Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘In heaven’s name!’ Corbett murmured. He pointed at the crude but vivid scenes, each painted without any reference to the one next to it: St Edmund’s severed head being rescued by a wolf; a two-bodied lion with one neck chasing dragon birds with leafy tails; a spoonbill swallowing a frog, watched by a devil-headed monkey grasping a man with ass’s ears by the throat.

  ‘Grotesques,’ Ranulf murmured.

  ‘The legacy of my predecessor,’ the parson declared. ‘Poor man. Waldo Henman had great talents as an artist, but his mind eventually slipped into madness.’

  ‘Henman? The same name as Mistress Philippa, minehost at the Merry Mercy.’

  ‘Her late husband’s uncle. Both Parson Waldo and Philippa’s husband lie buried in God’s Acre here. This church has been generously patronised by the Henman family. Now, sirs, how can I help?’

  ‘Henry Sumerscale and Matthew Fallowfield hanged from the mast of The Candle-Bright in January 1308. You claimed the corpses from the Magister Viae, who usually takes care of the remains of hanged felons.’

  ‘If they were felons …’

  ‘You know of them?’

  ‘Very little except that they were accused by a king’s approver. A proper Judas man.’

  ‘Why did you claim their corpses?’

  The parson pointed to the chantry door. ‘I was here one night in the mercy pew, shriving any sinner who knelt on the prie-dieu beyond the curtain. It was growing late, the candles burning low. I was preparing to leave when I heard someone kneel beyond the shriving veil.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, you know I cannot move the veil, but the man was a wealthy one. I did not recognise his voice. Indeed, I suspect he had something across his mouth to disguise it.’ The parson smiled wearily. ‘I am a shepherd close to his flock; so close I can smell their stink. My mysterious visitor was different. I caught quite a delicate perfume, as if he bathed in the soap of Castile. Anyway,’ Layburn shrugged, ‘he did not want to be shriven. A gloved hand parted the curtain. He handed over a gold coin, well minted and fresh, one of the first batch issued by the new king. I was then instructed to collect both corpses, shroud and coffin them, sing a requiem mass for the repose of their souls and bury them honourably in God’s Acre, which I did. I was also instructed to place two crosses above the graves. They were to be of the best elmwood, the inscriptions carved on them quite stark. I remember them well: “Matthew, faithful servant and friend”, and “Henry most beloved”.’ The parson shrugged. ‘And that was that.’

  Corbett stared at one of the grotesque wall paintings, a wyvern with a hanging belly biting its own back, whilst above it, a demon with the face of a fierce bat prepared to strike.

  ‘Did anyone attend the funeral mass?’

  The parson pointed to a painting of an old woman, hands clasped, lying on her side. ‘You see that? It’s a depiction of one of the sisterhood, those four old ladies mourning their companion Rohesia; the Sisterhood of the Street, as they call themselves. They attended that funeral, as they do every requiem mass, but apart from them, no one else. And,’ he sighed, ‘since then, I have heard nothing.’

  ‘And Rohesia?’ Corbett stretched out his legs, loosening his war belt. He felt tired and tense, yet still wary of danger lurking close.

  ‘She was a street scavenger.’

  ‘But she was found murdered in the lazar hospital?’

  ‘Rohesia would drink as she hunted cats and small dogs, either the living or just their corpses.’ The parson rubbed his stomach. ‘She sold their meat to the butchers and their skins to the furriers. At night she would search out some place lonely, quiet and safe. She always maintained the lazar hospital was her favourite refuge, where she could rest undisturbed.’

  ‘Did she now?’ Corbett murmured. ‘And she never reported anything suspicious, out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No, no. Far from it. She, like all the street people, knew the Templars had fallen, that some of the knights had been given refuge there. She had also heard about the murder of one of them, but that did not concern her.’ The parson paused, fingers going to his lips. ‘The one place Rohesia tended to avoid was the tavern where you are staying, the Merry Mercy. Comings and goings at the dead of night. Isn’t that also the lodgings of the French envoy, de Craon?’

  ‘Yes,’ Corbett smiled thinly, ‘I am sure de Craon has a legion of midnight visitors.’ He rose to his feet and stared down at the priest. ‘But you have nothing more to tell us about Sumerscale and Fallowfield?’

  The parson sat head down. ‘Rohesia!’ He glanced up. ‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I knew there was something else. I collected the corpses from the Magister Viae and brought them here. Rohesia was also present when they were being shrouded. She usually rambled – she was fey-witted – but I distinctly remember her claiming to have seen both men before. I asked her where and when. “Oh, by the hour of candlelight,” she replied, “sometime around the hour of the bat.” That was her description for nightfall. I was intrigued. I pressed her on this but she wouldn’t or couldn’t say any more. That’s all I can tell you.’

  Corbett thanked the parson for his help. He and Ranulf left the church, walking swiftly through the gathering dark, cloaks pulled tight against the evening breeze.

  ‘Master, was that useful?’

  Corbett strode on, but then paused in the light of an alehouse: its door was flung open, and the lanternhorns fixed either side of the entrance bathed the doorway in a warm glow.

  ‘A tankard of ale, Ranulf?’

  He led his companion into a taproom reeking of ale as well as the fragrance of ham, bacon, apples and onions hanging in nets from the blackened ceiling beams. The two men sat at a makeshift table, an overturned barrel placed in an enclave. A servitor brought two blackjacks of frothing ale. Corbett grasped his and toasted his companion before taking a generous gulp of the rich dark brown drink.

  ‘Very good, strong and tangy. Ranulf, there are certain things in London I missed during my retirement, and city ale is one of them.’ He grinned. ‘As well as your good self, of course.’ His smile faded as he stared around. ‘Ranulf, your Latin is improving. Yes? You have been taught by a master?’

  ‘You know that, Sir Hugh. I continued my studies in the schools during your retirement.’ Ranulf sat back cradling his tankard. ‘I even considered training for the Church.’ He waved a hand at Corbett’s smile. ‘I know! I have too deep an interest in the ladies for the supposedly celibate life, though that’s not the real reason.’ He lowered his head, gazing at Corbett from under his eyebrows; a strained, empty look.

  ‘What is it, Ranulf?’

  ‘Look around you, Sir Hugh. In the corner sits a rat-catcher with dirty hands and a filthy face. In the sack between his shit-strewn boots are the corpses of the vermin he has caught, trapped and killed. Close to him is one of the foulest-looking prostitutes in London. Within hailing distance of her, the pimp who sells her raddled body. So many people, Sir Hugh, so many sinners, and yet the Church teaches that God loves us all. But you know, many a day I go to bed and I don’t believe in any of it.’ Ranulf lowered his voice. ‘No God, no Christ, no Church, no sacraments. And after death? No heaven, no hell, no limbo, no purgatory. Nothing but eternal blackness: the oblivion of everlasting night.’

  Corbett hid his surprise by drinking from his tankard.

  ‘Sir Hugh, we are creatures of the dark. We care for our bellies and for ourselves. When I was a child, I starved. I was so hungry I would chew a piece of leather whilst only a walk away some fat merchant in a cookshop close to Newgate filled his belly with the softest chicken flesh. So yes, I have been studying, but where it will take me, I cannot say.’ Ranulf put his tankard down. ‘Sir Hugh, do you believe in everything that’s preached from the pulpit?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t, but I pretend as if I do. Like you, Ranulf, I have my doubts. However, I look at this life and I have choices. Do I strengthen the light or deepen the dark? When this business is over, you must come and stay at Leighton Man
or and we can discuss it further, but now to the matter in hand.’

  Corbett hitched off his cloak and loosened his war belt. ‘First,’ he began, ‘I have been away from royal service for six years. During that time the old king has died and his son Edward of Caernarvon has succeeded to the throne. Edward II is determined on advancing his favourite Peter Gaveston as much as he can, in the teeth of intense opposition from his leading earls, led by his cousin Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. However, Edward’s problems are not confined to this kingdom. Philip of France has virtually forced him to marry Isabella, who is now the fifteen-year-old queen of this kingdom. Philip has also compelled Edward to join him in a vicious attack on the Templar order, which to all intents and purposes has ceased to exist.’

  Corbett paused, staring at a tinker who had wandered in from the street with his tray still wrapped around him. In one hand he carried a cudgel, in the other a cage containing a squealing ferret. The rat-catcher whom Ranulf had glimpsed earlier shouted abuse at this rival. The scullion boy told him to shut up as he shooed the tinker into the kitchen, where the ferret was to be released along the rat runs beneath the floorboards.

  ‘Isn’t it strange?’ Corbett whispered. ‘That’s what we are, yes, Ranulf? Hunters! We pursue sinners, reprobates, even if they are clothed in perfumed silk and enjoy great power and sport gorgeous titles.’

  ‘Including Philip of France.’

  ‘Most definitely. Philip of France,’ Corbett continued, ‘sees himself as master of Europe, but he has to develop the sinews of such a dream. So we enter the subtle treachery and highly dangerous politics of the situation. Philip enjoys a mastery over our king. Matters worsen with the emergence of The Black Hogge, a powerful war cog under a most skilled captain, who takes his orders direct from Philip in Paris and de Craon in London. How that’s done, I do not know. The Black Hogge, however, is proving to be a true menace, a real threat to English shipping. It is swifter and more powerful than any English craft, and it also seems to know about every ship that leaves the Thames – the time of its departure as well as its destination.’

  Corbett sipped at his tankard. ‘The Candle-Bright itself is very much part of a greater mystery. Three years ago, its master John Naseby hanged two men, Matthew Fallowfield and Henry Sumerscale, for speaking contumaciously against the king and Gaveston. Naseby later nourished grave doubts about the guilt of both men and was haunted by their memory. Now, just before his last voyage, Naseby’s guilt was cleverly exploited. He was reminded of Sumerscale and Fallowfield’s execution, how unfair it was and how he would pay a blood price for their deaths. This made him deeply uneasy, as he confessed to me. If I’d had my way, The Candle-Bright would never have sailed, but it did, only to face total disaster.’

  ‘Which means,’ Ranulf said slowly, ‘that the person or persons who threatened Naseby before he sailed already knew the The Candle-Bright was going to its destruction.’ He ran a finger around his tankard. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts and revenants, master. Naseby’s mysterious tormentor is flesh and blood; it has to be de Craon. But why threaten Naseby in the first place?’

  ‘I cannot answer that. An equally vexing question is: who were Sumerscale and Fallowfield? Where did they come from? The only person who claims to have seen them in London, away from The Candle-Bright, is a fey-witted old woman who was probably murdered because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apart from Rohesia’s rather vague statement reported to us by a third person, both men remain a mystery. The Magister Viae believes that Fallowfield might have been a Templar who served in Outremer. He also asserts that Sumerscale may have been the victim of a nasty sexual assault. Nevertheless, despite all the mystery surrounding these two men, someone here in Queenhithe, and someone fairly rich and powerful, ensured that they received honourable burial.

  ‘In addition,’ Corbett pressed on, ‘there definitely seems to be a link between Sumerscale and Fallowfield and the Templar order. They were accused by that cunning rogue Gabriel Rougehead, also known as John Priknash, a felon twice as fit for hell as any of them and, more importantly, a former Templar. Why did Rougehead level such accusations? Was he bribed? Were the other perjured witnesses – and I am sure they did lie – also paid to commit such a heinous act? Nevertheless, Rougehead and his coven did not live long enough to enjoy the fruits of their misdeeds, perishing in that mysterious fire at the Salamander, the very tavern where Sumerscale and Fallowfield allegedly committed their offence. In this case, certainly the wages of sin are death.’ He paused. ‘Ranulf, I must question Slingsby, minehost at that tavern, before he gets much older.’

  He took a sip of ale, lips moving as he sifted the various problems. ‘Now to the Templars themselves,’ he continued. ‘The order has been destroyed. Philip has had his way. Edward of England has also agreed to the dissolution of the order, but despite his father-in-law, he drags his feet. He allows certain Templars to take sanctuary in the lazar house of St Giles: its master is Reginald Ausel, a distant kinsman of Gaveston, the others are poor knights. Philip would like all of them to be handed over to him. He certainly doesn’t want any of them travelling to the Council of Vienne later this year. It would appear that even here, Philip has had his wicked way. Three Templars have been mysteriously murdered, all with their weapons close by, but with no trace of resistance. One of them, Grandison, was stabbed in the dead of night with a dagger once wielded by an assassin in Outremer, part of the king’s treasure at Westminster that was plundered some eight years ago.

  ‘Finally, Ranulf, there is that warning thrown at me in Westminster Abbey, telling me to withdraw, to go back to my bees. Are all these mysteries linked? I suspect they are, and this in turn means there is a common root.’

  ‘Yes.’ The force of Ranulf’s reply surprised Sir Hugh. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, leaning over the table. ‘Amaury de Craon, self-proclaimed envoy of the French king, is the root of all our present evils. Oh, he can masquerade as an emissary trotting off to Westminster to discuss this and that with senior officials. Nonetheless, master, I have reflected, and I believe that Philip and de Craon have concocted and plotted a game that they now play both fast and furious to secure control of this kingdom and its king. In order to achieve this, certain obstacles have to be removed. One of the most serious–’ he paused ‘is you.’

  Corbett stared sharply at his companion. ‘Ranulf, what proof do you have of this? Apart from the warning, I have not been threatened. Before all this began I did not know about Sumerscale and Fallowfield, whilst I am hardly of the Templar order.’ He poked Ranulf playfully. ‘Come, Master Clerk, what have I taught you? Where is the evidence, where is the proof?’

  ‘Master, you are probably wondering why I am brooding about the darkness in my own soul, but this springs from a fear more of the stomach than the mind. A belief that murderous mischief is being plotted and you are its intended victim. I have no proof, no evidence, just a nagging feeling of real danger. Come, master, you have experienced it: hunting rebels along the Welsh March, or down those dark runnels near Newgate or Southwark where the nightmare people lurk, or along those moon-washed coffin paths out in the countryside where you glimpse shadows deeper than the rest.’

  Corbett stared hard at his companion. Now he understood why Ranulf’s mood had darkened. Invariably the Clerk of the Green Wax was right; he had a nose for danger. Corbett lifted his blackjack and silently toasted his friend.

  ‘My comrade, you may be correct. I too nurse a secret dread. We have already sustained a grievous blow …’

  ‘The Candle-Bright?’

  ‘Oh, more than that. Naseby carried secret instructions to a spy I have nourished deep in the Louvre, a man close to the heart of King Philip’s dark designs.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Guido Tallefert, senior clerk in the inner royal chamber; what King Philip and de Craon call the Holy Chancery.’

  ‘Yes, you have mentioned him before.’

  ‘Tallefert had a close bosom friend, a Templar named Rochfort. Before Philip struck in 1307,
Tallefert sent a secret warning to Rochfort, who fled Paris to Boulogne and the safety of the English county of Ponthieu. Of course royal serjeants arrested him, but kept his confinement secret. Now I had done business with Tallefert on a number of issues.’ Corbett grinned. ‘We also share a passion for beekeeping. Tallefert comes from English-held Gascony: a man of Bordeaux, a bachelor, who has no love for Philip or the likes of de Nogaret and de Craon. He begged me to help Rochfort and I obliged.’

  Corbett called across to the scullion, who was squatting with his back to a barrel. The boy immediately leapt to his feet and hurried across. Corbett pressed a coin into his grimy hand and pulled him close, whispering in his ear. The scullion, slipping and slithering on the slops on the stone floor, hastened away. A short while later, the ale master appeared. A tall man, fair-haired, face darkened by the sun, wide-spaced eyes crinkling under bushy brows, wiry and quick in his movements. Ranulf immediately recognised a soldier.

  ‘This is Rochfort,’ Corbett whispered in Norman French, ‘now Master Simon out of Bordeaux. A vintner and an ale master.’ When Corbett had finished the introductions, Ranulf clasped the man’s hand and smiled.

  ‘I suppose you will soon be a guildsman?’

  ‘In time.’ Rochfort’s English was tinged by a slight accent. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he leaned closer, ‘any news from Tallefert?’

  ‘No, though I wish to God there was. I do fear for him.’ Corbett tapped the tankard in front of him. ‘Rochfort, I suspect you have been watching us since we arrived?’ The man nodded. ‘Are we being followed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Though a man came in, glanced across, turned and left. He was dressed in brown leggings and a Lincoln-green jerkin and had a war belt strapped around his waist and one across his chest.’