Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders

by Paul Doherty

  They turned off the thoroughfare and took the road leading down to the cavernous gateway of St Augustine’s Abbey. Desroches, to lighten the mood, began a pithy and humorous description of the ambitions of the present mitred abbot, Thomas de Fyndon, but the misty cold eventually silenced him, his witty remarks fading away. As he fell quiet, he kept reining in, pulling at the leads of his sumpter pony. Now and again he’d turn in the saddle and stare back. He seemed uneasy. Ranulf needed no such encouragement. He was highly nervous of the countryside swathed in white, with its gaunt trees, their black branches stretching out like tendrils over the strange noises echoing from the snow-caked gorse and brambles.

  ‘What is it, man?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Desroches spluttered. ‘Are we being followed? I just . . .’

  Corbett reined in, turning his horse as the bells of the abbey began to mark the hours for the dawn Mass and the office of Prime. He glanced to the right and left: nothing but frozen trees, snow-draped bushes, the mist drifting and shifting like vapour; a perfect place, he reflected, for an ambush. Corbett realised he’d been in a similar place before: those ice-bound Welsh valleys, waiting for the enemy to creep closer, to spring up and deal out sudden death. Still the abbey bells tolled. Corbett recalled the words of a sonnet: See how the wicked are bending their bow and fitting arrows to their string. Desroches was correct: something was wrong. A crow burst from a branch directly to his right, followed by the whirr of a crossbow bolt; it streaked through the mist and slammed into a tree behind them. Corbett drew his sword and struggled to quieten his startled horse. Chanson was cursing. Ranulf had already dismounted. Desroches was muttering under his breath. Corbett waited for a second bolt, but then started in surprise:

  ‘Listen now!’ The strong voice echoed from the mist directly to his right. ‘Listen now, king’s man, to the oracle of Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Meddle not in what is not yours.’

  ‘God’s teeth,’ Corbett shouted, ‘show yourself!’

  ‘I have and I will, king’s man.’

  Ranulf made to leave the trackway, sword drawn, ready to flounder through the snow towards the sound of that voice.

  ‘Stay!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Stay, for the love of God.’

  Corbett’s horse moved restlessly as the clerk, sword drawn, peered through the misty whiteness. He knew it was futile. A rook cawed mockingly, then all was still.

  ‘Whoever he was,’ Corbett declared, ‘he’s gone. If he meant further mischief, we’d have known.’

  They continued their journey. Corbett was relieved to glimpse the soaring walls of the abbey. Its great gates swung open at their approach, and as they clattered into the great yard, lay brothers hastened across to take their horses. Corbett slid from his mount and eased the tension in his back and legs. He told Ranulf to take Desroches and Chanson to the guesthouse.

  ‘Where are you going, master?’

  ‘Why, Ranulf,’ Corbett pulled off his thick leather gauntlets and beat them against his thigh, ‘I am going to kiss my Lord Abbot’s ring, present my credentials, flatter him, praise him, his abbey and his guesthouse, and thank him profusely.’ He walked off towards the arched porchway leading to the cloister and the main abbey buildings.

  Ranulf helped Chanson stable the horses and then took Desroches into the guesthouse. Once they’d settled into their chambers, Ranulf brought up the physician’s panniers and coffers and Desroches tended to the ulcer on Chanson’s leg. He cleaned the wound with wine and a herbal poultice, smearing on an ointment and lightly bandaging the open sore, whilst giving clear instructions on how and when the dressing was to be changed. To distract Chanson he chattered about other ailments he was treating, particularly a case of St Anthony’s disease where the skin reddened, dried and cracked.

  ‘Strange,’ Desroches murmured. ‘I believe it’s the food my patient eats: oats and maize which are no longer wholesome.’

  ‘Did you treat Paulents?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘No,’ the physician replied over his shoulder, ‘I did not. Castledene and I went out to meet them at Maubisson. They simply felt unwell. I personally thought it was due to the rough sea crossing, which would have disturbed the humours of an ox, though by the time they’d reached Maubisson, they were sweating and feeling nauseous. I simply counselled them to keep within doors.’ He shrugged. ‘The guards and their close watch were Castledene’s idea.’

  ‘Were they frightened?’ Corbett came through the doorway. ‘I mean Castledene and Paulents?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Desroches patted Chanson on the knee, rose and went across to the lavarium to wash his hands. ‘They were often closeted together, whispering to each other. Paulents’ son, the maid and his lady wife were pleasant enough, quiet, rather fearful at being in a strange country. They said nothing untoward. I suspect they knew that Paulents was concerned and, of course, why not? Both he and Castledene had been threatened.’

  ‘But that only began when Paulents arrived in this country.’

  ‘Yes,’ Desroches conceded. ‘By then I suppose it was too late to return home.’

  ‘And the first warning was delivered in Dover?’

  ‘From what I can gather.’ Desroches screwed up his eyes and peered at the ceiling. ‘Yes, Paulents arrived on Monday. He received the warning as he entered the tavern where he would stay overnight before his journey to Canterbury. We met him yesterday afternoon, Tuesday. I believe that Sir Walter also received a warning, at the Guildhall. In both cases a scrap of parchment. Paulents’ was pushed into his hands. Castledene’s was found amongst a number of petitions presented to the Mayor by various citizens. Of course, there was no indication of who wrote them or where they came from. Ah well,’ he gestured at his panniers, ‘Master Ranulf, if you could help me with these, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Monsieur Desroches?’

  The physician turned.

  ‘Can I pay you?’ Corbett repeated his offer, gesturing at Chanson.

  Desroches simply waved his hand. ‘A pleasure,’ he smiled, ‘and don’t forget to mention my name at court. The ulcer is not serious, a little infected but I have cleaned it. Chanson can now take care of it himself. I’m sure the good brothers in the infirmary would also help. Sir Hugh, perhaps I will see you later in the day?’

  The physician left. Corbett heard him patter down the stone steps. Ranulf, cursing quietly under his breath, followed laden with panniers and coffers. Corbett went across to where Chanson was already acting the invalid, stretched out on the bed nursing his leg. Corbett smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘You will be well enough, Chanson. Try not to tease Ranulf about those woods.’

  Corbett returned to his own chamber. Once inside, he locked and bolted the door and stared around. He was glad he’d come here, though he was fearful about what he had to do. He always stayed at abbeys or priories, and this chamber showed why, being clean, sweet-smelling and well swept. The furnishings were simple but pleasant, the walls decorated with coloured cloths bearing the symbols of Christ’s Passion, a wooden crucifix and a gold-edged diptych. The sheets on the bed looked clean and crisp. There was a table pushed under the mullioned glass window and the chamber boasted a stool, coffer and aumbry. Corbett looked at his own coffers, caskets and leather chancery bags piled in a heap in the far corner. They would have to wait. He pulled back the hangings on the bed and sat down on the edge, easing off his boots. He wondered what Maeve would be doing at Leighton Manor. She’d be up early as always, busy about this or that, going into the chancery room or out into the yard. He closed his eyes, swept by a deep sense of homesickness, even though he was here in the comfortable chamber of an opulent abbey.

  Corbett sat for a while trying to collect his thoughts. From below he could hear Ranulf coming back into the guesthouse, Desroches shouting cheerful farewells. He was about to rise and undo the clasps of one of the chancery coffers when he heard a thud on the shutter against one of the far windows. He hastened across a
nd carefully pulled back the thick wooden slats. A blast of cold air blew in. This window was empty of glass or stiffened parchment. He was wondering what could have caused the noise when he glimpsed the crossbow bolt embedded deep in the wood. He immediately stepped to one side and stared out. Below stretched a courtyard, and some distance away thick vegetation and bushes draped in heavy snow. The mysterious archer must lurk there, though Corbett could glimpse no movement or tracks. The attacker must have come over the curtain wall of the abbey or slipped through a side gate. He must also know where Corbett lodged. The clerk glanced at the crossbow bolt and noticed the piece of parchment fastened to it. Crouching down, turning his head slightly against the cold, he undid the twine and pulled the parchment off. He quickly pushed the wooden shutters closed, went across to the glass-filled window and undid the parchment. It contained a further warning:

  Thus says Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. I have warned you once, King’s man! I now warn you a second time. Do not meddle in affairs which are not your concern. Tell Edward of England that he is not, as yet, on my reckoning.

  Chapter 4

  Postquam Primus homo Paradiseum

  liquerat . . . Gravi peonas cum prole luebat.

  Ever since man first lost the garden of

  Paradise, he has paid for it with bitter sorrow.

  ‘On the killing at Lindisfarne’

  Anonymous

  Corbett stared at the piece of parchment, yellowing and well thumbed. It could have been ripped from any manuscript or book, whilst the pen strokes were clumsy and almost illegible. On peering closer, however, he noticed how each word as on the warning sent to Castledene, was carefully formed, as if the writer was trying to imitate a young scholar with his horn book. He had little doubt that the would-be assassin in the forest had followed him here and struck again. He placed the piece of parchment on the table and sat down on the stool, stretching his hands out to welcome the crackling warmth from the small brazier. For a short while his unease, that nagging, numbing fear, returned. He hated this uncertainty. It evoked memories of fighting in Wales, of the sudden ambush: it was what he feared most, imagining some messenger galloping along the snow-clogged lanes to Leighton to inform Maeve she was a widow, their children fatherless.

  Corbett took a deep breath, murmured a prayer and began to hum the Salve Regina to comfort himself, to dispel the darkness from his mind. Time passed. He dozed for a while, being roused by the abbey bells clanging out a fresh summons to the monastic community.

  ‘It must be time,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Knowing Master Griskin, he’ll be early rather than late.’

  Corbett stood up, pulled his boots towards him and put them on, hopping from foot to foot. He opened a coffer and took out his war belt with sword and dagger in their sheaths, as well as a small arbalest and a quiver of bolts. Picking up his cloak, he doused the candle under its cap-guard and went to the next chamber. Ranulf was busy teasing Chanson about his leg. Corbett quickly told them what had happened. Ranulf wanted to see the scrap of parchment, but Corbett just shook his head. ‘Leave that for a while. If the assassin wanted to kill me he would have tried harder. He is attempting to frighten me.’

  ‘Is he succeeding?’

  Corbett smile drily. ‘To a certain extent, yes, but I suspect it is only fear he wishes to create. He dare not kill the Keeper of the Secret Seal here in Canterbury; that would bring the King’s wrath down upon this city. Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, understands that. No, no, he wants me to stay out of what he calls his affairs, not to meddle; which means, Ranulf, that he has unfinished business in this city.’

  ‘Are we for the Guildhall, master?’

  ‘No, Ranulf, we are for the Chantry Chapel of St Lazarus here in the abbey. I have to meet an old friend.’

  Corbett turned on his heel. Ranulf pulled a face at Chanson, shrugged, grabbed his own war belt and cloak and followed quickly after.

  They went along the freezing cloisters, across snow-bound gardens and through the Galilee Porch into the abbey church. Corbett paused to admire the magnificence of its nave, a miracle of airy vaults, sweeping arches, squat columns, transepts, ambulatories, chantry chapels, stone-eyed statues, grinning gargoyles and sombre table tombs. The light was poor, so the stained-glass windows were dull, turning the nave into a place of shifting shadows, a true antechamber between life and death; a field of souls where the spirits of the dead swirled whilst tapers and candles glowed like heaven’s beacon lights. Gusts of shifting incense trailed their fragrance, and the sound of their boots echoed strangely on the stone-paved floor.

  Ranulf shivered. He stared down the nave at the soaring rood screen with its stark cross bearing a tormented Saviour. Through the doorway beyond he could glimpse the choir stalls and a gilded corner of the great high altar. Corbett adjusted his sword belt and walked through the half-light. Ranulf followed, aware of the tombs either side almost hidden by the gloom. Despite his attempts to educate himself, to model himself upon his master and deal with facts and hard evidence, he was still plagued by the nightmares and experiences of his childhood. By stories about armies of demons prowling through the twilight looking for their quarry, and gargoyles in churches which, at certain times, sprang to life, ready to swoop upon their unsuspecting victims.

  ‘Master,’ he asked, ‘what are we looking for?’

  ‘Griskin,’ Corbett replied over his shoulder.

  ‘Griskin?’ Ranulf laughed. ‘Little pig? Who is that? Why?’

  Corbett held his hand up for silence. They crossed the nave and entered a gloomy chantry chapel. A small altar stood to the left at the top of some steps; before this were two prie-dieux with a bench behind them. The narrow window in the far wall was glazed, yet the light was poor. Ranulf stared round at the wall paintings depicting Lazarus being raised from his tomb, Christ healing lepers, Namaan the Syrian bathing in the waters of the Jordan on the instruction of Elijah.

  ‘Griskin?’ Corbett pulled forward his sword and sat down on the bench. ‘I knew him in the halls and schools of Oxford. We called him “little pig” because of his love of pork, and to be honest,’ Corbett grinned, ‘because of his looks.’ He glanced up at Ranulf. ‘You may remember him? You met him once at the Exchequer of Receipt in Westminster.’

  Ranulf nodded, though for the life of him he couldn’t recall Griskin.

  ‘Anyway,’ Corbett continued, ‘Griskin was no scholar of the quadrivium and trivium. More importantly,’ his smile faded, ‘his parents became lepers. He left the halls and schools to look after them. He never finished his studies. A good man, Ranulf, with a fine voice, slightly higher than mine, but when we sang the Christus Vincit . . .’ Corbett shook his head and Ranulf suppressed a groan. He could never understand his master’s love of singing. ‘Anyway, Griskin’s parents died in a Bethlehem hospital outside London, and Griskin applied to the Chancery for a post. He became a nuncius, a messenger. Griskin enjoys one great talent: he is an excellent searcher-out.’ Corbett tapped his foot on the hard paving stones and stared at the cross on the small altar. ‘If anyone can find anyone, it’s Griskin. Now when we returned from the West Country and His Grace the King,’ Corbett tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘wanted me to go to Canterbury, he gave me some of the facts about what had happened here, about Blackstock and his half-brother Hubert. Before I left Westminster, I dispatched a letter to Griskin telling him what I knew and asking him to search the countryside north of Orwell, as well as here in Canterbury, for any trace of Hubert the Monk. To cut a long story short, Ranulf, I said I would meet him here on this day, between the hours of eleven and twelve, in the Chapel of St Lazarus at St Augustine’s. Griskin would like that. He has a special devotion to that saint because of his parents’ condition.’

  ‘And it is now between the hours of eleven and twelve,’ Ranulf declared, ‘and he has not yet appeared. Perhaps he has been delayed because of the snow?’

  ‘No.’ Corbett shook his head
. ‘I received confirmation from Griskin that he’d be here. He always keeps his word. He’d have told me if he couldn’t.’ Corbett was about to get to his feet when he gasped and pointed at the altar. ‘Ranulf!’

  At first Ranulf couldn’t see what he was indicating. Then he saw it, on the white lace-edged altar cloth: a small golden cross on a silver chain.

  ‘Jesu miserere!’ Corbett breathed, getting to his feet. He pushed between the prie-dieux, strode up the steps and grasped the chained cross, turning it so it glittered in the poor light.

  ‘What is it, master?’

  ‘This cross! Griskin’s mother gave it to him when he left his village in Norfolk for Oxford. He regarded it as his greatest treasure. He was always fingering it, never took it off, not even when he washed, shaved or changed his clothes.’

  ‘Perhaps he left it as a token, master?’

  ‘No.’ Corbett opened his wallet and placed the chain within. ‘It can only mean one thing, Ranulf: Griskin will not be . . .’ His voice trailed off. Corbett returned to the bench, sat down and put his face in his hands to quell his own fears. For just a brief moment he recalled Griskin and himself staggering along Turl Street in Oxford singing their heads off. They’d both joined the choir of St Mary’s Church to carol lustily. Other memories flooded back: Griskin, with his wit and ready laugh, his love of a cup of claret and a slice of pork roasted to crispness. Corbett felt the tears well in his eyes. In his heart he knew Griskin would never, ever give up that chain. Only if he’d been ambushed . . .

  ‘Who killed him?’ Ranulf asked harshly.

  Corbett kept his hands to his face, waiting until the tears dried, then he glanced up. ‘Facile dictum, easy to say, Ranulf. If Griskin was searching for Hubert the Monk, sooner or later his quarry found out. Somewhere, either here in Canterbury or in Suffolk, Griskin was murdered. He would have had his wallet on him, and in that, letters from me containing details of our meeting here. His killer – and I suspect it was Hubert the Monk – left this chain as a mocking message.’ Corbett tried to control his trembling. Abruptly he felt very cold. He was deep in the dark of this matter. Often he felt there was a gap between him and his quarry, those criminals, wolfsheads and outlaws he pursued on behalf of the Crown, but this was different.