by Paul Doherty
At times the forest became so dark, the trees crowding in so close, that the young boy on Rochfort’s saddle whimpered with fear. Corbett caught his unease, but then the trees began to thin, and after about two hours’ riding, they debouched on to a trackway that, according to Rougehead, would lead them down to Temple Combe.
At last they reached their destination. The manor was fortified and protected by a high curtain wall, though its heavy wooden gate hung askew, the courtyard inside was choked with weeds and rubbish and the derelict outbuildings were open to the elements. The manor house, a wooden building on a red stone base, was much decayed, the main door, snapped off its leather hinges, being cracked and splintered whilst the windows were mere gaps in the woodwork. Corbett did not like the place. The atmosphere was oppressive, sombre and not good for the soul: eerie, haunted, rife with memories of former glory, when Temple Combe had supplied much-needed timber to the merchants of London, Colchester and elsewhere. He stared around at the derelict storerooms, cutting sheds, stables and smithies. Here and there he glimpsed the Templar cross or other insignia of the order. The manor house, like other such properties, had been left derelict until the Pope confirmed his decree of dissolution and condemnation at the forthcoming council at Vienne; until then, this was church property, untouchable.
Corbett tried to distract himself by concentrating on his surroundings. He watched the assassins dismount and unsaddle their horses, unclasp cloaks and loosen war belts as they shouted and called to each other. He eased himself out of the saddle. Ranulf dismounted still nursing his face.
‘Master!’ he hissed.
‘Watch and wait, Ranulf. Let us see what happens and prepare for the unexpected.’
Primus, leader of the assassins, sauntered up. Corbett called to him in Norman French, asking a spate of questions about why they were here. Primus ignored him. Corbett deliberately repeated the questions, trying to discover what would happen next. Primus just pulled a face and shrugged. Rougehead came hurrying up. He had heard Corbett’s raised voice but did not understand what was being asked. Primus translated in the patois of the lingua franca. Rougehead told Corbett to mind his own business.
Further conversation was futile as Primus and his retinue herded Corbett and the rest up the crumbling steps into what must have been the manor solar: a long, dank, filthy chamber with smoke-blackened walls and roof. The hall reeked of feral smells, the stench of badger and fox as well as other vermin whose squeaking and scrabbling could be clearly heard. They were forced to sit on greasy benches along a filthy common table. At Rougehead’s order, Corbett and Ranulf were bound hand and foot. They could move in a shuffling walk, eat and drink, but escape would be hampered and hindered.
Ausel entered, slipping in like a ghost, grey-haired and grey-faced. Ranulf spat in his direction. Corbett shouted a litany of questions, accusing him of murder and other abominations, but Ausel just ignored him and scurried out again. Corbett watched him go and felt hope surge within him. Of course, the Wolfman knew about Temple Combe and so did the Magister Viae, but would they use their knowledge?
He startled from his reverie as Rochfort clambered to his feet, dragging the boy with him.
‘Are you so barbaric?’ Rochfort shouted. ‘This child needs food and drink.’
‘Yes, yes, I had forgotten,’ Rougehead hissed. ‘My apologies, I overlooked you.’ He walked towards the table, Primus the leader of the assassins alongside him. Corbett glimpsed the hand-held arbalests both men carried and struggled to his feet screaming a warning, but it was too late. Rougehead brought up his arbalest and loosed a bolt, which smashed into Rochfort’s face, shattering flesh and bone in a messy splatter of blood. He then grabbed the arbalest held by Primus and released a second bolt, which caught the boy full in the forehead, sending him staggering back to collapse against the wall.
‘Hell’s spawn!’ Ranulf screamed. ‘Blood-drinker, devil incarnate!’
‘Yes, yes.’ Rougehead kicked Rochfort’s corpse, then glanced up and smiled. ‘I have been called worse, and look, here I still am.’
‘Not for long,’ Ranulf rasped. ‘I will kill you.’
‘Promises, promises!’
‘Now, Primus.’ Rougehead kicked Rochfort’s corpse again. ‘Tell two of your lovely boys to take these out and bury them deep in some forest swamp.’ The leader of the assassins seemed disconcerted, but nodded in agreement when Rougehead repeated his order in the patois they often used. He hurried away and returned with two companions, who dragged both corpses out to a waiting cart. The horses were speedily harnessed, and Corbett heard the cart rattle off across the yard and out through the gate.
As he and Ranulf sat helpless at the table, greasy platters of hard bread with globules of fatty meat were pushed in front of them, along with two cracked cups of wine.
‘Ranulf, eat, drink,’ Corbett urged, pushing a platter towards his companion, ‘and for the last time, be warned.’ He pushed his face closer to Ranulf’s. ‘Rougehead has an unquenchable thirst for human blood. He loves to kill as other men love to savour a goblet of fine wine, listen to the chant of a choir or seduce a beautiful woman.’ He gestured at the glistening streaks from table to door where the corpses had been dragged out like hunks of meat in a flesher’s yard.
Rougehead and Primus came back into the hall carrying four sacks made of blood-red cordovan leather. The royal insignia and fine gold stitching could be clearly seen.
‘Exchequer sacks,’ Corbett murmured, ‘the type used to contain jewels and other precious objects in the royal treasury.’
Rougehead moved into the shadows and dragged out a chest bound in iron and boasting four locks. Placing three of the sacks inside the coffer, he brought the fourth over to the table. He undid the metal clasps and pushed the sack up against Corbett’s face, shaking its contents. Corbett peered down and glimpsed jewels: rubies, amethysts, precious rings, collars, bracelets and pectorals.
‘You were once hunting for these, clerk, without much success, and now they have found you.’ Laughing softly to himself, Rougehead, who had now donned a silver-white wig, minced off across the hall and deposited the last sack in the chest. Then the locks were turned, each with a different key: two of them were held by Rougehead, the other two by Primus.
Corbett listened to the two men’s chatter, the patois of mercenaries, and learnt that they were to leave at first light for some tavern or hostelry along the Essex coast. Three guards were ordered into the hall; Rougehead and Primus left. Corbett, shuffling along the bench, watched them cross the cobbled yard into a small lodge built alongside the manor house. Then he sat tensely, watching the day fade, as Ranulf, despite his bruised jaw and mouth, delicately ate and drank what had been placed in front of him.
‘We are going to die, master,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘That moon-touched bastard is intent on killing us.’
‘No, Ranulf, do not despair. They are not as cunning or as subtle as they think.’
‘Master?’
‘As far as I know, the death cart hasn’t returned; those two assassins who took Rochfort and the boy have not come back yet. True, these men are strangers here, but even a simpleton would soon find a morass or marsh close to the manor: the forest is peppered with them. Take heart, Ranulf. I don’t believe a cavalcade of men could leave London unnoticed. Say your prayers, my friend. I have a strong feeling that the demand has not yet been made for our souls.’
Corbett made himself as comfortable as possible, straining his hearing, waiting for the noise of the death cart’s return. Primus and other assassins came and went. Rougehead swaggered in to check their bonds. The sun set and still there was no cart. He sensed the deepening anxiety amongst his captors. Apart from Ausel and Rougehead, they were professional mercenaries, soldiers in a foreign field, possibly one profoundly alien to their training and service. Epping Forest was a dark, deep world in itself, its unbroken green canopy concealing a multitude of hideous surprises, from a well-concealed morass to brutal and sudden ambush.
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‘Master,’ Ranulf whispered, ‘you are so watchful.’
‘Rougehead is as mad as a moon-struck hare,’ Corbett replied hurriedly. ‘He is no soldier; we should not have come here. Temple Combe is well known to the Magister, the Wolfman and Chanson, as well as others.’ He paused at the howling of some forest dog protesting against the dark, the blood-tingling sound followed by a second, which trailed the darkness to be greeted by another. He lowered his head: he did not wish to raise Ranulf’s hopes, since his companion wore his heart on his sleeve. Nevertheless, that howling reminded the clerk of military service in Wales, places very similar to this, camped out deep in the trees of some mountainous valley with the Welsh sloping through the darkness towards them. He rubbed his face and watched the doorway. Rougehead came out into the yard deep in agitated conversation with some of his escort. ‘Good,’ Corbett hissed, ‘they are becoming highly anxious. Believe me, Ranulf, matters are not proceeding as they would wish. Two of their company have still not returned. Let us wait, pray and hope.’
The two clerks had hours of broken sleep. The night passed, uneventful except for the guards occasionally checking them. In the early hours, Rougehead, much the worse for drink, his wig all askew around his unshaven head, lurched in, dagger in one hand, goblet in the other. Corbett glanced at Ranulf, warning him not to bait this most dangerous of men. Rougehead slurped at his wine.
‘Clever Sir Hugh Corbett.’ He leaned closer, his breath reeking of wine, spices and the corruption from his yellowing wolf teeth. ‘You think you are such a subtle clerk,’ he taunted, ‘but you never realise what game you are in, neither now or in the past.’
‘True, true, Master Rougehead, you dance in rings that are hard to follow. Tell me,’ Corbett urged, ‘here in this lonely place at this desolate hour: did you know Sumerscale and Fallowfield, the men you laid evidence against?’
‘Oh no.’ Rougehead clawed his wig. ‘After Puddlicot was taken up and hanged, thanks to your good self, Sir Hugh, I fled back to France – my mother was born in Auxerre – leaving my portion of the treasure here. I dared not take it with me lest I be stopped and arrested. At the time, all the documents I carried declared me to be John Priknash.’
‘So you sheltered abroad?’
‘Yes, Corbett. I won’t tell you how I came to the attention of Monseigneur de Nogaret after King Philip’s edict on the Templars …’
‘You volunteered information?’
Rougehead grinned, a macabre parody of some shy girl smirking. ‘I proved helpful,’ he lisped, ‘to the French Crown in establishing the full truth about the Templars.’
‘And then you were dispatched back to this kingdom?’
‘Well, yes and no.’
‘You were more worried about your treasure?’
‘Yes, I was. Ausel had also been involved in the robbery. A strange man, Ausel. Honest in his own way; more concerned about young, soft flesh than anything else. Anyway, he sent me urgent messages. When I returned, he confessed that he’d tried to seduce …’
‘You mean rape?’
‘Seduce young Poultney. How the callow youth had won the protection of an older serjeant, Aschroft. Both entertained deep suspicions about Ausel. Other members of the order here in Temple Combe also believed something was wrong, but they were old, flatulent men, disgraced and dejected. Anyway,’ he sniffed noisily, ‘Sumerscale and Fallowfield, whatever their names, were eager to confess to so many things about the Templar Order. Now I admit,’ Rougehead was becoming grandiloquent, ‘I would have helped them, but you see, they were going to point the finger at my dear colleague Ausel, who, by the way, is as drunk as any fiddler.’ He swayed on his feet.
‘So you decided to act as king’s approver?’ Corbett pressed. ‘You would receive a general pardon for previous offences under any of your names,’ he shook his head in mock wonderment, ‘which could include participation in the robbery of the crypt. You earned a reward and at the same time destroyed the threat to your colleague Ausel, who, if taken up and arrested, might confess to all kinds of mischief.’
Rougehead nodded drunkenly. ‘I stayed for a while,’ he slurred, ‘but the fire at the Salamander convinced me it was time to leave.’
‘I apologise,’ Corbett lifted his bound hands, ‘I have asked you this before, but you don’t know who tried to kill you? I mean, Gabriel, you are so cunning …’
Rougehead staggered to his feet, wagging a finger at Corbett.
‘I know you, clerk, so soft and subtle, but I repeat, I don’t know who killed my companions. I saw him enter the tavern, a tall man, well clothed and fed, his head and face cowled and visored, a good sword in his war belt. He wreaked hideous damage, as he has at St Giles.’
‘You believe it’s the same man?’
‘It must be. Ausel was terrified of him, hence his flight. Good man, Ausel,’ Rougehead slurred, ‘but broken.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘And I have spoken too much. But Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, whom can you tell?’ Wagging his finger, he staggered off across the hall and out into the courtyard.
‘A true fool, a jackanapes,’ Ranulf whispered as he pushed a narrow stiletto across to Corbett. ‘Kept it in my boot, master. Slash our bonds at wrist and ankle, then we will be gone.’
Corbett seized the knife and felt its razor-sharp edge. It could easily slit the hempen rope, but he shook his head and pushed it back.
‘Master, we should go.’
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘That is not enough. Let’s wait a while. Trust me, Ranulf.’
‘Who will come?’
‘Wait and see. I expect them at first light, just before dawn fully breaks.’
‘But master, who? Why are you so confident?’
‘Pray and wait.’ Corbett nodded towards the half-sleeping guards resting against the treasure chest at the far end of the hall. ‘They will scrutinise us again. Keep the knife concealed until I say.’
Corbett and Ranulf dozed for a while before being roughly shaken by the guards, who pulled and tugged at the ropes around their wrists and ankles. Corbett sat and watched the darkness dissipate. The manor came to life. Horses were led out, the morning air broken by the clink and clatter of armour; the faint smoke from crackling fires carried the sweet odour of oatmeal being stirred in pots. Corbett and Ranulf were given stoups of water, some dry bacon and hard rye bread. They were allowed to relieve themselves then herded back close to the main door to stand and blink at the early-morning light. Rougehead appeared, still mawmsy with drink. He became involved in a heated argument with the leader of the assassins. Listening carefully, Corbett drew comfort. The two men had still not returned with the death cart.
Rougehead turned and shouted an order. Corbett and Ranulf were pushed back out into the yard. Corbett raised his head at the clamour. The gate crashed open and the death cart trundled in: two assassins cloaked and cowled sat on the bench, one rippling the reins. Corbett bit back his disappointment, only to gasp in astonishment as figures leapt out of the cart, which had now stopped, blocking the entrance. More men appeared, archers in brown and green, though even from where he stood, Corbett glimpsed the royal insignia on their right shoulders. Welsh archers from the king’s own bodyguard, master bowmen with their long war bows, their quivers crammed with arrows.
‘King’s men down!’ a voice shouted. ‘King’s men down!’
PART SEVEN
‘Cursed be greed and all its doings through which love is driven and loyalty exiled.’
The Monk of Malmesbury, Life of Edward II
Corbett lurched across, pulling Ranulf to the ground even as the royal archers loosed, their arrow shafts whistling through the air, plucking men from the saddle, making the horses rear and shy. He glanced up. Two of the assassins who had come hurrying out of the hall now lay thrashing on the ground with arrow shafts to the throat, chest and stomach. Ranulf had already used his hidden dagger to free his own wrists and ankles; hot-eyed, he did the same for Corbett, then pushed his master away as
he plunged into the melee of horses, assassins and archers, who, with sword and dagger, had now closed with the enemy. The chill morning air and the stillness of that lonely, haunted manor were shattered by the clash of scraping steel, the clatter of hooves and the battle cries of men locked in a blood-chilling fight to the death.
Corbett swerved to avoid a horse and was picking up a sword when he heard Ranulf’s yell. He glanced about. Ranulf was confronting Rougehead. The clerk had snatched a two-edged axe from a nearby stack of wood and was now using this against the renegade Templar. Rougehead, stumbling from his drink, lunged at Ranulf, who stepped aside and deftly opened Rougehead’s stomach with the axe. The Templar stood gasping, dropping his sword as he tried to close the long slit wound to his belly, now opening like lips to spout blood. Corbett shouted that Rougehead should be taken prisoner, but Ranulf was locked in his own wild world. Rougehead collapsed to his knees. Ranulf stepped forward. He raised the axe with two hands and brought it down, a savage, powerful blow that split Rougehead’s head as if it was a dry log.
As his enemy’s body spurted blood, Ranulf kicked it away, then looked over his shoulder at Corbett only to shout a warning. Corbett abruptly swung round, blade out to parry with Ausel, who had crept up behind him. Ausel hastily retreated, then abruptly went slack, sword falling from his hands, mouth gaping, head back, gurgling on his own blood. He staggered forward, arms flailing, to topple to the ground, where he jerked for a while and lay still, blood oozing from his mouth. The dust-strewn mist shifted. The Wolfman, Ausel’s killer, lifted the visor of his fighting helmet and smiled at Corbett.
‘Judgement delivered!’ he called out. Corbett clasped his hand and moved away.
The fighting was over, ending as abruptly as it had begun. The morning haze was dissipating, the dirt and dust of the courtyard resettling. Corbett glimpsed Chanson and raised his hand in acknowledgement. The Magister Viae came running across in his dun-coloured robe, a chain-mail hauberk over his chest, a sword in one hand, a morning star mace in the other. Corbett greeted him, then, sweat-soaked, peered at the archers milling about.
