by Paul Doherty
There were mutinous sounds from the villagers. 'The business of this court is concluded,' Gurney said. He dug into his purse and placed two silver pieces on the table. 'This is for Fulke the tanner, to pay for his daughter's funeral Mass. I shall also give Father Augustine a chantry fee for Masses to be sung for the repose of her soul between now and Easter Day.'
The villagers, humming like an overturned beehive, swarmed around the jurymen, slapping them on the back as they left the church. Father Augustine, murmuring he had other business to attend to, left his record of the proceedings with Gurney and hurried after his parishioners.
Gurney beckoned Catchpole forward. 'Take some men,' he.ordered, 'and go and arrest Gunhilda and Gilbert. Pray God that we do so before the villagers, now thronging in the taproom of the Inglenook, become so full of ale they take the law into their own hands.'
Catchpole hurried off. Gurney rose, stretched and looked at Corbett.
'Well, Hugh, a bloody day's business.'
'Aye, and it won't end well.' Corbett pursed his lips and looked down at the door of the church. Your tenants, he thought, want justice and blood.
'Are you going back to the manor, Hugh?'
'Perhaps in a while. The day is drawing on. I would like to see more of the countryside before darkness falls.'
Corbett excused himself and, accompanied by a taciturn Ranulf and Maltote, collected the horses idly grazing in a small paddock behind the priest's house. They rode back through the village. Corbett, going ahead, stared around at the white-washed, thatched cottages, each standing in its own little plot of land. A prosperous, thriving place, he thought. Nevertheless, he felt the heavy hand of violent death. The place was deserted. The women were indoors with their children, the men in the tavern opposite the village green with its now ice-covered pond.
Some of the villagers standing at the door caught sight of Corbett and shouted greetings. Corbett raised a gloved hand in reply. He saw Robert the reeve leave his house, a freshly painted, half-timbered building, and wondered about the reeve's newly found wealth. Further along was the baker's house, with its small, gaudily painted sign depicting three white manchet loaves on a silver platter. Corbett would have stopped, but the house was shuttered and closed, as if the young girl's death had reminded the baker of his own tragedy. Corbett rode on out of the village, taking the path towards the cliff edge.
The darkness was drawing in and the mist seethed above the angry waves sweeping in at low tide. The haunting cry of sea birds sounded above the low, moaning wind. Corbett sensed the desolation of the moors. He recalled legends of the place. Someone at Swaffham had called the wind the Dark Angel and told Corbett how this part of Norfolk had once been ruled by an ancient tribe which had rebelled against the Romans and drenched the land in blood. Corbett almost jumped as Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.
'Master,' he began cautiously, glimpsing Corbett's close-set face. 'Maltote and I were wondering how long we are to stay here?'
Corbett smiled. 'How long is a piece of rope, Ranulf?'
Ranulf changed tack. 'The villagers have already made up their minds who killed that girl. Sir Simon is right – if Gilbert falls into their hands they will kill him.'
Corbett pulled on his reins and stared at Ranulf. 'Do you know Master Joseph?'
Ranulf scratched the stubble on his chin. 'I've been thinking about that. He certainly recognized me and I think I recognized him.'
'From where?'
'I don't know. I can't remember.'
'What do you make of the Pastoureaux?' Corbett asked.
'Cranks and tricksters.' Ranulf grinned. 'My old mother told me to beware of religion. It attracts few saints and many, many rogues.'
'You think the Pastoureaux are rogues?'
'I think we should talk to the young men and women of their community.'
Corbett nodded. 'When we have finished here, you and Maltote will take my compliments and condolences to Master Joseph. See if you can talk with the community.'
Ranulf closed his eyes. 'Master, I'm cold and I'm hungry!'
'Aye, and when you return there'll be a warm meal and a good bed and you and Maltote can play dice.' He held up an admonitory finger. 'But not with Sir Simon's servants.'
Ranulf blinked innocently at him.
'I mean that,' Corbett insisted. 'And you aren't to gull them into buying the medicines you try to sell whenever we come into the countryside, the strange concoctions and elixirs handed down to you from the ancient Egyptians.'
Ranulf swallowed hard and stared guiltily at Maltote. How did old Master Long Face know about his little leather bag and the remedies he was always ready to sell to the gullible?
'Now,' – Corbett urged his horse forward – 'let's look at the gallows.'
They rode along the cliff edge until they came again to the three-branched scaffold. It soared up against the darkening sky, only about seven yards from the cliff edge. Corbett gathered the reins and tried to keep his skittish horse still. He looked up at the great iron hook in each of the scaffold branches.
'I suppose,' he said, more to himself than to his companions, 'if some poor unfortunate's to be executed, he's brought out here, pushed up a ladder, the ladder's turned and he's left to hang. But that's not what happened to the baker's wife.'
He stared down at the ground, where the grass had long been worn away. His horse was so nervous that he wondered whether someone was buried there – it was, he knew, the custom to bury suicides and excommunicants beneath a scaffold. Why, he wondered, had the baker's wife come out here? Why had she allowed someone to place a rope round her neck? How was it that the murderer had left no sign? And who had ridden the baker's horse back to the village?
The sound of hoof-beats made him look round in alarm. Monck came galloping out of the mist; with his black cloak billowing out, he looked like some evil raven. Corbett nodded a dismissal at Ranulf and Maltote.
'Go to the Hermitage,' he ordered. 'I'll meet you back at the manor.'
Ranulf and Maltote galloped away as Monck, his mount slowing to a trot, came up beside Corbett. He pulled back his hood and Corbett saw that his face and hair were soaked. Had he been on the beach, staring into the stinging spray? Monk gestured towards the scaffold.
'A mystery, eh, Corbett?'
'You saw the corpse?' Corbett asked.
'Yes, nothing but a noose mark around her neck. Not like the poor girl we discovered this morning.' Monck pushed his horse closer. 'I thought you'd be either in the village or here. I came to find you.'
Corbett stared at him. 'Why?'
Monck wiped his mouth with the back of his black-gloved hand.
'I came to apologize.'
For a few seconds Monck's face relaxed and Corbett glimpsed a younger, pleasanter man. Monck stared out at the mist-covered sea and spoke softly.
'You've heard the gossip?'
'Aye,' Corbett replied. 'I've remembered. You had a daughter.'
'She was sixteen,' Monck said, still looking out to sea. 'She was pretty as a summer's day. Every time I looked at her I thought of her mother, who died giving her birth. It happened so quickly. My Lord of Surrey had organized a small banquet. It was a most beautiful day. Caterina, my daughter, said she wished to go for a walk in the nearby woods. I was stupid, I let her go. We were on the earl's estates. I thought she'd be safe. An hour passed and she didn't return. I became anxious. I went searching for her. She was like that girl we found this morning, just lying there.' Turning to face Corbett for the first time, he blinked away tears. 'She had been attacked, raped, then choked to death. And there was nothing I could do. I kept talking to her.' His voice faltered. 'I even took my dagger and cut myself in case I was dreaming. My Lord of Surrey was most kind, but the murderer was never found.'
Corbett leaned across and touched him gently on the arm.
'I am sorry, Lavinius. Truly sorry.'
'There were suspects, though,' Monck continued.
'There were Pastoureaux on the other sid
e of the wood. They occupied an old ruined church. They swore they had nothing to do with Caterina's death.'
'The same group?' Corbett asked. 'The people we have here now?' Monck shook his head. 'I don't know. I was prostrate with grief. My Lord of Surrey brought in the sheriff's men but they could discover nothing.'
'Do you think the Pastoureaux killed Marina?'
Monck's face twisted into a sneer. 'That's for you to prove, Corbett! I don't give a damn who murdered Marina. But one day someone is going to pay for my daughter's death!' Monck grasped the reins of his horse and leaned over, pushing his face to within a few inches of Corbett's. 'I know what you | think of me,' he whispered. Corbett saw the murderous hatred blazing in his eyes. 'You think I've no scruples, no principles, no morals. But how can you have these, Corbett, when you have no soul? My soul, my life, died the day my daughter was murdered. God took away my wife, then he took Caterina. I don't listen any longer to the mumbling of priests!' Monck threw his head back and stared up at the grey skies. A strangled sound came from his bared lips. 'I'll curse and I'll curse till the day I die!' Monck tugged at his horse and galloped back towards the manor.
Corbett watched him go. He felt uncomfortable. He had judged Monck but had not realized the nightmares and ghosts that haunted the man's soul. He felt a surge of compassion for a man who had made his daughter's life the centre of his being and then had that life so barbarously removed. Corbett spurred his horse forward at a leisurely pace along the path. What else had the gossips said? Hadn't there been suspicions that Monck's murdered servant, Cerdic Lickspittle, had been too sweet on the girl? Monck had certainly blamed his manservant for not keeping better care. Corbett stared down at his horse's bobbing head. What if Monck had asked for this assignment? What if he had come into the wilds of Norfolk to settle a number of grievances – with the Pastoureaux and with his own servant? Had there been any link between Monck and the baker's wife? His horse's whinny jolted him from his reverie. He looked up and saw he was only a stone's throw away from the gate of Mortlake Manor.
In the courtyard, an ostler took his horse. Corbett walked through the main entrance. The hall and solar were deserted and a servant told him that Sir Simon was with his wife in their chamber. Corbett snatched something to eat from the buttery and carried a pewter cup of mulled wine to his own chamber. Once he had warmed himself by the small fire he lit candles and placed them on the table. He took out quill, inkhorn and parchment and tried to make sense of the mysteries that faced him.
First he drew a rough map, showing the line of the coast and the location of different places. Then he began to list the people concerned, starting with Sir Simon Gurney. Corbett chewed the end of his quill and considered. Sir Simon was nervous, slightly withdrawn and fearful – but of what? Then there was Giles Selditch, the physician: an enigmatic figure. Next, Catchpole, Sir Simon's henchman: he was loyal, disliked strangers and deeply resented the Pastoureaux. Next, Lavinius Monck: insane or simply motivated by malice and revenge? His name led to all kinds of questions. What is he really doing in the area – investigating the Pastoureaux, seeking personal vengeance, or pursuing some other, secret aim? Who killed his servant, Cerdic Lickspittle? What was Cerdic doing out on the moors? Why was he murdered in such a barbaric fashion – head cut off and stuck on a pole on a misty, cold beach? How had the assassin managed to leave no signs, no clues?
Then there were the Pastoureaux? Were they fanatics, simpletons or saints? Would it be worthwhile writing to the chancery or the exchequer about them? He began to list names. First there was Master Joseph. Who was he? Why did Ranulf recognize him? Next, Marina, daughter of Fulke the tanner: why had she left the Hermitage and what was she doing out on the moors?
Corbett's list of names began to seem endless. He added Amelia Fourbour, the baker's wife. Why did she go out to the scaffold? Why hadn't she struggled? Why were there no signs of another horse at the scene? Who had ridden her horse back to the edge of the village?
Corbett wearily rubbed his eyes and sat staring for a while. He sighed, sipped from his cup of posset and continued writing.
Father Augustine: a stranger in the area, not really at home with the people of his parish. Dame Cecily: shrewd but luxury-loving. Robert the reeve: what was the source of his newly found wealth? Corbett put his pen down. He folded his arms on the table and studied his list of names. Other questions jostled in his mind. Who was disturbing old graves in the churchyard? How had Dame Agnes fallen to her death? He rose from his chair and stared into the shadows at the far end of the room. One question in particular kept nagging him. Why had he and Monck been sent here? What was so important that the king should send a trusted and confidential servant to assist the Earl of Surrey's right-hand man in, ostensibly, the investigation of a few admittedly bizarre murders?
Corbett returned to sit at his desk and thought back to his last meeting with the king. Edward had refused to meet his eye, but had kept shuffling from foot to foot, more engrossed with a peregrine jingling its jesses on a perch. John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, had also been present. Bland-faced, he kept stroking his mouth as if concealing a grin or some secret joke.
That had been at Swaffham. Now, Corbett knew, Edward and his young French queen, Margaret, would be at| Walsingham.
'I'll wait,' Corbett muttered to himself. 'I'll wait a little longer. If Monck doesn't tell me the truth, I'll ride to; Walsingham and demand it from the king myself!'
Corbett went and lay down on his bed. Closing his eyes, he drifted into sleep. Outside darkness fell and the rising song of the Dark Angel began to be heard above the roar of the sea.
Chapter 5
'Master!'
Corbett opened his eyes. Ranulf was bending over him.
'Master, the steward is summoning us to supper!'
Corbett swung his legs off the bed. He stared at Ranulf and Maltote, who were still swathed in their cloaks, the raindrops glistening in the flickering candlelight.
'We went to the Hermitage,' Ranulf said. 'Master Joseph was surprisingly friendly. He allowed us to come in. He, too, thinks he's seen me before, though he can't remember where.'
Corbett rubbed his face in his hands.
'Did you talk to any of the community?'
'Yes, although Nettler and Master Joseph were always in attendance. Everyone we spoke to said that Marina was a happy girl. But they all agreed that, in the days before she died, she became withdrawn.'
'And?'
'She had nightmares. The women – they sleep in one dormitory and the men in the other – heard her calling out the name Blanche in her sleep.'
'Who is Blanche?'
'A childhood friend of Marina's. She was the reeve's daughter, one of the first to enter the community. She left over a year ago.'
Corbett sighed. He got up and went to the lavarium, where he bathed his hands and face and dried himself on a towel. Ranulf and Maltote took off their cloaks and boots, slipped on soft leather buskins, washed and followed Corbett down to the main hall.
The evening meal was a desultory affair. Gurney was taciturn, still worried about the girl's death and the events in the village. Alice caught her husband's mood and only picked at her food. Monck, smiling strangely to himself, ate in silence. Corbett watched him and wondered again whether his mind was slipping into madness.
They were still at table when Catchpole strode into the hall, damp and muddied, his bad temper apparent.
'God damn them all!' he swore. 'There's no sign of Gilbert or his bloody mother! They have fled!' He brought his hand from beneath his cloak. 'I found this in their house.' He opened his hand to show glistening amber beads.
'That is Marina's necklace,' Selditch said immediately. He smiled self-consciously. 'I knew the girl well. So it seems that the villagers are right. Gilbert is the murderer.'
'I passed through the village,' Catchpole said. 'The hotheads are still drinking in the Inglenook tavern. There will be violence.'
Gurney shook his head. 'Adam, I thank yo
u. But enough is enough. Change, join us for supper. Tomorrow's another day.'
Corbett took the opportunity to excuse himself. He left Ranulf and Maltote drinking and went back to his own chamber to study the notes he had made. He waited until he heard the others leave the hall, then went out into the passage and found a servant to take him to Monck's chamber. He knocked and, deliberately, opened the door without waiting for an answer. Monck was seated at a table, his back to the door. He whirled round and saw Corbett. Hastily he gathered up the manuscripts spread out on the table in front of him and rose, that strange smile still on his face.
'What is it?' he asked. 'What can I do for you now?'
Corbett went into the room, closed the door behind him and sat down on a stool. Monck carefully kept himself between Corbett and the manuscripts on the table.
'Why are you here?' Corbett asked him.
Monck shrugged. 'Because of the Pastoureaux.'
'And how did Lickspittle die?'
'I have told you. He went out on the moors and never returned. His decapitated corpse and severed head were found on the beach.'
'A strange way to die,' Corbett observed.
'Dying is always strange.'
'You know what I mean, Lavinius. To kill a man is one thing, to mutilate his body another.'
'This is a strange place,' Monck said. 'According to our fat physician, the Iceni who once lived in this area used to take the heads of their enemies and expose them in public – just as our king does now on London Bridge.'
'What was Lickspittle doing on the beach?'
Monck shrugged.
'He went to the convent. There's a path from there down to the beach, though why he should have followed it, if he did, is a mystery. He was certainly taking a risk.'
'Why's that?'
'The tides here are fickle. After a heavy rainfall the waves come swirling in, they could take a man unawares.' 'And you'll tell me nothing else?' 'I cannot tell you anything.'
