Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘A tavern?’ Ranulf intervened.

  ‘A tavern it must be and a tavern it is,’ the Magister trumpeted. ‘Sir Hugh, as you know, a taverner has every right to buy all kinds of purveyance from farms and markets, be it salted pork, chicken, beef, vegetables, ale, wine, medicines, herbs and ointments, even clothing and weaponry. The list is endless. A tavern master could do this without attracting attention or creating suspicion.’

  ‘It must be!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The assassins whose corpses are now stiffening outside were undoubtedly brought here by The Black Hogge. They carried their own war belts and saddles, but the horses they rode would have been bought or hired at some market or horse fair. Yes, yes,’ he curbed his mounting excitement, ‘it must be a tavern out on the wild wastes of the Essex coastline; that’s where Rougehead and his coven were taking us. They were going back to meet The Black Hogge with their prisoners and the treasure hidden here. Accordingly, The Black Hogge will return in the very near future, either today on the evening tide or certainly soon after. But …’

  ‘This tavern,’ Ranulf asked, ‘where is it?’

  ‘With my learned colleague Fitzosbert, I went back through the tax returns for all establishments along the coast of Essex. Now, between the mouths of the Blackwater and the Colne stretches a marshy tract. Rivulets run like veins through this treacherous morass, sudden surge tides are common, sweeping swiftly in so the land seems to float as if it were an island in a great lake.’ The Magister glanced up. ‘Fitzosbert knows the terrain well. Apparently his wife’s kin hail from those parts.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ Ranulf declared drily, ‘please continue.’

  ‘The sea has encroached most grievously on the land. Villages, hamlets and farmsteads have disappeared. Saltcot is such a place. Once it was a small but thriving village; now it lies deserted. However, there is a tavern on Saltcot Hill, the Sunne in Splendour.’ The Magister lowered his head as he consulted his memorandum. ‘I admit it is rather ill-named and curious. In its prime, the tavern was quite majestic. Its last owner was Matilda Poultney, widow. Matilda apparently died in the autumn of 1281. Because of the decay and desertion, her son and heir, John, abandoned the tavern, stripping it of all movables, and decided to become a vintner in Queenhithe in London.’ The Magister sat back, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘The Templar called Sumerscale,’ Corbett declared, ‘his real name was Poultney. So what happened to John Poultney? Magister, time is passing.’

  ‘Oh, he worked at the Salamander for a while, but he died of the sweating sickness in 1293 and lies buried in Holy Trinity the Little. He was only an apprentice, not a full guild member, and he died leaving no heir. The Sunne in Splendour at Saltcot was considered to be derelict, deserted and part of the wasteland, so it became forfeit to the Crown. Two years ago, Reginald Ausel, former Templar, applied to the barons of the exchequer to purchase the tavern, which he did for quite a meagre price.’

  ‘Angels in heaven!’ Corbett exclaimed, staring around the table. ‘And are you sure there is no connection, no link, no relationship between Henry Poultney, also known as Sumerscale, hanged on The Candle-Bright, and this John Poultney, vintner?’

  ‘Not that I can see, Sir Hugh. Poultney is a common enough name, and from all our searches we found that Matilda had only the one son, this John, who died without issue.’

  ‘So we have it.’ Corbett rubbed his hands together. ‘Two years ago, Reginald Ausel applies to purchase the Sunne in Splendour. Ausel depicts himself as a former Templar looking to build a new future for himself. In truth, he hands the ownership to Rougehead, who, under another name, acts the jovial tavern master hungry for trade. He purchases food and all the tavern needs, but he has no guests, no customers except for Gaston Foix and the crew of The Black Hogge. All this quietly supported by French gold. In the spring of this year, the murderous masque begins.’ Corbett sipped at his cup of ale. ‘So how do we trap this monster and kill it? We know The Black Hogge will sail close to some inlet near the Sunne in Splendour, perhaps tonight, certainly within the next few days. We could send couriers to Harwich or elsewhere. The admiral of the eastern seas has his master cog, The Holy Ghost, in one of the eastern ports. He could assemble a small fleet.’

  ‘But that could take days, even weeks,’ the Magister protested. ‘Even if they did assemble, how would such a fleet find The Black Hogge? And once gathered, would they be successful, or would The Black Hogge escape and be warned off ever returning to Saltcot?’

  ‘We cannot allow what we know to become public knowledge,’ Corbett agreed. ‘So, how do we close with this formidable ship?’ He smiled. ‘I did ask you to become Gaston Foix …’

  ‘Indeed you did, and I have a plan.’ The Magister drew a deep breath. ‘The Black Hogge will sail in on the evening tide, drop its anchor stone and ride at anchor, its sails rolled and reefed. Its shore boat will be lowered to collect purveyance. If English war cogs appeared and attempted a blockade, The Black Hogge would fight its way through. What we must do, Sir Hugh, is inflict on that ship every master’s nightmare …’

  ‘Fire!’

  ‘Precisely. We must board The Black Hogge through stealth and trickery and create a fire. Anywhere would be good, but if the main mast was destroyed, The Black Hogge could become a floating coffin.’

  Corbett put his face in his hands, closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. He took his hands away and looked around.

  ‘Let us begin.’ He gestured towards the doorway. ‘Those corpses must be buried quickly by a small guard of archers whom we will leave here. Understood?’ Ap Ythel nodded in agreement. ‘The same guard will ensure that no one else is allowed into the manor. Anyone who approaches Temple Combe must be detained. Until we strike at The Black Hogge, no one must discover what has happened here. Nor must we in any way proclaim it. No messages from Temple Combe or Saltcot are to reach London.’ He pointed down the table. ‘Wolfman, you will ensure my orders are carried out.’

  ‘I will, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Remember,’ Corbett insisted, ‘nothing must be proclaimed or even whispered until, God be pleased, I return safely to London.’

  ‘And us?’ the Magister demanded.

  ‘Tell me more about the lie of the land. You know how we can reach Saltcot?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the Magister replied, ‘but it will take us about three hours in all. We will strike north-east, threading our way through the forest; this eventually peters out into wasteland, which rises to a steep hill. The Sunne in Splendour stands on that hill, along with a huddle of other dwellings. The hill then falls away to more wasteland, which stretches down to sand hills overlooking the pebbled beach of a narrow but fairly deep inlet.’

  Corbett straightened up, tapping the table. ‘We will leave first. Myself, the Magister and Ranulf. If we are approached,’ he indicated the Magister’s brown robe, ‘you are a wandering Franciscan who came upon us by chance. Two clerks journeying to Chelmsford who became lost and were attacked by wolfsheads; this would explain why we were in the forest.’

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ Ranulf gently touched his own face, where the blows inflicted by Rougehead had blossomed into nasty-looking bruises. ‘This is proof enough of any attack.’

  ‘Ap Ythel,’ Corbett continued, ‘you will leave six of your archers here under an officer to bury the dead and keep strict watch over this manor. As for the treasure chest, it might be best if we took it with us.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the captain of archers. ‘Rumours are already rife about what that chest contains.’

  ‘Chanson,’ Corbett declared, ‘you will organise the chest on to the cart. We will use two horses for that. Where that chest goes, you follow. I also want the clothing of the dead assassins piled on to the cart; we may well need it.’

  The meeting ended. Corbett and Ranulf finished what was left in their cups and platters, then they scrutinised their war belts, ensured everything was in order and prepared to leave. Chanson readied the horses as well as the cart, on to which
, assisted by Ap Ythel and two of his archers, he loaded the heavy treasure chest. Beside this, under a canvas awning, the captain of archers also stored the clothes of the dead assassins. Corbett demanded that the manor be searched for oil. Some was found, a few barrels and half a dozen skins. The magister said it might suffice but they really needed more. Corbett quietly prayed that they might find what they needed at the Sunne in Splendour.

  The clerk had one last meeting with the Wolfman, repeating his instructions, then that cunning hunter loped off down the trackway and into the trees. He also conferred with Ap Ythel. The captain and the remainder of his archers were to wait an hour before following Corbett. He was to look for a column of smoke from the derelict tavern as a sign that all was well.

  A short while later, Corbett and Ranulf left the manor, the Magister riding before them. They re-entered the forest, the Magister assuring them that he knew the way like the palm of his hand and that he had left strict instructions with Ap Ythel about what route to take. Ranulf was about to question Corbett when the Magister reined in to ride alongside them.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you asked me to keep …’ He paused as a great raven, black feathery wings fluttering furiously, burst out from a clump of greenery, wheeling up against the light. The Magister, shading his eyes, watched it go. ‘Just like all our troubles, eh, Sir Hugh? We are surrounded by greenery, the warmth of a summer sun, and then the raven appears. According to the ancient ones, the bird is a harbinger of impending doom.’

  ‘I hope not.’ Corbett turned in the saddle. ‘Magister, you have done well. Let us pray it all ends happily. You have more?’

  ‘As I have said, Sir Hugh, I made my own enquiries about the robbery of the royal treasury in the crypt at Westminster. I discovered that Master Sokelar was suspected of moving the treasure, which is why he has received no advancement but remains simple harbour master in Queenhithe.’

  Corbett wafted away a fly and pulled a face.

  ‘Is it surprising, Magister, that a harbour master dabbled in theft?’

  ‘Ah, but he may have dabbled in a great number of things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You know that his wife, Agnes’s mother, was with him when Acre fell. He and the girl escaped but his wife was one of those who was raped and slaughtered when the Mamelukes stormed the Accursed Tower. Master Sokelar has no love for the Templars.’

  Corbett, slouched in the saddle, reined in. They had entered a forest glade dappled with sunlight. Insects danced in the golden shafts, bees buzzed greedily above a cluster of wild flowers. A shadow moved and a roe deer in all its horned majesty loped like a dancer from one pool of dark greenery into another. Corbett sat, one hand raised, listening to the sounds of the forest. He glanced back over his shoulder. Ap Ythel would be preparing to leave; soon they would all meet at the Sunne in Splendour.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ the Magister insisted, ‘there is more.’

  ‘There always is!’ Corbett urged his horse forward.

  ‘De Craon seems very sweet on Agnes Sokelar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh yes, she visits him secretly in his chamber when Mistress Philippa is engaged elsewhere. Most fond of her he seems!’

  ‘Well I shall reflect on that,’ Corbett replied, spurring his horse forward, indicating that Ranulf join him.

  ‘You heard that, Clerk of the Green Wax?’

  ‘I certainly did.’ Ranulf winced, touching his bruised face tenderly. ‘But so what, Master? What is more relevant,’ he continued, ‘is the capture and destruction of The Black Hogge. All other business must wait on that. If we succeed, all to the good. If we fail, what is the use of speculating on other matters?’

  ‘Too true, Ranulf. However, let us, as we ride, review what we know.’

  Corbett relaxed, letting the reins slip through his hands. Ahead of them the Magister was following a winding trackway. The forest clustered close, though occasionally the treeline would break. Corbett was sure they had turned fully east; now and again on the summer’s breeze he caught the salty tang of the sea.

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Ranulf, I am reflecting. Do we have the truth of it or not? First Philip of France and the tangling web His Satanic Majesty is trying to spin around this kingdom and its king. To a certain extent he has had his way. Edward of England has been compelled to honour the papal arbitration of 1298 and marry Philip’s daughter Isabella. The French king now has a member of his family at the very heart of the English politic. Not satisfied with this, Philip keeps spinning. In Scotland, Robert Bruce receives French gold and weapons, as do the great lords of Edward’s court to encourage them in their opposition to Gaveston and the power of the king. Next we have The Black Hogge hiding in the fog-bound vastness of the northern seas, then slipping like a hawk through the clouds to pounce on some English cog fresh out of the Thames. In doing so, not only is English shipping and merchandise being grievously hurt, but our king’s authority is much maligned. Finally we have our own capture and abduction. I am sure, indeed I would swear over the Sacrament, that Rougehead fully intended to kill us after we had been tortured to discover what we know.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About everything, Ranulf. I do not intend to flatter myself, but I state what was plotted, namely our deaths. The removal of two clerks who, in the eyes of Philip, de Nogaret and de Craon, could counter their many malignant schemes.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, I agree. As you know, I have always believed that your death was something de Craon deeply prized.’

  ‘Chess,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Ranulf, think of Philip as a chess master, moving all these pieces across the board.’

  ‘And the endgame, surely, control of the English king?’

  ‘Or his removal. I have read the writings of Philip’s lawyers, creatures such as Pierre du Bois, author of a treatise titled On the recovery of the Holy Land, though it is really nothing of the sort. Du Bois declares that Philip is a new Charlemagne, a pope-emperor of Europe. He argues that he should control all of Europe’s kingdoms through the marriage of his children, Isabella being a case in point.’

  ‘And he has succeeded.’

  ‘Though perhaps Philip’s endgame is something much more deadly. Listen, Ranulf. A hundred years ago, during the minority of our king’s grandfather Henry III, a French fleet actually sailed up the Thames. A Capetian prince named Louis occupied the Tower and set up government. What if Philip wishes to repeat this, but more successfully? He weakens Edward both at home and abroad. He removes people such as ourselves, so that when the corn is ripe he may move in with his sickle and collect a rich harvest: the occupation of England, ruling it in the name of his daughter, the widow queen Isabella. I wonder …’

  Corbett fell silent. Ranulf was about to question him further when the Magister shouted, lifting a hand. They were now leaving the forest, riding out on to moorland swept by sharp sea breezes. The forest gave way to a mix of bramble, gorse, sturdy bushes, ancient thorn trees and small pools fed by rivulets that glistened in the sun. Wild flowers such as maiden’s blush, lily white in colour, thrived and blossomed along with sea lavender grass. The land rose to a fairly steep hill crowned with buildings. Even from where they sat on their horses at the forest edge, Corbett could see that these buildings, now decayed, had once been impressive.

  ‘The hill falls away on the other side,’ the Magister reminded them, ‘to more wasteland, which runs down through a fringe of trees and bushes to sand hills overlooking a pebble beach.’

  Corbett quietened his horse, staring carefully around, wary of riding into an ambush. The place looked deserted, but he was sure they were now approaching the inlet where The Black Hogge would sail in to reprovision.

  ‘Shouldn’t we hurry?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Corbett replied, ‘we take our time. The Black Hogge comes and The Black Hogge goes, but it must return to make landfall to take us prisoner.’

  ‘An ideal place,’ the Magister declared, patting his horse’s neck, smoothing
the sweat from its hair. ‘Nothing but wasteland. The winds bring in sand and gravel. Sometimes the sea floods the land, feeding both the marshes and the salty pools. There is no soil to plant, no crop to be gathered here. On a summer’s day like this it’s bleak enough, but can you imagine it when the weather turns? Moreover, the place is reputedly haunted, or so I read in a chronicle. A place of blood. According to local lore, that hill is supposed to be an ancient funeral barrow.’

  ‘And?’ Corbett asked, intrigued. ‘Tell me; I want to know as much as possible about the place.’

  ‘Before the Conqueror,’ the Magister replied, ‘the Vikings used to winter on Mersea Island. When spring came, they would cruise along the coast, burning and plundering. They were led by twin brothers born in the same hour who loved one another dearly. One spring, they sailed up to what we now know as St Osyth. They killed Osyth but carried off her beautiful sister. When they returned to Mersea, each of the twins wanted her for himself and their love turned to jealousy. Drawing their long swords, they hacked at one another, and by the time the sun set, both were dead. Their followers brought a ship in. They put the woman inside, with a dead brother on either side, sword in hand, and buried them beneath that hill, the living and the dead together. Now when the new moon appears, or so the legend says, the flesh grows on their bones, their wounds close and their breath returns. They say that if you go up the hill on the night of the full moon, you can hear the brothers fighting in the heart of the barrow. However, once the moon begins to fade, the sounds of battle grow fainter as their armour falls to bits, their flesh drops away and the blood dries up.’ The Magister grinned, patting his horse’s neck. ‘Easy enough to listen to on a summer’s day, but on a moon-swept night, with the wind crying and moaning …’

  ‘I agree,’ Corbett replied, ‘but let’s deal with the living, they are dangerous enough.’

  The Magister led them in single file along a narrow beaten track that wound around pool and marsh then up the steep incline to the derelict remains of Saltcot hamlet. The Sunne in Splendour consisted of a huddle of buildings in a cobbled courtyard bound by a high curtain wall and served by a double gate, which now hung open. Corbett rode in. To his left rose a squat two-storey tower of grey flint built alongside a rather hunchbacked manor house, its lattice windows bulging out, a mass of gables and a jumble of roofs with its lean-to buildings of wood and stone that served as stables, smithies, storerooms and sheds. The smell of cooking hung heavy in the air. Chickens pecked at the dust close to a disused dovecote, whilst the distant lowing of cattle could be heard.