by Paul Doherty
Corbett paused in his writing. He too had been warned, in Westminster Abbey. Why and by whom? Only de Craon would have known he was there, but would de Craon warn him? The French envoy would love nothing better than to take Corbett’s head and silence forever the English clerk who had bested him so many times in the past.
Item: there seemed to be some connection between the present mysteries and the robbery of the royal treasure in the crypt of Westminster Abbey some eight years ago. How did that precious dagger, part of the robbers’ plunder, end up being thrust into the heart of a former Templar in the dead of night on a bench in the great meadow of St Giles lazar house? There were other links to that infamous robbery. Rougehead, under a different name, had been suspected as a member of Puddlicot’s coven, whilst Slingsby and the Salamander had also fallen under suspicion of being involved.
Corbett sighed noisily. He felt a deep, creeping weariness. He put his quill pen down and rubbed his eyes. ‘And finally,’ he whispered to himself, ‘there is de Craon. I know you, you fox.’ He stared at the dancing candle flame, then wetted his fingers and doused it. ‘You truly lie at the root of all this,’ he whispered to the dark, ‘but that root runs deep and tangled, and will take a great deal of digging out.’
PART FIVE
‘This arrogance will cause his ruin and total fall.’
The Monk of Malmesbury, Life of Edward II
The assassin, the Vengeance as he called himself, swept furiously across the meadow in the lazar hospital of St Giles. Dusk had fallen. The sky was darkening as nature greeted the gathering night. An owl hooted from a copse of trees, the ghostly sound echoing above the deserted wind-swept meadow. The bracken and gorse rattled as night hunters began their search for prey. The assassin kept to the shadows, moving soundlessly, taking full advantage of the trees and bushes, ready to sheathe his naked sword if approached, when he could assume another guise and put on a different mask.
He reached a line of buildings, paused, waited and watched. The lepers always preferred the dark. After their evening meal in the hospital refectory, they would creep out to take advantage of the evening breeze. They liked to sit and watch the last rays of the sun, the moon wax stronger and the stars blossom full against the summer sky. Once free of their companions, they would unwind the putrid bandages from around their rotting mouths. They liked nothing better than to expose their skull-like faces – lips, eyelids and noses half eaten away – to the balmy coolness of the breezes.
The Vengeance moved on, passing through the lychgate into God’s Acre, slipping like a ghost along the coffin path. In the twilight the assassin glimpsed his first victim: Otho, a leper knight, greatly eaten by the disease. The old soldier sat on a table tomb. On his right, a capped candle; on his left, a small parcel of bread and cheese. Otho liked nothing better than to sit there chewing clumsily on his food, basking in the calmness of the night. The assassin approached, his razor-sharp sword gripped tightly in both hands. Otho, who had fought out in the redlands of Outremer, taken part in furious struggles at this oasis or that, sensed that something was wrong. The assassin was moving quickly, booted feet scraping the ground. Otho turned, alarmed, but the killing blow was faster, scything through the leper’s neck, a clean, sharp severing so the blood erupted like water gushing through a spout as the head came clean off to bounce like a ball along the pebble-dashed path.
Satisfied, the assassin moved soundlessly as a shifting shadow back along the coffin path to the death house. Another victim was caught unawares. An inmate, crouching to tie the string around his leggings, stretching out neck and head, which made him vulnerable to the cutting blow of the assassin’s two-edged sword …
Corbett had just broken his fast in the taproom of the Merry Mercy when a breathless Ausel burst into the tavern shouting his name, so choked with fear, the former Templar could hardly speak. Corbett managed to calm him and learnt that hideous murder had been committed in the lazar hospital. He summoned Ranulf and Chanson, who were sharing a stoup of ale in the garden, enjoying the freshness of a new day. War belts were collected and strapped on. Once ready, Corbett followed Ausel through the narrow lanes to the hospital.
They found Crowthorne and the two remaining Templar knights, Burghesh and Stapleton, in the master’s parlour. Frightened men, they sat with swords drawn behind a locked and bolted door, which they reluctantly opened to admit Ausel, Corbett and his two companions.
‘They blame us,’ Ausel gasped, mopping his sweaty face with a rag. ‘They blame us.’
‘For what?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘In God’s name, you are Templar knights, warriors.’
‘This morning.’ Ausel drew a deep breath. ‘As you know, it was mist-strewn. The lazar hospital came to life, if you can describe it like that,’ he added bitterly. ‘We gather every day in the church for our dawn prayer, just to make sure all is well. Anyway, this morning our way was blocked by leper knights. You explain!’
He gestured at Crowthorne, the leech, who, face all pale and unshaven, sat trembling on a stool, fingers constantly scratching his right cheek. ‘They were angry,’ he began. ‘It was still half-light. The mist had yet to lift.’ He waved a hand. ‘We were walking to the church and they just came out of the mist, swathed in their robes and bandages. They were not yet buckled for battle, though I saw their war belts nearby. They screamed how the disgraced Templars had no right to be in their lazar house, how they had shattered the peace and harmony of St Giles.’ Crowthorne grabbed a goblet of minted water and gulped noisily. ‘I asked them what had happened. Their leader – I am sure it was Mausley – talked about abominations being found, leper knights foully slain, their heads severed. How their corpses were now laid out in the charnel house, the crypt beneath the church.’ Again he paused to sip from the goblet.
‘That’s where the leper knights lay out their dead,’ Ausel explained.
‘Why?’ Ranulf asked.
‘That’s the way it has always been. The death house is usually for those who serve here and die in that service.’
‘So what happened next?’ Ranulf asked.
‘It became more and more violent,’ Ausel replied. ‘They said we had brought nothing but trouble. Stones and clumps of earth were hurled at us.’ He shrugged. ‘We retreated. We had no choice.’
He paused at a rapping at the door. No one went to answer. Eventually Crowthorne gave a deep sigh, rose to his feet, drew the bolts and stepped outside. Corbett went to follow and caught the stench of rottenness seeping in, the reek of putrid, unwashed bandages. Crowthorne returned, pale-faced and trembling. He closed then barred the door and leaned against it. He scratched his cheek again and pointed at Corbett.
‘Mausley and the leper knights want to meet with you outside the crypt. They insist you come alone.’
‘Master!’ Ranulf warned. Chanson got to his feet, shaking his head.
‘I will go. I doubt if they will hurt me.’ Corbett rose, tightened his war belt and glanced around. Once again he wondered if Philip of France or his minion de Craon would really concern themselves about these knights. The Templars looked what they were: cowed, beaten, exhausted men well past their prime: Roger Stapleton, his lined, severe face all petulant like that of a tired old monk; Walter Burghesh, cramped and furtive in his movements; Ausel was different: concerned about himself and lacking any real moral leadership. Now and again Corbett would catch an expression, a twist of the lips, the cast of a glance. Ausel was a man who had a great deal to hide, or so it appeared. Could one of these knights, Corbett wondered, be a spy for de Craon, a renegade paid to kill the others and so cause agitation? And was Crowthorne innocent of any wrongdoing? A leech who made it obvious that he should be in charge here and fiercely resented the Templar presence?
‘Master,’ Ranulf warned, ‘I should come with you.’
‘No,’ Corbett retorted. ‘All of you stay here.’ He pulled up the hood of his cloak, left the chamber and made his way across to the church. He felt as if he was walking through a land of ghosts.
The hospital fell ominously silent around him. Now and then a shape would glide by; occasionally Corbett heard the chilling rasp of a leper, their mouth, nose and chest rotting to nothingness.
He left the huddle of buildings, moving across to the crypt. The sun remained hidden, the clouded sky reluctant to break, whilst a cloying river mist swirled in to cloak, hide, deceive and disguise. Corbett, one hand on his sword hilt, approached the steps leading up to the main door; to the right of these a second set led down to an iron-barred gate, which provided entrance to the crypt and the charnel chamber it contained. The gate now hung open, two lanternhorns gleaming either side of the entrance.
Corbett went down, stooping to enter the crypt. He straightened up and stared around. A cavernous chamber, the crypt was dark as any dungeon except for the thick tallow candles that had been lit and placed at the head and foot of three makeshift biers laid out on the floor, close to a heavy iron rail. Beyond this rose mounds of gleaming bones: skulls, ribcages, shards of legs and arms, all piled up in tangled heaps. These were the remains of the long-buried and forgotten dead, plucked from their graves and tombs in God’s Acre to make room for the more recently deceased. Corbett walked slowly towards the three biers and immediately turned away gasping, trying to control his stomach. On each bier sprawled the mangled remains of a leper: the bandaged, severed heads and decapitated torsos stinking and drenched in congealed blood. A hunchbacked, knobbly-headed rat scampered out of the dark, scurrying across the corpses, snout twitching, eyes bright.
‘God have mercy,’ Corbett whispered, then froze at the rasp of steel from outside. He drew his own sword, carefully climbed the steps and stared at the four grotesques confronting him. Leper knights, faces and hands swathed in bandages, hoods pulled close, cloaks thrown over their shoulders to reveal the war belts strapped around their waists. One crept forward soundlessly, slinking like some ghost, his two-edged sword held before him. Corbett crouched, holding his own weapon steady in both hands. The leper lunged, sword whirling. Corbett struck back, blocking the blows whilst parrying with the tip and razor edge of his own weapon. He sensed the leper knight was skilled but weak, easy to fend off.
Corbett’s opponent retreated. The clerk expected another to take his place, but the leper knight, breathing noisily, abruptly dropped his sword, and the others followed suit before crouching to sit on the ground. Corbett sheathed his own sword and watched as the knights undid the bandages across their faces to reveal the sheer horror of their disease. He fought to hide his revulsion. He could only stare pityingly at the swollen, liverish faces, deformed and corrupted, eyelids thinned, eyeballs popping, noses collapsed, lips wasted away, mouths locked in grotesque, gaping smiles.
‘Sir Hugh Corbett,’ their leader murmured, ‘we, the living dead, greet you. Look at us, our clothes sticking to our rotting flesh. We look like corrupted corpses. We eat snouting like pigs. No woman would approach us. No friend greet us. My name is Mausley, Sir Peter Mausley; on behalf of my companions, I salute you.’
The leper knight covered his face, indicating that the others should do the same.
‘It was good to cross swords with a fellow warrior,’ he declared, ‘though I could not have sustained that for long.’
‘The Templars are fellow warriors.’
‘I don’t think so, Sir Hugh. They were forced upon us, and because of them, three of our brothers, venerable, weak, sickened unto death, were executed yesterday evening, decapitated like felons, heads severed as if they were some filthy weed. Sir Hugh, you are the king’s man. Ausel was appointed here because of his relationship with Gaveston. We want them gone.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We want the Templars gone. They are not lepers. This cohort once called themselves the Brotherhood of the Wolf, but in truth, they are toothless and clawless. Because of them and their ilk, Acre fell and the cross was expelled from Outremer. Philip of France wants to arrest them. Let the devil have his way, that’s what we say.’ Mausley’s words were greeted with grunts of approval from the others. ‘They came here,’ he continued, ‘pretending to be lepers even though they are not. They lord it over us whilst we have to sit and watch. A murderous mayhem has engulfed our community. The deaths are because of them. Sir Hugh, have pity on us. We came here to die with honour, with peace, yet the harmony of this lazar house has been shattered by horrid slaughter and cruel stabbings. Now three of our brothers have been murdered, though by whom and why is a mystery. We understand that where Templars go vengeance follows, but poor, aged, diseased leper knights? We want the Templars gone now. The usurper Master Ausel should hand over the hospital to the care of Master Crowthorne.’
‘Or?’ Corbett demanded.
‘There is an alternative. We will kill them all in self-defence, and why not?’ Mausley spread his hands. ‘What do we have to lose? What punishment could be inflicted on us? All we want is to live our lingering lives in peace.’
Corbett stared at these hapless warriors and his heart went out to them. The sea of troubles they faced had been totally ignored in the violent swirl of politics engulfing both the court and the city.
‘I agree,’ he replied. ‘I will see to the Templars’ immediate removal. But tell me, you talk of murderous mayhem. Do you know anything about it, the cause, the purpose, the perpetrator?’
Mausley turned and spoke swiftly to his companions, a muffled conversation in what Corbett recognised to be the lingua franca.
‘Grandison.’ He turned back to Corbett. ‘Grandison was most pleasant. A true knight, courteous and gentle, though much troubled.’ Mausley paused to clear mucus from his mouth. ‘He would meet with us. We would talk about the fall of Acre, the savage attack by the Mamelukes on the Accursed Tower …’
‘I know,’ Corbett intervened, ‘the principal defence of Acre; when it fell, so did the city. Many people blame the Templars for the disaster.’
‘Well, we would debate that. Grandison became more relaxed and apologetic. He openly admitted that he and his colleagues should not be sheltering at St Giles. Apparently they all came from the same Templar house, deep in the forest of Epping: Temple Combe Manor, a fairly wealthy establishment due to its brisk trade in timber. It has now been seized by the Crown pending the final stages of the Templars’ dissolution.’ Mausley paused to sip from a small waterskin kept beneath his cloak. ‘Now listen to this, royal clerk. We also discussed the allegations levelled against the Templar order. At first Grandison was defensive, certainly when his companions were present or close by. One night, however, he was alone, sitting out on that bench in the great meadow nursing a jug of the richest Bordeaux. I went out to enjoy the evening breeze and joined him there. We shared the wine.’ The leper shrugged. ‘I carry my own cup. Grandison then made the startling confession that, in so far as he was concerned, many of the allegations levelled against the Templars were true.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what he claimed. He called Temple Combe a den of robbers, a coven of warlocks, a brothel full of impure desires and acts. Oh, he went around armed, but it was his Templar comrades he feared and avoided.’
Corbett stared speechlessly at these muffled, hooded figures.
‘And if those allegations are true,’ Mausley continued, ‘then why should the French want the Templars dead? Indeed,’ he chuckled, ‘the French envoy de Craon would pay good silver for such testimony.’
‘Why indeed?’ Corbett murmured almost to himself. ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.
‘No, my lord clerk.’
Corbett got to his feet.
‘You will keep your word, Sir Hugh?’
‘Rest assured the Templars will leave.’
When Corbett arrived back at the master’s parlour, he found his words were prophetic. Ausel, Burghesh and Stapleton were already gone.
‘Fled,’ Crowthorne declared triumphantly. ‘Ausel received some message; they have all left.’
‘Where to?’
‘God knows,’ Crowthorne rep
lied.
‘Holy Trinity the Little. It’s the nearest church that offers sanctuary.’
Corbett turned. Mistress Philippa, garbed in the voluminous gown of the Guild of St Martha, stood in the doorway.
‘As I arrived,’ she walked into the chamber, ‘they were leaving, saddlebags over their shoulders, war belts strapped on. I asked them where they were going. They replied that it was no longer safe here. They felt threatened, truly frightened …’
‘I would say terrified.’ Crowthorne spoke up.
‘Who was the message from?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Heaven knows,’ Crowthorne sneered, ‘but they have gone. Now we can have our hospital back, peace within our walls.’
Corbett beckoned at Ranulf to follow him out. ‘They’ve fled now,’ he declared, ‘because it is still early morning: there will be no crowds and little risk of being apprehended.’
‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ Corbett paused on the path leading down to the main gate of the hospital. Mistress Philippa and Agnes Sokelar came hurrying down behind them. ‘Sir Hugh, please,’ Philippa pleaded, ‘can we come? We do have some influence with these men. We could help.’ Both women paused, breathless. ‘And there is one other matter,’ Philippa whispered, ‘that I must inform you of.’
