Death's Dark Valley

by Paul Doherty

  ‘We cannot go forward,’ he murmured. ‘I suspect every sound will echo loudly and the torchlight will betray us. Nevertheless, my friends, rest assured, along galleries such as these, murder prowls and chooses its victims.’

  ‘Were these laid out when the abbey was built?’ Ranulf whispered.

  ‘No, no!’ Corbett replied. ‘Think of a great London mansion built over a maze of cellars and passageways, one chamber leading into another, one tunnel twisting into a gallery. So it is here. But enough for the moment. Let us return.’

  They climbed back up the steps and into the nave. Once they had slid the paving stone into place, they collected their kite shields and returned to Corbett’s chamber.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Corbett asked as he locked and bolted the door behind him. ‘We now know how the assassins work. They use those tunnels and passageways to scurry here and there.’

  ‘And that would be simple enough,’ Ap Ythel remarked, sitting down on a stool, his war bow across his lap. ‘You’re not talking of something difficult to open, stone and wood sealed by time and dirt. Holyrood is of recent origin. Any secret doors, hatches and openings will still be very easy to move. They will also be cleverly constructed and cunningly positioned. Take the paving stone we moved. When the devil’s door stands open, it hangs above that particular paving stone and cleverly obscures it so it doesn’t even deserve a second glance. Dust and dirt blown in by the wind fill the gaps on all sides so it looks as if the stone is as firmly cemented in place as the others.’ He unstrung the cord on his bow, rolling it into a ball before slipping it into his belt pouch. ‘Sir Hugh, we have found one entrance, but what now? Surely others must know about this. There must be plans, diagrams. The workmen who built this abbey, or at least some of them, would be party to such information.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Corbett replied sitting down in his chair. In truth he felt a little weak, sick to his stomach after that sudden attack in the church. ‘Let us say, for sake of argument,’ he tried to regain his composure, ‘that there are at least six to eight such entrances. In the grand scheme of things, that’s not many. Brothers Richard and Anselm could have reserved these matters to themselves. You know how it would be: the fashioning of a certain slab in a particular place, the construction of a stretch of panelling or the ceiling of a hatch. Of course, there might be others party to such information, but I dare not make enquiries because I do not wish to alert anyone else to what we have discovered.’ He gratefully accepted the goblet of wine Ranulf thrust into his hands, though he caught the Clerk of the Green Wax’s anxious look. ‘Don’t worry, my friend.’ He toasted both Ranulf and Ap Ythel with his goblet. ‘The shock of battle will soon pass. So come, let’s drink.’

  His two companions returned the toast, and for a while they sat chatting about what might happen next. Corbett listened, feeling himself relax as the warmth of both the wine and the chamber loosened the cold grip on his heart and mind. For a short while he dozed, then woke at the baying of the war hounds in their kennels on the far side of the abbey. ‘Soon enough,’ he whispered to himself. ‘We will need you soon enough.’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Ranulf, let us collect our thoughts. Ap Ythel, go find your archers, make sure all is well. See if you can discover what is happening elsewhere, but be careful, promise me.’

  Ap Ythel did so and left. Ranulf opened the chancery coffers and laid out long sheets of scrubbed vellum as well as Corbett’s chancery tray containing quill pen, ink pots, pumice stone and sander.

  For a while, Corbett just sat staring down at the parchment, before picking up the quill pen and dipping it in the blue-black ink. ‘So,’ he murmured, ‘let us begin. I shall speak as I write. Item. The Knights of the Swan. These are former members of the king’s old bodyguard. They took a solemn oath that once their royal master died, they would live a community life, adapting the rule of St Benedict. They and their royal master had publicly promised to make pilgrimage, to go on crusade in Outremer. In the end, they could not. With the passage of the years, they realised that this vow was impossible to fulfil. So with the permission of the Pope, they commuted it, once their royal master had died, to living the Benedictine life. In a sense, that was not difficult. They are knight bachelors in the full sense of that word.’

  He glanced up and smiled. ‘These are lords of the soil who have decided to avoid the world of women and so reject the prospect of betrothal and marriage. They are warriors dedicated to each other and to the memory of their master. They are also self-made men, passionately devoted to the memory of the old king, who promoted and enhanced their careers. In the main, they are the sons of powerful city merchants, skilled in their fathers’ business, be it Raphael, whose family was deeply involved in the trade of precious stones, or our worthy abbot, son of a London armourer. The same description could be applied to the careers of the rest.

  ‘Item. The Knights of the Swan planned their withdrawal from life and from the court. They chose a suitable location, and so we come to the Valley of Shadows, a sombre, lonely place, haunted not only by dire echoes of the past but also by fresher, more recent bloody sins. The valley is desolate, but a boy child grows up there with more than a passing resemblance to the old king. To cut to the chase, this young man eventually claims to be the king’s son and rightful heir, who was brutally exchanged for a peasant’s child and hidden away in the Valley of Shadows.

  ‘The years pass. Rumour and gossip thrive about this individual. Eventually it reaches the court, but it is also taken up by those passionately devoted to dabbling in treacherous mischief. A secret malignant coven, the Black Chesters, dispatches a war party, posing as travelling mercenaries, into the Valley of Shadows. They persuade the young man to join them. However, the old king also learns about what is happening and orders his comitatus, the Knights of the Swan, into the valley. The Black Chesters, together with the villagers, many of them former tribesmen who had strenuously resisted the power of England, take refuge in the caves on the cliffs of Caerwent. A bloody battle ensues. The caves are stormed. The young man is captured. The rest are either killed in the battle slaughter or summarily hanged afterwards. A few escape this final punishment, including the abbot’s master-at-arms Devizes. To all intents and purposes, the valley is left desolate, and our prisoner is removed, being cleverly placed, as he said, in one gilded cage after another.

  ‘Item. Time moves on. Fortune spins its wheel. The old king eventually dies. Holyrood is ready and the brotherhood moves here, with Henry Maltravers as abbot. He in turn is assisted by a number of senior former knights. The community gathers and apparently goes from strength to strength. Now I suspect the abbey’s location was chosen for many reasons. It can keep an eye on the Welsh March, which is always troublesome. It also has a watching brief on the Valley of Shadows, whilst the very loneliness of the place and the riches of the resources around make it ideal for such an establishment. To many, Holyrood must have appeared an Eden on earth: a happy, harmonious community. A house of prayer as well as the repository of precious relics from the old king’s reign, including the jewelled casket containing the dagger the assassins used against Edward in Outremer. The abbey also holds a mysterious royal prisoner, but that should pose no problem, for the place is heavily guarded from within, whilst few if any people will visit it.

  ‘Item. If Holyrood is Eden, then it also has its serpent. Brother Anselm lies murdered in his cell. Some time later, Brother Richard’s corpse is found on the steps of a tower. Both were former knights, leading members of the community, and both were killed by a nail driven into their skull.’ Corbett shook his head and glanced up.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Ranulf, just a memory of something I saw or heard. Something that doesn’t fit the logic of events.’ The clerk tapped the side of his head. ‘I cannot recall it, but perhaps, in time I will.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I am tired, Ranulf, as tired as you look. Anyway, let us continue.

  ‘Item. We don’t kn
ow how these murders occurred. We have already discussed how an assassin could get so close as to drive a nail through his victim’s forehead with no trace of a disturbance, struggle or resistance. Why these men, former warriors, were killed is as much a mystery as how. Vague suspicions may form, as they do about the slayings of Brother Mark, Norbert and those two prisoners. Nevertheless, any clear thought is hidden by a deep cloud of unknowing. Indeed, the three killings down in the cells of this abbey are shrouded in mystery. How can men imprisoned by hard rock and a stout wooden door be slaughtered in such a way? How did the killer get in, do what he did and get out?’

  ‘Secret passageways?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ranulf. I scrutinised the walls and floor of both cells. I asked Ap Ythel to go back and do the same, but we found nothing significant. Let us continue. Item. Undoubtedly an assassin is loose in Holyrood. Now is this offspring of Cain a member of this community, or has he—’

  ‘Or they?’

  ‘Yes, there probably is more than one. Have they been admitted by an enemy within? But who could that be? No doubt we are all marked down for destruction. I was attacked in the church, Abbot Henry in his own chamber, and we must remember that was the second attempt on his life, as he firmly believes he was deliberately poisoned. So, Ranulf, who could be the spider at the centre of this murderous web? Who profits from all this turbulence?

  ‘Item. We now come to our two visitors. First, Amaury de Craon, envoy of the French king. He arrived here all a-bustle, full of false concern about his royal master’s murdered, but very distant, kinsman. He also brought personal invitations for our good abbot to the so-called festivities planned in Paris next spring. Is he here for those reasons, or is there a more sinister motive for his presence?’ Corbett paused, as if listening to the sounds of the abbey.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Why, Ranulf, the seizure of our prisoner and the theft of that precious casket.’

  ‘But how could de Craon do that? It would be construed as an act of war, a heinous crime against the English Crown. Abbot Henry, not to mention Lord Mortimer and ourselves, with any force we could muster, would defend both Holyrood and all it contained to the very death.’

  Corbett just shook his head.

  ‘Sir Hugh, I appreciate de Craon has war cogs at Bristol and battle galleys as far north as Tewkesbury on the Severn, but if he is here to wreak mischief, he would face a violent, bloody confrontation and our two kingdoms would slip into war.’

  ‘True, true,’ Corbett replied. ‘And so we come to our last visitor, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore. He could seize the casket. He might even try and take our prisoner, yet we all know that would be very foolish and truly reckless. Mortimer would be proclaimed a traitor, a rebel, a wolfshead, condemned by both Crown and Church, a man to be hunted down and killed on sight. No, no.’ The clerk tapped the feathery quill pen against his cheek. ‘I suspect our devious marcher lord is here out of sheer curiosity. Oh, he’ll meddle and he’ll interfere, as long as he emerges unscathed. He has pushed his boat out into the deep and he is fishing for whatever he can catch.’

  Corbett cleared his throat. ‘What else do we have? Brother Norbert talked about how the killer who murdered those two prisoners asked them to emulate. Of course he had it wrong; it was immolate, which means to sacrifice oneself. The prisoner we captured shouted how he would immolate himself, offer himself up. We took him out and he was killed, murdered. What does all that mean?

  ‘Item. Why was Brother Mark slain in his own yard? What did the kitchener imply by telling Crispin that he – whoever he is – hadn’t returned it and what business did he have taking it in the first place? Or words to that effect? Then there was the sentry, killed high on the walls by a deadly shaft, and those fire arrows on the night we arrived here. What is the significance of that? And what really did happen to Mortimer’s man, the self-proclaimed beggar who appeared before the gates of Holyrood? He was received and admitted to the guest house, where, I now deduce, he made the dreadful mistake of asking if Lord Mortimer had yet arrived. Now that beggar had been in the Valley of Shadows. I am certain he was bringing information back to his master. The enemy within, whoever he is, realised this and so silenced him. It’s all a mystery,’ Corbett sighed, ‘and yet the good Lord can so easily confound the subtle plans and cunning plots of men.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ranulf, we wonder why the sentry was killed and so on and so forth. We speculate why Mortimer and de Craon are here. I am sure,’ Corbett pointed the quill pen at Ranulf, ‘that our two worthies are plotting. Indeed, there is something about what is happening here that reminds me of a mystery play, of someone directing events, a master of the masque, a lord of the revels. Whoever this is, like Mortimer and de Craon, they have overlooked one very serious eventuality.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, please!’

  ‘Ranulf, you roll the dice and sometimes you cheat poor Chanson. No, no, I don’t want to discuss that, but do you remember playing a game called “the jester in the pouch”?’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The players have a purse containing dice and they must pluck two out at random. They are not allowed to look into the pouch. Most of the dice are regular, but a few have no points, just a jester’s hat on all six sides. God help you if you pick out a jester, or worse, two of them, because all your opponent has to do is roll a one and he has won.’

  ‘Precisely, Ranulf, and the jester in this game of hazard is the snow. No one planned for that, so it will be interesting to see what happens next, whilst I am keen to plot my own way forward.’

  ‘Which is why you dispatched Chanson to Tewkesbury?’

  ‘Yes, it is. As you know, the Secret Chancery sits at Westminster, but of course it has outposts across the kingdom where information and gossip can be collected, sifted and, if necessary, sent back.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Offices of the Secret Chancery can be found in the great abbeys, such as Fountains, Rievaulx, Canterbury, even in Holyrood, where Brother Raphael acts on our behalf. On our journey here, I learnt that Monsieur de Craon was also travelling to Holyrood. He left London and came up the Severn accompanied by a small flotilla of French war galleys. You’ve seen the like, narrow and long, with sails and oars, so they can navigate the shallows.

  ‘Now the great Benedictine abbey of Tewkesbury holds a corrody, a pension, for John Stroman, popularly known as Mistletoe, who once worked in the Secret Chancery at Westminster and who has now retired to enjoy his twilight years in reasonable comfort. As you know, Chanson has been sent to him to collect certain information. Mistletoe is under strict instructions to assess the situation and act accordingly. I have given him a few hints. I can only pray that he uses his God-given wits. However, to return to “the jester in the pouch”, I just hope that the rains come and the thaw quickens.’

  ‘But as we’ve said, de Craon cannot make a move against us here.’

  ‘True, true,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But that fox is hunting, desperate to break into the hen coop.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘How do I know a fox will attack a hen? It’s in his nature, Ranulf, he cannot do otherwise.’

  ‘And so what now?’

  ‘Oh, I am ready. Go as safely as you can and find Ap Ythel. Tell him to go to the abbey kennels and bring the keeper of the war dogs here.’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Please, Ranulf, do as I say, but do it discreetly. No one else is to know.’

  Ranulf left. Corbett sat staring at the candle flame dancing in the draughts that seeped between the window shutters and beneath the door. He closed his eyes and called upon the dead: his father, mother and beloved brother, all gone before him into the light. He summoned them and begged in prayer for their assistance. He dozed for a while before Ranulf and Ap Ythel knocked on the door and led in a burly, balding lay brother. The man was garbed in boiled leather from head to toe; he carried a whip in one hand and a goad in the other. He was cheerful eno
ugh, patting his jerkin, which gave off the reek of the kennels.

  ‘You are the keeper?’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘You manage the dogs, a pack of mastiffs?’

  ‘Eight war dogs, my lord, we use them for hunting. They can bring down a boar or an antlered stag. Magnificent beasts!’

  ‘I am sure they are,’ Corbett replied. ‘I want you to show them to me, but you are to mention this to no one, from this moment to eternity. You understand what that phrase means?’ The kennel master gazed blearily back.

  ‘It means,’ Ranulf drew his dagger and held the tip just beneath the man’s chin, ‘that if you talk, if you discuss what happens here or elsewhere, indeed, anything to do with the lord Corbett, you will be judged a great traitor, worthy of death.’

  The man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his loose-skinned throat.

  ‘So.’ Corbett fastened on his war belt and cloak. ‘Let us see these hounds, but most prudently. Keep a sharp eye for any sudden movement.’ He waved to the door. ‘And so we go.’

  He led his small cohort out across the abbey precincts. It was cold and dark. He prayed that the deep greyness would lift and provide some relief from the constant murk. They left the outbuildings, passing by the stinking hog pens and into a long barn-like building of rugged sandstone. Wooden pillars were built into the walls, and from these hung blazing lanternhorns. The air stank of dog and dirt, and as they entered, they were greeted by a howling from the eight dogs, each in its own massive cage. Corbett crouched before one of these, staring at the fearsome war hound. The beast was long-bodied and short-haired, its silky tawny coat rippling as it growled at Corbett before suddenly leaping forward, crashing against the cage. It then squatted down on its muscular haunches, reddish eyes glaring with fury, ears flat against its bulbous head, lips curled to reveal dagger-like teeth in massive jaws. Time and again it surged forward, growling deep in its throat. The other dogs also became increasingly restless, pacing their cages or sitting back on their hind legs, snapping and yelping.