by Paul Doherty
Corbett cleared the village and made his way along the track. He glimpsed the scaffold dark against the sky and remembered the decayed flowers he had found there. They looked as if they had been lying there for weeks, so it couldn't be some neighbour of the Fourbours paying a small tribute. Corbett looked out to where the sea rose and fell in a sullen grey mass. The wind whipped his hair and the bracken on either side crackled with the movement of night creatures. Corbett shivered.
'You are a fool,' he murmured, 'to be out so late at night.' And he urged his horse into a gallop towards the welcoming lights of Mortlake.
Ranulf and Maltote were waiting for him, their boredom apparent.
'We found nothing, Master,' Ranulf confessed as Corbett sat on the edge of his bed and removed his riding boots.
'And I don't think we will,' Corbett said. 'We are finished at Hunstanton.'
'What do you mean, Master?'
'Tomorrow morning-' Corbett ran his fingers through his hair. 'Oh, what's the use. Look! Sit down!' He gestured at his two companions. 'When I was in the halls of Oxford – an experience I wouldn't wish on you, Ranulf- the masters used to make us debate a problem, teasing out the difficulties, the illogicalities. So what do we have here? About ninety years ago' – Corbett used his fingers to emphasize his points – 'a king loses a fortune in the Wash. The treacherous guide escapes the disaster with some of the treasure.'
'Holcombe?' Maltote asked.
'Yes,' Ranulf mimicked. 'Holcombe.'
'Holcombe's caught and hanged by Gurney's ancestor,' Corbett continued. 'His accomplice, Alan of the Marsh, disappears, as does the treasure or most of it. The Gurneys acquire some information about what may have happened to this treasure but, to protect the family name, keep it hidden. Selditch discovers this information along with three pieces of plate. He goes to London and sells these pieces.' Corbett raised his eyebrows at Ranulf. 'What else?'
'Strange lights at night, both on the cliff top and at sea,' Ranulf replied.
'Oh, yes.' Corbett stared at the ceiling. 'And we have a reeve who suddenly comes into unexpected wealth and nuns who are hiding something, whilst the Pastoureaux are as enigmatic as ever. What else?'
'Marina,' Maltote replied.
'Ah, yes, a girl is murdered. She received a secret message, probably sent by an old friend who had also been with the Pastoureaux.'
'We have the other murders,' Ranulf added, 'of Cerdic and Monck? What was Cerdic doing on the beach? And who was Monck riding like the devil to meet?'
Corbett got to his feet and stretched. 'Do you miss London, Ranulf?'
'Does a fish miss water, Master?'
Corbett smiled. 'As I said, we are finished here.'
'So, where to, Master?'
'Let's visit Bishop's Lynn. Who knows what we could draw out of the shadows?'
'Such as?' Ranulf asked, eager for the smells and sight of any city.
'Well, there's the baker's wife for a start, Amelia Fourbour. However, before that, Ranulf, I want you and Maltote to go to the convent and ask that smug prioress if the name Alan of the Marsh means anything to her. And, secondly, why was Master Monck visiting her?' Corbett went across to the lavarium to wash his hands and face. 'Now, Dame Cecily will lie through her teeth. She will only tell the truth when she's forced. Just watch her reaction.'
'And afterwards?' Maltote asked hopefully.
'Afterwards, we lock everything away, pack our horses and ride to Bishop's Lynn.'
'Could there be Holcombes alive there now?' Ranulf asked.
'Perhaps,' Corbett replied.
He walked over to the window, undid the shutters and watched the heavy rain lash the manor house.
'We've got to walk carefully,' he murmured, 'or the assassin will strike again.' He looked over his shoulder at his anxious-faced companions. 'If we don't,' he warned, 'Monck might not be the only clerk to die out on the moors!'
Chapter 9
Dame Cecily was not pleased to see Ranulf and Maltote the following morning. She made them wait in an antechamber before inviting them into her opulent chamber, where she and Father Augustine sat on high-backed chairs before the fire. Ranulf and Maltote had to squat on stools pushed forward by an old lay sister. Old Master Long Face was right, Ranulf thought. He winked mischievously at Maltote. The prioress preened herself, smiling sourly at them whilst flouncing her pure wool robes.
'What does Sir Hugh Corbett want of me this time?' she asked.
'Simple answers,' Ranulf replied, 'to very simple questions. Master Lavinius Monck was a visitor at your house just before he died?'
'Yes, yes, poor man.' Dame Cecily glanced coyly at Father Augustine. 'Our chaplain' – she emphasized the word – 'has already told us the news. What a tragedy! What terrible events!'
'Why was Monck here?' Ranulf asked.
'Well, far be it for me to read Master Monck's mind, God rest him! But he was still anxious to know why his servant Cerdic had come here.'
'And what answer did you give?'
'The same as I told Master Corbett. I don't really know.'
Father Augustine coughed, clearing his throat.
'Dame Cecily,' he declared, 'can't be held responsible for the people who visit her.'
'And why do you come here, Father?'
'I am chaplain to the priory.' The priest smiled at Ranulf. 'I have known this place many years. When I was a curate in Swaffham I used to come here in the summer as a rest from my pastoral duties.'
Ranulf didn't know whom he disliked the most – the preening prioress with her false, smiling coyness or this long-visaged, sour-faced priest. Ranulf always felt uncomfortable in the presence of clergy – they seemed always to be patronizing him or sharing some private joke at his expense. This time was no different. Deliberately he pushed his muddy boots forward towards the fire and stretched. He smiled as he saw the prioress quiver with annoyance at such boorishness.
'We are going to Bishop's Lynn,' he announced. He yawned, pushed his hands towards the fire, rubbed them, then smacked his thighs. 'You may be assured of one thing, mind you.'
'What's that?' Father Augustine asked sharply.
'Sir Hugh Corbett is a terrible man,' Ranulf declared. 'A digger for the truth, a searcher out of secrets, God's vengeance on murderers.'
'Then it's time he met with more success!' Dame Cecily snapped. 'Believe me, Master…?'
'Ranulf.'
'Ah yes, Ranulf. I intend to write to the king. I object to the peace and harmony of my house being shattered by these peremptory visits!'
Ranulf smiled sweetly. 'With all respect, Dame Cecily, you may write to the Holy Father himself, but Sir Hugh Corbett will come here when he thinks proper.'
The prioress's doughy face flushed with anger. Just a little more provocation, Ranulf thought.
'Of course,' Father Augustine intervened, 'Dame Cecily wishes to be helpful. But this is a nunnery.'
More like a molly-shop, Ranulf thought, peering around the luxurious chamber, with its velvet tasselled tapestries, gold and silver ornaments, shining furniture and beeswax candles.
'Does the name Alan of the Marsh mean anything to you?' he asked abruptly.
He could have hugged himself with pleasure. Dame Cecily started back in her chair and nervously toyed with the crucifix hanging round her neck.
'Well?'
'Alan of the Marsh?' Dame Cecily stammered. 'Who's he?' 'With respect, that wasn't the question. Does the name mean anything to you?'
'Of course not!' she snapped. 'You seem troubled by it.'
'Well, of course.' She forced a smile. 'Why should a man's name mean anything to a prioress in a convent? What are you implying?'
'Nothing,' Ranulf cheekily replied. 'So, I can report back to Sir Hugh that Alan of the Marsh means nothing to you?' 'I have never heard of him.'
Ranulf sniffed and got to his feet. Maltote followed suit. 'In which case, I'll bid you adieu.'
Ranulf stalked out of the chamber, softly chuckling to himself.
The old lay sister would have taken them straight back to the stable yard but Ranulf, nudging Maltote, now had the devil in him. 'Madame?'
The lay sister paused, flattered by this pleasant, charming, red-haired, young man whose green, cat-like eyes danced with merriment.
'Yes?'
'I have never been in a convent before and this is such a beautiful place. Is it possible to be shown around?'
The lay sister's head went back in reproach.
'But this is a convent!' she gasped. 'A house of prayer for ladies!'
Ranulf shook his head. 'No, I don't mean within the house itself, but the grounds?' He dipped his finger into his purse. The lay sister's eyes became greedy.
'I suppose I could take you back to the stables by the long route, perhaps show you the cloisters, the chapel and some of the grounds?'
Ranulf smiled. 'Madame, I am your servant.'
He grasped her cold, vein-streaked hand and raised it to his lips, making sure she gripped the coin in his hand. The lay sister simpered and, despite her age, quickly led them along galleries and passageways. She chattered like a squirrel as she showed them the cloisters and the chapel, guest house and refectory. After that they visited the herb gardens and orchard and walked back round the church towards the stables. Ranulf greedily stared at everything. Dame Cecily had been lying and Ranulf just hoped that he could take some evidence back to old Master Long Face that might be of use. They passed the lychgate of the small cemetery and Ranulf caught a flash of russet-brown. Ignoring the lay sister's pleas, he pushed the gate open and walked into the cemetery. He stared at the Pastoureaux working amongst the graves, gathering up piles of rotting leaves, cutting back the brambles and reeds. One of them turned, resting on his hoe, and pulled back his hood.
'Master Joseph!' Ranulf smiled. 'So, this is how you spend your time?'
The Pastoureaux leader smiled and walked towards him.
'We all do God's work, Master Ranulf. Why are you here?'
'Oh!' Ranulf shrugged. 'Like you, Master Joseph, I'm doing God's work but in a different way.'
Master Joseph's face became serious. 'We heard about Master Monck's death. Please accept our condolences.'
Ranulf nodded.
'Have you discovered anything about his death?'
'No, Master Joseph, we have not. It's as much a mystery as anything around here.'
'Will Sir Hugh continue Monck's work?'
Ranulf smiled and nodded. 'Of course. We are leaving soon for Bishop's Lynn, but Sir Hugh will return.' He stared into the man's face. 'I am sure,' he continued, 'I have met you before but I can't remember where.'
The Pastoureaux leader pulled back his hood and returned to his hoeing.
'Perhaps in another life, Master Ranulf! But I think your guide is becoming anxious.'
Ranulf looked over his shoulder. The old lay sister was comically hopping from one foot to another.
'I have shown you enough! I have shown you enough!' she bleated. 'The prioress would be angry. Please come!'
Ranulf and Maltote followed her. They collected their horses and left the convent. Laughing and joking over Dame Cecily's discomfort, they rode down past the church and into the village. They stopped at the "Inglenook" to sample some ale. Ranulf chattered a little with Robert the reeve and Fulke the tanner but their dark looks and surly replies showed they were not welcome. Ranulf and Maltote left and returned to the manor house, where Corbett was poring over a piece of parchment. Every so often he would scribble a little and, throwing his quill down, he'd sit, head in hands, and stare at what he had written. He listened quietly as Ranulf described what had happened at the convent. Corbett picked up his quill and tapped the table top.
'Bishop's Lynn!' he said. 'Are the bags packed?'
Ranulf nodded.
'Then we should leave. I want to be there by nightfall.'
Ranulf and Maltote went down to the stables. Corbett followed with the saddlebags. He stopped to take leave of Gurney who seemed agitated that they were going so abruptly. He insisted that they should take some refreshment and allow his cooks to prepare food for the journey. Corbett was reluctant to alienate his host any further and so he agreed. The steward laid out a table in the main hall and served a range of meats and cheeses, whilst Catchpole gave them directions on which roads to take.
An hour later they left, Corbett quietly cursing. The sky had become overcast and the cold, wet sea mist was creeping in over the cliffs. By the time they reached the crossroads the mist was swirling about them. Maltote and Ranulf debated on which road to take.
'Follow the directions on the post,' Corbett rudely interrupted. 'That's what Catchpole told us.'
He led them on. Within the hour Corbett had serious misgivings. According to Catchpole, the road ought to be broader and they should have passed through a series of small hamlets. However, because of the lowering sky and thickening mist, Corbett believed they were heading further inland across the moors. At last they stopped, cursing and muttering. The horses caught their unease and pawed the ground, snorting and whinnying against the black stillness of the moors. Corbett moved his horse round.
'How long have we been travelling from Mortlake?'
Ranulf shrugged and blew on his fingers. 'About two hours. Maltote, what's the matter?'
The young messenger was staring back the way they had come.
'Maltote!' Ranulf snapped. 'For God's sake, you are as skittish as a maid!'
Maltote turned back, his face white, eyes anxious.
'I don't know,' he muttered. 'After we left the crossroads I fell back. I am sure we are being followed.'
'Nonsense!' Ranulf scoffed.
'I am certain we were,' Maltote insisted. 'I heard the jingle of harness.'
'Hell's teeth, Master!' Ranulf snapped. 'We are lost and we'll freeze if we stay here.'
Corbett patted his horse's neck. 'There's only one thing for it. Let's return to the crossroads.'
'Look!' Ranulf cried. 'Perhaps all is well!'
He pointed into the mist, which shifted like steam above a cauldron. Corbett glimpsed the flare of light that Ranulf had seen. A farm, perhaps one of the villages. He moved his horse, leaving the path, crossing the rain-soaked moor in the direction of the light. His horse protested but Corbett urged it on. Again the horse whinnied. Corbett tugged at the reins but the horse was stuck fast. Corbett stared down in horror – his horse was really floundering, hoof and fetlock deep in the green mire around them. Corbett cursed and turned round.
'Get back!' he yelled to Ranulf and Maltote.
'Keep still, Master!' Ranulf urged. 'The more you struggle, the faster you'll sink!'
Corbett obeyed, stroking his horse's neck and talking softly. The horse threw its head back, the whites of its eyes rounded in terror. Ranulf dismounted and approached, bringing the rope he always carried to tether his horse or to use as a makeshift bridle. Maltote led the way, leading his own horse, feeling every step carefully before him.
'There's a sort of path,' he said, 'where the earth is firm.':
Corbett fought to control his panic as his mount began to flounder. The mud reached its belly. Ranulf and Maltote made their way gingerly along the firm strip of earth. When they were only feet away from Corbett, Ranulf threw the rope. Corbett managed to tie it around his horse's neck. Maltote tied the other end to the saddle horn of his own mount. Talking softly to it, he urged it back. The rope tautened. At first Corbett's horse did not move. The rope, growing tighter round its neck, only increased its panic. Corbett enlarged the noose, moving part of it over his saddle horn. Ranulf and Maltote tugged and pulled. Suddenly Corbett's horse broke free and scrambled on to the path. Corbett carefully dismounted and, following Maltote's advice, spoke gently to the horse until all of them, soaked in mud, were firmly back on the trackway.
For a while Corbett could do nothing except squat by the side of his horse, trying to calm his own terror. He was covered in mud and his horse was caked to its withers in marsh sli
me. Ranulf pushed some bread and a wineskin into his master's hand.
'You'd best drink!'
Corbett chewed the bread, but found it difficult to swallow so he spat it out. He then poured some wine into his hand. He sniffed and licked it carefully.
'What's the matter, Master?'
'What in hell's name do you think's the matter?' Corbett snarled. 'I am checking for poison!' He smiled in apology. 'However, it seems untainted.' Corbett took a generous swig and handed the wineskin back to Ranulf. 'Thank you,' he muttered. He stared at Maltote. 'If it hadn't been for you, we could have all died.' He got to his feet and gripped Maltote's hand. 'I'll not forget that. You or Ranulf.'
'And neither will the horses!' Ranulf joked, embarrassed by his usually taciturn master's thanks.
Corbett stretched. His legs were freezing cold and yet he felt strangely sleepy after being trapped in the mire. He stared through the swirling mist.
'We've got to go back to the crossroads,' he muttered.
'But that light?' Maltote asked.
'We were tricked,' Ranulf snapped. 'I have seen smugglers play the same trick on the marshes along the Thames estuary. They show lights and travellers make the mistake of thinking they mean safety. Some cruel bastards even make a living out of wrecking ships that way.'
'But how did they know we were here?' Maltote asked.
'I think the crossroads will tell us,' Corbett breathed. 'Come on!'
They led their horses along the trackway, back to the crossroads, but the gaudily painted wooden post was nowhere to be seen. Ranulf scrabbled around in the dark.
'It's fallen over!' he cried, his fingers feeling the wood.
Corbett threw the reins of his horse at Maltote and walked across.
'I doubt that,' he replied. 'I think it was loosened, turned round and pointed in the wrong direction. It then either fell or was pushed over by the heartless bastard who shone that lantern.'
'So, we were being followed?' Maltote asked.
