by Paul Doherty
‘How do you know this?’ Corbett interjected.
‘I took the goblet and fed the dregs to rats in our cellar; we later found the corpses of three of them, bellies bloated and black. Of course the good Lord is not concerned with rats, and we have prayed for Father Abbot. I have purged him, bled him and poured cup after cup of pure spring water down his throat. We are clearing the evil humours from his body and he is improving – are you not, Father Abbot?’
Maltravers smiled and nodded.
‘I have placed a guard, or rather Devizes has.’ The prior gestured at the handsome, lithe master-at-arms now sitting on a stool to the abbot’s right.
‘That is so,’ Devizes murmured. ‘I now keep constant and close watch over Abbot Henry’s chamber.’
‘As you have done since you were my page,’ the abbot murmured. ‘Faithful and true.’
‘And you have no knowledge, not even a suspicion, of who is responsible?’
‘Brother Mark, who now lies murdered, served the wine, God rest him.’ Prior Jude blessed himself. ‘He admitted that he filled the cup but then left it standing in the buttery for a while.’
Corbett nodded. What the prior had just said brought everyone in the abbey under suspicion. ‘And why should someone poison you?’ he asked Maltravers.
‘There is no reason that I know of. I have tried to be a good father abbot. I nurse no grudge or grievance against any member of our community, and to my best recall, no one holds a grievance against me. Isn’t that so, brothers?’
Both the prior and the infirmarian loudly chorused their agreement.
‘And the other murders?’ Mortimer asked, moving his goblet from one gauntleted hand to the other.
Corbett wondered why the marcher lord kept his hands gloved, then he recalled a story from the Secret Chancery. How Mortimer had certain marks on the back of his hands connected with his dedication to the black arts.
‘As for the other deaths,’ Prior Jude shrugged, ‘you must now know as much as we do. Three of our company have been murdered, one in his own chamber. All killed by a heavy nail thrust into their skull.’
‘Father Abbot,’ Corbett decided to enforce his own authority here, ‘by your vows as well as your allegiance to the Crown, you and your brothers here’ – he gestured at Jude and Crispin – ‘know nothing of these deaths?’
‘Nothing,’ the infirmarian replied, Prior Jude echoing his words.
‘I agree,’ Abbot Henry added. ‘How and why three of my comrades were killed by a nail loosed into their forehead is a mystery.’
‘Sir Hugh.’ Prior Jude joined his hands together as if in prayer. ‘The brothers of Holyrood, members of this abbey, are former knights. Most importantly, we are comrades. We fought hard for the old king. We kept our vows to live in a monastic community after his death. This is a happy, harmonious home. Not only do we have rich memories of the past, but each of us has a skill, a talent, an aptitude we can use to the benefit of all. I have a love of chancery work. Crispin is a born leech, well versed in physic. Father Abbot has always had a love of wrought steel and iron; he is skilled in all matters of the forge. He was our royal master’s personal armourer.’
‘My brothers speak the truth.’ Maltravers drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘We are old warriors, now in our dream time. We live in peace with each other. We were happy until some demon – and I call it that – thrust its way into our lives. Sir Hugh, I do not know anything about the root of this evil except that it is embedded deep and has flowered in all its malignancy.’
‘And these fire arrows, and the bowman who killed your guard?’ Mortimer gestured around the table. ‘We have all fought the Welsh, Father Abbot. Are there traitors in and around Holyrood? Do tribes hidden deep in that valley still resist us?’
‘The Valley of Shadows is deep, broad and long,’ the abbot replied, ‘very thickly wooded, the trees close enough to impede even the most skilled horseman.’
‘Have you penetrated it?’ Corbett asked. ‘Do you know who actually lives there, friend or foe?’
‘My days of warfare are over, yet the memories are still fresh.’ Abbot Henry paused. ‘You must know, Sir Hugh, and you, my lord Mortimer, that eleven years ago the king led a chevauchée into the valley to extirpate a coven of rebels, true malignants, who had defied him and taken refuge in caves beneath the cliffs of Caerwent, which seal the far end of the valley.’ He made a face. ‘Some of the outlaws may have escaped and are still in hiding nursing their hatred, greedy for revenge.’
Corbett watched the abbot intently. Maltravers was blunt, even rude in his directness, yet the clerk sensed he wasn’t answering the questions levelled at him. He watched as Maltravers leant back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, then rubbed his face, ‘Come, come,’ he murmured. ‘My lord Mortimer, Sir Hugh, brothers, we have all fought the Welsh. We will never forget those sombre valleys where the mist never lifts. The sudden ambuscade, arrows whipping like a swarm of hornets from the trees. Silent assassins crawling on their bellies, axe in one hand, knife in the other.’
‘And the fire arrows,’ Mortimer interrupted. He too was growing impatient at Abbot Henry’s determination to call up the past rather than deal with the present. ‘Aren’t they a warning of things to come? The Welsh were skilled at that. They gave such warnings to numb the mind, chill the heart and fray the nerves. Father Abbot, we saw those same fire arrows tonight. My question stands. Are there tribes still hostile to us deep in that valley?’
‘I think there are.’ Abbot Henry kept his head down. ‘More worrying is that we dispatched a hunting party yesterday and they have not returned.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Sir Hugh, will you lead a chevauchée into the valley tomorrow so that we can answer some of the questions posed here? I think we need to do so before the weather changes. See what you can discover. Search for our brothers, five in all, who left yesterday. Will you?’
Corbett glanced at Mortimer, who shrugged and nodded.
‘We will,’ the clerk replied, ignoring Ranulf’s hiss of disapproval. ‘Now, Monsieur de Craon.’ He smiled at the French envoy, who smiled back equally falsely. ‘You said there were two reasons why you were here?’
‘Oh, yes. As you may know, the French court is planning great celebrations to honour the magnificent achievements of our king. This will take place in Paris next spring. A time of glory. Brilliant pageants, solemn processions, banquets, feasts and masques are to be held in the city and beyond.’ De Craon spread his hands, his face full of smugness. ‘Sir Hugh, we have so much to celebrate: achievements at home, glory abroad. Now my royal master has always had the most amicable relationship with Abbot Henry, who as you may know, often acted as emissary between the late king of England and the French court—’
‘I know all this,’ Corbett interrupted brusquely. ‘I’ve seen the invitations sent to Westminster.’
‘And you, Sir Hugh, are included,’ de Craon replied primly.
Corbett nodded in understanding as he stared at this French envoy who truly hated him. He knew all about the forthcoming festivities in Paris. Philip of France hoped to emphasise his power both within and without. More importantly, he wished to proclaim to the world that his attack and destruction of the Templar order was complete, fully justified and carried through with the unwavering support of other princes, especially that of the Frenchman Bertrand de Got, who now occupied the papal throne as Clement V. Corbett was determined not to join such celebrations. He had already discussed this with both the king and the Secret Chancery. They were all in agreement. If he travelled to Paris, some evil mischief would befall him.
‘Sir Hugh, you will lead a company to the valley after first light?’ The abbot’s voice now had a pleading tone.
‘I shall,’ Corbett replied, ‘but now, my lord, I do need to have words with you in secreto.’
‘Devizes will go with you tomorrow.’ The abbot seemed distracted. ‘And yes, Sir Hugh, you and I need words. Prior Jude and Brother Crispin, you too must stay bec
ause . . .’ he smiled down the table at Corbett, ‘because I strongly suspect what the secret business is. You alone, yes, Sir Hugh?’ He stared meaningfully at Ranulf.
‘My clerk,’ Corbett declared, ‘has other matters to attend to. I believe we have been given chambers, comfortable quarters in Osprey Tower?’
The abbot nodded and the meeting ended.
Corbett plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and took him out into an open gallery leading down to the cloisters. A sharp breeze pierced the air. The flames of the cressets danced frenetically and sent puffs of smoke to hang against the encroaching darkness. Corbett stared through the murk and shivered. ‘This is a sombre place,’ he whispered. ‘Look around you, Ranulf, stones and darkness! Gloomy tunnels that twist like a maze, a place of dreams.’
‘Bad dreams!’ Ranulf replied. ‘Sir Hugh, what will you discuss with our lord abbot?’
‘In time, in time,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Go, Ranulf. Prepare our chambers. Place our secret chancery coffer in a most secure place. Chain it to a clasp in the wall. Make sure all its locks are turned and the seals along the rim of the lid have not been disturbed.’
Ranulf assured him he would, and quickly left to get out of the freezing darkness.
Corbett pulled his cloak about him and stared down the path lined with bushes, their black branches stark against the night so that they looked like a line of monsters thronging in the poor light. He closed his eyes and recalled his manor at Leighton as it was last summer: the arms of the apple trees bent down with lush fruit, the nuts all plump on the tips of the branches. He thought of the great meadow, its greenery turning white with flowers. In the morning the grass was wet with the sheen of the dew, whilst blackbirds warbled their matins to the strengthening sun. He would love to see the deep brown of the oaks, the glitter of the fresh saplings, the rich green of ripening fruit and the gorgeous red of full-blooded plums. When he was there he would walk with Maeve, feeling the warmth and rejoicing in the God-given fragrances wafting in from the orchards. They would . . .
‘Sir Hugh!’ He opened his eyes. Prior Jude was beckoning him. ‘Father Abbot will see you now.’
Corbett and the prior returned to the council chamber. Abbot Henry had ordered steaming goblets of mulled wine, and the rich herbs had already created a drifting fragrance. Dishes of sparkling charcoal decorated the table, bowls of fiery warmth resting on pewter platters. Corbett warmed his fingers over one of these, then retook his seat and sipped at the wine. Abbot Henry watched him drink before turning to Devizes standing like a statue behind him.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered the master-at-arms, ‘but no further than usual.’
Devizes nodded. The abbot rose, clutching his walking cane, allowing Jude and Crispin to help him follow Devizes out into the vestibule. Corbett walked behind them along hollow-sounding galleries and passageways. Wall torches flared to provide meagre light, which caught the grotesque faces of the gargoyles clustered at the top of pillars like a host of demons gathering to pounce.
Abbot Henry paused, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Sir Hugh, you wish to inspect the dagger? You mentioned that in your sealed letter to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett replied, pulling his hood closer against the bitter cold. ‘His Grace wants to be assured that his family’s precious relic is safe.’
Abbot Henry turned away, muttering under his breath about not being trusted by the young king, Jude and Crispin murmuring their agreement. They entered the abbey church by a postern door. Corbett was surprised by the hosts of flaring candles and strongly burning torches, which created eye-dazzling pools of light along the nave and transepts. Crispin heard his exclamation of surprise and turned.
‘Brother Raphael, our sacristan. You will know him as Sir Ralph Hemery, knight banneret, once one of our late king’s leading barons.’
‘Son of the principal chandler merchant in London,’ Corbett declared. ‘A true master of light.’
‘The very same,’ Crispin agreed. ‘Raphael can fashion wax more skilfully than any member of the guild; he just loves the light.’
‘Fetch him,’ Abbot Henry grated. ‘I feel cold, and the hour is passing.’
Crispin hurried away as Corbett turned and walked into the brightly lit northern transept. Despite the church being recently repaired and refurbished, the transepts were already gorgeously decorated with striking frescoes. In one, a woman stood next to a spring. She held a silver comb ornamented with gold, and wore a shaggy purple cloak of the finest fleece decorated with gleaming bronze and copper studs. Her body was as white as the snow of a single night, her hair as black as a raven’s wing. She was talking to an angel painted in the form of a young knight, his hair of burnished gold, his body encased in shining armour: his belt, baldric and sword scabbard were adorned with the costliest jewels. In stark contrast, the painting beside it proclaimed all the horrors of hell. A place of utter desolation, where fiery red showers rained down on the damned clustered together. Loaded with flaming chains, these lost souls were herded by gleeful demons with the faces of monkeys, goats, rats and pigs.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett returned to Father Abbot, who introduced Brother Raphael, a short, stocky man whose lined, cheery face Corbett recalled seeing in both camp and court. They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace, then Raphael led them through the rood screen, across the choir and into the sanctuary. The high altar stood resplendently decorated with silver-white cloths, the candelabra encrusted with precious stones. On a chain to the right of the altar hung a heavy gold pyx shining with jewels, beside it a winking red sanctuary lamp. On the left of the altar dangled an exquisitely carved coffer, a long, slender casket encased in gold and silver and covered with the most lustrous pearls.
Brother Raphael took a key out of his belt wallet and undid a clasp, allowing him to free the chain and so lower the casket. He threaded the chain carefully, then unlocked three more clasps, each with a separate key. Once the casket was free, he handed it to the abbot, who gestured at Corbett to inspect it. The clerk tipped back the lid and exclaimed at the thick, heavy gold that lined every inch of the interior. In the deep body of the casket, an ivory-handled dagger rested on a silver-fringed purple cushion. At the abbot’s insistence, Corbett took this out, holding it up and twisting it from side to side so the Damascene blade could be clearly seen: long, curving, cruelly tipped and sharp as a razor. Then he lowered it, scrutinising it carefully, though he was still distracted by the sheer unalloyed beauty of the casket.
‘I was there,’ Abbot Henry declared fiercely.
‘As we all were,’ Brother Crispin intoned. ‘All of us young squires, sleeping in a pavilion next to the king’s.’
Brother Jude drew closer, tapping the dagger Corbett still held. ‘We heard the clamour, the screams of Lady Eleanor, the scraping clash of steel and the cries of the assassin. By the time we entered the royal tent, the attacker was dead, our prince nursing wounds to his right arm and shoulder. The blade you now hold, Sir Hugh, was lying on the ground, stained with the king’s blood and a sickening yellow mucus. Our lord took it up and smelt it.’
‘As did I,’ Brother Crispin interjected. ‘The stench was rank, fetid. I recognised the mucus as venomous, some kind of deadly poison. It was then that the Lady Eleanor sucked both wounds, spitting the poison out as she did so. She saved his life. Our royal master grew a little feverish, but that soon passed.’
‘He commanded us,’ Abbot Henry crossed himself, ‘to regard the dagger as a sacred relic, a symbol of God’s favour, and of his own courage together with that of the love of his life, who saved our prince from an agonising death. So,’ he plucked the dagger from Corbett’s hands, ‘tell his beloved son, our royal master, that this dagger, this sacred relic, is still safe here in Holyrood.’
The clerk caught the deep sarcasm in the abbot’s voice. ‘I surely shall,’ he replied. ‘I can give him every assurance that it is so. However, His Grace did talk of moving the dagger to his personal chapel.’
‘Th
at would break the late king’s will,’ Maltravers declared, ‘his dying words as well as our own solemn oaths, but that is for the future. Sir Hugh, you seem more taken with the casket than with what it contains.’
‘Too true, too true,’ Corbett murmured. ‘It is exquisitely beautiful, the work of a most skilled master craftsman, surely.’
‘You are correct,’ the abbot replied. ‘The casket was a gift from the grand master of the Templar order, now sadly no more. Our royal master truly treasured it.’ He ran a hand along the casket. ‘Some people claim that these pearls once decorated Solomon’s great temple in Jerusalem, but,’ he pulled a face, ‘whether that is true or not . . .’
As Brother Raphael placed the dagger back in the casket and began to reattach the sanctuary chains, Abbot Henry, snapping his fingers, turned and hobbled off, leading Corbett and his two comrades back down the nave to a postern door, where Devizes stood guard. The abbot had a swift muttered conversation with his master-at-arms, who led them off along paved pathways, passing under arches, rounding corners and crossing gardens and herb plots.
Corbett, muffled in his cloak, fingers not far from his dagger hilt, stared around. Holyrood was a true maze. A warren of paths cutting through dark buildings that seemed to close in despite the many lanternhorns. They approached the soaring Eagle Donjon, which rose forbiddingly against the heavily clouded night sky, and entered the Falcon Tower, where Abbot Henry had his lodgings. Corbett expected to be taken up to what the abbot described as his ‘palatial chambers’; instead they went into a cavernous storeroom, where Crispin and Jude pulled away some barrels to reveal a hidden door.
Abbot Henry took a key from under his robe, as did his two companions. Corbett, deeply curious, stepped close. The door was new, its oak of the finest, a thick wedge of wood reinforced with metal studs. It had three locks. Father Abbot opened the middle one, then Crispin and Jude the other two. A set of steps inside led them down into a broad, high-vaulted passageway lit by lanternhorns and oil lamps placed in specially carved wall niches. Corbett hid his surprise. Usually such underground tunnels were dark and filthy, with mouldering plaster and flaking ceilings, whilst the damp flagstones would be thick with lice and fleas. Such runnels ran beneath Newgate, the great White Tower and many of the royal palaces around London. This was a stark contrast. The walls and floor were of clear bright sandstone, the ceiling raftered with polished elm, the air sweet, with large vents high in the walls and pots of smoking herbs lining the stone shelves on either wall.
