by Paul Doherty
Ranulf stared back alarmed.
‘If the King heard that,’ he replied, ‘your friendship, Sir Hugh, would not save you.’
‘The King knows the truth,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘The Prince of Wales is a man who likes the best of both worlds. Oh, he’ll marry whatever princess is trotted out.’ Corbett’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I suspect the true love of his life is, and always will be, the Gascon Piers Gaveston.’
‘And he sheltered here?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Here and in the priory.’
‘And the other matter?’
‘I am disappointed,’ Corbett said. ‘I really did think the Owlman was the husband of the young woman who killed herself at the Red Rose, but both are dead, so I have to think again.’
‘Lady Madeleine has to answer a few questions.’
‘She has more to answer than she thinks. You saw that hair, Ranulf? Do you think it’s a genuine relic?’
‘The world is full of trickery, master. Aren’t there oils, potions, herbal concoctions which could keep it supple and fresh?’
They paused as the tavern keeper brought back traunchers with strips of crackling pork, freshly cut bread and some leeks and onions, diced and sprinkled with marjoram.
‘You made the Ancient One’s day,’ he told them. ‘But the other matter?’ He glanced nervously at Corbett and the clerk wondered if mine host had known the identity of his secret visitor all the time.
‘Act the innocent,’ Corbett advised. ‘And innocent you’ll stay.’
The tavern keeper smiled and walked away. Corbett drew his knife, took a horn spoon from his wallet and began to cut up the pork.
‘Are you the King’s emissary?’
Corbett stared and turned. The young woman appeared as if out of nowhere. She was dressed in a sea-green cloak, fringed at the hem with red stitching. It covered her from neck to toe though Corbett glimpsed muddy-toed boots peeping out beneath. Yet it was her face which fascinated him. With the hair piled back beneath a dark-grey veil, it was so composed, so perfect she reminded him of a lifelike statue of the Virgin Mary he had once seen in a church outside Paris. She was olive-skinned, blue-eyed, with a perfect nose and red lips slightly parted displaying white and even teeth. She held Corbett’s stare.
‘Am I wasting your time, sir? I understand you are Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s emissary.’
Corbett rose and pulled across a stool. He took the young woman’s gloved hand and gestured that she sit.
‘You are Alicia Verlian?’
The beautiful face broke into a smile.
‘How did you know?’
Corbett pointed to the cloak. ‘I suppose that hides a multitude of sins. You’ve left your house rather urgently. You’ve ridden along a muddy trackway so I wonder which woman would want to seek me out so urgently. I tell a lie. I’ve heard of your beauty.’
Corbett smiled at Ranulf, only to be shocked at the change in his manservant. Ranulf was never lost for words but now he sat like a man stricken: eyes staring, mouth gaping, a piece of meat, poised on his knife, half-raised to his mouth.
‘Ranulf!’
Ranulf closed his mouth and lowered his knife but his eyes never left Alicia’s face.
‘My servant is tired,’ Corbett explained.
Alicia smiled at Ranulf. ‘You’ve certainly been upsetting people,’ she said softly. ‘It’s common gossip both here and among the forest folk. Sir William came storming back to the manor and his servants were all agog.’
‘You want some wine?’ Corbett asked.
‘No, sir, I want justice.’ The young woman’s head came up, eyes bright and hard. ‘Lord Henry was a lecher, God rest him.’
Other customers turned. Corbett gave them a warning look and they went back to their meals.
‘Lower your voice, madam.’
‘Lord Henry was a lecher!’ This time her voice was louder. ‘A cruel and vicious man who received due punishment. God’s justice has been done.’
‘But not for your father,’ Corbett replied evenly.
‘My father is innocent of any crime.’
‘But he was not with the hunt!’
‘Neither was Sir William.’
‘Your father fled?’
‘Any man of wit would have done!’ she replied. ‘He was not with Lord Henry when he was killed. It was well known we had justifiable grievances against Lord Henry. If Sir William had caught my father, he would have hanged him out of hand.’
‘And now your father shelters in St Oswald’s?’
‘He shelters, sir, because that is the only place which will protect him, until royal justice is done.’
‘You can continue to shout at me,’ Corbett told her. He put his fingers on her leather-gloved hand; she did not withdraw it. ‘While I am here,’ he went on, studying those beautiful eyes, ‘no man will be hanged, no sentence carried out till the truth is known.’
‘Pilate asked what was truth. He was a judge.’
‘My name is not Pilate. It’s Sir Hugh Corbett. The truth will be discovered by careful questioning.’
‘Such as?’
‘Where was your father when the hunt was taking place?’
Alicia swallowed hard. ‘My father was with the others, the verderers.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was with you, wasn’t he?’
Alicia blinked and nodded. ‘My father was terrified that Lord Henry would use the hunt, and his absence, to slip back and . . .’
‘Meet you?’
‘No, Sir Hugh, accost me! Kick down the door, force himself upon me. As he tried to do on numerous occasions. I was frightened. My father was agitated. He came back to our house on the estate. I told him all would be well, then he left, hurrying back before he was missed.’
‘And during that time Lord Henry was killed?’
‘My father arrived at Savernake Dell shortly after the assassin struck. He took one look at what had happened and ran back to me. He wanted to flee, reach one of the ports, Rye, Winchelsea, go abroad.’ The young woman paused. ‘I refused. I said it was unjust to flee from a crime of which we were both innocent.’
‘Why didn’t you flee before?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir Hugh, where could we go? My father is a verderer. The roads are full of landless families while Lord Henry’s arm was both strong and very long. Why should we give up our lives because of his lust?’
‘Are you glad he’s dead?’
‘He can burn in Hell for what he did to me and my father.’
‘And now?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir William is one of the same stock. But, deep in his heart, I think he’s shamed by what his brother did.’
‘And so, why have you come to me?’
‘My father’s in sanctuary.’
‘You can still visit him.’
‘For how long?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Corbett replied quickly. ‘Tomorrow I will hold court in St Oswald’s church. I will summon all those involved in this matter and search out the truth. Is that not correct, Ranulf?’
Corbett was now alarmed by his manservant: he hadn’t touched his food or uttered one syllable but stared fixedly at Alicia. Usually, in the presence of a pretty young woman, Ranulf was all merry-eyed and quick-witted, ever ready to flirt. Now he sat like a moonstruck calf, though Alicia seemed not to notice.
‘I must return.’ She moved back the stool and rose.
‘I . . . I will see you to your horse.’
Ranulf pushed his trauncher away and rose like a sleepwalker. He took the young woman’s arm and gently escorted her across the taproom and out to the stable yard. A groom led across a sorry-looking cob, the saddle across its back battered and worn. Ranulf made an angry gesture with his hand and grabbed the reins himself. He then helped Alicia up into the saddle.
‘You ride like a man?’ He found the question stilted and clumsy. He just wished this young woman would notice him and not ride away. She glanced down.
‘You must be Ranulf-
atte-Newgate?’
‘Yes,’ he answered in a rush. ‘Senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
She smiled. ‘Do you always stare at women?’
Ranulf rubbed sweat-soaked hands on his jerkin.
‘I’ve never seen anyone like you before.’
Alicia laughed. ‘With two heads!’
‘No, you’ve only got one,’ Ranulf replied seriously. He grabbed the reins again and stared fiercely up at her. ‘Your father’s innocent,’ he said hoarsely. ‘He must be innocent.’ He caught the look of disquiet in her eyes. ‘No, no, you wait and see. Old Master Long Face in there, I mean Sir Hugh, he will discover the truth.’
‘Are you looking for a bribe?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Is that why you are here, Ranulf-atte-Newgate? Are you like the rest, your brains in your hose?’
Ranulf blushed. ‘You misunderstand me, madam.’
‘Do I now? I have never misunderstood a man in my life! All sweetness and light, ready to play Cat’s-Cradle?’
‘That is not the case!’ Ranulf snapped, spots of anger high on his cheeks. He was mystified, baffled by what was happening, but the young woman’s face, her mannerisms, the shifting moods in those eyes, entranced him. Ranulf quietly cursed. He was tongue-tied. Strange, the woman reminded him of Lady Maeve, Corbett’s wife: she had the same effect. If he was honest, Ranulf felt overawed, even frightened, and this made him angry. He, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, clerk, bully-boy, fighting man! Alicia was still studying him.
‘You are telling the truth, aren’t you?’ she said quietly. ‘You really don’t mean any offence? I’ve never seen a man blush before.’ She gathered the reins up. ‘I am sorry if I was brusque.’
She stretched out a hand. Ranulf seized it and kissed the back of the leather glove. He glanced up. Alicia glimpsed the passion in his eyes and withdrew her hand.
‘They said your master was a strange one. But he keeps even stranger company.’ She raised a hand. ‘I bid you adieu, Master Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’
And, turning her horse, she cantered out of the yard. Ranulf watched her go. He felt like running after her, explaining exactly how he felt. Had he done the right thing? Shouldn’t he have offered to escort her? He heard a snigger and looked across. Two stable boys were watching him. Ranulf’s hand brushed the hilt of the dagger and both boys suddenly remembered they had tasks to do. He walked back into the taproom, where Corbett had finished his meal.
‘Ranulf, are you well?’ He gestured at the half-full trauncher. ‘Won’t you finish your meal?’
‘I don’t feel hungry.’
Corbett got to his feet. ‘Ranulf, in God’s name, what is the matter? Do you know that young woman?’
‘I wish to God I did!’
‘Ah, that’s it!’ Corbett put a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate, the terror of the ladies, the man who even thought of becoming a priest!’
‘Don’t taunt me!’
‘I’m not taunting you.’ Corbett’s hand fell away. ‘It happens, Ranulf, it always happens as a terrible shock, and like death, we never know when.’
He studied Ranulf’s face, which looked paler than usual. Two red spots burned high in his cheeks, a rare sign when Ranulf was disturbed or agitated; his green cat-eyes gleamed as if he had been drinking.
‘There’s a time and a place,’ Corbett said. He took Ranulf by the arm and led him out through the taproom into the garden. ‘Always remember, Ranulf, the garden is the best place to plot.’ He grinned. ‘As well as to pay court. No listening ears, no watching eyes.’
They sat on a turfed seat. Corbett took his chancery ring and moved it so the sun glinted in the reflection.
‘What do we have here, Ranulf? Sunbeams or substance? Shadows or something more tangible? It’s the old dance, isn’t it? Whenever a murder takes place, people tell you what they want you to hear, make you see what they want you to see.’ He nudged his companion sharply. ‘Less of the lovelorn squire. Where is the keen-witted clerk of the Green Wax? Item.’ Corbett used his fingers to emphasise the points he made. ‘Lord Henry Fitzalan is very rich, powerful, disliked by all and sundry and he is killed during a hunt.’ He glanced at Ranulf but his manservant’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Item,’ Corbett continued. ‘Lord Henry was disliked by his younger brother over whose purse strings he kept strict control. Sir William was not present when Lord Henry was killed. Item – we have Robert Verlian, chief verderer. He hated Lord Henry for his lecherous intentions to his daughter. He, too, was not present when his lord was killed and inexplicably flees. Item – Sir William seems intent on placing the blame fairly on Verlian’s shoulders. Item – St Hawisia is now standing in that carp pond over there. Don’t you agree, Ranulf?’
‘Yes, yes, of course!’
‘Ranulf!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘You are not listening to a word I am saying.’
The woebegone clerk mumbled an apology. Corbett secretly wondered if this was the first time the notorious Ranulf-atte-Newgate had been so smitten.
‘Item – we know that Sir William has been assisting his lord, the Prince of Wales. He probably brought Gaveston into Ashdown. He was helped in this by his sister, the indomitable Lady Madeleine. I suspect the man Sister Fidelis observed slipping into Lady Madeleine’s house was no less a person than the Gascon favourite. He probably sheltered in the priory waiting for the Prince of Wales to arrive. And?’
‘Item – ’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘We have an outlaw, a wolfs-head. He seems to do little damage but he has waged a vexatious war against Lord Henry, despatching cryptic messages, making reference to the “Rose of Rye”. We now know the owners of that tavern killed themselves, the result of Lord Henry’s lechery.’
‘Good,’ Corbett mused. ‘Item – we have the corpse of the young woman killed by an arrow to the throat. Her naked body is buried in the forest; it is later dug up and placed outside the priory gates. Item – we have a number of local notables whom we would like to interrogate more closely. The Franciscan, Brother Cosmas, had no love for his dead manor lord and we know he was an archer.’
‘So is our taverner,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘We also have this hermit. He may have known, seen or heard something.’
‘True,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But there’s one person missing, isn’t there? Or rather two. This mysterious physician Pancius Cantrone. What was his relationship to Lord Henry?’
‘And who else?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Why, most learned of clerks, the lady we have just met.’
Ranulf started.
‘Don’t jump like a hare in March.’ Corbett patted him on the knee. ‘And don’t let your wits be fuddled. Alicia Verlian is a redoubtable young woman. I would wager that she can draw a bow and hit the mark.’
‘But she was at home the morning Lord Henry was killed!’
‘No, Ranulf, her father said he left her there. How do we know she didn’t follow, take a bow and quiver of arrows with her? We do know that someone left such weapons in one of the hollow oaks. She also has a horse. She could murder as quickly and expertly as anyone else.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Ranulf set his mouth in a stubborn challenge.
‘Fine, fine,’ Corbett replied softly. ‘But let’s keep up the hunt, Ranulf. What else do we know?’
‘That the King is not being truthful with us.’
‘Yes.’
‘And why did the French want Lord Henry to lead the English envoys to France? In the main,’ Ranulf concluded, ‘that’s the challenge which faces us.’
Corbett got to his feet. ‘So, I will leave you to think sweet thoughts and compose a poem. Tonight we journey to Ashdown Manor. It harbours all our opponents.’ Corbett rubbed his hands. ‘And, of course, there’s one name I must not forget, my arch-enemy, that Lucifer in the flesh, Seigneur Amaury de Craon.’
Corbett strode back into the tavern. Ranulf watched him go and then put his face in his hands. He couldn’t understand what was happening. One minute he was eating his food, the next he was looking on a fac
e which made his heart skip, his blood race. ‘Lecherous and hot as a sparrow’ Maltote had once called him. But not now! He felt no spurt of lust! Ranulf just wanted to be with the woman, to sit on a chair and watch the different expressions on that lovely face. Engrossed in this way, Ranulf was hardly aware of the shadow which slipped into the garden and stood beside him until the unexpected guest shuffled his feet and coughed loudly. Ranulf glanced up.
‘Ah, Master Baldock. What do you seek?’
‘This morning,’ the groom replied, ‘there was no one to look after your horses. I am a free man . . .’
‘You seek employment, Master Baldock?’ Ranulf smiled. ‘It’s possible. But, come, sit down next to me. Tell me all you know about Alicia Verlian.’
The Louvre Palace was the private preserve of Philip IV of France. The gardens around it, with their flower beds and herb plots, orchards, fountains, carp and stew ponds, were the delight of his life. Only he and his close confidants were allowed to walk and rest there. Indeed, members of his household, particularly those who felt the lash of his cutting tongue, were reluctant to accept an invitation to what Philip called his ‘Garden of delights’. At the far end of this garden, in its own enclosure, stood what Philip called his ‘orchard of the hanged’. Its ancient pears and apple trees carried a different fruit, besides those the good Lord allowed to grow in glorious profusion. Here, Philip’s executioners and torturers hanged those guilty of crimes against their royal master: a cook suspected of poisoning; a door-keeper found guilty of selling secrets to foreign merchants; clerks who had been too garrulous in their cups and, above all, English spies whom Amaury de Craon’s agents tracked down and captured. The place stank of death. The corpses were gibbeted until the smell became too offensive, at which point Philip would order them to be cut down and buried in the derelict cemetery his torturers called ‘Haceldema’, a Jewish term for the ‘field of blood’. Sometimes Philip would summon suspects there. He would take them by the arm and walk round the trees, pointing to the rotten fruit, describing the crimes and felonies of each miscreant. Such a walk always jogged the memory and loosened the tongue, but this time it had failed.
