by Paul Doherty
Corbett rubbed his hands together, his dark, saturnine face composed, his deep-set eyes ever watchful as he stared around the abbey refectory, a warm, welcoming chamber, its walls half covered in gleaming oaken panelling. Above this stretched brilliant white plaster decorated here and there with gorgeously coloured tapestries. These exquisitely woven cloths proudly proclaimed and celebrated all the glories of the Knights of the Swan, as well as depicting scenes extolling St Benedict and his monastic way of life.
‘Such comfort, such luxury!’ he whispered to his two companions, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, Corbett’s loyal henchman; and Chanson, Clerk of the Stables, a man skilled in all matters of horse flesh. Both companions were elated that they had reached the abbey safely. Ranulf’s lean, pale face was relaxed, his sharp-slanted green eyes heavy with drowsiness. He fought to keep awake, scratching his head, his fiery red hair freshly cropped by a tavern barber on their journey west so the clerk could pull on his mail coif, even though it made his scalp itch. Chanson was very different. Slow, amiable, he had the innocent, open features of a plough boy, his round, red-cheeked face all smiling as he sleepily chewed the soft meat and slurped noisily from his goblet.
‘Such comfort indeed!’ Ranulf echoed his master’s words. ‘But Sir Hugh, why are we really here?’ Corbett stared back, tapping a finger against his lips, warning Ranulf with his eyes that they had to be careful with their speech.
Ranulf smiled and glanced away. He secretly admired Corbett’s steady nerve. A high-ranking chancery clerk himself, he was always struck by how cleverly his master hid his emotions. The way his face never betrayed him: the unblinking eyes, the strong mouth, even Corbett’s raven-black hair, now tinged with grey, neatly tied back in a queue. Always composed, the Keeper of the Secret Seal rarely showed emotion publicly, except for when his long, tapered fingers, their nails neatly pared, would drum silently on the table. He was doing this now as he stared down the refectory, where his retinue of Welsh archers clustered around their captain, Ap Ythel. They too were pleased to reach Holyrood, and now sat feeding their faces, eagerly sharing the deep jug of rich Bordeaux that Brother Mark, the kitchener, had supplied.
Corbett turned back and smiled at Ranulf. ‘I have told you a little about why we are here.’
‘But not enough, Sir Hugh.’
‘That’s because at this moment in time I know so little myself.’ He leant across the table, moving goblets and platters aside. ‘Well, Ranulf,’ he murmured, ‘this is Holyrood Abbey. You have seen the buildings and fortifications, most of them constructed with that grey sandstone so beloved of the old king when he built Caernarvon Castle and the rest.’
‘Gloomy places!’
‘True,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But formidable fortresses, designed by the same royal surveyors and engineers who built a chain of such castles to keep Wales firmly beneath the heel of the old king’s boot. You asked for an explanation on our journey here; I was too cold and tired to reply. Now is as good a time as any, whilst we wait to meet Father Abbot.’
‘It has not always been an abbey?’
‘True! Holyrood began its existence as a single peel tower, as they would call it in Scotland. A massive four-square donjon, built on the same design as the White Tower in London’s fortress, a truly impregnable house of war.’ Corbett swiftly glanced down the refectory, where the captain of his escort was busily organising a game of hazard, borrowing cups from a bemused lay brother.
‘And the Knights of the Swan?’
‘You may know of them, Ranulf, and about them.’
‘I met some at court,’ Ranulf replied, ‘and I’ve heard a little of who they are, or more importantly, who they were.’
‘You are correct, my friend.’ Corbett paused. ‘The Knights of the Swan were the old king’s bodyguard, knight bannerets who took an oath of the most faithful fealty to stand by him, body and soul, in peace and in war against all enemies both within and without. They were formed during the civil war, when the king and his father Henry fought Simon de Montfort à l’outrance – to the very death. The Knights of the Swan searched out de Montfort and killed him. Afterwards they cut his body to shreds and fed the mangled flesh to camp dogs. Now the Knights are all bachelors in the full sense of that word. They did not, and do not, consort with women. Indeed, some gossips whisper that their love for the old king and each other is like that David had for Jonathan in the Old Testament.’
‘Ah, I’ve heard similar rumours,’ Ranulf interjected. ‘That their love, like David’s, is stronger than that of a man for any woman.’
‘I am sure you have,’ Corbett commented drily. ‘The Knights are like a monastic order. Some claim they imitate the Templars, now of blessed or infamous memory. Others, more correctly, say they follow the Benedictine rule. Whatever, during the last years of the old king’s reign, they vowed that once their royal master had died, they would leave court and become a distinct religious community. This place was chosen. An entire abbey was built around the great donjon stoutly defended by high crenellated walls, fortified gateways and massive towers. You viewed such fortifications when we first entered. Believe me, Ranulf, this is a true abbey fortress.’
‘How many souls does it house?’
‘About sixteen or seventeen knights in all, dedicated to the memory of the old king and to each other. They live under the leadership of their abbot, Henry Maltravers, and follow the rule of St Benedict. Of course they are assisted by an extensive cohort of lay brothers. They moved here about four years ago, when the buildings were completed.’ Corbett paused, shaking his head. ‘I know it’s hard to believe, Ranulf, but the Knights of the Swan regard their former king as their supreme lord and master, pope and emperor. In their eyes he sat, and still does, at the right hand of the Power. They were totally committed to him. Once he died, they left the royal service because of their vow to serve no other once their liege lord was gone.’
‘Of course,’ Ranulf declared. ‘They would be only too pleased not to serve the new king. He is losing the war in Scotland and fighting his own great lords, because of his infatuation with Gaveston. But you are not a Knight of the Swan, Sir Hugh. Why have you chosen to come here? You could have refused the royal request.’
‘This is a place truly sacred to the memory of the old king, and I took an oath to him, Ranulf. I swore that I would do all in my power to assist and support his successor. Sometimes I wish to God I hadn’t, but I did, and so here we are.’
Ranulf stared hard at his master, who sat passively, watching and waiting. ‘Sir Hugh, I will be blunt.’
‘I know what you are going to say, Ranulf. This may be a sacred place, but it is also lonely and desolate?’
‘In God’s name, master, that valley! Its steep sides, the trees growing so close that no horseman could safely penetrate!’
‘A place of deep and lasting shadow,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Of perpetual night.’
‘Master, now you are frightening me.’
Corbett laughed and shook his head. ‘I describe what we saw, Ranulf, whilst what we have to confront here . . .’
‘Is murder?’
‘Yes, my friend. Murder! Strange though it may be in such a holy place. On our journey here you talked of it being a place of mystery. It is a holy shrine, a hallowed sanctuary containing precious relics such as the dagger coffer.’
‘What else?’
Corbett recalled the whispers of the Secret Chancery. He glanced quickly around, reassuring himself that they were safe from any eavesdropper.
‘I don’t really know, Ranulf. Remember, I left the old king’s service, I was not with him during his final years, but I have heard rumours about a special prisoner, masked and hidden away in comfortable but very close confinement.’
‘Who?’
‘God knows. It may just be a fanciful tale, the creation of some troubadour or minstrel. Rumour claims, however, that if such a prisoner did exist, he would be confined here in Holyrood, well off the beat
en track, and guarded by former Knights, fanatical in their loyalty and allegiance to the dead king.’
Ranulf rested against the table and watched as his master stretched, then rose to walk down the refectory to have words with Ap Ythel. The Clerk of the Green Wax smiled to himself. Corbett had retired from the service of the Crown, losing himself in his family – the Lady Maeve and their two children, Edward and Eleanor – as well as the management of his rich, well-stocked manor of Leighton, to the north-east of London, within bowshot of the great forest of Epping. He had now returned to court, soaking up all the mysteries of the Secret Chancery, which collected information from every part of the kingdom, the whispers and gossip about the lords of the soil, be they Church or Crown.
Corbett and Ap Ythel turned to greet one of their bowmen, who’d been ordered to wander Holyrood and see what he could learn. The Keeper of the Secret Seal questioned the man closely. Ranulf was about to join his master when Corbett turned and came back, retaking his seat. Opposite him, Chanson had put his head down on the table and was snoring gently. Corbett pointed at the Clerk of the Stables and grinned. ‘Now there sleeps a man with a clear conscience.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Which is more than I can say for those who have arrived here to fish in very troubled waters.’
‘Who?’
‘Ranulf, we have visitors, including no less a person than Monsieur Amaury de Craon, King Philip’s most trusted envoy to the English court.’ Corbett ignored his henchman’s groan. ‘I heard rumours that he was coming. Apparently he is here to make enquiries about his master’s kinsman, Richard Tissot, former Knight of the Swan, close friend of our late king and the second member of this community to be foully murdered by having a thick, heavy nail pounded deep into his forehead.’
‘Sir Hugh, you told me that the deaths had been most mysterious, but—’
‘Two,’ Corbett whispered hoarsely. ‘Both slain in the same barbarous way, a nail driven into the skull. One corpse was found in a cell, the other on the steps of a tower. De Craon, all concerned at the horrible slaying of his royal master’s kinsman, has hurried here from Tewkesbury demanding explanations, justice and reparation.’ He waved a hand. ‘You know the hymn that two-faced fox will be singing, whilst dabbing the false tears from his eyes. De Craon was on his way here anyway. He visited the abbey last Easter, and now he has returned, apparently bringing a promised invitation to Abbot Henry to visit Paris next spring. Our king has also been invited, and even I myself.’
‘Why?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Philip intends to celebrate his kingship and his victory over the Templars, as well as to portray himself as the new Emperor of Christendom. Three of his sons are married to the richest heiresses, whose estates will strengthen the French Crown.’
‘And Philip’s only daughter Isabella is married to our own king.’
‘Oh yes,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Philip is beside himself with joy. One of these days his grandson will sit on the throne of the Confessor at Westminster.’
‘But we are not here, Sir Hugh, to entertain de Craon?’
‘Of course not, but these two murders do trouble our king and his council. Matters are not helped by a possible third victim, Abbot Henry Maltravers himself, who lies sick in bed: he claims to have been poisoned.’ Corbett gave a half-smile. ‘My friend,’ he leant over and touched Ranulf gently on the arm, ‘my letter to you arranging the time and place for our meeting could have told you more, but there again, it could always have been intercepted. In truth, we are back to the hunt for these children of Cain, cunning, subtle assassins. I suspect this abbey, for all its sanctity, houses a veritable brew of malevolent, murderous mischief.’
Ranulf nodded in agreement. He had been on royal business in Colchester when he received Corbett’s letter, dispatched from his master’s manor at Leighton. He had wondered about the cryptic summons and worried at travelling to this place. Having inspected the mouth of that valley, he now nursed a deep dread. Ranulf was a child of the narrow runnels and arrow-thin alleyways of London. He was as comfortable there as any hunting cat, but the countryside was different, especially a place like this: a formidable fortress standing at the mouth of a valley so ill-named. A place of perpetual green darkness, the Valley of Shadows probably housed a veritable horde of demons and malignant spirits.
‘Ranulf?’
The Clerk of the Green Wax shook his head, ‘I am lost in nightmares, master. A place like this can make the heart skip with fear and the blood turn cold. But,’ Ranulf asserted himself, ‘you implied that others had come to fish in these troubled waters.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Corbett glanced down the table. ‘Ap Ythel’s man is a veritable ferret. No less a person than Lord Mortimer has arrived, full of solicitous concern, a true snake in the grass.’
‘A marcher lord.’ His henchman nodded. ‘A leading light among the Lords Ordainers, those great barons opposed to our new king and his favourite.’
‘Oh yes,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Those same lords are building up their strength, issuing writs of array summoning up their levies. Mortimer and his ilk would love to seize a place like this, as they would all the great fortresses along the Welsh March. His estates adjoin this valley. He is the king’s justiciar in these border lands and is using his position to snout out any possible mischief. In fact—’
Corbett broke off as a booming bell rang out the tocsin, a chilling clanging sound that echoed ominously across the abbey. For a few heartbeats he and his entourage sat still.
‘In God’s name!’ Ranulf sprang to his feet, whilst Corbett roused Chanson. The three clerks hastily put on their war belts, donned their cloaks and followed Ap Ythel and his archers out of the refectory and into the cobbled yard, which stretched down to the Great Cloister. The peal of the tocsin had now been taken up by more bells. Lay brothers and other servants of the community had gathered in the yard, looking up at the cloud-packed sky, which hung low and heavy.
‘There’s a second one!’ a voice yelled. Corbett glanced up as the fire arrow, a streaking tail of flame, cut across the sky before turning to tip and lose itself in the blackness of the night. More people joined them, former Knights of the Swan breaking off from their evening devotions; these hurried out of the cloisters, then stopped as a third fire arrow scorched the night sky. Shouts and cries of alarm echoed.
‘Three in all,’ one of the Knights shouted. ‘A warning.’
‘What does he mean?’ Chanson demanded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Ranulf, what does he mean?’
‘When the English army first invaded Wales,’ Ranulf replied, ‘the Welsh would warn our troops in the dead of night that raging fire, fierce attack and sudden death awaited them. Each of those fire arrows contains such a warning.’
‘But the Welsh princes have been slaughtered,’ the Clerk of the Stables protested. ‘The power of the tribes has been shattered, that’s what you told me.’
‘Hush now.’ Corbett glanced up at the sky, then beckoned a lay brother to ask him if this had occurred before. The man, visibly frightened, just shook his head.
‘Is it a warning to us?’ Ranulf asked. ‘After all, it occurred just after our arrival.’
‘Heaven and all its angels help us!’ a servant screamed as he hurried out of the refectory, robe hitched up, sandalled feet slipping on the cobbles. Hands outstretched, he raced towards Corbett, but Ranulf intervened, seizing the man by the arm, pulling him close.
‘Master!’ the servant gasped, shaking himself free. ‘Brother Mark, our kitchener, has been cruelly murdered. He lies dead.’
Corbett ordered the man to show them. They entered the refectory, where more lay brothers milled about like a gaggle of geese, fingers all a-flutter as they gabbled about what had happened. Corbett and Ranulf pushed their way across the cavernous kitchen; its stoves and ovens, fired to the full, exuded a welcoming heat and savoury smells. They entered the buttery yard, where a range of derelict beer barrels stood, now used to hold rubbish and refuse from the kitchen. Brother
Mark lay between two of these, sprawled on the ice-crusted cobbles, legs and arms splayed, his bearded face a mask of blood, which had gushed from his nose and mouth, as well as a thick trickle from the gruesome wound in his skull, where a nail had been driven in so hard, only its head protruded. Corbett glanced around, shouting at the lay brothers who had followed them to bring lanterns. In the light of these, he returned to his scrutiny, Ranulf crouching beside him.
‘Master, there’s nothing! Look around you. No sign of any resistance. No trace of a struggle; just a man stretched out on the cobbles with a nail driven through his forehead.’ Ranulf felt the top of the nail. ‘How can this have been thrust so deep into his forehead? A victim who is vigorous, a former soldier, skilled in defending himself. How was it done? Why was it done?’
‘Why indeed?’ Corbett echoed.
‘Let me take my brother’s corpse.’
Corbett hastily stepped aside as a lean, cadaverous individual, together with two lay brothers carrying a pallet, pushed his way through. He glanced sharply at Corbett and extended his hand. ‘You may not remember me, Sir Hugh, but I certainly recall you, in both court and chancery. Crispin Hollister, former royal knight.’
‘I remember you well.’ Corbett gripped the man’s hand. ‘How could I forget such a skilled jouster? Victorious so many times in the tourney and the tournament.’
‘Those days are past. I am now the infirmarian at the abbey of Holyrood, and I have to collect my sworn brother’s corpse.’
Corbett realised that Crispin was deeply upset. He and Ranulf helped the infirmarian and his acolytes to place the corpse on the pallet. Then they followed the sombre procession back into the abbey buildings, where Crispin cleared a way through the throng of brothers. They processed down stone-paved galleries and passageways, along dark tunnels where cresset torches burnt. The dancing flames flared in the breeze, shedding light and smoke around the gargoyles, devils, monkeys and goats that gazed grimly down. Ranulf quietly cursed. The grotesque faces carved on the top of the pillars stirred nightmares in his soul. Corbett nudged him, so the Clerk of the Green Wax joined his master in quietly reciting the death psalm. ‘Out of the depths I cry to thee, O Lord . . .’
