by Paul Doherty
‘You will leave it there, Sir Hugh?’
‘What better place? Let us respect both the Lily Crown and Ravinac’s devotion to it. The crown can continue to hang between heaven and earth until peace blossoms, though God knows when that will happen. Let’s leave it with God and return to the business of our king.’
They walked back to where Prior Richard and his monks were preparing to leave. All the condemned had been offered absolution before being committed to God’s justice. The tide was now surging in, the water swirling about their feet as Corbett and his companions made their farewells of Prior Richard and his community. They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace, the good brothers assuring Corbett of their thanks and prayers. The monks mounted their horses, intoning the De Profundis – ‘Out of the depths did I cry to ye, oh Lord. Oh Lord, hear our cries . . .’ The chanting echoed sombrely across the breeze-swept beach, the mournful words of the psalm broken up by the wind.
The tide was now running fast. The boatmen called at them to hasten. Corbett led his party down to the water and they clambered in. Once secure, the master mariner told his six-man crew to pull vigorously on their oars. The boat shuddered, rising and falling in its battle against the incoming surge. Corbett, sitting in the stern, turned for one last look at Tynemouth Priory, its crenellated walls, turrets and towers dark against the sky. The waves were now sweeping in, their clamour growing stronger. The sea broke around the long line of execution posts, but it was already rising as if hungry to devour the row of bound, gagged prisoners. ‘From the horrors of the deep, Lord preserve us,’ Corbett whispered before turning back to stare at The Golden Dove riding at anchor, impatient to break free for its voyage south.
On the soaring clifftop, a white-shingled promontory to the south of Tynemouth Priory, two horsemen also watched The Golden Dove, studying it closely as it turned to take full advantage of the strong northerly wind that would speed it south. The cog’s great sail had been unfurled to bulge in the wind and the ship cut swiftly through the calm sea. From its stern, two banners floated: the blue, red and gold of the royal household and the three crowns of Tynemouth Priory. Both watchers were cloaked, hooded and visored. One of them, the leader, pushed his horse forward as if he wanted a better view of the cog as well as to more easily stretch down to caress the glossy black hair of the young woman standing beside him.
‘So you have been released, girl?’ Above his visor the rider’s eyes creased into a smile. ‘But your comrades, all those who took the blood oath . . .?’
‘Condemned,’ she spat. ‘Condemned by Corbett and his priestly henchmen, fastened on poles to drown.’ She gestured towards the beach.
‘And Paracelsus?’
‘He died. They judged him in the chapter house. He tried to kill Corbett, but the clerk slaughtered him.’
‘And you were released?’
‘Yes, Corbett said I was to go out as a witness that the Black Chesters were no more.’
‘But that is wrong.’ The rider moved his horse even closer. ‘Paracelsus may be dead, but who is Paracelsus? Not one man, but a being, a spirit.’ He edged his horse forward a little more. ‘And you, Marissa, you did no wrong? You committed no betrayal? No connivance with the enemy?’
‘No, no,’ she gasped, stepping back. She moaned as she was pushed further and further towards the edge of the cliff. ‘I did no wrong,’ she pleaded.
‘You betrayed—’ The black-garbed rider urged his mount forward, knocking into Marissa. She stumbled back, tottering on the edge of the cliff, screaming, hands flailing, then plunged, turning and twisting, onto the rocks below. The horseman watched her fall, then gently eased his horse back.
‘Corbett?’ his companion asked.
‘In London,’ came the reply. ‘We shall confront Corbett in London.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Devil’s Wolf is a work of fiction, but its many strands are based on historical fact. Edward I launched a most savage war against the Scots and hideous acts of violence were perpetrated by both sides. What we would call war crimes became a staple element of the struggle; the destruction of Berwick and the murder of Red Comyn are only two of the many outrages. The Percys did come from Yorkshire and bought Alnwick and its surrounding estates. They were committed to creating their own small empire in the north and they did so with varying degrees of success over succeeding centuries. The family still own Alnwick and the castle is well worth a visit.
The Scottish coronation regalia were shrouded in legends, with claims that the Stone of Scone, for example, dated back to the time of Moses. Edward I did seize this regalia, including the Lily Crown and other sacred items. Most of these have now disappeared, but until the 1990s, the Stone of Scone rested under the English coronation chair at Westminster. The deepening chaos in England’s northern shires at the time is a matter of fact. Gangs like the Middletons even captured a papal legate as well as the Bishop of Durham. Edmund Darel really did exist, and according to the chronicles was ‘a most violent neighbour’. Indeed, in 1319 he was suspected of trying to capture and sell the Queen of England to the Scots.
Black magic was rife, but this must be perceived as part of the psychological warfare carried out between the various factions. For example, Hugh Despenser, Edward II’s favourite after the execution of Gaveston, complained to Pope John XXII that his arch-enemy Mortimer was using black magic against him. The Pope wrote tartly back saying that if Despenser mended his ways and behaved himself, he would have nothing to fear!
Peter Gaveston, the royal favourite, spent a great deal of his time eluding the great earls and barons of England. He may have well have fled through Tynemouth. He was eventually captured a year later in Scarborough. Tynemouth Priory is also worth a visit; even its ruins are spectacular. Bearing in mind my story, I regard it as rather strange that Edward II and his court became regular visitors to this northern outpost. Finally, it may interest readers to learn that at the beginning of the nineteenth century, excavations were carried out in the medieval cemetery at Tynemouth. Two corpses were found, one decapitated, both bound in cowhide and tied with ropes.
Paul Doherty OBE
October 2016