by Paul Doherty
Corbett steeled himself, maintaining his composure as he prepared the lure, the trap for this precious pair. ‘Naturally,’ he waved a hand, ‘I may have it all wrong. I have accused both of you.’ He stared hard at the prisoners. ‘I admit, the evidence does point at two, yet one of you may have been an unwilling spectator, forced by circumstances to act as you did. Nevertheless . . .’ He rose abruptly. ‘Let us adjourn for a short while. Please do not approach or speak to the justiciars.’
Corbett walked into the transept and poured himself a stoup of ale. He turned and stared back. Others had risen to stretch and talk quietly amongst themselves. The prisoners’ hands were freed and they were given tankards of ale. Maltravers apparently demanded to relieve himself again and was escorted under close guard to the nearest garderobe. Corbett watched him return. Maltravers blatantly ignored Devizes, who responded in kind. The clerk closed his eyes in pleasure, quietly rejoicing at the gulf opening up between the accused.
He reconvened the court and for a while sat staring silently at the accused. He then asked Mortimer and the Ravenmaster if they had any questions. Both men shook their heads. Corbett was pleased; he could tell from their faces that his fellow judges supported the indictment. He pointed at the prisoners.
‘Do you have anything to say in reply to these accusations?’
Devizes spoke up. ‘I do not answer to you or this court.’
Corbett stared down at the sheets of vellum on the desk before him. He quietly prayed for help with what might come next. He believed the indictment was true and correct, certainly worthy of a most detailed and clear refutation. Nevertheless, Maltravers was trapped, and there was only one possible way out of the murderous tangle he had immersed himself in. Devizes had shown his true colours. He had refused to plead or to answer, which in law was an admission of guilt.
‘Maltravers,’ Mortimer snapped. ‘We wait.’
‘I plead with the court,’ Maltravers stammered. He paused and drew a deep breath. ‘It may well look as though I was involved in these nefarious crimes, but I plead my innocence. True, I did fashion an arbalest, but it was a gift for Devizes. I did not know about the secret compartment in my chamber or the maze of galleries beneath this abbey. I was in church when Brother Mark was killed. Raphael was my friend, as were Anselm and Richard. Unlike my master-at-arms, I have no ties with those who dwell in the Valley of Shadows. He, however, often rode out there. After all, he is responsible for protecting us. He too is skilled in the arbalest. He—’
‘Liar! Liar, abuser and coward!’ Devizes sprang to his feet, knocking the chair over.
‘Leave him!’ Corbett shouted at the bowman who’d immediately seized the prisoner. ‘Leave him, cut his bonds.’
‘In God’s name!’ Mortimer exclaimed.
‘Cut the rope binding his wrists,’ Corbett repeated. ‘Ap Ythel, notch your bow, but only loose if you have to.’
Ranulf came hurrying over and, ignoring the protocol, heatedly whispered his objections.
‘Hush now,’ Corbett soothed. ‘But arm yourself.’
The guard sawed at the thick cord binding Devizes’ wrists, and the prisoner shook these free. He glanced over his shoulder at Ap Ythel, then smiled to himself.
‘I confess.’ He took a step closer to the bench. ‘All you have said is the truth. I have no regrets, none whatsoever, for my part in all that has happened. The Crown of England destroyed my world and all I truly loved, as they loved me. As a young boy, I saw them being cut down or hanged like outlaws from the trees deep in our valley. As for you, Maltravers,’ Devizes didn’t even bother to turn, ‘I have nothing but contempt and disgust for you. I did not and never have loved you. I saw you for what you and the rest are. Forget the Knights of the Swan, or even men cloaked in the garb of St Benedict. You are killers to the very marrow of your being, and worthy of death.’ He gestured contemptuously with his head. ‘Henry Maltravers is as guilty as I, even more so. Yet rest assured, I feel no guilt, not now, not ever. I will not die like some felon, but as a warrior, dedicated to immolation.’
He abruptly lunged towards the bench, hand going out for Corbett’s sword. He almost had it when Ap Ythel’s arrow thudded into his back. As he turned, shouting defiance, a second shaft took him deep in the chest. He staggered forward, blood gushing from nose and mouth, hands extended as if he wished to embrace Ranulf, who, gripping his war sword, thrust its blade once, twice, deep into the master-at-arms’ exposed neck and then withdrew it. Devizes, saturated in his own blood, collapsed to the floor.
Corbett stilled the ensuing consternation. ‘You have heard the accused,’ he proclaimed, ‘the confession of a dying man, and it must be accepted as that. Now, as for the charges laid against Henry Maltravers, abbot of Holyrood and former Knight of the Swan, Lord Mortimer, how say you?’
‘Guilty.’
‘Ralph of Ancaster, how say you?’
‘Guilty.’
Corbett rose and spread his hands to encompass all those who had watched the proceedings.
‘How say you all?’
‘Guilty,’ came the reply.
Maltravers suddenly asserted himself, as if breaking free from a dream. He glared at Corbett, then over his shoulder at Crispin and Jude. ‘Swans,’ he declared, ‘slide serenely into the dark.’
‘The prisoner will face me,’ demanded Corbett. One of the bowmen seized Maltravers by the head, forcing him to look at the clerk. ‘You have been found guilty on all counts,’ Corbett declared. ‘You are worthy of punishment. Sentence is to be carried out after first light tomorrow. There will be no stay of execution, no respite, no pardon, no appeal. I have the authority to pronounce this on behalf of the king and his council. Take the prisoner away.’
PART FIVE
You are not my brother but wrongly and wickedly claim the kingdom for yourself.
The Lanercost Chronicle
Corbett spent what was left of that day preparing to leave. He gathered the entire community in the chapter house and informed them of what had happened. He said that heinous crimes had been committed so justice had been carried out and punishment imposed. The abbey church would need cleansing and re-consecration. Devizes’ corpse would be publicly gibbeted, whilst the execution of Maltravers would take place early next morning. Prior Jude would take over the leadership of Holyrood till the king’s wishes in the matter were known.
The community, shocked and fearful, could only stand and listen to what was said. Afterwards they silently filed out across the bailey back to their respective duties, which, Corbett insisted, must continue.
An hour later, he met Ranulf, Mistletoe, Mortimer and the Ravenmaster in his chamber. The latter had already visited the cells beneath Falcon Tower and found no prisoner, and he now demanded an explanation. Corbett just sat and held the Ravenmaster’s eerie gaze. He then shrugged and declared that the prisoner must have escaped during the chaos and confusion that had swept Holyrood. The king’s executioner pulled a face and wondered if he might still be hiding in the maze of galleries below. Corbett shook his head in disbelief, but offered a guide to lead the way through the labyrinth. The Ravenmaster hastily refused and, pointing at Mortimer, declared that the prisoner, wherever he might be, was now the business of the king’s justiciar in these parts. Corbett smiled his thanks and they passed on to other business.
They all agreed that the casket would remain with Corbett, and that de Craon and his retinue would be given an escort back to Tewkesbury and on to the waiting barges. Mistletoe gleefully repeated how the Sheriff of Gloucester had ordered the French galleys to remain at their moorings, their crews being given comfortable lodgings at riverside taverns as they could not journey anywhere else. Mortimer then raised the question of Maltravers’ punishment. The marcher lord argued that the convicted man should suffer the full rigour of the law for treason, being hanged, drawn and quartered. Corbett demurred, saying such a penalty was too gruesome. Mortimer claimed the rebels in the Valley of Shadows should be given a harsh, cruel lesso
n about royal justice. The argument continued, Corbett refusing to concede, and it was eventually agreed that Maltravers’ execution would be slightly delayed, taking place at first light the day after tomorrow, and that he would suffer decapitation carried out by the Ravenmaster. Devizes’ corpse would be gibbeted on the battlements, and the entire punishment would be proclaimed throughout the abbey and elsewhere. Nor had Corbett forgotten de Craon, now confined to his chamber: the French envoy would be compelled to witness the execution of his former ally.
Just before noon the following day, Mortimer and a formidable retinue of foot soldiers and cavalry, along with two trumpeters, rode out of Holyrood. The cavalcade clattered across the drawbridge, making its way carefully across the slushy ground towards the Valley of Shadows. Corbett, standing cloaked and cowled on the parapet above the gatehouse, watched them go. At the mouth of the valley, Mortimer paused, and the trumpeters blew three shrill blasts. Then the marcher lord stood high in his stirrups to proclaim how Maltravers, who had styled himself as Paracelsus, would be executed in full view of the valley: his accomplice Devizes had already suffered death and his corpse would be gibbeted for all to see. Punishment would be carried out at first light the following day.
Corbett clearly heard the trumpet blast, but Mortimer was too distant for him to make out the proclamation. He knew, however, what had been agreed, and he was certain that those who lurked in the trees clustered so close to the valley mouth would understand the marcher lord’s words, proclaimed in English and repeated in Welsh. To ensure that this was the case, Mortimer thrust a long pike into the soft ground and securely pinned to it a proclamation clearly repeating what he had said.
Once Mortimer had returned, Devizes’ bloodied corpse was taken up to the parapet walk above the gatehouse. A rope was tied around the dead man’s neck and his corpse was tossed over to dangle and swing eerily in the strengthening wind. At the same time, Brother Dunstan, under the Ravenmaster’s supervision, built a makeshift execution platform that jutted well above the battlements for all to see: a black-timbered framework, stark and clear, with steps leading up to the execution block, a large basket standing beside it.
Corbett rested in his chamber that evening, revising his indictment against Maltravers. He wanted to make sure all was correct, for when he returned to Westminster, both king and council would demand a detailed account of what had happened at Holyrood. He still felt tense. There was unfinished business to attend to. In his agitation, he went and stretched out on the cot bed, staring up into the dark, wondering how Maeve and his two children were faring.
He had left strict instructions with the Sheriff of Essex that Leighton Manor be brought under keen scrutiny and close guard. He was still apprehensive about the Black Chesters. He was sure he had inflicted a grievous wound, a deadly blow to that coven of wickedness along the Scottish border and on the Welsh March. The Black Chesters would soon realise, if they had not done so already, that the mischief planned in and around Holyrood had been brought to nothing. They would not waste time, energy or precious resources on a battlefield where they had been comprehensively routed. They would withdraw, slink into the darkness and wait for another day to wreak their devilry. They would, like the malignant monsters they were, prowl through the murk, ever vigilant, ever watchful for fresh opportunities.
Corbett prayed that his family would remain safe. A cohort of Tower archers, garbed in green and brown, was camped discreetly in the orchards and woods around Leighton. They had their orders, whilst the great war dogs Corbett had trained were sure protection against any intruder. The Keeper of the Secret Seal murmured a prayer to the Virgin, a simple Ave.
His eyes were growing heavy when there was a knock on the door. He swung himself off the side of the bed and grasped the hilt of his sword lying across a stool. He rose and demanded who it was, though he half suspected the messenger and the message he carried.
‘Sir Hugh, it’s Ranulf. We have been approached. We have been asked . . .’ Corbett unbolted the door and Ranulf, shaking the raindrops from his cloak, slipped into the chamber. ‘Master,’ he grinned, ‘you should tell fortunes. Brother Crispin, our noble infirmarian, has asked to see his former lord abbot one last time. He has brought a jug of claret and two goblets to share this final joy with the prisoner.’
‘I am sure he has, but he is not being admitted?’
‘Oh no, Ap Ythel and his bowmen guard that cell as if it contained the Holy Grail.’
‘Then let us join them.’
The passageway beneath Falcon Tower was under strict guard. Every available torch and lanternhorn flared. Hobelars patrolled the entrance, whilst Ap Ythel’s archers, arrows notched, controlled the long, cold tunnel that cut past the cells. Maltravers had been lodged in the same dungeon as Brother Norbert. Ap Ythel stood on guard outside, talking quietly to Crispin, who almost dropped the tray he was carrying when Corbett, as silent as a ghost, came up and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘No, no.’ The clerk smiled, taking the tray from the infirmarian. ‘Let me carry this. Ap Ythel, open the cell. Ranulf, stay with me.’
The door was unlocked. Ap Ythel brought three stools so they could sit facing Maltravers, who slouched on the palliasse against the far wall. The former abbot looked a broken man: his unshaven face was pallid, eyes fearful, lips constantly twitching. He stared mournfully at Crispin, then thrust his hands forward in a rattle of chains, as if desperate to grab the jug of wine from the tray Corbett had placed on the ground.
Corbett picked up the jug and filled a goblet to the brim. He did not hand this to Maltravers, however, but thrust it under Crispin’s nose. The infirmarian stared back all fearful, eyes questioning.
‘What is this?’ he exclaimed. ‘Sir Hugh, the wine is not for me.’
‘Drink, Brother Crispin, go on,’ Corbett urged. ‘Take this cup and drink every drop. Or shall I?’ He withdrew the goblet. ‘No, of course I won’t. It’s a poisoned chalice, isn’t it? Rich Bordeaux laced with a deadly poison that would give your former abbot, your comrade of yesteryear, swift and relatively painless passage from this vale of tears. No ceremony, no public disgrace or cruel execution. Nothing but an easy step into eternal night. One last favour.’
He glimpsed it then, a sudden cunning shift in Crispin’s deep-set eyes. You’re acting, he thought, this is a cat’s paw, a sham to hide something else.
‘Sir Hugh,’ the infirmarian stammered, ‘I’m sorry, I was taken aback. I did not know what you intended. The wine is not poisoned, I assure you.’ He grasped the offered goblet, lifted it in toast and took a deep gulp. Corbett glanced quickly at Maltravers, who still sat like some dream-walker. Crispin returned the goblet. Corbett put it down on the tray and pushed it closer to the condemned man.
‘Drink,’ he urged. ‘Prepare yourself. As for you,’ he turned back to Crispin, ‘keep your hands out of your robes. Ranulf, take our infirmarian from the cell. You and Ap Ythel must search him.’
Crispin rose abruptly to his feet, one hand going to the side folds of his robe. Ranulf, shouting for Ap Ythel, seized the infirmarian, holding him close until the captain of archers burst into the cell to assist. Crispin, still struggling, was dragged out into the passageway. Corbett stared at Maltravers, but he seemed more interested in the wine than anything else. Corbett gestured at the jug.
‘Drink it all,’ he whispered, and left, following the others across the passageway into a cell, its door flung open.
Crispin had been stripped of his cloak, robes and breeches. He looked a pathetic sight in his linen undershirt and loincloth. He had already been roughly searched, loudly complaining at the insult and abuse he had received. Corbett ignored him, watching Ranulf and Ap Ythel go through the infirmarian’s wallet and belt pouch.
‘I have it.’ Ranulf drew from an inside pocket a small phial, the glass a dark brown, its stopper firmly thrust in and covered with a seal. He handed this to Corbett, who broke the wax. He removed the stopper and flinched at the nasty odour.
&nb
sp; ‘Poison,’ he murmured. ‘Probably some herb.’ He pushed the stopper back and threw the phial into the jakes pot, then stared at the now fearful Crispin. ‘Ranulf, dress this man and bring him to my chamber.’
Crispin was still shaking when Ranulf thrust him into a chair before going to sit on Corbett’s right. The chamber was warm and well lit. Corbett had moved the candle spigots so he could closely study this most devious of men.
‘Brother Crispin, apothecary, leech and herbalist. You probably know more about physic and the treatment of bodily humours than any London doctor.’ Crispin stared bleakly back. ‘So tell me,’ Corbett continued, ‘why didn’t you deduce that the beggar man, Mortimer’s spy from the Valley of Shadows, had been poisoned? I glimpsed his corpse. I saw the discoloration of his skin, both face and belly. The slight froth between his lips. At the time I did not even consider poison; after all, sudden death takes many forms. And why didn’t you mention Devizes’ curiosity about the corpse? I mean, the mighty master-at-arms so interested in the pathetic remains of some wandering beggar?’
Crispin remained silent, wary of speaking, of making a mistake, of being drawn deeper into the indictment presented against him.
‘Father Abbot,’ Corbett continued, ‘claimed to have been poisoned. You examined him, yes? What poison had been used? What symptoms did he show? Did you investigate? Did you ask how he was poisoned? You just agreed with him, didn’t you? Which is why you cannot answer my litany of questions. You cannot tell the truth, so I shall do it for you.’
He leant forward in his chair. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You suspected something was very wrong with your abbot. He was faux et semblant, false and dissimulating. Now a patient can create fictitious symptoms, but not sustain such a show over an extended period of time, especially when someone as skilled as yourself is carrying out the diagnosis. You reached the conclusion, which I did more slowly, that Henry Maltravers was sick, but not due to any poison. He was simply tired of his life here. You are an acute observer of human foibles, Crispin. You would, like I eventually did, wonder what path your abbot was taking. Why was he pretending so determinedly? Did he want to leave? If so, how? And where would he go? You asked yourself those questions, and like me, you began to wonder about the answers. Sharp of eye and keen of wit, you must also have deduced the true nature of the relationship between Maltravers and Devizes. You had access to their bedchamber. You too must have noticed the disarray of the coverlets and bolsters. Did you wonder how a man so visibly sick and weak still had the energy for bed sport? Did you hint at this knowledge?’ Corbett paused. ‘Oh, nothing direct, just an unspoken understanding with the abbot that where he intended to go, you would be included? A logical conclusion. After all, a man such as Maltravers wanted only the good things of this life: comfort, luxury along with his young lover.’
