Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Ah, the Wolfman!’ Corbett declared. ‘A hunter,’ he explained. ‘He works for a great English lord. I just wonder what he wants. Did you see anyone else?’

  Rochfort shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he whispered.

  ‘In which case,’ Corbett tapped the blackjack, ‘one more delicious serving would be most welcome.’

  Rochfort collected the tankards and strode off, calling for the boy. Corbett watched him go.

  ‘I cultivated Tallefert,’ he murmured, ‘even while I was away from royal service. I also helped our good friend here leave Boulogne and settle in Queenhithe.’

  ‘And now?’ Ranulf demanded.

  ‘Naseby was carrying secret instructions for Pietal, our courier in Boulogne, a letter written in cipher for Tallefert. Now he may have destroyed it before The Black Hogge closed, or it might have been lost in the fighting and the destruction of The Candle-Bright. Finally, it might have been taken and the clerks at the Louvre have been unable to decipher it …’

  ‘Or they might have done.’

  ‘In which case,’ Corbett breathed, ‘God help poor Tallefert …’

  Guido Tallefert had woken long before dawn. Once dressed, he left his narrow house overlooking the gushing grey Seine. One house among many in the long line of tall, sharply gabled buildings that seemed to spring up from the cobbles to dominate the narrow, winding streets of the quarter. Guido felt he was going through a forest of stone: houses of all shapes and sizes, with painted woodwork and across their gables the sculpted faces of exotic beasts. He turned a corner, hurrying beneath a long line of vividly scrolled painted shop signs. He passed the carved fountains at the crossroads, close to the statue of the patron saint of the quarter, a beacon light glowing before it.

  The silence of the streets was now being shattered by the traders and tinkers swarming out of their rotting tenements and tawdry dungeon chambers. The shrill yelping of the fishwives carried as they bustled up from the quayside, sweating under the heavy wicker baskets they carried. The shouts of the water and wine criers mingled with singing from funeral processions, which grew more raucous as the mourners stopped at the crossroads to share a deep-bowled goblet of wine. They staggered and stumbled, the purple-draped coffins bobbing like corks on bubbling water.

  The deeper Tallefert went into the city, the more raucous grew the noise. The shouts and curses of soldiers, the bawling of mountebanks, the clatter of hooves, the rattle of heavy-sided carts and the booming and jangling of bells. The stench of the sulphur strewn on the muck and odour underfoot stung his nostrils as he tried not to be distracted by the tumult of the city. He pushed by the fur-gowned burgesses, the wheedling beggars, the quacks and cunning men mouthing their nonsense. Tramping groups of men-at-arms mingled with pilgrims heading for Saint-Denis, preceded by cross bearers and thurifers who incensed the smelly air. Tallefert ignored all these, as he did the wedding parties, the manacled prisoners and the bands of jugglers. He had to reach the great charnel house of the Innocents, Paris’s vast cemetery, with its yawning gateway and soaring walls and the long, very busy shopping arcade that had sprung up against these.

  At the main entrance, he displayed his chancery seal and slipped past the city serjeants into the sprawling, noisy marketplace, which also served as a mansion for the dead. He reached the northern arcade, with its vivid stone-carved frieze portraying the macabre figure of Death grinning terrifyingly at emperors and popes; grasping an abbess by the hand as she read a book, a priest by the shoulder as he wrote his homily, a usurer counting his coins, a drunkard with his goblet. All had to turn and face the hideous countenance, the bony finger nudging them, the skeletal hand summoning them. No one escaped.

  Tallefert trembled like a leaf as he studied the frescoes, then stared around, trying to glimpse the red-headed Pietal amongst the surging crowd. A teller of tales climbed on to a plinth to announce ‘news from the provinces’. He seemed to be addressing Tallefert personally as he recounted how a monster had been born at Amboise, how a gang of felons had been hanged from a steeple in Provins and how an English ship, The Candle-Bright, had been taken by The Black Hogge in the Narrow Seas and sunk with all hands. Tallefert’s legs began to tremble. The Candle-Bright! He recalled how Sir Hugh Corbett, in his missive around Pentecost last, had intimated that Pietal should be in Boulogne to receive fresh instructions for Tallefert in Paris, which would be brought by the English cog. And why had the news about the sinking of The Candle-Bright been kept secret? According to the teller of tales, it had been sunk at least eight days ago, so why had it not been known throughout the inner royal chancery?

  Tallefert felt sick. He closed his eyes and wondered if this would all end at Montfaucon, the great gallows near Porte Saint-Denis. The massive, macabre scaffold dominated the landscape, soaring up on its six-yard-high mound, its thick black branches festooned with ropes, nooses and chains. ‘God in heaven,’ he whispered to himself. ‘It’s over, I must flee.’

  The clerk left the cemetery, taking the swiftest route back along the riverbank to his house in the Rue Saint-Laurent, close to the Tour de Nesle. He reached it clammy with sweat and flung open the iron-studded door, stumbling down the narrow paved passageway leading to the kitchen and the garden beyond, where he kept his beehives and, beneath a heavy paving slab, his precious strongbox. He threw open the kitchen door, staggered out into the garden and froze. Guillaume de Nogaret, Philip’s first minister and secretary to the royal council, lounged in the garden seat, which had been turned to face the door. Around and behind him were his personal bodyguard, dressed in black and gold, their jerkins emblazoned with the royal silver fleur-de-lis on a dark-blue background, mailed gloved hands resting on the hilt of sword or dagger. The only sound came from Pietal, red-haired and waxen-faced, who had been tightly bound around chest and arms and hoisted to swing from the gnarled pear tree Tallefert had so carefully cultivated over the years. The messenger twisted and turned, groaning at the tight cords.

  ‘Good morning, Tallefert. I see you must have heard our storyteller at the Holy Innocents.’ De Nogaret rose and walked slowly over, snapping his fingers. One of his retinue hastened forward: the man wore Tallefert’s broad-brimmed hat, heavy gauze veil, stiffened leather gauntlets and quilted jerkin, all intended to protect the wearer against bee stings. In his right hand he carried a leather mask. Tallefert’s heart sank. Such a mask was often used in the torture and interrogation of prisoners; with slits only for the eyes – no aperture for mouth or nose – it would be clasped over the face and the leather straps at the back tightened as the interrogator wished.

  ‘Vallon here,’ Nogaret’s blunt fingers gently stroked the side of Tallefert’s sweaty face, ‘is also a student of the beehive. Now,’ he took the mask from Vallon’s hand, ‘we have smeared the inside of this mask with the most delicious flower juice. The bees from your hives will investigate. Once a small swarm of them have filled the mask, Vallon will place it over Pietal’s face and tighten the straps. We of course will not wait here but inside your house.’

  De Nogaret shoved Tallefert viciously in the chest, sending him staggering back. Orders were shouted. Tallefert was kicked and pummelled into the kitchen scullery. The door was closed, the window firmly shuttered. De Nogaret just stood there listening intently, ignoring Tallefert’s cries and sobs. At the first piercing scream from outside, he sighed, smiled and raised a hand.

  Corbett could only agree with his hostess that the Merry Mercy was, in all aspects, a magnificent tavern. It possessed a huge taproom where the polished floorboards gleamed beneath spotlessly clean coarse matting. Window boxes crammed with sweet-scented flowers adorned the sills. Pots of fresh herbs, stirred and replenished daily, ranged along ledges or in wall niches next to small brass lanternhorns where stubby candles glowed beneath stretched linen coverings. Hams, bacon, legs of pork and shoulders of lamb basted in tasty sauces and covered in white cloths hung from the rafters in their cream-coloured nets, exuding the most mouth-watering smells. Proper ta
bles and leather-cushioned stools were plentiful, whilst the long common table was scrubbed clean, as were the sturdy benches either side.

  Two great kitchens served both the tavern and the houses around. In each of the kitchens a fierce fire roared, whatever the weather, in the mantled hearth adorned with the carved faces of wodewoses, giants and satyrs. All the impedimenta of the kitchen ranged along the hearths: spits, prongs, forks, ladles, basting bowls and jugs of spicy herb sauces. The turnspits were busy from Prime to Vespers. Delicious smells wafted along the galleries and passageways. The Merry Mercy enjoyed a reputation second to none with its three stories of comfortable rooms and chambers. The roof was tiled with gleaming red slate, the chimney stacks firmly embedded to draw off the smoke, strong enough not to bend beneath the gales that swept the Thames

  Philippa Henman had proudly led Corbett on what she called ‘a grand chevauchee’ along polished galleries into cellars, stable yard, washroom, bath houses and slaughter pens. Eventually he had been ushered into the Pendragon chamber, where his clerk of the stables, Chanson, had already stacked his saddle bags. Philippa parted the curtains dramatically around the great four-poster bed to reveal white linen sheets, strawberry-coloured drapes, coverlets and bolsters, the latter filled with the softest down feather. The chamber also boasted stools and a chancery desk beneath the large unshuttered glass-filled window overlooking the most delightful rose garden. Corbett openly admired the painted cloths hanging on the walls, which told the story of Merlin’s deep sleep and his protection of the Holy Grail. While Philippa talked, he also made sure that his small manuscript coffers and caskets were secure under their intricately fashioned locks. Finally she escorted him to the tavern council chamber, the Cana room, its walls decorated with exquisitely depicted scenes celebrating Christ changing water into wine.

  Corbett now sat at the head of the council table listening to Philippa chatter on about the quality of the turkey rugs and the polish used to bring the oaken and elmwood panelling to a shine. He quietly admired this beautiful widow woman dressed so simply in a quilted brown robe with a dark red cincture. A snow-white veil covered her hair, with bands of the same colour at wrist and neck. A most elegant lady, with delicate manners, very precise in all she did.

  Philippa paused as she caught Corbett’s eye. ‘Sir Hugh, I am sorry. I chatter like a bird in spring. You intend to hold a commission of justice here in this room? Even though de Craon lurks here?’

  ‘And Master Sokelar, the harbour master, also does business here,’ Corbett declared. ‘It suits me.

  ‘But one of the king’s courts?’

  Corbett, not wishing to give offence by appearing peremptory, just smiled and shrugged as if it was a matter of little concern.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you knew my late husband, Raoul Henman?’

  ‘I certainly did.’ He smiled. ‘In the days of our tender youth, he was a mailed clerk like myself, and a scholar, one with a nose for good wine and a passion for tasty cooking.’ Corbett licked his lips. ‘When I was a hungry young clerk, Raoul could make the most splendid banquet out of scraps. I recall his gelatine pie was truly delicious, the pastry light, all puffed up and soft, the meat tasty and spiced though not smothered. He shared these dishes with me; he was most kind.’

  ‘He said the same of you, Sir Hugh: a good man, that’s what he called you, a truly decent human being.’ Philippa smoothed down the folds of her gown. Corbett noticed how spotlessly clean it was, and that included the stiff pure-white cuffs. He gestured around.

  ‘Raoul was poor; he must have worked very hard.’

  ‘He certainly did, Sir Hugh, though I also brought him a most generous dowry. Anyway,’ she sighed, ‘you must hold your court. A commission of oyer and terminer?’

  ‘Yes, mistress, it will be. I apologise but I must also summon you.’

  ‘At what hour?’

  Corbett was about to reply when there was a knock at the door and Ranulf and Chanson entered carrying items for the makeshift court: Corbett’s war belt and unsheathed sword, a Book of the Gospels borrowed from Parson Layburn and a chancery case of hardened leather containing quills, pumice stones, ink horns and other clerkly necessities. Ranulf sketched a bow in Mistress Philippa’s direction. Chanson, however, was humming a tune, badly as always. When it came to music, or handling weapons, Chanson was truly hopeless.

  ‘Mistress, you asked at what hour.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘I appreciate how busy you must be. Will you be returning to St Giles? I mean, it’s only a very short walk away.’

  ‘Not today.’ She shook her head and glanced briskly at him. ‘I understand you have summoned Monseigneur de Craon. I tell you, he is swollen up like any toad, full of sound and fury, protesting at what he called “a totally unacceptable and indeed illegal summons for a foreign envoy”.’

  ‘Let him choke on his bile,’ Ranulf retorted.

  ‘Mistress,’ Corbett rose and bowed, ‘I cannot give you the hour when you will be summoned, but it is time we began. If you could send some ale and food, I would be most grateful.’ Philippa said she would and bustled out.

  A short while later, a kitchen maid brought a tray, three tankards and a platter of dried meats and cut fruit. The clerks broke their fast. Afterwards Corbett washed his hands at the lavarium while Ranulf laid out his writing implements and Chanson, as usual, prepared to act as guard and usher at the door. Corbett also set out his seals and warrants, his authority to hold inquiry on any matter affecting the Crown or its rights.

  The first to be summoned was Matthias Sokelar, the harbour master, accompanied by his daughter Agnes, still dressed in the grey garb of the Guild of St Martha. A bustling, busy little man who constantly scratched his stubbled face, Sokelar took the pledge, one hand on the Book of Gospels, the other on a small crucifix, gabbling out the words of the oath before glaring pop-eyed at Corbett.

  ‘I am a royal official as well,’ he screeched. ‘I have signed …’

  ‘Sir,’ Corbett brusquely interrupted, ‘you are harbour master here in London. You knew when The Candle-Bright sailed?’

  ‘As did many along Queenhithe,’ Sokelar snarled back. ‘It left on the morning tide and made good progress down the Thames to the estuary before tacking south-west into the Narrow Seas.’

  ‘Where it was trapped and destroyed by The Black Hogge, which must have been waiting for it, as it has done for so many English cogs.’

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Sokelar’s voice turned wheedling, ‘my daughter Agnes helps me keep good records. We mingle with those who work and live along Queenhithe.’ He rubbed his sweaty hand on his stained fustian jerkin. ‘Like everyone else,’ he gabbled on, ‘we have heard about The Black Hogge, but we do not know how that ship’s captain knows so much about English vessels leaving the Thames …’ His voice faltered.

  Corbett studied the harbour master carefully. Sokelar could be acting, yet the problem he posed was real enough. Far too many people had known when The Candle-Bright had sailed, but how did the French captain know so swiftly and so accurately?

  ‘Do the names Sumerscale and Fallowfield mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, but I heard both names from Agnes after you questioned her at St Giles.’

  ‘Do you have anything to do with the Templars there?’

  ‘Not unless I have to.’

  ‘You don’t like them?’

  ‘They are Templars, disgraced and despised.’

  Corbett leaned back in his chair. ‘Master Sokelar, did you serve in Outremer?’

  ‘I was in Acre with the Christian fleet.’ The harbour master had grown decisively petulant, head back, lower lip jutting aggressively.

  ‘Did you flee?’

  ‘Like many,’ Sokelar spluttered.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Master Crowthorne, the leech at St Giles. We were all there with our friends and kin. The Templars betrayed us to the Mamelukes. I can still recall them swarming up for the attack. Kettledrums booming out their threat, the clash of cymbals splitting the
air, a mass of men swarming like ants, streaming up the ladders and siege towers pushed against the walls and fortifications. The city was strong. The Templars should have driven them off. They didn’t, they fled.’

  ‘Many of them died there,’ Ranulf interjected.

  ‘As did my wife, Agnes’s mother,’ Sokelar rasped. ‘The Templars are to blame. They lost the last great Christian fortress in Outremer. They failed us all. They must now face the consequences instead of hiding and fleeing.’

  ‘Fleeing?’ Ranulf asked.

  Sokelar turned to his daughter, who just shook her head.

  ‘You are on oath,’ Corbett warned. ‘I need information urgently. I search for the truth in so many things. Now, Templars fleeing?’

  ‘Rumours along the quayside,’ Sokelar confessed. ‘Tavern tittle-tattle and ale-house gossip about the Templars hiding in St Giles. How they don’t feel safe. How the French king has sent secret assassins to kill them. In a word, they are looking to flee.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Robert the Bruce in Scotland. It is well known that he rejects the allegations against the Templars and offers sanctuary to that order.’

  ‘And they cannot go by land,’ Ranulf offered. ‘They would be vulnerable to attack by assassins hired by the French, as well as by those such as yourself who fiercely resent the Templars.’

  ‘True,’ Sokelar agreed. ‘Their only path of salvation would be by sea, but God help them if the cog they sail on is attacked by The Black Hogge. A strong possibility, bearing in mind how swiftly and accurately the master of that ship knows what is happening in Queenhithe and elsewhere.’

  ‘Do you believe they are about to flee?’

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Agnes interposed, her face slightly flushed, one hand gripping her father’s arm, symbolising the close bond between them. ‘Why ask my father? He is only the harbour master. He administers shipping to and from Queenhithe. He is not responsible for what happens, as so many seem to believe.’