony fingers. ‘My wrist,’ she declared, ‘is a little too slender.’

  He tried it on the right wrist, murmuring that he liked the way the bracelet held, before turning to Kathryn Thurston. She seemed more reluctant and explained that she had sores on her right wrist, so she offered her left. Corbett fitted the bracelet, standing back to admire it before unclasping the catch, gently removing it and sliding it back into his belt wallet.

  ‘It is as I thought.’ He smiled. ‘Ladies, I do thank you.’ He was about to turn away but Lady Hilda grasped his arm.

  ‘And you, Sir Hugh, you will join us the day after tomorrow when we pay our special devotion to St Oswine?’

  ‘I certainly shall.’ Corbett bowed, called to the librarian to thank him, then left the muniment office with Ranulf striding beside him.

  ‘Sir Hugh, what was that all about?’

  Corbett stopped, turned and grinned. ‘You will see, my friend. But for the moment, I am going back into the sanctuary. I want to study that tomb. I would be grateful if you would bring me a platter of food and a little wine. I will sit, pray, eat, reflect and even doze. When the good brothers come in, I shall join them in the choir. In the meantime, Ranulf, bring that one-eyed archer into the sanctuary.’