by Paul Doherty
Corbett and his companions slowly dismounted. The clerk could sense no danger, no threat, though he jumped as the door to the dilapidated house was thrown open and a tall, thickset giant of a man, stooping to get out, shambled into the yard, followed by a young woman. The man was dressed in a tattered jerkin and thick hose pushed into battered boots; red-faced, with popping eyes, he had a mass of unruly black hair and a tangled moustache and beard. He lurched towards Corbett and abruptly stopped, staring down at the clerk as he gestured at the young woman, no more than seventeen summers old, to join him. She had long, mousy brown hair that almost hid her pale face, with twitching lips and ever-blinking eyes. She was dressed in a shabby blue gown with sturdy clogs on her feet. Corbett immediately sensed that the pair were no threat; innocents, probably brother and sister, with the minds and ways of children.
‘Good morrow.’ He extended a hand, which the man grasped, staring open-mouthed at Corbett and his two companions.
‘You,’ he pointed at the clerk, ‘you are friends of Master Rougehead?’
‘We certainly are,’ Corbett replied quickly. ‘We are visiting here hoping to meet him, as well as to learn more about the legends and stories of the ancient grave. We are sorry to trouble you, but,’ he pointed to the battered tavern sign, ‘you are a hostelry and we are hungry and thirsty.’ He opened the small pouch on his war belt and took out two coins, which he pressed into the man’s hand, indicating that he share these with the young woman, who stood there silently, one hand pulling at her hair, the other constantly smoothing the apron around her waist. The sight of so much silver made them both smile and relax.
‘I am Penda,’ the man explained. ‘And this is Gunhilda.’ His voice was surprisingly soft, his rustic accent clear and understandable. ‘We welcome you here – that’s what Master Rougehead taught us to say, and what else?’ He scratched his head and stared up at the sky. ‘Ah yes, that’s it! Now you must come in and be refreshed.’
Penda and Gunhilda led Corbett and his two companions into a large taproom: this was surprisingly clean and sweet-smelling, and, Corbett noticed, well furnished. The room also boasted a cavernous hearth with bread ovens either side, the smell from these being most fragrant. Corbett whispered to the Magister to go outside and see to their horses, and, if all was well, to light a fire so Ap Ythel would see the smoke and join them. Meanwhile, he and Ranulf sat at a table with stools set around it and were served tankards of freshly brewed ale and a platter of cured ham and manchet loaves still soft and sweet. Corbett insisted that Penda and Gunhilda join them, plying them with ale and encouraging them to talk. Then he produced two more coins and asked them to show him and Ranulf around the tavern.
He soon had the measure of Penda and Gunhilda, brother and sister, innocents before God, who had tramped the roads of Essex together, itinerant peasants looking for work on the land. When they reached Saltcot, Rougehead had hired them, providing them with bed and board and a few coins, in return for which they did exactly what he asked. They soon confirmed that the Sunne in Splendour had very few if any visitors. They knew little about Rougehead’s business but did admit that ships moored in the nearby inlet, and that Master Rougehead sold them provisions, something he always insisted on doing himself. He had a cart, whilst there were horses stabled in one of the outbuildings.
Corbett questioned them about recent visitors. Penda confirmed that some of Rougehead’s friends had visited the tavern and that the master had hired horses for them. They had left, Master Rougehead saying he would be back within a few days. Corbett stared at the simple faces of these two peasants and told them there was no need to worry. Penda and Gunhilda nodded wisely and said they must return to their tasks: after all, Master Rougehead would soon return, and there was bread to be baked and eggs to be collected.
Corbett plucked at Ranulf’s sleeve and led him out of the taproom. The Magister was beyond the gate, tending to the fire, placing wet sticks on the flames to create a plume of smoke.
‘That might be seen out at sea,’ Ranulf warned.
‘Even if it was,’ Corbett retorted, ‘I doubt it would mean anything. This, Ranulf,’ he gestured around, ‘is very clever and subtle, a deserted, derelict tavern in an isolated village close to an inlet, which, by the way, we must visit very soon.’ He paused, calling to the Magister Viae to alert him once he glimpsed Ap Ythel and his archers approaching.
‘More lonely than a Cistercian cell,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Even a hermit might baulk at this place.’
‘And yet ideal for de Craon, who, I am sure, spun this web. Rougehead was ordered to go back to England to find a place like this close to the coast. The French envoy provided the money for Ausel to purchase it from the exchequer: its barons would have been only too delighted to shed this blighted place and earn some profit. Ausel stays in London; Rougehead moves out here and makes things ready. Penda and Gunhilda, two itinerant workers, are hired. Good, simple souls, they have no sense about what is happening. Gunhilda cooks, tends and cleans; Penda accompanies Rougehead to Chelmsford and the other markets. He loads the cart when the master wishes to go down to the beach to sell to passing ships. Penda wouldn’t think anything wrong. In truth, however, this tavern becomes the revictualling port for The Black Hogge. There are plenty of brooks and rivulets to provide fresh water. Rougehead buys meat and other provisions at the markets, whilst the tavern itself provides fruit, herbs, chickens, eggs, even fresh milk from a cow. Let us say someone does come by and sees The Black Hogge riding at anchor: it won’t display any colours, and people will think it is an English war cog taking on supplies.’
‘The Black Hogge cannot be far off the coast.’
‘Yes, Ranulf, you are correct. It disappears where it can’t be seen from land, but I doubt it is far away. It will return and we must prepare.’
PART EIGHT
‘If you plan to pursue a life of crime, the entire world will rise against you.’
The Monk of Malmesbury, Life of Edward II
Corbett walked the tavern again, which only confirmed his suspicions that this was the supply point for the French war cog. Once satisfied, he set off, following the winding trackway across the heathland and up to the sand hills overlooking the beach. The tide was coming in, the waves rolling fast under a crest of white foam. Nevertheless, apart from the seabirds shrieking and swooping, the great expanse of sky, sea and land seemed empty and peaceful. Corbett noticed how to both north and south the beach turned to create a natural harbour or inlet. Straining his eyes, he stared at the far horizon. He was certain The Black Hogge was prowling not far beyond that, but until it made its presence felt, there was nothing to be done.
Recalling what Penda had told him as they’d walked the tavern, he searched the thick wall of bushes along the rim of the sand hills and came across a sturdy four-oared shore boat. He swiftly inspected this and was pleased to find it seaworthy. Corbett had a vague strategy in mind, although since he had little experience of war at sea, except for service as a mailed clerk on the old king’s fighting cog, The Glory of Castile, he would be guided by the Magister in what was being proposed. The Black Hogge was a formidable fighting ship, vulnerable only to fire, even more so in enemy seas, where repairs and refitting would be almost impossible to secure.
Absorbed in such thoughts, he sat down with his back to a tree and plotted what should be done. He then reflected on the various mysteries under investigation. He had been caught up in Philip’s dark design against Edward of England, yet there might be an area of this tangled, bloody situation that had nothing to do with the machinations of the Louvre: namely the murders of the Templars at St Giles and the killing of Slingsby at the Merry Mercy. Was there a killer on the prowl? Someone responsible for the deaths of the Templars, the destruction of Rougehead’s coven and the murder of Slingsby? Was this assassin motivated by the cruel deaths of those two former Templars who called themselves Sumerscale and Fallowfield?
Corbett’s mind went back to the devil incarnate Rougehead. Acc
ording to that renegade, Ausel did not know why his comrades were being killed or who could be responsible. But surely that was not true? Again Corbett recalled Rougehead, and the clerk stiffened. Something was very, very wrong. Something he had missed. He had been so relieved at being rescued, he had not concentrated on what Rougehead had said and done at Temple Combe. He quietly promised that once he had finished the present task and returned to London, he would reflect most carefully on Rougehead’s abduction of them, the journey to the Templar manor and their confrontation there.
Corbett dozed for a while. He startled awake at the arrival of two of Ap Ythel’s archers, who informed him in their lilting voices that their captain and his cohort had reached the Sunne in Splendour and were setting up watches on all approaches to the tavern as well as this stretch of coastline. Corbett thanked them and returned to the hostelry, where the archers, typical soldiers, were busy cooking a meal and flirting with Gunhilda. Corbett again questioned Penda, and later in the afternoon, he summoned the Magister, Ranulf and Ap Ythel to the ground-floor chamber of the flint tower, a cavernous, spacious room, its walls freshly plastered; the floor was of scrubbed stone and the large lattice window allowed in air and light.
At Corbett’s request, the Magister started the proceedings using parchment and quill pen supplied by Ranulf. He drew a crude map of the large inlet only a short walk away, as well as a rough sketch of The Black Hogge, with its high stern and prow castles, two masts and projecting bowsprit. Corbett had had a lanternhorn lit and placed on the table so all could see the parchments clearly, and he suppressed a shiver at the deepening tension around the table. The day had been glorious, but the juddering light of the lantern showed that it was coming to an end, and darkness was creeping towards them like some mythical beast across the moorland. The sun was setting fast, and here they were plotting another bloody life-and-death struggle, a gamble of trickery and courage to carry the day.
‘Remember,’ the Magister began, ‘The Black Hogge is dangerous as long as it can sail and manoeuvre, but once it is stricken, out in open water, it is truly vulnerable. Now as yet we have no sight of our enemy. I wager it will arrive on the evening tide sometime during the next few days.’ He traced a line on the makeshift map. ‘Gaston Foix will bring his cog in as close as he can to the shore, but he will be wary of grounding it. He will then drop the anchor stone and lower his shore boat, probably a four-oared craft like the one kept here, with extra men armed and buckled for battle.’
‘What will they bring?’ Corbett asked. ‘What do they need?’
‘Purveyance, Sir Hugh, but above all water. Remember, they have been at sea. The fresh water they took on last time has gone, turned brackish or tinged with salt, not to mention the filth from the vermin on board ship.’
‘And there are casks and waterskins ready for them here.’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘Penda has shown them to us.’
‘True,’ the Magister agreed. ‘Now when that devil incarnate Rougehead still crawled under the sun, this is what happened. The shore boat would pull in bringing casks and waterskins to be cleaned, scoured and made ready for next time. These would be replaced with fresh casks and waterskins already prepared, because the hours slip away and The Black Hogge must sail on the morning tide. Now this is what I propose …’
The next day, Corbett rose early. He washed as best he could using water heated in the old tavern kitchen. He ate some bread, boiled bacon and dried fruit and walked down to stand on the sand hills gazing out over the sea. Ranulf, his war belt strapped on, came up silently beside him. For a while he too stared at the far horizon.
‘Will it work, Sir Hugh, the Magister’s plan?’
‘It has to, Ranulf. It’s the only ploy we have. If we are successful – and we must be immediately – then the game is ours. Look down at that beach: many men are going to die there whether our plan works or not. There will be blood and there will be death.’
During the next few hours, the final preparations were made. The shore boat was filled with casks and skins brimming not with water but with oil, found in the tavern’s storerooms. Small pots of fire were also primed ready to be lit, and placed in sacks, which were taken down to the sand hills together with other barrels, casks and skins and covered with cloths against the wind-blown sand. All the time Ap Ythel had his keen-eyed archers scanning the horizon.
Late in the afternoon the alarm was raised by one of the archers whistling long and shrill. Corbett and Ranulf, now garbed in the heavy black cloaks of the dead assassins, with their thick mantles and deep hoods, stood on the sand hills looking out over the sea. Behind them, hiding in the coarse grass, lay Ap Ythel with twenty of his archers, war bows and quivers at the ready. Corbett watched fascinated as the dark smudge became more and more distinct against the white-blue sky, like some nightmare beast crawling over the horizon to demonstrate its power, strength and speed.
‘A true leviathan,’ he whispered, ‘a terror of the seas.’
The Black Hogge was now fully distinct, and the closer it drew, the more formidable it became. A true ship of menace with its high, powerful fore and stern castles, its deep, rounded belly, jutting bowsprit and lofty masts. As it approached, Corbett breathed a prayer of relief: the sails were being reefed, the ship turning slightly on the incoming tide. The Magister was correct. Gaston Foix was bringing his craft in as close as possible, its sails fully furled. Peering intently, Corbett could see a cluster of men in the bows preparing to cast the anchor stone on the end of its rattling chain. He did not know if those on board could clearly see him, but now and then he and Ranulf would lift a hand in greeting. He wanted the crew to study them and conclude that Rougehead’s assassins had returned safely with their captives.
The afternoon drew on. Corbett and Ranulf continued their vigil from a more secure place. At last the crew of The Black Hogge began their preparations to go ashore. The four-oared boat was lowered. Corbett counted four mariners climbing down the rope ladder to man it and four more as an armed escort. He and Ranulf slipped back up over the sand hills to inform Ap Ythel, who prepared two lines of archers, ten in each row, a few yards from where the beach path cut through the sand hills to debouch on to the moorland. Now concealed, Corbett watched the boat push off from The Black Hogge: it rose and fell on the swell, the oars lifting and dipping in unison, then settled and cut through the waves towards the beach. The incoming tide helped it surge forward, until at last its keel screeched on the gravel along the shoreline. Corbett watched the men jump out, shouting at each other as they pulled the boat clear of the water and began to unload the empty barrels and flat leather skins.
‘It’s time,’ he whispered. He emerged from hiding and strode down towards the beach. Cloaked, mantled and cowled in the assassin’s black robes, he could only pray that the mariners would accept him as such. Ranulf, not so skilled in the French tongue, followed behind.
‘My friends, my friends.’ Corbett tried to imitate the patois he’d heard between Rougehead and Primus. ‘Welcome! We have fresh food and the best Bordeaux, all is ready!’
He turned and descended the sand hill, drawing swiftly to one side. The eight mariners from The Black Hogge followed him over the rise, chattering so excitedly they hardly noticed Ap Ythel’s archers suddenly emerge from behind a line of bush and gorse. The archers had their bows primed and curved, the twine pulled back, the deadly shafts in place. The Frenchmen stopped in alarm, too shocked to shout, turn or flee. Corbett’s heart lurched at the sight of eight souls blundering into sudden and savage death.
‘Aim!’ Ap Ythel cried. ‘Loose!’
Twenty shafts ripped through the air, followed within a few heartbeats by twenty more. The archers then moved forward, fresh arrows notched, but it was all over. The French lay twisted grotesquely, arrow shafts deep in neck, chest and groin. A few groans carried. A body twitched in the final spasms of death, but then that numbing silence that in Corbett’s experience always followed a sudden, brutal assault, seemed to gather them all in its chilling
embrace. Ap Ythel, his long stabbing dirk drawn, moved amongst the fallen, but there was no need for any mercy cut: all eight were dead.
Corbett shook himself free of the nightmare reverie, reminding himself how these men and their cog had waged cruel and constant war against English ships and their crews. Men such as these had slaughtered Naseby, Torpel and others.
‘Quick, quick!’ he ordered. ‘Strip them, dress in their clothes.’
Ap Ythel and seven specially selected archers hastened to obey, doffing their own jerkins and donning the bloodied, salt-soaked garments of the dead. Once they were ready, Corbett instructed them to move the barrels and skins full of oil up over the sand hills and down to the ship’s boat, a long, deep-bellied craft. The other shore boat, filled with the remaining casks and skins, was dragged from its hiding place among the rocks and down to the water’s edge. All the time, Corbett kept a close eye on The Black Hogge, swaying at anchor. He could see little groups gathering on board, and his nervousness deepened at the sheer size of this fighting cog and the dangers they would confront very soon.
The Magister had described his battle plan in great detail: he and Ap Ythel and four of the archers, chosen because they could swim, would take the shore boat out. They would pretend to be trying to manoeuvre around The Black Hogge and would become deliberately entangled with the bowsprit, which, as Corbett could now see, hung down in a mass of cordage and dangling ropes. At the same time, Corbett and Ranulf, still dressed in the black garb of Rougehead’s assassins, would go across in The Black Hogge’s shore boat. According to the Magister, the crew would lower nets for the casks, barrels and waterskins. The most dangerous step was next. Corbett and Ranulf, leaving the four archers dressed as oarsmen, would have to climb the rope ladder and follow the net aboard. The Magister pointed out that the net would be resting somewhere close to the mast that rose midship. They must try and pull or push it closer to the mast. Ranulf, who would have slit and punctured as many of the containers as possible, would then toss the pots of fire from the sack he was carrying on to the seeping oil, and both clerks would leave as swiftly as possible.
