Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I will slit him,’ the leader warned, his voice muffled by the visor covering the lower half of his face. ‘I will slit this boy from ear to ear, then anyone else. Sir Hugh, tell your daggerman to obey.’

  ‘Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured, ‘follow me.’ He loosened his war belt, letting it fall to the floor. Ranulf, nursing the bruise to the side of his face, did the same. The leader stepped forward, pulling back his visor to reveal a long, sallow face with soulless eyes and a broken, twisted nose above a rat-trap mouth. ‘My name is Rougehead, Gabriel Rougehead. I welcome you here. I appreciate your references to beekeeping: a sure sign of warning between you and Rochfort and, it would seem, Ranulf too. I am glad you came, Corbett: I told that ale house brat that if he did not bring you without fuss and calm, I’d slit his master’s throat. Well, Sir Hugh!’ He pushed his face close to Corbett’s. ‘What do you say to that?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’

  ‘He soon will be,’ Ranulf added. Rougehead immediately hit the clerk again with the edge of his arbalest. Ranulf, spitting blood and cursing, lunged forward, but Corbett stepped in between the two men and sent the Clerk of the Green Wax crashing against the table in a clatter of flying pots and platters.

  ‘Ranulf,’ he hissed crouching down beside his companion, whose face was now a mass of bruises, ‘this is an order. Do what they say, as will I.’ Ranulf nodded. Corbett clasped him by the hand and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Not here,’ Rougehead ordered. ‘The drinking chamber.’

  Corbett, Rochfort, Ranulf and the terrified boy were pushed into the taproom. In the meagre glow of spluttering rush lights, the place lay shuttered, locked and bolted from the outside; no one could look in or out. Corbett and the others were made to sit at a makeshift table pulled into the middle of the room; their captors set four bowmen over them as guards. Corbett watched as the rest of the cohort now relaxed, pulling back hoods, undoing cloaks and loosening war belts. Ranulf was nursing his face. Rochfort tried to comfort the boy, whilst Corbett continued to study their captors.

  Rougehead he recognised as a villain, a devil incarnate, hell-spawned and fit only to be sent back. A ruthless killer who enjoyed inflicting pain and death. The rest were mercenaries, hard of face and hard of heart. Corbett had served with their kind during the old king’s wars and knew their souls, if they possessed such a thing. Professional killers, they would be totally loyal to whoever paid them; when the silver ran out, so would they. Their heads and faces were shaven, and beneath their cloaks, their chests and backs were protected by Italian steel mesh, whilst their war belts – one across their shoulders, the other around their waists – were equipped with dagger, dirk and sword. Each carried a hand-held arbalest and wore fighting gauntlets reinforced with the sharpest metal bolts. Corbett listened to their conversation. Their native tongue was that of Languedoc, though occasionally they would lapse into a strange patois and sometimes English. Ruthless and pragmatic, they were here to complete a task, and they would do it.

  Rougehead squatted down in front of Corbett, tongue clicking as his dead eyes studied the royal clerk.

  ‘You asked me a question, Corbett: aren’t I supposed to be dead? Well let me tell you, I am clearly not, because three years ago, I escaped. Slingsby was a fool …’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Oh, I heard about him being stabbed in that shit-house of a tavern you shelter in.’

  ‘Along with Monseigneur de Craon, your paymaster?’

  ‘I don’t know a Monseigneur de Craon,’ Rougehead mocked.

  ‘You were telling us about your wonderful escape,’ Ranulf taunted.

  Rougehead shifted slightly to face the clerk; behind him, one of the assassins brought up his crossbow, primed and ready.

  ‘You have had two warnings, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. I know who you are. Corbett’s daggerman, his war dog. I sense, as does my comrade behind me, that you may spring again. If you do, Primus, the captain of my escort, will surely kill you. Now, about my wonderful escape, as you call it …’

  ‘I will kill you,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘Not now, but I will watch you die.’

  Corbett glared at his companion. Ranulf’s rages were hideous: a berserker mood would descend, a battle fury that would not be brooked or controlled. He held Ranulf’s gaze as he fought to control his own fear. He truly believed they were in the most terrible danger. Ranulf visibly relaxed, slouching, hands going down. Corbett stared around. Primus and his companions stood armed and ready.

  ‘Did you have a hand in Slingsby’s death?’ Corbett was desperate to divert Rougehead, who was looking strangely at Ranulf, fingers twitching as if wondering what to do next. Rougehead tore his gaze away.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I wish I had. I would have loved to have severed his balls, thrust them into his mouth then taken his head. Oh, I had not forgotten Slingsby! He was never far from my thoughts, but I am under strict orders.’ He grinned as he realised he had conceded that he was not acting on his own. ‘Nevertheless, as the Good Book says, or used to when I read it – a complete and utter waste of time – nevertheless, there is one verse out of all that drivel I believe in.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Why, Sir Hugh, “There is a season under heaven for everything, a time for living, a time for dying.” Believe me, in the fullness of time, I would have taken Slingsby’s head.’

  ‘And your wonderful escape?’

  ‘I sensed a trap. I asked a comrade to join us for the feast, to come later, to slip in unobtrusively. When he arrived, I left and watched. I saw the killer creep into the Salamander, I watched him leave. A short while later, flames erupted out of the window of the chamber where the feast was taking place. Enough was enough, my lord clerk. I left, I changed my appearance,’ he added dreamily.

  ‘And the person who nearly killed you, who executed your companions?’

  ‘Companions is a good word, Corbett. They were not really comrades. Looking back, I realised how they laughed behind their hands at my disguises, especially the wigs.’ He wagged a finger disapprovingly at Corbett. ‘Which reminds me, time to put one on.’

  ‘And the slayer at the Salamander?’

  ‘I like that, Corbett.’ Rougehead edged forward, long fingers fluttering. ‘You have a way with words. Yes, the slayer at the Salamander …’ His smile faded. ‘I wish I knew who it was.’

  ‘But what did he look like? You said you saw him.’

  ‘A tall, well-built man. Heavy: I heard him breathing hard. His cloak was expensive, of pure wool, I could see the damp glistening on it. He had the rolling gait of a mariner but he reeked of perfume.’ Rougehead began to hum under his breath, moving his head backwards and forwards. Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf and winked. He prayed that Ranulf realised they were dealing with someone as mad and as bad as a box of malevolent frogs.

  ‘So where did you flee?’ he asked. ‘Temple Combe?’

  Rougehead opened the leather sack on the floor beside him, took out a reddish wig, the type worn by a whore, and put it over his shaven head. The dyed horsehair fell to his shoulders, framing his narrow, evil face, making him appear even more macabre. The renegade Templar rose to his feet and, imitating the gait of a prostitute, walked over to the common board and poured himself a goblet of wine. Corbett glanced at Ranulf. The Clerk of the Green Wax had now calmed, his sharp wit warning him that they were very vulnerable to this highly dangerous man. Rougehead squatted down, gulping greedily, staring at Corbett over the cup. Corbett gazed into his adversary’s eyes and glimpsed something predatory, malicious, truly evil, as if Rougehead’s soul housed a number of demons all jostling for dominance.

  ‘So you don’t know who tried to kill you?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Executed your companions, then set the Salamander alight?’

  ‘Of course not. I would have sought him out and killed him.’

  ‘Do you know why he did it?’ Rougehead just smirked. ‘Sumerscale and Fallowfield?’ Corbett pressed on. He recognised what a foul fire
flared in this madman’s soul. Rougehead was wasting time here because he wanted to be admired by someone like Corbett. He wanted to show how clever and cunning he truly was. ‘Their real names were Poultney and Aschroft,’ Corbett continued. ‘But tell me, since I am deeply baffled, truly mystified by it all, Sumerscale and Fallowfield – we shall call them that – were Templars, yes? They had been part of the community at Temple Combe, but fled? They wanted to lay allegations against their former order, but you stopped them. Who hired you?’

  ‘You know full well. My good friend and hunting companion Reginald Ausel.’

  ‘Ah,’ Corbett murmured, ‘so you and he …?’

  ‘We share a common taste. He will be waiting for us at Temple Combe.’

  ‘And what else is there?’

  Rougehead clawed at the wig, turning to look at Corbett out of the corner of his eye. ‘You remember me,’ he lisped, ‘of course you do. You hunted me and mine eight years ago after Puddlicot broke into the crypt at Westminster on the eve of the feast of St Matthew. You had my name at the time, John Priknash. Oh yes.’ He got to his feet, sipping at the goblet. ‘So little evidence, mind you. At Temple Combe you will find out more. But not now.’ He walked away.

  Corbett breathed in deeply and glanced at his companions. They were all in mortal danger. He suspected that some of the royal treasure plundered from the royal crypt was hidden away at Temple Combe. Ausel would be waiting for them, two killers and a retinue of assassins. They would never allow Corbett and the others to live. They were going to their certain deaths.

  ‘Chanson?’ Corbett whispered to Ranulf.

  ‘Fast asleep in his beloved stables.’

  Corbett closed his eyes. ‘And the Wolfman?’

  ‘He may have followed us here, master, but he will not realise what’s happening within.’

  ‘How will they take us out of London,’ Rochfort hissed, ‘at the dead of night?’

  Corbett opened his eyes. He was about to reply when Rougehead, still wearing the garish wig, returned, a fresh goblet of wine in one hand, a piece of dried meat in the other. He squatted down next to Corbett as if they were old friends.

  ‘I escaped to France,’ he declared. ‘I now work for His Grace King Philip, who,’ he cleaned his mouth with his tongue, ‘has instructed all princes to hand over to him every recalcitrant and defiant Templar. He does this at the behest of the Holy Father Pope Clement.’

  Corbett nodded understandingly at the abrupt shift in Rougehead’s mood and tone. ‘And I suppose you have been helping the Holy Father’s representatives in their investigation?’

  Rougehead grinned wolfishly. ‘That and other matters.’ He was now imitating the voice of a young woman.

  ‘So you are responsible for the murders at St Giles?’

  ‘Lord forfend! No, no, no! Those deaths, pleasing though they may be, are not to be laid at my door.’

  ‘Then whose?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rougehead scoffed. ‘I have my own killings to take care of. Such a busy life!’

  ‘But you are de Craon’s creature?’ Corbett flinched at the hatred that flitted across Rougehead’s face.

  ‘I am no man’s creature, Master Clerk. I do not work for de Craon. He is the envoy of the French king.’

  Corbett nodded and glanced away. Rougehead was probably following strict instructions. On no account, lest matters go wrong, was de Craon, an accredited envoy, to be implicated.

  ‘And how do you intend to take two royal clerks, not to mention a former Templar and a kitchen boy, out of London in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Oh, that is very easy. You, Corbett, are the key to everything. You carry the king’s seals. Doors and gates will open, bars will be lifted and guards will step aside. Don’t you worry, we won’t even tie your hands and feet. Instead,’ Rougehead pointed at Rochfort and the boy, ‘any attempt by you or your war dog to escape, raise the alarm or do anything to threaten myself or my retinue, and they will die immediately. Primus and his comrades are skilled in the arbalest; they carry theirs fully loaded.’ He leaned forward and snapped his fingers in Corbett’s face. ‘Like that, Master Clerk, a matter of heartbeats and both will be dead, a bolt to their skulls. A few heartbeats later, you and your war dog will be silenced. We will then fight our way through.’ He made a face of mock sorrow. ‘Now you don’t want that, do you? But it will happen if you anger me. I swear on my mother’s soul.’

  ‘So you had one, and she had a soul?’ Ranulf jibed even as Rougehead’s hand fell to his dagger hilt. Primus and one of his companions stepped closer.

  ‘I apologise,’ Corbett intervened quickly. ‘I regret that remark.’

  ‘Accepted.’ Rougehead rose to his feet, then turned abruptly, smashing his fist into the side of Ranulf’s face. The blow toppled the clerk from his stool. He made to get up, but Corbett lashed out with his boot, pinioning him against the filthy wall of the taproom.

  ‘In God’s name, Ranulf!’ he hissed. ‘Do you want our deaths?’

  ‘Obey your master!’ Rougehead snarled, bending down only inches from the bruised, bleeding face of his victim. ‘Keep to heel, dog.’ He tapped Ranulf under the chin and turned to peer at the hour candle on its wooden stand. ‘An hour after midnight,’ he sang out. ‘Guards are sleeping, taverns lie empty, the streets are deserted. Come, it is time we left.’

  Corbett and the others were dragged to their feet and hustled out into the cobbled stable yard strewn with straw, the horses waiting there placid after being fed, their nosebags now removed.

  ‘Remember.’ Rougehead swung himself up into the saddle and pointed at Corbett. ‘Remember,’ he repeated, ‘any attempt to escape and you will all die. Come, come!’

  Corbett put his foot into the stirrup held by one of the assassins and climbed up into the saddle. Ranulf, nursing his bruised face, followed suit. Rochfort also mounted, the tavern boy placed on the saddle before him. Rougehead lifted his hand and the cavalcade went out on to the lane. In the light of a doorpost lantern, Corbett glimpsed one of the ancient Sisters of the Street, her wrinkled face, furrowed brow and squinting eyes looking even more ghoulish in the juddering light. As the riders passed, she pulled her ragged cloak about her and fled up an inky-black alleyway.

  Rougehead led his group swiftly through the darkness across the meadows of midnight. London, once the sun had set, became a different city: His Satanic Majesty the Devil, as one preacher proclaimed it, wings spread like those of a giant bat, swept in to hold court over his legion of minions. Corbett, reins in one hand, the other on the high saddle horn, quietly applauded Rougehead’s cunning. They were travelling at the most desolate hour, a group of mounted armed men, ostensibly led by a royal clerk with the Crown’s authority to go where he wished, untroubled by anyone. They would not be stopped and searched. Corbett feared that his life was now as frail as breath on a frosty morning. He pleaded with Ranulf, hissing at him quietly not to provoke Rougehead any further. Now and again, he would look around, yet as Rougehead had taunted him, nobody knew where they were going. Chanson was fast asleep in some stable, whilst there was no sign of the Magister Viae’s retainers or any trace of the Wolfman.

  They were soon free of the city. Corbett had to use his seals and licence to pass through Aldgate, going out close by the Tower on to the moon-washed road into Essex. The riders moved close together as they followed the ancient route north along Mile End to the village of Bow. It was the same route Corbett would take if he was journeying back to Maeve at Leighton Manor. He felt the sweat of fear chilling his skin and glanced around. Ranulf was now sullenly nursing his injuries, Rochfort trying to calm the terrified boy. Corbett wondered wildly about what would happen and what chance they had of escape. Rougehead’s retainers were seasoned veterans. Now and again two or three of them would hang back to hide and watch to see whether they were being pursued or shadowed.

  The cavalcade moved on, making progress to Bow village, which they reached just before dawn. A deep, heart-wrenching homesickn
ess seized Corbett. He was now within easy reach of Leighton Manor. Instead they turned north-east and soon entered the green fastness of Epping. A long line of horsemen threading their way through the trees, following winding paths, curling around ancient oak, beech and chestnut. The trees grew so close, their branches, rich with summer greenery, embraced and entangled with each other to block out the morning light, an eerie green darkness broken here and there by pools of dappled sunshine. Corbett felt they were processing through some cavernous ancient cathedral dedicated to long-forgotten pagan gods. They passed strange cairns of moss-covered stone and made their way carefully around meres, marshes and morasses, all laced with a light-green covering. Birdsong was muted. The silence was made even more ominous by the rustling of an animal through the gorse or the flurry of feathers as a bird broke free.

  Rougehead led the way. He followed markings on certain trees and took his bearings from signs carved on to rocks or posts set up by verderers. Corbett realised they must be following some secret path, as he never glimpsed any of the forest people. He fought against the mounting despair, the realisation that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for anyone following them to remain undiscovered. He recalled that verse from Isaiah: ‘I set my face like flint.’ He was determined to remain calm, yet he wondered what would happen once they reached Temple Combe. De Craon’s plot was coming to heinous fruition. Ranulf had been correct: Corbett’s destruction was part of the French envoy’s dark design, but what would be the last steps in this macabre, murderous masque? More importantly, how were he and his companions to escape it?

  He glanced across at Ranulf, who pulled back his hood to reveal his bruised face, mouth all swollen, one eye almost closed. He tried to smile, though Corbett glimpsed the murderous fury in his companion’s good eye, the violence curdling within him. He raised his fingers to his lips as a sign to keep the peace. Ranulf nodded before spitting blood on to the trackway. They paused to water their horses at a brook that bubbled through a cleft of raised rock, then journeyed on.