Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  Corbett paused, listening to the singing. ‘Gaston Foix must have loved his birds. I strongly suspect he saw service in the Middle Sea, probably as a mariner serving on the galleys of Genoa or Venice.’

  ‘But can pigeons find their nest at sea?’

  ‘Ranulf, I should have known. I have read Pliny’s Natural History. He offers a wealth of advice about pigeons, as he does about bees. These birds are swift and sure fliers. If I recall correctly, they can carry messages from anywhere back to their home. Gaston Foix made The Black Hogge their home; they would be raised and fed there. At first they would have to be transported to one place and released from there. However, as time passed and they became more experienced, they could pass safely to and fro, backwards and forwards, their home in one location and their food in another.’

  ‘But The Black Hogge moved …’

  ‘As do the galleys of Venice and Genoa, as do armies on the march. These couriers search out their home; they are remarkably accurate. In addition, Ranulf, remember what Sulpice told us. How Gaston Foix kept The Black Hogge at a certain location off the coast of Essex; the pigeons would return there. This system would have taken weeks to develop. I suspect the birds were first brought here from The Black Hogge then taken into London by Rougehead. They would then be handed to someone else, who fed them but also used them to send ciphered messages to Gaston Foix about what cogs were leaving Queenhithe.’

  ‘Master, would it be swift enough?’

  ‘Ranulf, I assure you, if a pigeon was released at noon somewhere in Queenhithe, it would be home on The Black Hogge before darkness fell. On occasion, I admit, something might go wrong. A bird could be injured, be attacked by a hawk, or killed on the ground if it rested. Oh yes, I am sure if we looked at the rota of ships, we would be mystified why certain ones weren’t attacked and reached their destination safely. Of course, in the main, the courier pigeon is swift and precise, be it journeying home to its nest and its mate or back to the source of its food.’

  ‘So The Black Hogge was its nest, but where in Queenhithe was its feed? Master, I have walked the Merry Mercy.’ Ranulf got to his feet. ‘I saw nothing suspicious.’

  ‘No, neither did I. Let us think, Ranulf.’ Corbett patted his companion on the shoulder and decided to walk around the Sunne in Splendour. He found that all was well. The French prisoners had been roped and placed in front of a roaring fire with something to eat and drink. The Welsh archers sat with them or at other fires. Corbett pronounced himself satisfied. Ranulf brought across a fresh platter of food and two goblets of what he called the best Bordeaux. Corbett sipped at the wine and agreed.

  ‘Penda said that Rougehead loved his red wine,’ declared Ranulf, ‘which is why he never left here until the strangers garbed in black arrived a few days ago. Rougehead would often drink himself insensible.’

  Corbett listened intently and tried to hide his surprise.

  ‘Impossible,’ he caught his breath, ‘but that’s impossible.’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Grandison was stabbed to death out on that lonely meadow around the midnight hour. Datchet was slaughtered in his own chamber. Boveney sitting in that enclave along the church of St Giles. Burghesh and Stapleton stuck like pigs in the sanctuary of Holy Trinity the Little. Slingsby pierced in that garderobe at the Merry Mercy. Those leper knights mercilessly executed. Nor must we forget poor old Rohesia, the collector of cat skins.’

  ‘I do not …’

  ‘We are not just hunting a murderer but a true assassin, someone who thoroughly enjoys killing as well as someone who, I suspect, is settling debts.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot follow your logic.’

  ‘I will come back to that, but for the moment, let’s reflect on what the Magister told us about the Poultneys who once owned this tavern. Now what was it? Matilda died in 1281, whilst her son John moved to Queenhithe in London, where he died in 1293 without heir. Or did he?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, you think not?’

  ‘We shall see. We leave with all possible speed for Westminster at first light. The answers to these questions will be found in the city. Tell the Magister to prepare for a hard ride. We’ll take the treasure with us in panniers thrown over one of the horses. Ap Ythel and his men can take care of the prisoners.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, you talked of the murders being the work of a ruthless killer. Not Ausel, surely?’

  ‘No, no. Ausel was a coward, a man who thought every bush was a bear.’

  ‘Rougehead?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘But master, he is as dead as Ausel.’ Corbett half smiled. ‘He is dead!’ Ranulf repeated.

  Corbett just clasped his companion’s hand, bade him goodnight and walked away.

  PART NINE

  ‘And so does a man offer his soul up for sale …’

  The Monk of Malmesbury, Life of Edward II

  Corbett knelt on the prie-dieu before the statue of the Virgin and Child close to the Secret Chancery at the very heart of the huddle and maze of buildings that housed the Crown’s retainers at Westminster. A small, jewel-like oratory, the chapel of St Thomas the Apostle was carpeted completely in blue and gold. The softest turkey cloths of the thickest wool lay on the floor; boards of quilted arras proclaiming the same colours covered the walls. All sound was deadened; the silence was something that could be almost grasped and held. It was claimed that this ancient and holy place was once a chantry chapel of the Confessor: a serene abode of prayer illuminated by the light pouring through the exquisitely painted oriel window above the chapel altar to Corbett’s right.

  The clerk leaned back on his heels and stared at the candles he’d lit in thanksgiving for his escape as well as the safety and well-being of his family and friends. Behind him, Ranulf was whispering strict instructions to Chanson. They had arrived back at the Merry Mercy before Vespers the previous evening. Corbett had assured Mistress Philippa that all was well, though he could tell that the sharp-eyed taverner sensed he was being less than truthful. After a good night’s sleep, he and Ranulf had broken their fast, shaved, washed and changed their clothes. Corbett’s cloak was filthy, so he handed it over to the washerwoman busy at the tavern well and Mistress Philippa lent him one of her late husband’s. Corbett had wrapped this about him, revelling in its delicate and refreshing perfume as he walked the tavern.

  Ranulf was correct: there was no trace of any pigeons being housed, fed or maintained at the Merry Mercy. Moreover, by judicious enquiry, Corbett discovered that Mistress Philippa and her late husband had refused to build a dovecote because of the smell and dirt such a building could cause. Afterwards he inspected the jakes where Slingsby had been stabbed, and then asked Mistress Philippa to fetch a selection of candles so he could dedicate one to Holy Trinity the Little, which he hoped to visit later in the day. Mystified, the tavern mistress had hastened to comply.

  Mistress Philippa was brimming with questions about de Craon and his henchman Brother Jerome. She raised the subject in the taproom, where Corbett and Ranulf were breaking their fast. Agnes Sokelar came sidling in, eager to learn why the two Frenchmen had not returned from Westminster. Corbett blandly informed them that it was probably for de Craon’s own protection; however, he promised that when he visited the palace, he would make his own diligent enquiries …

  Corbett blinked and struck his breast in sorrow. He had not been praying but lost in distraction. He murmured a swift Ave and continued to stare at the statue of the Virgin. Feeling a slight cramp, he turned, and his gaze was caught by a vividly depicted wall fresco. The artist – Corbett suspected he was from abroad – had depicted the damned as worshipping a huge strawberry, the symbol of the earth. They had gathered around the gigantic fruit to greedily devour it, swarming so close they merged together and lost any individuality in their lust to whet their appetites. Close by the strawberry, a flock of birds stood watching. At first glance there was nothing special about these, but on further scrutiny, the sharp beaks and unblinking black eyes grew more men
acing, revealing their true malignant nature: demons waiting for their chance to strike. Corbett felt the painting reflected the world he was now moving through, with its nightmare souls.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  He turned, rose and walked over to exchange the kiss of peace with Walter Reynolds, royal chaplain and the king’s favourite cleric, a priest, according to court gossip, destined for the highest offices in both Church and state. A svelte, darkly handsome man of medium height, Reynolds was dressed in a fashionable red and gold cote-hardie over a pure linen shirt and dark-blue woollen leggings pushed into gleaming boots of blood-red Spanish leather. His night-black hair and moustache were neatly clipped, the full lips pursed, the dark, soulful eyes unblinking in their stare. Reynolds was shrewd, a court watcher, a man who liked to stay in the shadows but could make his presence felt when he wanted. Now he stood back, eyeing Corbett from head to toe.

  ‘You are safe.’ He smiled. ‘Come.’ He plucked Corbett by the sleeve and they walked arm in arm across the small chapel. Corbett whispered swiftly about what had happened. Reynolds broke free, his face transformed by the most brilliant smile. ‘Oh Lord, Hugh!’ he gasped. ‘The king will be so pleased! The Black Hogge destroyed, its crew gone, the few who survived prisoners. Royal treasure found and seized and malefactors brutally executed for daring to invade the king’s realm.’

  ‘My friend.’ Corbett seized the chaplain’s velvet-gloved hand and pulled him closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. ‘The king must not know, not yet. Ap Ythel’s cohort will come first to the Tower. They are to be detained there, the prisoners locked away, the treasure stored in the Chapel of the Evangelist. The archers must be richly rewarded with good food and drink, but what has happened at Temple Combe and Saltcot must not be discussed or proclaimed until I say. Two things especially. On no account must de Craon and his sinister soul shadow Brother Jerome know what has happened. I want to be there when they learn the truth. Second,’ he undid his belt wallet and handed Reynolds a parchment script, ‘I want the clerk Fitzosbert to search out what I have written here. It should not be difficult. In a short while I am going to tell him personally, but I would like your support. Fitzosbert can scrutinise the archives. I will also ask the Wolfman and the Magister Viae to help. All three must be lavishly rewarded.’ Reynolds nodded his agreement. ‘In addition,’ Corbett continued, ‘my good colleagues can also sweep Queenhithe’s taverns and ale houses for information.’

  Reynolds stared at the ground, tapping his foot, then glanced up. ‘Hugh, you ask for things to be kept confidential. I will do my very best, but already along Queenhithe they are talking about how easy it has become to cross the Narrow Seas now that The Black Hogge seems to have disappeared. Merchant ships go backwards and forwards untroubled. We are also getting information out of France that not all is well in Paris. You will be pleased to learn that the Deacon escaped to Boulogne, from where he has sent urgent messages. He believes that Pietal and Tallefert are dead, tortured and barbarously killed. I suspect you know that’s the truth.’

  Corbett nodded. He walked back to the statue of the Virgin, carefully lit two tapers and recited the requiem. Reynolds came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hugh, may they rest in peace, but the task is not yet finished. I bid you farewell.’

  Corbett watched him go, then walked across to a small chantry enclave. The wooden panelling attached to the wall above the altar proclaimed the story of Adam and Eve after the fall. The artist had depicted an Eden rapidly turning dark and malignant: a cat carried off its kill, two cockatrices fought over a dead frog, whilst nearby, a three-headed crane nested in a formidable looking dragon tree. Once again the dark scenes seemed to be a reflection of his own experiences. Nevertheless, he admired the artist’s skill and recalled a promise he had made to Lady Maeve and their two children that one day soon he would show them around Westminster. He now quietly vowed to keep such a promise. Life was short; its ending could be brutal and quick. After journeying to Temple Combe and Saltcot and receiving the tragic news about Tallefert and Pietal, Corbett wanted more than anything to immerse himself deep in the love and friendship of his wife and family, his manor, his orderly beehives and his cherished choir, where he could sing the great chants of the liturgical season. He must return to Leighton. They would soon be finished here. Deep in his soul, he felt that they were now moving to judgement.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf stood in the doorway. ‘They are here.’

  Corbett followed him out to where the Magister, the Wolfman and Fitzosbert stood in the shadow of the Lady Chapel. Once again Corbett thanked them, and insisted on the greatest secrecy and confidentiality. He then handed each of them a copy of the script he’d given Walter Reynolds. ‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘find out as much as you can. Bring it to me at the Merry Mercy; we can meet there.’

  Cowled and cloaked despite the warm sun, Corbett and Ranulf left Westminster at King’s Steps. The barge they hired made a swift run. The river swell was placid, only a calm breeze ruffling its surface. Corbett sat back under the leather awning in the stern, revelling at being back in the city. He savoured the variety of smells and odours from the summer stalls set up along the riverbank. This was a season of pageantry, when the guilds, eager to display their wealth, staged masques and mystery plays both on the Thames and along the quaysides. Barges packed with mummers, all dressed for the part, journeyed along with a blare of trumpets, standards and banners flapping. One barge rode alongside Corbett’s and the clerk clambered to his feet to look more closely: there was an actor with a sow’s mask under a nun’s wimple next to a mummer with a moon face, whilst two monkey demons escorted a red-wigged Herod. He watched them go and sat down again.

  The oarsmen were complaining about how busy the river had become. Bumboats, fruit barges, fishing smacks, herring craft as well as great war barges crammed with soldiers moved busily across the water. Corbett sensed a holiday atmosphere, a contentment. He idly wondered if news about the destruction of The Black Hogge was somehow seeping through London, as all such rumours did: a few words here, a conversation in that tavern or ale house … Soon the news would be confirmed, and once it was, the merchants and shipowners would greatly rejoice and flock to their guild chapels in thanksgiving.

  Ranulf shook his arm and Corbett looked up. The barge, oars raised, was now gliding to berth along Queenhithe Steps. Ranulf paid the master and they walked up on to the cobbled, fish-stinking quayside and down a runnel that led them into the maze of alleyways. A busy, crowd-thronging day. Along the riverside the stocks and pillories were being prepared for the previous night’s roisterers, now a woebegone line of pathetic half-drunks who would have to endure hours of humiliation, be it curses or flung filth, whilst wailing bagpipes drowned their cries. Tinkers and traders, recognising where the crowds would gather, had set up their tawdry stalls, whilst the lard-fingered, greasy-faced wandering cooks were firing their movable grills and stoves to prepare the usual filth for eating. The dung carts were also out, piles of ordure being lifted and dumped in them, the stench so foul that Corbett bought two pomanders for himself and Ranulf. He wondered, as he always did, if the urchins who sold these nosegays were the sons or apprentices of the burly, foul-mouthed dung collectors in their leather aprons and masked hoods.

  The crowds surged, pushed and shoved around them. Cripples scurried about with alms bowls at the ready, whilst the whores moved in colourful shoals backwards and forwards from one shadowy recess to another. Professional beggars moaned sonorously, surrounded by their retainers, a gaggle of orphan children, who were trying to pluck the heart strings and so open those of the purse. One mendicant had brazenly assumed the role of a wandering preacher and, perched on a barrel surrounded by a cohort of thin-faced waifs, was delivering a sombre warning to the rich, reminding them how in hell they would simmer eternally in cauldrons of burning coins and be forced to eat snakes, toads and bats.

  Corbett and Ranulf pushed their way through the crowds, left the alleyways
, crossed the empty concourse and pulled on the bell rope that hung to the side of the main gate of St Giles lazar hospital. A servitor opened the postern door and took them immediately to Crowthorne, the leech, now installed in the master’s parlour. He greeted them very coldly, demanding why they had returned, adding how everything was now so peaceful. Corbett was equally abrupt and asked if there was a dovecote or similar building on the site. Crowthorne ignored this and replied with a spate of questions about the recent murders, the killings in Holy Trinity the Little and the whereabouts of Reginald Ausel. Ranulf drew his sword and brought the flat of its blade down on Crowthorne’s shoulder: this silenced the leech.

  ‘King’s business!’ Ranulf declared. ‘Answer my master’s question.’

  Crowthorne shrugged, then led them out of the main buildings and across the great meadow to an area that Corbett and Ranulf had never visited. The dovecote he showed them stood free of the trees: a circular stone building, much decayed. Corbett stepped inside. He asked Crowthorne to take his tinder and light a sconce torch. The leech did so, exclaiming in surprise to find torches already neatly primed resting in their holders. He also discovered two lanternhorns, each with a thick tallow candle inside, carefully cut so the wick was ready to be lit. At Corbett’s insistence, he fired both the sconce torches and the lanternhorns. Corbett moved these so as to illuminate the roundel of earth-packed floor. Squatting down, poking the ground with his gloved fingers, he scrutinised the fresh bird droppings and examined the soft feathers fluttering about in the breeze. It was obvious the dovecote had been used very recently. Ranulf, searching the walls honeycombed with recesses, found fresh nesting boxes as well as small sacks of feed and bowls for both food and water.