by Paul Doherty
‘Oh yes,’ they sang back.
‘And what did you see?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Mother, time is passing. I hunt a murderer.’
‘We saw them. They swirled past us,’ the old woman gabbled. ‘We saw them long after the Vespers bell; the curfew lights were glowing in the steeple.’
‘Them?’
‘Two men!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘They were garbed in cordovan boots and woollen cloaks, devils incarnate. They slipped through the lychgate, hurrying from the sacristy, darker shadows than the rest, then they were gone.’
Realising he would get no further sense out of them, Corbett made his farewells, rose and walked back up to the rood screen, where Ranulf was waiting.
‘Nothing, Sir Hugh, nothing in their saddlebags.’
‘Then let’s return to our chambers.’
PART SIX
‘He resisted loyal service and did not keep his fealty with the King of England.’
The Monk of Malmesbury, Life of Edward II
They left the church, crossed the cemetery and went out through the lychgate. The streets were becoming busy: bells tolled, carts rattled, the rumble of wheelbarrows a constant noise. The morning mist was lifting and the citizens of the ward were eager to begin another day’s trading. Stalls, booths and display tables were being busily prepared by heavy-eyed apprentices. The owners of ale houses, cook shops and roasting places were firing stoves, ovens and braziers. The air was polluted by the smell of night soil freshly deposited, though the sweet perfume of freshly baked bread also drifted out to tease the nostrils. Debtors from a nearby compter, chained and manacled, had been released with dish, cup and bowl to beg for food, drink and alms.
Corbett turned swiftly at a corner and glimpsed someone he had noticed waiting for them outside the lychgate. He recognised the man’s Lincoln-green jerkin, like that of a royal forester, the close-cropped head of a soldier. The Wolfman, that hunter of outlaws and malefactors, was pretending to be busy at a leather stall. He then turned away, disappearing up an alleyway. Corbett smiled. Sooner or later, he concluded, the Wolfman would leave the undergrowth and make himself known. He wondered what business that eerie individual was pursuing.
‘Is all well, master?’
‘No it isn’t.’ Corbett smiled. ‘But let’s pray that it ends so.’
They reached the Merry Mercy. Once closeted in its chamber, Corbett asked Ranulf to prepare parchment and pens as he filled two blackjacks from an ale jug. He thrust one of these into Ranulf’s hand and quickly toasted him. Once his companion was ready, Corbett began to pace up and down the chamber.
‘Let us gather our thoughts, Ranulf. First the Templars. They are now a disgraced, proscribed and broken order. In France they are being harassed even unto death. Here in this kingdom they have been given some leeway. A number of Templars from their house at Temple Combe in Essex took shelter in that lazar hospital at St Giles. One of them, Reginald Ausel, being a distant kinsman of Lord Gaveston, is appointed as temporary master. Their presence at the hospital was fiercely resented by other inmates. Individuals such as Crowthorne and Sokelar also despise the Templars. They regard them as abject failures responsible for the fall of Acre and the expulsion of all Christian armies from Outremer.
‘Murders occur in the lazar hospital. Templars are slaughtered in the most macabre and mysterious circumstances. Boveney is killed in an enclave outside the church. Grandison on a bench in a lonely meadow at the dead of night. Datchet in his chamber. All three had their weapons close by. All three offered no resistance to their slayer. There is not a shred of evidence that they defended themselves. Meanwhile, the other inmates of the lazar hospital become more and more resentful, probably agitated by Crowthorne, who wants the mastership for himself. Such resentment spills into violence after the brutal murder of three leper knights, decapitated like criminals. To all intents and purposes there is neither rhyme nor reason for these deaths. The lepers have had enough. They rise in revolt, terrifying their unwanted guests. Is that what the killer intended? That the Templars would be driven out and become even more vulnerable? In which case he certainly succeeded.
‘Ausel, Burghesh and Stapleton flee. They cannot tolerate the rising violence, the mysterious assassin who hunts them, the deep hostility of the lepers and, of course, that warning left about vengeance coming. Ausel disappears. Where has he gone? Temple Combe? Or is he trying to secure safe passage for himself and his companions to Scotland? They have mentioned the protection the Bruce has offered to other members of their order. Ausel is one mystery; the other is Burghesh and Stapleton. Fugitives, sanctuary men sheltering in a London church.’ Corbett tapped his boot against the turkey rug. ‘Nevertheless, Ranulf, they were still warriors, experienced soldiers, desperate and dangerous with their weapons close by. They lock themselves in sanctuary and think they are safe.’
‘Are you sure about that, master, that they had the keys?’ Ranulf put the quill pen down and seized another, closely inspecting its sharpened point before dipping it into the ink horn.
‘Oh yes, I am sure. Parson Layburn would have to give them the keys. They ate and drank and would need to go out to relieve themselves. Nevertheless, apart from that, they would keep themselves safe. They would bolt the rood screen as well as locking those two doors, one leading to the sacristy and the other going into the sanctuary. I believe that this is what happened. Night falls. Parson Layburn goes out on his business, whatever that is. Our two Templar fugitives prepare to leave. Saddlebags were packed and the men were cloaked and booted. I suspect they were expecting a visitor: someone who might help them, provide money, horses, food and safe passage elsewhere.’
‘Ausel?’
‘Perhaps. Either he or some other killer was allowed through those doors. In a word, their expected saviour proved to be their executioner.’
‘Without any resistance or sign of a struggle?’
‘Again, Ranulf, I concede that’s a mystery, but the assassin must be someone close to them, trusted by those men. So it must have been Ausel. Somehow he killed them without any sign of struggle, then left locking both doors behind him and taking the keys.’
‘Why that?’ Ranulf asked. ‘After all, the deed is done; what does it matter whether the keys are taken or left?’
‘I agree.’ Corbett paused in his pacing. ‘Why take the keys? Perhaps the answer is obvious: the assassin wanted to create the longest possible delay before the corpses were discovered. If Parson Layburn returned and decided to check on his uninvited guests, he would find the door locked and, exhausted after his work and perhaps the worse for drink, decide to leave matters be. Then of course there are the four old ladies.’
‘Those ancient crones?’
‘Yes, the Sisters of the Street. I am sure they scamper around looking for any profit. They would certainly try doors and so discover the crime, or …’
‘Or what, master?’
‘Was the killer someone the two men expected? If not, did the assassin know they were waiting for someone else and so locked both doors to impede that person? Let us say, for sake of argument, they were expecting Ausel but someone else arrived who knew them and was allowed in? The assassin strikes, then flees but locks the doors so Ausel will find it impossible to enter.’
‘So who is the killer?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I cannot imagine Mistress Philippa being a sword carrier or having the strength or skill to kill two knights, and, even if she did, what motive would she have? Of course there is Sokelar the harbour master, Crowthorne at St Giles, and we must not forget Parson Layburn.’
‘The parson?’
‘Perhaps he is connected to this mystery but as yet we are unaware of it.’ Ranulf paused. ‘Or perhaps it is someone we have not encountered. The Wolfman we glimpsed earlier?’
‘The Wolfman a hired killer?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘A killer, yes, but one who acts within the law, however barbaric that may be.’
‘In which case, Monseigneur de Craon, th
ough he is too much of a fox and a coward to prowl the streets of London.’
‘Brother Jerome is another matter though, eh, Ranulf? A true blood-drinker. But how could he win the confidence of the Templars to allow him into a locked sanctuary, unless of course he and de Craon are playing some intricately byzantine game and suborned the likes of Ausel. Jerome is a swift, sure and deadly assassin. Ausel could have allowed him into the hospital at St Giles and the sanctuary of Holy Trinity the Little. Now that could be a possibility: the Sisters of the Street claim they glimpsed two men, cloaked and cowled, leaving the church. I have studied Ausel: he is a weak man, vicious, but not a warrior, man against man. Did he take a killer with him? Brother Jerome? Yet why should Ausel be suborned by Philip’s man?’
‘Sweet heaven, master,’ Ranulf breathed. ‘It’s like being lost in a maze. We follow tangled paths that twist away, and the more we move, the further we are from the truth.’ He paused. ‘Sir Hugh, any news out of Paris?’
‘Silence, and that worries me deeply. Tallefert always promised that if he was discovered, he would simply flee in the clothes he was wearing and with whatever he was carrying. He would go either to Bordeaux or Boulogne. The same is true of our messenger Pietal. I impressed upon them never to delay, never tarry, never think that they could be overlooked, but to flee and to get word to me as soon as possible. So far nothing. No sound, no word, no voice is heard,’ Corbett added despairingly.
‘Is there anybody else?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Anyone we can use in Paris?’
‘There’s the Deacon. You met him on one occasion, the lifelong scholar with his holier-than-thou expression.’
Ranulf smiled. ‘A truly consummate actor, a mummer for any masque.’
‘Very true.’ Corbett scratched the side of his face, lost in thought. ‘You see, the Deacon is different from Tallefert. He’s a magpie looking for the odd glinting item, a snapper-up of trifles. He listens to the chatter and the gossip of the halls, the taverns and the eating houses of Paris. He rubs shoulders with clerks from the Louvre, men-at-arms from the Hôtel de Ville. Now the Deacon has a routine. About once a month he will visit Tallefert. He won’t knock on the door; he simply gets himself in, his one task to ensure all is well. I am going to wait for his next report; that’s all we can do. Meanwhile,’ he sighed, ‘we still have The Black Hogge. So far we have heard nothing about any new attacks. If only …’
He paused at a knock on the door, and Chanson came in.
‘Sir Hugh, you have a visitor. He came into the taproom, ordered a wine and sat on his own for a while. When I left, he followed me to the stables. He sends his regards, apologises for both following you and troubling you, but he needs to speak to you about Reginald Ausel.’
A short while later, Chanson and the Wolfman slipped into Corbett’s chamber. The clerk of the stables stayed near the door as Corbett and Ranulf clasped hands with their unexpected guest, who then sat down on the proffered stool, placing his heavy war belt on the floor beside him and the goblet he carried on the table.
‘Ranulf,’ began Corbett, ‘we are in the presence of the most skilled and dangerous hunter of men. If a price is placed on your head and the Wolfman decides to collect it, not even the king himself will save you. He has hunted malefactors the length and breadth of this kingdom and beyond.’
‘Though he is not very good at following people in the streets,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘We saw him.’
‘No, no,’ Corbett retorted, ‘we were meant to see him. You do that, do you not, Wolfman? You like to tell your quarry you are pursuing them?’
‘All those things done in the dark,’ the Wolfman replied lugubriously, ‘will one day be seen in the light. What is whispered in chambers will be shouted from the rooftops. I am not a child of the light, Master Ranulf, but I certainly work for their cause. When a wolf hunts, he lets his quarry know. The more they run, the more tired and desperate they become.’
Ranulf stared at the grizzled, swarthy face of the hunter. He was lean and sinewy, his grey hair cropped very close to his head, light-blue eyes ever watchful. He was smoothly shaven and Ranulf noticed how his fingers were tapered, clean and pared. He was dressed in earth-brown hose and Lincoln-green jerkin, very similar to a royal verderer, with good leather boots on his feet. He wore a woman’s ring on the little finger of his right hand and a matching necklace around his throat.
‘My late beloved wife’s,’ the Wolfman explained, following Ranulf’s stare. ‘Gone to God these last fifteen years. Murdered, Master Ranulf, raped by wolfsheads. I was absent being the king’s forester in Sherwood. We had a comfortable lodge, with a stable yard and a garden. Matilda divided that up: herb beds for the kitchen and a spice plot. She also loved to grow wild roses. She was the gentlest of people, my little mouse. Six wolfsheads called by. I found her naked corpse some distance from the lodge. We were expecting our first child. Anyway, I buried her in St Swithin’s graveyard, then took her necklace and ring and hunted her killers down.’
‘And?’
‘I kept them in a cage until all six were caught, deep in the forest where it was dark even during the brightest sunlight. I kept them there, then I set fire to the cage and watched them die. The Lord delivered them into my hands. The Strong One of Jacob heard my plea. I pulled them up root and stalk. I told all six, like I tell all my quarry, to convert, to turn back to the Lord and confess. How they must never put their trust in the swift and the strong. Those who cry out to the Lord may sow in tears but they will sing when they reap.’
‘An interesting ballad worthy of any minstrel.’
‘I am God’s own minstrel, Master Ranulf. I am the Lord’s bowman. I have been put on this earth to be God’s retribution, the humble servant of he who is the Alpha and Omega of all things.’
‘And why do you tell us this?’
‘Because,’ the Wolfman gestured at both Corbett and Ranulf, ‘the good Lord and my angel guardian have ushered me into the presence of other hunters. In this matter you are my brothers. We avenge one of the seven deadly sins, the murder of innocents who shriek to heaven for justice. The Lord has no hands on earth except ours to deliver justice for such crimes.’
‘And so,’ Ranulf jibed, ‘what do you want to say to us, your long-lost kin?’
‘Your clerk of the stables must have told you. We pursue the same quarry: Reginald Ausel.’
‘Why?’ Corbett demanded.
‘I suspect – indeed, I believe as the Lord has directed me – that Reginald Ausel, former Templar, is also the abuser and killer of innocent young people.’
‘Nonsense,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘For all his faults, Ausel is a Templar, a warrior, a swordsman …’
The clerk’s voice faltered as Corbett nudged him with the toe of his boot.
‘Believe me,’ the Wolfman placed a hand on the necklace around his throat, ‘I swear that I speak the truth.’
‘You are Pembroke’s man – Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, one of the great barons who oppose the king and Lord Gaveston. Ausel is a distant kinsman of the king’s favourite. When you strike at him, you also strike at Gaveston.’
‘Sir Hugh, I truly don’t care if Ausel is the king’s brother. Yes, I am Pembroke’s man, though in this matter I work for Sir John Howard.’
‘Ah.’ Corbett sat back in his chair.
‘Master?’
‘Howard,’ Corbett replied, ‘a very ambitious knight from a very ambitious family who own manors and meadows, ploughlands and cornfields, towns, hamlets and villages throughout Norfolk and Essex. Howard is not yet an earl, but he and his powerful kin nurse dreams of supping and dining with the greatest in the land.’
‘Be that as it may,’ the Wolfman continued, ‘it is the Lord who scrutinises the heart; it is he who guides the will, as he did with me. I have studied Reginald Ausel. He returned to this kingdom eighteen years ago, after the fall of Acre. Like many of his order, he moved around between various preceptories. Most of these, as with many Templar holdings, were out in the wild co
untryside. Temple Combe in Essex is one such. Now, whilst Ausel was at these different preceptories, horrid murders occurred, young men and women sexually abused before having their throats slit. Of course,’ the Wolfman added cynically, ‘who cares about some peasant? I suspect Ausel would have acquired a taste for such abominations when he served in Outremer. I have talked to men who fought there. Saracen children and their young womenfolk were regarded by some of our so-called warriors as natural prey. They could ravish, rape and kill and never be brought to justice.’
‘How old were these victims?’
‘Between seven and seventeen summers.’
‘You were asking who cares?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, and who does? Ausel would have escaped justice if hadn’t been for one murder he committed in Essex.’ The Wolfman sipped at his goblet. ‘Ausel fled to St Giles lazar hospital when the Templar order in this kingdom eventually collapsed. Once the Templars had left Temple Combe, rumours surfaced, tavern tattle …’
‘Which was?’
‘Well, the Templars leave and the sinful slayings cease. Has the good Lord sent us a sign? people asked. Now one of the victims murdered in Essex was a very comely blonde-haired wench, the daughter of a royal forester, a keeper of one of Howard’s lodges deep in the forest of Epping. She had caught the eye of Sir John; he regarded her as he would some beautiful rose growing to please him.’ The Wolfman sighed deeply. ‘Young, tender and very beautiful. Apparently the assault on her and the way she died was particularly horrific. Howard wanted both revenge and justice, so he hired me. Pembroke agreed. I prayed and fasted first, as I always do. You have heard of the Triduum?’ The Wolfman slurped from the goblet.
‘The three-day fast?’ Ranulf replied.
‘Yes, I always do that for the Lord before I begin my hunt. I speak the truth. I have travelled the length and breadth of this kingdom. I have visited all the Templar houses where Ausel resided. In virtually every locality where he served, I discovered that young people had been brutally assaulted and killed.’
