by Paul Doherty
‘What?’
‘Brother Jerome, de Craon’s shadow. He is a Carmelite lay brother or supposed to be.’
‘So he claims.’
‘Well, did you know he slips out of the Merry Mercy? And on occasion he dons a different robe: the brown of the Franciscan, the grey of a Friar of the Sack or sometimes just a military cloak. He has been glimpsed doing this in the lanes and runnels around my tavern.’
Corbett closed his eyes and sighed. He had overlooked this. De Craon and his sinister shadow would play one role in the tavern publicly, even ostentatiously, but would act differently when secrecy or the darkness of the night provided the opportunity.
‘I shall remember that.’ He opened his eyes. ‘And yes, you can accompany us, though what good any of us can do …’
They continued on. Corbett secretly conceded to himself that de Craon and Brother Jerome had the better of him. They were masters of the game. He was deeply mired in the morass of lies swirling about him. Sometime and somewhere in the past, a grievous sin, or sins, had been committed, a searing, hellish offence had taken root to grow and flourish; only now was it reaching bloody fruition.
Lost in his own thoughts, Corbett allowed Ranulf to lead him and the two ladies through the streets. The mist still clung tenaciously, reluctant to shift or break free and allow the first of the sunlight to bathe the houses that towered either side. Nevertheless, despite the murk, stall owners and tinkers were preparing their merchandise. Water tipplers and milkmaids were readying themselves. A dung cart had been summoned to clear the squelching, bloody mess of two mongrels and a cat squashed under the wheels of a heavy barrow carting hunks of meat from the fleshers’ stalls outside Newgate. The smell was rank, and Corbett was grateful for the small perfumed pomander Mistress Philippa pushed into his hand. Somewhere a boys’ choir intoned the Benedictus. On any other occasion Corbett would have paused to listen, but he pressed on.
London was coming to life: bailiffs, their sharp canes at the ready, were leading a long line of drunkards, curfew breakers and roisterers to the stocks and pillories along the waterfront or up to the great cage on the Conduit in Cheapside. Rougher justice was being meted out to a housebreaker caught red-handed by the watch. The felon had been hoisted on to a gibbet cart with its makeshift gallows, a noose placed around his neck, the box he stood on shoved away so he kicked and danced as he choked whilst a clerk read out the reason for this brutal and abrupt execution. ‘The children of the dark’, as Ranulf called the denizens of London’s underworld, were scurrying back to their dungeons and caverns. The moonlit men, the street crawlers, squires of the sewer and other night walkers hastened to hide. The noise along the streets was beginning to rise, the clash of carts, the clatter of hooves and iron-shod wheels; windows and doors were flung open, lamps and lanterns extinguished.
Holy Trinity the Little was also preparing for the day, its main door pulled back as early risers streamed out after attending the dawn mass. Beggars and cripples, both the real and the counterfeit, had taken up position to whine and plead for alms. As he mounted the steps, Corbett sensed excitement amongst these departing churchgoers and realised that the Templars must have already reached the holy place and proclaimed their right to sanctuary. They would do so as publicly as possible to protect themselves against any law officer who then tried to curb, set aside or interfere with such an ancient and sacred right. Corbett paused on the top step as if to admire the tympanum above the main door, a striking carving in stone of Christ the Judge coming at the end of time.
‘Master?’ Ranulf queried.
Corbett had turned quickly, taking his companions by surprise as he stared back along the route they had taken. ‘There!’ he exclaimed. ‘So there you are!’
‘Who?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Our learned colleague Brother Jerome. I am sure I glimpsed his Carmelite robe. He is on the hunt; let him run for a while.’
Corbett led his companions into the sweet-smelling nave. Candlelight glowed before various shrines. Shadows moved as pilgrims visited their favourite statues in the small enclaves dedicated to London saints such as Erconwald and Becket. Corbett walked up the nave and waited for the others hurrying behind him. He pulled back the heavy velvet curtain that hung over the doorway to the cleverly crafted rood screen. The door beyond was open, the sanctuary still bathed in candlelight after the Jesus mass. Precious vessels stood on the altar. Young boys who acted as acolytes and servers scurried about, bowing and genuflecting towards the fiery red sanctuary light that glowed beside the bejewelled pyx holding the sacred host.
The Templars were already in the refuge built into the sanctuary wall to the right of the high altar. The enclave housed two cot beds, stools and a small table. Stapleton and Burghesh squatted on the floor just inside the entrance, eating hot oatmeal from pewter bowls, their saddle bags, panniers and war belts piled behind them.
‘Good morrow, Sir Hugh!’
Both Templars startled. They put their bowls down, clambering to their feet as Parson Layburn, resplendent in a red and gold chasuble, swept out of the sacristy to stand between Corbett and the two fugitives.
‘Parson Layburn.’ Corbett unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the floor. Ranulf did likewise. ‘Before you begin your homily, I know, recognise and accept the law of sanctuary.’
‘Especially in this rather unique situation.’ The parson’s pompous red face suited his waspish tone. ‘These are Templars, Poor Knights of Christ. They are not felons but sanctuary seekers in mortal fear for their lives. No warrant has been issued for their arrest or crime proclaimed against them.’
‘They are suspects in murder,’ Ranulf heatedly replied. ‘Indeed, in more than one unlawful slaying.’
‘We are innocent of any crime.’ Burghesh walked forward to stand beside the parson. ‘As our priest has said, we are in mortal fear of our lives. We have been attacked by lepers and harassed by some stealthy killer. His Grace the king promised his protection. My lord Gaveston appointed Ausel as master at St Giles to assist us …’
‘Where is Ausel?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Gone,’ Burghesh murmured. ‘He fled before I could ask him anything, telling us that we would meet again.’
‘That is true.’ Stapleton came to stand beside his comrade.
Corbett studied the worn, haunted faces of these desperate men. He suspected what they were planning. St Giles had proven to be a death trap; now they wanted to be free of both the hospital and London.
‘You will stay here the forty days and then you will be gone,’ he declared. ‘You will demand to be taken to a certain ship berthed at Queenhithe. Once aboard, you will flee far beyond the power of King Philip of France. And where is that? The Hanseatic ports and the Teutonic knights? Or to Sancho of Castile, who has founded the Order of Santiago to take in former Templars?’ Neither man replied. ‘Has Ausel gone ahead to prepare for all this?’
‘Sir Hugh, you cannot infringe the Church’s rite of sanctuary,’ Parson Layburn declared. ‘You should not even be here questioning these men. You know the law. You cannot break sanctuary.’
‘I am not. Nor do I intend to.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf and then at Mistress Philippa and Agnes, who stood behind him just inside the rood screen. ‘We bring you comfort,’ he declared. ‘I assure you, I will do all I can for you, both within and without. But I do need to question you. After all, I am a royal clerk, a king’s man. I carry his seal and I am in pursuit of justice.’
The parson turned to Stapleton and Burghesh, who nodded.
‘We will answer your questions, Sir Hugh but then you must be gone.’
Corbett murmured his agreement, and Mistress Philippa offered to prepare refreshments for them all. The parson readily accepted, adding that Philippa already knew where everything was. She left and the priest followed, muttering to himself. Ranulf stayed by the sanctuary steps as Corbett followed Burghesh and Stapleton across into the sanctuary enclave. He took the offered stool and sat down facing them.
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��Somebody is hunting you,’ he began. ‘He hunts, he traps then he kills you. You recognise that?’
‘Of course we do,’ Stapleton snapped. ‘That’s why we took refuge here.’
‘What do you think is the cause of all this?’
‘We don’t know, Sir Hugh.’
‘You came from the manor of Temple Combe, deep in the forest of Epping. A day’s ride away, yes?’
‘We were ordered there,’ Burghesh replied, ‘after the fall of Acre. We left Outremer, journeyed to France then dispersed to different houses in England. Eventually we all gathered at Temple Combe, a fortified manor, comfortable enough and prosperous in its trade. Peasants, cottagers, charcoal burners and foresters also made their living around the manor. Then in December 1307, orders were issued for our arrest.’ He paused as Mistress Philippa and Agnes brought across a jug of ale and a tray of blackjacks. Corbett and Ranulf refused the offer of drink, but the two Templars seized their tankards and gulped greedily.
‘I’ve asked you this before, but do the names Sumerscale and Fallowfield mean anything to you?’
‘No, Sir Hugh.’
‘I think you are lying.’
‘Think what you want, clerk,’ Stapleton snarled. ‘We are here in sanctuary, then we will be gone.’
‘The others may have known something,’ Burghesh added tactfully.
‘And Rougehead?’
‘A rogue, a former Templar,’ Burghesh replied evasively. ‘He floated like a piece of wreckage through our lives.’
‘And Ausel? Has he gone somewhere to help you, or has he just fled?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘You said you were in mortal fear of your lives. The sheriff and his bailiffs will demand to see good cause for that.’
‘We are Templars, members of a doomed order.’
‘You were that a year ago but you didn’t seek sanctuary in a London church. You must prove you are now in deadly peril.’
Stapleton rubbed his mouth and glanced quickly at Burghesh, who nodded. Stapleton undid the wallet on his belt and handed over a strip of parchment. The writing was that of a scribe, clerkly and clear. The threat it contained was a variation on a quotation from the prophet Isaiah: Vengeance is coming. Retribution hovers like a hawk. Put not your trust in princes or their promises.
‘Ausel received that, pushed under his chamber door,’ Burghesh declared. ‘The threat is clear enough.’
Corbett agreed and handed the strip back.
‘And the source?’ he asked. ‘The origin?’
‘It could be de Craon. Either he or some hireling.’
‘Who cares,’ Stapleton retorted. ‘It’s the threat that matters.’
Corbett sensed he would learn nothing more from these men, terrified, cowed and desperate to escape. He and Ranulf left the church and made their way back to the Merry Mercy. They passed de Craon and Brother Jerome in the entrance hall; both looked smug, as though sharing some secret joke at Corbett’s expense. Corbett ignored them, asking Chanson to take care of certain items and informing Ranulf that he wished to be alone in his chamber. Once there, he kicked off his boots, undid his war belt and lay down on the mattress, gazing up at the tester that stretched between the four bedposts. He felt confused and dispirited, with little to show for his investigation. He quietly prayed that the king and Gaveston would not summon him to Sheen to render an account.
Corbett’s dark mood did not lift when he later discussed matters with Ranulf, who reported how de Craon appeared very full of himself. The French envoy had apparently inveigled Mistress Philippa to prepare a splendid supper to celebrate some French saint’s feast, and she would be his one and only guest.
‘Minehostess is furious,’ Ranulf observed. ‘She cannot abide the man, but I suppose she must oblige.’ He grinned. ‘She is already threatening to plead her monthly courses and retire early to bed.’
Corbett heard him out and decided to visit the kitchens, where the turnspits, cooks, waferers and bakers were preparing a meal in accordance with de Craon’s instructions. Brother Jerome, no less, stood in the great kitchen, lecturing the tavern retainers on what was to be done and how it was to be achieved. Corbett glimpsed their surly faces and quietly smiled. He was sure Mistress Philippa’s cooks would delight in getting things wrong.
Around evening time, Corbett had two visitors. The first arrived just as the bells were tolling for Vespers. Fitzosbert the Ferret was a small man with a narrow, pointed face, eyes ever blinking, fingers fluttering, a clerk who thrived on searching the records, a task he deeply relished. Dressed in dark-brown and green fustian, he scurried in to squat on the stool Corbett offered him.
‘You are most welcome,’ Corbett declared. Fitzosbert squeaked his reply. Corbett had to glare at Ranulf and Chanson, who stood behind their visitor trying to muffle their laughter. Corbett hid his own amusement at Fitzosbert’s earnestness, his spidery fingers coated with dried sealing wax and ink stains.
‘I am very busy on your business, Sir Hugh,’ Fitzosbert gushed. ‘Very busy indeed. From Matins to Compline and then some. My lady wife is quite overcome by the hours I am working. Oh, thank you, sir.’ He plucked the silver coins from Corbett’s open hand, then glanced around. ‘Perhaps I could bring my lady wife to a fine hostel such as this. The smells, Sir Hugh, the smells!’
‘The names,’ Corbett broke in. ‘Did you search for those names?’
‘I did, and I found them. Henry Poultney could be Henry Sumerscale and Matthew Aschroft could be Matthew Fallowfield. Poultney and Aschroft were both members of the community at Temple Combe. I can trace them on the list of tax returns up to the dissolution of the order in 1307, almost four years ago. After that, they disappear. There is nothing to explain what happened to them; they seem to have vanished from the face of the earth.’
‘Did you learn anything about them?’
‘Aschroft was a serjeant, a veteran who had served on Templar galleys in the Middle Sea. He was captured by the Saracens but escaped.’
‘And Poultney?’
‘Apparently a squire on his path to knighthood.’
‘So,’ Corbett declared, ‘Aschroft may have passed his fortieth summer. And Poultney?’
‘At the time he disappeared, about sixteen summers old. Apparently he entered Temple Combe as a young page. He was placed there by the good sisters of St Francis, the Minoresses; they have an orphanage close to the Tower, where they take in abandoned children, waifs and unwanted babies.’ Fitzosbert smiled in a display of cracked yellow teeth. ‘Sir Hugh, I anticipated you. I approached the good sisters, but they could tell me nothing. They are vowed to secrecy. Once a child leaves their care and is placed somewhere else, all records, letters, indentures and memoranda are—’
‘Totally destroyed,’ Corbett intervened. ‘Yes, my friend, I have heard of that, whilst Templar records would only tell us what happened from the time that young man joined them, and those, I suppose, will be scarce enough.’
‘Very little, Sir Hugh,’ came the mournful reply.
‘Ah well.’ Corbett waved at the door. ‘If you could wait a while …’
Chanson ushered the lugubrious clerk out into the taproom, assuring him he could drink the finest London ale. Corbett stared at Ranulf and shook his head.
‘Two men,’ he sighed, ‘who appear to be of little importance when they were alive. However, once dead, judicially murdered, the most hellish vengeance is unleashed.’
‘Master, what is the logic of your argument?’
‘A paradox, Ranulf, a contradiction. Two vulnerable men with no protection or defence whilst alive, but once they are murdered – and that is what happened to them – those responsible, Rougehead and his coven, are cruelly destroyed.’
‘Could it be the work of de Craon?’ Ranulf said. ‘Were Sumerscale and Fallowfield, or Poultney and Aschroft, agents of the French Crown? Consequently, was the destruction of Rougehead and his coven, as well as the murders amongst Templars, de Craon’s revenge? Moreover, if
de Craon is behind the murders at St Giles, he is also slaughtering men who might threaten or weaken his master’s attack on the Templar order.’
‘Possible, Ranulf; that too has a logic all of its own. Were Sumerscale and Fallowfield – and we will call them that for clarity’s sake: after all, those were the names they lived under, the names they died with – well, were they killed because they were Philip’s henchmen? Is that why we know so little about them? De Craon certainly had the means to unleash a ferocious response against Rougehead’s coven, followed by the total destruction of the Salamander.’ Corbett paused. ‘Speculation, speculation, Ranulf, and once we begin to develop possibilities, we must consider all that is possible.’
‘Such as?’
‘What if there is another party, a group or individual, hiding deep in the shadows who regarded Sumerscale and Fallowfield as kin, allies or close comrades? Who were not swift enough to save their friends from the gallows but are now committed to vengeance. Yet if that is the case, why wait three years? Rougehead and his coven were slain within three months of Sumerscale and Fallowfield being hanged. So perhaps the murder of these Templars has nothing to do with those deaths. Perhaps the simplest and easiest solution is the most logical. Forget Sumerscale and Fallowfield; they are another mystery. Philip and de Craon are slaughtering the Templars at St Giles because they regard them as a threat. Yet how does Slingsby’s murder fit in with all this?’
‘Master,’ Ranulf broke in, ‘Sumerscale and Fallowfield, whatever their true names, were tried by military tribunal on board The Candle-Bright. Naseby discussed their deaths with you, and his feelings of guilt.’
‘Yes he did, Ranulf. And, to anticipate your next question which I have answered before: according to Naseby there was no reference during the trial to the accused recognising Rougehead. If they had recognised him from a former life, they would surely have used it in their defence and depicted him as a rogue, a malicious liar or their lifetime enemy, yet Rougehead had also been a Templar.’
‘Perhaps Sumerscale and Fallowfield did not want to reveal their true identities. Perhaps they thought it would make matters worse? But that takes us round and round in circles. At the end of the day, Sir Hugh, I truly believe the two men did not know or recognise their accuser. Now I admit that’s strange, both the accuser and the accused being members of the same order. Perhaps the solution is that Rougehead had nothing to do with the English Templars.’ Ranulf smiled and shook his head. ‘Yet if that’s the case, what was he doing in England roistering in a tavern like the Salamander?’
