Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘You are sure it was Ausel?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, like you, I have studied logic in the schools. Remember, if there is only one probability, then it is most probable that it is also the truth. Ausel was the only probability: he served in all the localities where these blasphemies occurred. I believe him to be a ferocious killer, an assassin, a Herod who slays the innocent for his own filthy pleasures.’

  Corbett shook his head, got to his feet and walked to stare out of the window at the rose garden.

  ‘I know what you are thinking, Sir Hugh.’

  Corbett turned. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘That a man like Ausel, a Templar knight, vowed to poverty and chastity, could not be guilty of such heinous crimes. A man dedicated to good in the eyes of God and man.’ The Wolfman sipped from his goblet. ‘Sir Hugh, I have hunted his like before. Men who love the sheer violence and brutality of attacking and ravishing the young and the innocent. As I have said, in Outremer such demons could do what they liked amongst the poor, and often did. This type of killer suffers from a truly dangerous leprosy of the soul. To all intents and purposes they appear upright and honourable; they can be a priest, a monk, a friar, a merchant, a knight,’ he smiled, ‘even a royal clerk. They can be openly virtuous except when the malignancy within them forces them to go on the hunt. I have studied them over the years: the only cure for such a disease is death.’

  ‘So what will you do when you find Ausel?’

  ‘I have been waiting for my opportunity,’ the Wolfman replied. ‘Ausel took shelter in that lazar hospital for years; he was in sanctuary, protected by the king. I now understand that he and two others have fled that place. The other two, or so I am given to believe, have been murdered, possibly by Ausel himself.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Perhaps they either learnt of or suspected Ausel’s deadly secret sin. I don’t know.’

  ‘What you say is possible,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Where do you think Ausel will go next?’

  ‘Temple Combe, that deserted, lonely manor deep in Epping Forest.’

  ‘Why there?’

  The Wolfman smiled to himself. ‘Sir Hugh, when the royal treasure was stolen from the abbey crypt, how much of it was never recovered?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Please, Sir Hugh, how much?’

  Corbett narrowed his eyes as he recalled lists and indentures. ‘I would say,’ he mused, ‘a good third at least. Many of the smaller items: coins, miniature gold bars, jewels and other such priceless objects. Again, why?’

  ‘And where do you think the treasure is now?’ the Wolfman insisted, ignoring Corbett’s question.

  ‘According to rumour, certain merchants, goldsmiths and silversmiths in London and Essex profited greatly.’

  ‘Did you know that Rougehead was part of the gang?’

  ‘At the time he was calling himself John Priknash. He was, as with many of the gang, much suspected, but nothing was proved. We did not even have a clear description of him.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘We still don’t.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the Wolfman agreed, ‘that’s Rougehead, a subtle trickster, madcap and fey. A former Templar, certainly a friend of Ausel.’ He paused at Corbett’s exclamation of surprise. ‘Oh yes, they were comrades; their paths have certainly crossed. Because of Ausel, I have learnt a little more about his ally Rougehead. The Lord has sent me out like a lamb amongst wolves, but he has also given me the cunning of serpents.’

  ‘A saint among sinners?’ Ranulf observed.

  ‘I am innocent of all sin, but I move through a world weighed down and sinking beneath an ocean of it. Now, Sir Hugh, I have learnt that Rougehead was a leading member of Puddlicot’s gang. He broke into the crypt and kept what he stole, then disappeared into the wilds of Essex along with his plunder. Rougehead, or Priknash, kept well clear of Temple Combe: he would not be welcomed by the other Templars, but Ausel would protect and sustain him. They were comrades in crime.’

  ‘So,’ Corbett agreed, ‘Rougehead takes part in the robbery then withdraws into the green fastness of Epping. Ausel gives him shelter and sustenance. Other Templars may suspect all this but there is nothing much they can do; that’s what my old comrade Grandison was referring to. He may have had his suspicions about Ausel and would certainly be wary of a renegade like Rougehead. Anyway, what does it matter now that Rougehead is dead?’

  ‘Is he, Sir Hugh? Not what I’ve heard. Oh yes, three years ago he allegedly attended that fateful supper that ended in a feast of murder. According to common report, Rougehead and his three accomplices were decapitated and that hive of sin, the Salamander, was burnt to the ground. However, those who live in the shadows chant a different hymn. They say that four skeletons and four heads were never actually counted; that somehow Rougehead suspected a trap and escaped. Rougehead is a master conjuror, skilled in disguise. I heard one rumour that for a while he led a troupe of professional mummers made up of whores, defrocked clerics and renegade Templars.’ The Wolfman patted his jerkin. ‘Rougehead hides his appearance. Allegedly he has a scar here on his right shoulder where the Templar insignia was removed; he also has a healed wound on his thigh, the legacy of a Saracen dagger left during their ferocious onslaught on the Accursed Tower at Acre. The fall of that fortress led to Rougehead reneging on his order. A skilled linguist, a man of many appearances, he slipped back into England then away again in a flutter of shadow.’

  ‘To France?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘A Templar,’ Corbett declared, ‘a renegade who could fabricate and lie. Rougehead would certainly do Philip of France’s bidding. Could he have returned? Could Rougehead, that master of disguise, be responsible for the murders at St Giles, even that of Slingsby at the Merry Mercy?’

  ‘He is a master of disguise,’ the Wolfman agreed. ‘He could be here, there or anywhere.’

  ‘He and Ausel could be confederates working together.’ Corbett returned to his chair and pointed at the Wolfman. ‘I have already asked you this. What will you do if and when you capture Ausel?’

  ‘He is a criminal. I will make him confess, then I shall take him back to Sir John Howard, who, I believe, is also a local justiciar.’

  ‘And execution will follow immediately,’ Corbett murmured.

  ‘Ausel is a Templar knight,’ Ranulf exclaimed.

  ‘They no longer exist,’ the Wolfman retorted. ‘And who would care for one who is also a slayer of innocents? I know Sir John Howard. In the end Ausel will confess.’

  ‘I am also the king’s commissioner,’ Corbett declared, ‘I need to interrogate Ausel. When do you leave?’

  ‘I will lodge here tonight. Tomorrow I will travel to Temple Combe and begin my hunt. Ausel is like any wild beast: he can roam, toss his head, display his tusks, but he can also be hunted, trapped and eventually killed.’

  ‘But not before I question him?’

  ‘Then come with me.’

  Corbett glanced at Ranulf. ‘Perhaps one of us should? But let me think …’

  Once the Wolfman had left, Corbett asked Ranulf to lay out his writing tray.

  ‘Interesting,’ he declared. ‘I charged the Magister Viae to discover more about Puddlicot’s gang and the robbery of the crypt, but the Wolfman certainly seems to know a great deal.’

  ‘You hunted Puddlicot, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Precisely, Ranulf. He was my special quarry. Puddlicot, however, presided like an abbot over a widespread gang that comprised every layer of society in London: powerful merchants and wealthy goldsmiths as well as some of the most ruthless rifflers and robbers you could pray not to meet. But let us leave that and put together what we have now learnt. We will match the pieces and see if we can glimpse any picture in all of this puzzle.’

  ‘Will we go to Temple Combe?’

  ‘Let me first think clearly, and you can assist me.’

  The Clerk of the Green Wax sat down. Corbett patted him on the shoulder, asked Chanson to keep close watch on the door and then began
to pace up and down.

  ‘So what do we know, Ranulf, eh? Henry Sumerscale and Matthew Fallowfield: we suspect their true names were Poultney and Aschroft, but this is not a verifiable truth. More importantly,’ he paused, ‘what do we know about them?’

  ‘Fallowfield,’ Ranulf replied, raising his head, ‘was the older man. A Templar who probably served on board ship both in northern waters and the Middle Sea. He had stripes on his back that could be due to military discipline or being captured as a slave by the Saracens. He was definitely the more experienced of the pair, and could converse in both Latin and the lingua franca. I have the distinct impression that he was the younger man’s protector. This would accord with the epitaph carved on the funeral cross above his grave in God’s Acre at Holy Trinity the Little, “Matthew, faithful servant”.’

  ‘Excellent, Ranulf. Write that up later. And Sumerscale?’

  ‘A younger man. Very handsome. No more than a youth. He was a foundling raised by the Minoresses, who placed him as a page within the Templar order. A worthwhile venture. The boy would be schooled in both his horn book and the use of arms. A young man dedicated to being a knight.’

  ‘Good. What else?’

  ‘Sumerscale and Fallowfield were members of the Temple Combe preceptory. There is a deep suspicion that this manor was a haven of sin. Rougehead had ties with it, but I suspect these were highly secret. I also believe that Sumerscale and Fallowfield were known to those Templars, who may well have been aware of their real names. Anyway, Temple Combe certainly wasn’t a manor to be proud of. According to your old comrade Grandison, the Templars, individually or those of the Temple Combe community, were corrupt, guilty of the most heinous sins. I suspect he was thinking of Ausel, who was a prime example of such wickedness. Ausel indulged in the most devilish lusts and may have been involved with Rougehead and others in the robbery of the king’s treasure at Westminster.

  ‘Master, Temple Combe is shrouded in mystery, a lonely, deserted manor. We must imagine Ausel, Rougehead and possibly others slipping in and out so that it became more of a robbers’ den than a house of prayer and discipline. The Templars there were old men. They had seen their order expelled from Acre. Perhaps they had grown cynical. Maybe they indulged in their own sins and turned a blind eye to those of others. I concede this is only conjecture, especially my belief that Ausel’s comrades may have been aware of the secret sins of some of their colleagues.’

  ‘I agree.’ Corbett nodded. ‘I truly believe Sumerscale was a member of the Temple Combe community. A handsome young man, he may have been foully abused by Ausel and perhaps others. The Magister Viae suggested this. Anyway, in time, a protector, somebody with integrity, emerges to defend the boy: the Templar Fallowfield. I suspect it would be very difficult for a young novice Templar to voice complaints: Sumerscale would have been ignored, ridiculed and possibly threatened. I’ve seen the same happen in the households of some of the great lords, who regard their pages and squires as fair fodder for their lusts.

  ‘But then something unexpected happens. Philip of France intervenes. The Templar order in Europe, and eventually here, begins to disintegrate as the most heinous accusations are levelled against it. Others can refute these, argue against them, but Sumerscale is living proof that in certain Templar houses such vile sins were committed. Sumerscale and his protector use the disintegration of their order to flee, assume false names and plot their own salvation. They seek an audience with Prior Cuthbert at Blackfriars. Both men have serious grievances against the Templars. They also need employment and the means, if necessary, to flee the kingdom. Prior Cuthbert listens to them under the seal of confession, and what he hears deeply concerns him; that was more than obvious.’

  ‘Probably the abuse young Sumerscale suffered. He may even have referred to other hideous sins committed in or around Temple Combe.’

  ‘True,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Prior Cuthbert helps them. He gives them a recommendation to Naseby. Fallowfield is a former mariner and The Candle-Bright is an answer to a prayer. They can leave this kingdom legally and have a swift route, if necessary, to France and the Inquisition, not to mention Philip and de Nogaret, who were also conducting their own ruthless investigation into the order.’ Corbett paused. ‘However, Fallowfield is an experienced soldier, probably no fool. He would prefer to speak to the Inquisition rather than the French. Oh yes, after all, dealing with de Nogaret could, in the eyes of the English Crown and its lawyers, be portrayed as possible treason.’

  ‘Then, master, we have what you call a paradox, a contradiction. Two very vulnerable men who, when accused of treasonable talk, have no protector. However, once they are dead, someone exacts terrible vengeance for their executions.’

  ‘And who could that be?’ Corbett wondered.

  ‘What about Parson Layburn? Did he concoct the stories he told us? We only have his word for what truly happened. Did he collect Sumerscale and Fallowfield’s corpses at the behest of someone else, or for his own private reasons? After all, he did bury them; it was he who placed those crosses over their graves.’ Ranulf sipped from his goblet. ‘Or could it be the harbour master Sokelar, a man, I believe, who hides deep in the shadows?’

  ‘I can’t answer your questions, Ranulf but I am fascinated by that contradiction. Two mariners who seem to have few friends, and yet when their ship berths in Queenhithe they have a place to shelter, and when they are destroyed, the most virulent revenge is extracted. Yet even here there is further mystery. According to the Wolfman, Rougehead may have escaped.’

  ‘And the murders of the Templars?’ Ranulf asked. ‘It could be Ausel, Rougehead, Brother Jerome, either by themselves or together, and there are others: Sokelar, Parson Layburn, Crowthorne the leech …’

  ‘So many loose strands,’ Corbett murmured, ‘and some of those don’t fit at all into the pattern we are trying to create. Slingsby survived the destruction of his tavern three years ago, yet he comes here to be questioned by the king’s commissioner and is brutally stabbed. Why now, why here? Then there’s the dagger used to kill my old comrade Grandison, an item stolen from the crypt at Westminster eight years ago. Where has it been? Why was it used again? Then there is the warning to me. Why warn me? Who would do that …?’

  ‘And,’ Ranulf added, ‘the execution of those poor lazar knights. It’s obvious that they were deliberately killed to foment rebellion against the presence of the Templars at the hospital.’

  Corbett sat down, clenching and unclenching his hands. ‘If I could only trace everything back to a common root,’ he whispered, ‘but let me think …’

  Ranulf took the hint. He decided he had other business to attend to, signalling to Chanson to follow him out of the chamber and leave Master Long Face to his thoughts. Once they were gone, Corbett stretched out on the bed, Ave beads wrapped around one hand, the other tapping the hilt of his dagger. He thought of Maeve and the children, letting his mind drift between memories and prayers, quietly conceding to himself that so far he was making no sense of the tangled mysteries confronting him. He relaxed and drifted into a deep sleep.

  Ranulf shook Corbett awake.

  ‘Master,’ he hissed, ‘the boy from the ale house is here. Rochfort has sent him. He demands to see you.’

  Corbett struggled to sit up, dazed with sleep. ‘The hour?’ he demanded.

  ‘Long after Compline.’

  ‘Where?’ Corbett demanded. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘Rochfort wants to see you now. He insists that you come alone, but that’s a nonsense. I will accompany you. I have asked the Wolfman to trail behind, to make sure we are not followed. I have left Chanson fast asleep in the stables.’

  Corbett readied himself, and he and Ranulf left, hurrying along the darkened streets. The night life of the ward, its prowlers and predators, the squires of the knife and the garrotte, the beggars true and false, hastily withdrew at the sight of two men all buckled for war. The stench of the streets had diminished; their clamour had fallen to discordant burst
s of sound, be it the wailing of a child, the yell of a man or the screeched speech of some denizen of the night protesting at the pain he or she felt. When they reached the ale house, the hour was very late, the yard and the taproom completely deserted. The boy took them into the narrow kitchen, where Rochfort, deeply agitated, sat on an overturned barrel. He rose to greet them.

  ‘Sir Hugh, I meant you alone.’ He gestured at Ranulf. ‘You must be alone. I cannot talk. Oh, Sir Hugh, we need to leave here. Perhaps we can go to your manor at Leighton. I could help you with your bees.’ His voice faltered as he stared hard at Corbett, who felt a deep, clammy chill seize his belly. He watched Rochfort intently, waiting for what the Frenchman would say next. ‘Remember what Palladius said in his De re rustica? How in June the gentle murmur of a full hive can be distinguished from the harsh sound of a hive emptying? June is also the month for the outlawing of the drones.’

  Corbett’s hand fell to his dagger as he stared into Rochfort’s panic-filled face. Ranulf caught his master’s mood, throwing back his cloak, half easing his sword from its scabbard. Rochfort was fearful and wary; the boy sheltering in a corner began to whimper.

  ‘As I said,’ the former Templar declared, ‘I will only speak to you alone. Your companion must leave.’

  ‘Yes, you must, Ranulf.’ Corbett turned and surveyed the narrow kitchen, realising that there was only one door out. ‘You must leave,’ he repeated, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘Beekeeping is not for you. Anyway, remember what I told you from Theophrastus, how bees violently attack anyone who reeks of scent …’

  ‘Enough, enough, enough!’

  Corbett and Ranulf whirled round as the door to the kitchen crashed back and the room filled with armed men, cowled and cloaked, black as night, with arbalests and crossbows primed at the ready. Ranulf went to draw his sword, only to receive a cruel blow to the face. Corbett stood watching as the leader pulled the small turnspit boy towards him, the edge of his serrated Welsh dagger digging into the soft young throat.