Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘The source of the present evil,’ Ranulf remarked, ‘is Rougehead and his accusations. Why did he make them? Is it possible that if Rougehead and Slingsby were linked to the great robbery at Westminster, Sumerscale and Fallowfield were also involved? Was that the connection, one the two mariners dared not raise at their brief summary trial?’ He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘If they had even hinted that the allegations were being made by men who, like themselves, were involved in that robbery, they would be virtually confessing to treason, which would invoke the most horrible punishments: hanging, drawing, disembowelling.’ He waved a hand. ‘In the end, such an admission had nothing to do with the accusations against them; it would not help them in any way and could make matters much worse.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Corbett mused. ‘Perhaps there was some link between Sumerscale and Fallowfield and Rougehead. Yet at the trial, neither man described Rougehead as an enemy or someone they knew. Indeed, Rougehead depicted himself as a law-abiding citizen, a complete stranger to Sumerscale and Fallowfield: this would have convinced Naseby that he had no malignant motive for accusing the men.’

  ‘Yet we heard from the Templars how Rougehead was a renegade steeped in sin. A possible suspect, or so it might appear, in the great robbery at Westminster.’

  ‘Ah yes, though back then he successfully hid behind the name Priknash. He may have enjoyed an unsavoury reputation in his former career, but I suspect there are many such as he. What I cannot discover is any link between Rougehead and his victims.’

  ‘Interesting, too,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘that both the accused were mariners. From what I have learnt, The Candle-Bright’s usual sea routes were across to Boulogne or down the west coast of France to Bordeaux.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Was there a reason for both men serving on that ship? They cannot have been fleeing, as the vessel kept returning to London. And why were they connected with Queenhithe and not some other quayside?’ He paused. ‘Ranulf, you have brought Peterkin from Greyfriars?’

  ‘Yes. The good brothers have truly cared for him; he is well recovered.’

  ‘I must have words with him.’

  A short while later, Peterkin the lookout boy, the only survivor from The Candle-Bright, was ushered into the Cana chamber. He certainly looked better than the last time Corbett had met him. He had been bathed, his hair carefully cropped and washed. Colour had returned to his face, whilst the Franciscans had bought him a new jerkin, hose and boots. He smiled and bowed, all nervous as Corbett brought him down the table to sit opposite Ranulf. A thin, lanky boy, Peterkin looked to be no older than fourteen summers, an orphan whom Naseby had taken on board as an act of compassion.

  Corbett offered the sweetmeats Chanson had brought in. ‘Go on, lad, cram your belly, and take this too.’ He slipped a coin across the table that the boy snatched up swiftly.

  ‘In the twinkling of an eye,’ Ranulf laughed.

  ‘You are well, Peterkin?’ Corbett asked. The boy nodded vigorously. ‘I can secure a post for you here. Mistress Philippa will look after you. You would have comfortable lodgings, warm food, decent clothing and even a coin or two.’ Again the vigorous nod. ‘Now, Peterkin, you were ship’s boy on The Candle-Bright when two of the crew, Sumerscale and Fallowfield, were hanged by Master Naseby for contumacious speech and public mockery of the king and Lord Gaveston. Yes?’

  ‘I didn’t see them hang,’ the boy replied. ‘I hid away. The crew said it was a terrible, hideous choking sound. I don’t like to see hangings.’

  ‘No one does, boy,’ Corbett replied. ‘But what did you know of them?’

  ‘They were quiet. Fallowfield especially. Sumerscale could imitate bird calls to amuse us. He was good at that, but they didn’t mix with the others. They kept to themselves. Some of the crew thought they were men-lovers, which made them all the more guilty.’

  ‘Were they good sailors?’

  ‘Fallowfield, certainly. Gossip had it that he had served on cogs, hulks and galleys in both the North and Middle Sea.’

  ‘Did you ever hear them converse?’

  ‘You mean overhear?’

  ‘Yes, overhear.’ Corbett smiled.

  ‘Oh yes, on our sailings to and from Boulogne. Much good it did me. They spoke in Latin and a strange tongue. One of the crew said it was the ling …’ Peterkin cleaned his mouth with his tongue.

  ‘Lingua franca?’ Ranulf supplied. ‘The common language of the Middle Sea?’ Again Peterkin nodded.

  ‘Can you tell us anything more about them?’ Peterkin shook his head. Corbett glanced away. References to Boulogne evoked memories of the clerk Tallefert. He wondered if his secret colleague was safe. He had not heard from him or Pietal; that could be ominous. Despite the presence of The Black Hogge, ships were still safely criss-crossing the Narrow Seas, yet he had learnt nothing. No one had come out of Boulogne with news or intelligence. He feared that the secret letters carried by Naseby on The Candle-Bright had been intercepted. If that was the case, and the letters had been deciphered, both Tallefert and Pietal were in dire peril. Corbett had agreed with the French clerk that if the danger proved too much or the situation too threatening, Tallefert would not wait but would flee either to Boulogne or Bordeaux and secure immediate passage to London. Even during his retirement, Corbett had kept up communication from his own private chancery. Tallefert had confidently reported that no one suspected him.

  Corbett beat his fingers against the tabletop, staring at one of the exquisitely woven tapestries decorating the far wall. He dared not send anyone to Paris or dispatch a second letter. He could only put his confidence in the Deacon, an English scholar studying in the halls of Paris. A consummate mummer, a young man who liked nothing better than to perform in miracle plays, the Deacon was a master of disguise who made considerable profit in pretending to be a relic seller recently returned from Jerusalem with a wide range of interesting artefacts: nails from the Crucifixion or the wine jug used at the Last Supper. He was one of Corbett’s inner circle, a clever spy who along with Pietal often carried messages to and from the English envoy in Paris, Lord Scrope. He was prudent, cunning and sly. He reminded Corbett of a weasel in the way he could slip in or out of any situation or place. One of the Deacon’s duties was to visit Tallefert at least once a month to make sure all was well. Corbett reckoned it was about time such a visit took place.

  ‘Master?’ Ranulf spoke. ‘Do we still need the boy?’

  Corbett broke from his reverie. He glanced at Peterkin and winked. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ The boy shook his head. ‘In which case,’ Corbett sighed, ‘I am finished.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, Peterkin, one last thing. Sumerscale and Fallowfield had boarded The Candle-Bright only a short time beforehand.’ This time a nod. ‘Who recommended them? Every captain looks for a guarantee about the men he hires: someone who can vouch for them. Did someone speak up for Sumerscale and Fallowfield?’

  Corbett felt a twinge of excitement as Peterkin blinked, lips moving.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the lad murmured. ‘A Master Prior.’

  ‘Master Prior?’

  ‘You know, the monks who dress in black and white and call themselves the Hounds of God.’

  ‘The Dominicans!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Their mother house, Blackfriars, is not far from here. Of course, of course.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Blackfriars is the main priory of the Dominican order in this country, yet they have houses all over Europe. They depend on ships like The Candle-Bright to fetch and carry produce and take messages here and there. I wager they did good business with Master Naseby. Peterkin, thank you. Seek out Mistress Philippa, she will look after you. Chanson,’ he called, ‘quick as you can to the Hanging Tree. Order the Magister Viae to meet me at the entrance to Blackfriars. Oh, and give my profound apologies to those waiting, and tell them they will have to wait a little longer.’

  PART FOUR

  ‘The love of the people has turned to hatred.’

  The Monk of Ma
lmesbury, Life of Edward II

  Corbett and Ranulf left the Merry Mercy and made their made up Vintry and into Thames Street. The weather was fine. The streets were busy, the crowds surging along the narrow lanes beneath the four-storey houses, so tall they tipped to meet each other. Windows, casements and shutters had been flung open. Neighbours shouted greetings as they hung out sheets and coverlets to be aired. Carts and barrows forced their way through, a crashing sound that forced people to talk all the louder. Corbett found the noise disconcerting after the silence and serenity of the tavern.

  Two greyhounds appeared, broken free from the young woman bringing them in from coursing hares in a nearby field. Corbett had to push by a wedding party shouting, ‘Wassail, drink ale!’ as the revellers passed around a maplewood mazer slopping with wine. The wedding guests tried to draw him into their company, but soon retreated when Ranulf shouted, ‘King’s men!’ and unsheathed his sword. The royal clerks passed on, the crowd jostling along: burgesses in their samite gowns, city fops in brightly coloured jerkins and hose, monks shrouded in dark-brown robes, as well as the sober-clad officials of both the ward and market.

  Corbett bought pomanders as some protection against the stench. The dung carts were out cleaning the mess from the lay stalls, public jakes and midden heaps. The sun had curdled the filth and turned the air rancid. The foul fog of fumes drenched and drowned all the sweet smells from the surrounding bakeries, cook shops and stalls. The noise and clamour of the traders grew worse as the two men turned right, up past Knightrider Street. A great set of stocks stood at the entrance to this thoroughfare: close by rose a soaring four-branched gallows. Each arm of the gibbet carried the corpse of a felon executed earlier in the day, the naked dirty-white cadavers swaying slightly at the end of oiled hempen rope.

  Beneath the scaffold, archers held two forgers, who screamed and thrashed around as the executioner, brazier glowing, irons red-hot, branded a fiery ‘F’ on the right cheek of each. The gruesome punishment had to be witnessed by those who had broken the king’s peace the night before and now sat clamped in the stocks, fastened tight by neck, arm or leg. Further on, a group of brightly garbed moon people swirled by, singing and dancing to the beat of a solitary drum and the clash of cymbals. Beggars, grotesque in their injuries, true or false, followed the music in the hope that they would benefit from spectators.

  Corbett, one hand on the hilt of his sword, strode on, his left side protected by the doorways with Ranulf, as usual, trailing slightly to his right. On one occasion he paused abruptly, turning to see if they were being followed. He glimpsed an individual garbed like a royal forester in green and brown. The figure turned away as if interested in a stall, but Corbett was sure he had seen the same man just as they’d left the Merry Mercy.

  ‘Master?’ Ranulf queried.

  ‘Nothing,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Not for the moment.’

  They left the tangle of narrow coffin paths and entered the great cobbled expanse that stretched up to the dark stone curtain wall of Blackfriars, with its majestic fortified gatehouse.

  Corbett plucked at Ranulf’s sleeve. ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘our friends have arrived.’ The Magister and six of his entourage, all garbed in their earth-coloured robes, strode across to meet them. Any similarity to Franciscan friars proved to be an illusion when their spurred boots and war belts bristling with weapons became apparent. The Magister stopped in front of Corbett and bowed mockingly.

  ‘Welcome, sir.’ Corbett gestured at the Magister’s companions. ‘These will have to stay outside, while Prior Cuthbert will demand you surrender your weapons.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but pulled at the calling bell under its coping carved in the shape of a smiling angel.

  A lay brother opened the postern door and beckoned Corbett, Ranulf and the Magister inside. He then slammed the door shut and gruffly demanded they unstrap their war belts and leave all weaponry in the entrance parlour. Satisfied, he hurried out to inform his superior and returned to lead them across the paved bailey to Prior Cuthbert’s reception chamber. The ancient Dominican was sitting enthroned on a chair at the top of a long table. He tapped the floor with his cane, gesturing at all three visitors to sit close by him. Corbett did not stand on ceremony. He showed the prior his seals of office, then put them back in their velvet pouch and nodded at the Magister Viae.

  ‘Father Prior,’ he began, ‘in January 1308, my learned colleague here collected the corpses of two seamen hanged from the mast of the fighting cog The Candle-Bright. Their names were Henry Sumerscale and Matthew Fallowfield. I believe you recommended them to the ship’s master, Naseby?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The prior smiled, opening his red-gummed mouth. ‘Yes, I did recommend them.’

  ‘Why, were they known to you?’

  ‘No, they were not. Oh, by the way, Sir Hugh, I know you by sight and reputation, and I must advise you that what I learnt from both men is covered by the seal of confession.’

  ‘You heard their confessions?’

  ‘Yes, I did, and it made dire listening. I felt deeply sorry for them, which is why, after I pronounced absolution, I acceded to their request and provided them with a memorandum of recommendation to Master Naseby, an excellent mariner and a good man. The older of the pair, Fallowfield, had served on galleys in the Middle Sea.’

  ‘Father Prior, you are sure of this?’ Corbett turned to the Magister. ‘Describe their faces, their hair.’

  The Magister shrugged and gave a pithy description of both men. The prior, head turned away, heard him out, then caught Corbett’s eye and nodded.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured, ‘those are the two unfortunates, God have mercy on them. Sir Hugh, do you wish for some refreshments?’

  ‘No, Father Prior, I must return to the Merry Mercy.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That tavern was mentioned …’ Prior Cuthbert caught himself just in time. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he continued, ‘what is spoken in the confessional must remain sealed. But I can tell you the following, as it had nothing to do with the sacrament.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Both men were former Templars. Both men feared their order and wished to speak to the Inquisition, which, as you know, had been appointed by Pope Clement to investigate the allegations against the Templars.’

  ‘Of course,’ Corbett breathed, ‘and the Inquisition is the Dominican order, which explains why they approached you. Where were they from?’

  ‘They did not tell me and I did not ask. Both were English. The older one was a cynical fighting man. The youth a dreamer, a romancer, but still one badly hurt, alienated.’

  ‘Did they have friends and family in London?’

  ‘Yes, they did, but they did not refer to them; it was something I deduced.’

  ‘Did they produce any documents?’

  ‘No, they spoke ex corde – from the heart.’ Prior Cuthbert cupped his hands together. ‘The two men came here to be shriven, to confess. They wanted to speak to the papal inquisitors either here or in France regarding the Templars. I forwarded their request to the legates in this country. No, no, nothing in writing. A verbal message carried by a courier. The inquisitors were busy, they did not respond.’ The Dominican shrugged. ‘Of course, we eventually heard about the executions on The Candle-Bright. In this vale of tears, death comes swift and brutal.’ He rose. ‘Sir Hugh, I have other duties, and in conscience I can say no more.’

  ‘Father Prior,’ Corbett replied, ‘may I stay here and use this chamber to talk to my colleague the Magister?’

  ‘By all means.’

  The Dominican had virtually ignored Corbett’s companion, but now he sketched a blessing in his direction, tapped his cane on the floor and left. Corbett waited until he had closed the door behind him before turning to the Magister.

  ‘My learned friend,’ he teased, ‘I know your nature. You have carried out your own investigation into this mystery, haven’t you?’

  ‘With nothing to show for it,’ the Magister retorted. ‘I mean that. I am not playing Hodman’s bluff. Sume
rscale and Fallowfield are dead, Rougehead and the other three villains have followed them to judgement.’

  ‘Then I have two further tasks for you. First, discover if you can what rumours persist about Puddlicot and his gang, the rogue who broke into Westminster Abbey and stole the king’s treasure eight years ago. What legends have flourished? What stories have emerged? Sift the rumour, the tittle-tattle, the gossip. Remember, some of the coven were caught and hanged either by the neck or the purse. Others fled or managed to weasel their way out of any indictment.’ Corbett paused. ‘And the French,’ he added. ‘What are the whispers along the alleyways, the tavern chatter?’

  ‘The merchants curse The Black Hogge; they blame His Grace the king and, of course, Lord Gaveston.’ The Magister squirmed on his stool. ‘Sir Hugh, I have heard gossip from Paris and Boulogne. How certain individuals, persons probably known to you, have disappeared, either fled or been taken up.’

  Corbett glanced away. He stared at a painting on the far wall, a fresco depicting a battle between two monkey-faced demons garbed in the purple robes of a cardinal of Rome. Each demon was armed with a twisted dagger and jagged mace. War dogs were lashed to their waists, evil-looking beasts with spiked collars and ferocious jaws. In the background, streams of black earth erupted to stain a flame-streaked sky. Corbett conceded to himself that his own life and career were in a tumultuous, turbulent state and he quietly mocked his own self-conceited arrogance. He must confess to that and be shriven. He had thought he would sweep back into royal office and push through changes and make things better when in fact they appeared to be going from bad to worse.

  The destruction of The Candle-Bright was a major blow. Having listened to the Magister, Corbett was certain that the documents Naseby carried had been found, deciphered and acted upon. He felt in the very core of his being that Tallefert had been seized along with the courier Pietal. The likes of de Nogaret would have no mercy. There would be no public trial and execution. Both men would be gruesomely tortured, racked and burned till they screamed for relief. Death would be most welcome. Corbett had hoped to build a fine net of spies and informers with Tallefert and Pietal at the centre. The Black Hogge had brought such a scheme to a sudden and brutal end.