by Paul Doherty
‘Why?’ Sir Edmund broke in brusquely. ‘Our castle is well stocked.’
‘No, no, Sir Edmund, you have it wrong. Our meeting is drawing to an end, and although this is your castle, I insist that tomorrow night I be your host, that I buy the wines and food as a small thank you for your kindness and hospitality. However,’ de Craon sighed, ‘the best-laid plans of men can often go awry. Sir Edmund, I still insist that I host this banquet, that I pay your cooks and servants as well as for every delicacy served. You must,’ he added silkily, ‘accept the munificence of my master.’
Sir Edmund had no choice but to agree, even though he nudged Corbett under the table.
‘If Sir Hugh is in agreement,’ de Craon continued like a pompous priest from his pulpit, ‘we will bring these discussions to an end. Tomorrow I must see to certain matters, the collection of our manuscripts and the packing of our valuable belongings. Our horses and harnesses must be prepared and, of course,’ de Craon’s face assumed a false mournful look, ‘there is, Sir Edmund, the sad problem of conveyancing the corpses of my three dead comrades. Nevertheless, let us rejoice,’ he continued, ‘at our achievement. Finally,’ he lifted a finger, ‘Sir Edmund, I have stayed in your magnificent castle yet never once been beyond its walls. I would like to ride out with a suitable escort to visit this famous tavern so many of your servants talk about. I need to look at its wines, choose something special for tomorrow night.’
De Craon sat down, and Sir Edmund immediately rose to say what a great honour it had been to host this meeting, how he regretted the deaths of three of de Craon’s retinue and that, of course, he would place his kitchens, his servants, cooks and store rooms at Monsieur de Craon’s disposal. Corbett followed next, with what Ranulf later described to Chanson as a polite and pretty speech which echoed many of de Craon’s sentiments. How pleased he’d been to renew his acquaintance with a French envoy and how he looked forward, with even greater pleasure, to future meetings. He did his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice even though de Craon smirked throughout. At the end he added that he and his retinue would also be riding out on certain business and would de Craon accept his company and protection? The Frenchman quickly agreed.
A memorandum was drafted and transcribed by Bolingbroke in which de Craon, Sanson and Corbett briefly summarised their meeting regarding Friar Roger’s writings and the conclusions they had reached. Corbett and de Craon signed the document, Sir Edmund acting as witness, before it was confirmed with the seals of both kingdoms. Bowing and shaking hands, offering assurances of eternal friendship, the French and English envoys separated. Once de Craon had left, Corbett slumped in his chair, resting his face in his hands.
‘He is up to mischief,’ Sir Edmund growled. ‘You can tell that.’
‘Up to?’ Bolingbroke retorted. ‘I think he has achieved what he came for. He has discovered what we know about Friar Roger’s writings, which is the same as he now knows, that the Secretus Secretorum is written in a strange language, though God knows whether that will ever be translated. More importantly,’ Bolingbroke picked up his goblet and banged it on the table, ‘three magistri from the University of Paris have suffered unfortunate accidents. Philip has rid himself of critics and sent a warning to the rest. Sir Hugh,’ Bolingbroke got up from the chair, ‘I’m not too sure whether I want to eat his food and drink his wine.’
‘You will,’ Corbett smiled back, ‘simply because you have to.’
Bolingbroke sketched a sarcastic bow and walked out of the solar, leaving Corbett and Ranulf with Sir Edmund.
‘So there is no mystery about that document found on Mistress Feyner?’ Sir Edmund clicked his tongue. ‘It was just the courteous Monsieur de Craon planning a surprise for us.’
‘I still think he is planning a surprise.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘I wish to God I knew what it was. Sir Edmund, we will get our horses prepared; we must take advantage of the daylight.’
A short while later, Corbett, feeling very self-conscious, led his own retinue and de Craon’s across the drawbridge and out along the trackway leading down into the forest. The sun had grown stronger, the sky was a wispy white-blue, and although it was late afternoon, the countryside seemed bright under its canopy of white snow now melting and breaking up. De Craon chatted, saying he had studied Corfe and the surrounding countryside very closely before he had come to England, how it reminded him so much of Normandy, especially the fields, meadows and woods around Boulogne. Corbett half listened. Despite the break in the weather and the knowledge that his meeting with de Craon was drawing to an end, he felt a deep unease, a tension which stiffened the muscles of his back and thighs, like a jouster getting ready for the tourney, wondering what danger it might bring. He stopped at the edge of the forest, his gaze drawn by the blackened patch of burnt earth, the pile of charred branches and brushwood.
‘That comes from the fire the other night,’ Sir Edmund’s steward, who was accompanying them, remarked. ‘Travelling people. Often from the battlements you can see such fires glowing in the forest.’
As they entered the canopy of trees, de Craon continued his chattering, questioning the steward about hunting rights and the season for deer and did the forest hold wild boar? Corbett found the Frenchman’s constant talking a source of deep irritation, and was only too pleased when de Craon reined in and summoned forward his man-at-arms.
‘Go ahead of us,’ he ordered. ‘Sir Hugh, you talked of outlaws?’
‘They are no danger,’ Corbett reassured him.
‘Never mind, never mind.’ De Craon gestured. ‘It’s better to be safe than to be sorry. Follow the trackway,’ he ordered his man-at-arms, ‘but go no further than the tavern.’
The man answered reluctantly in French. De Craon’s voice became sharp. The man-at-arms turned his horse, dug in his spurs and cantered deeper into the trees. ‘As long as he keeps to the trackway,’ de Craon muttered, ‘he’ll be safe.’
By the time they had reached the tavern in the forest, Bogo de Baiocis was standing in the yard shouting for the taverner and telling one of the stable boys to be careful with his horse. Sir Hugh and Ranulf stayed outside the gate with the rest while de Craon entered the tavern. A short while later he came out smiling to himself, his servant carrying two small tuns of wine.
‘I paid him well.’ De Craon gestured at Bogo de Baiocis to give one of the tuns to the steward. ‘The best Bordeaux, imported four years ago; they say it’s the finest those vineyards ever produced.’
For a while there was confusion as Bogo de Baiocis went back to the tavern to collect rope so that they could tie the tuns to the horns of their saddles. De Craon added that he had ordered certain items for the castle kitchens which Master Reginald would deliver personally to Corfe. Corbett declared that he and Ranulf were journeying on to the church and invited de Craon to accompany them, but the Frenchman politely refused.
‘I passed the church as we entered Corfe,’ he remarked, swinging himself up into the saddle. ‘A lonely, gloomy place, Sir Hugh. You have business with the priest there?’
‘More with certain outlaws,’ Ranulf replied.
Corbett waited until de Craon and the rest were back on the trackway leading to Corfe.
‘What’s the matter, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.
‘I wish I knew, Ranulf.’ Corbett watched the group of horsemen disappear round the bend. ‘I truly do.’ He glanced up between the trees at the blue sky. ‘The weather has improved, the sun is out; you remember the old saying, Ranulf: “Vipers and adders always come out to greet the sun”?’
He urged his horse on, Ranulf following slightly behind. The forest either side of them was noisy with the melting snow slipping off branches and the drip-drip of water. Here and there the trackway was slippery and Corbett had difficulty controlling his horse.
‘Horehound and the rest,’ Ranulf spoke up, ‘will be nervous. I don’t think they truly trust us.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘let’s t
ell them we are coming. Ranulf, you remember the words of the song ‘Jove cum Mercurio’? I’ll sing the first verse to remind you of the words, then you can come in and repeat each line. If the outlaws hear us they will know that we mean peace.’ And without waiting for a reply Corbett began the lusty student song, distracting Ranulf from his fears about the forest whilst assuring anyone in hiding that they came in peace.
As they reached the cemetery wall, following it round to the lych gate, Corbett’s song died on his lips. The cemetery looked bleak in the sunlight, the crosses and headstones drenched in melted snow, and from the trees beyond came the cawing of rooks. No one was about. Corbett had expected the outlaws at least to build a fire, and even if they were hiding, to have left a scout or guard. They dismounted and hobbled their horses. Ranulf, uneasy, drew his dagger; Corbett followed suit. They walked round the church but could detect no sign of life. Both the main door and the Corpse Door were locked, and no glimmer of candlelight showed through the wooden shutters.
Corbett walked out of the cemetery along the path leading to the priest’s house. He knocked at the door, but the sound rang hollow and the windows on both ground and upper floor were shuttered. He walked round the back, stopping at the water butt. He noticed how the ice had been broken, the water level much fallen. He caught the faint smell of food, of meat and bread and the tang of spices. The rear door was also locked. Corbett stepped back to look up and his foot caught a brass bowl, which clanged like a trumpet. Cursing, he picked it up, and was about to throw it further into the garden when he noticed how the inside was lined with black dust. He examined the bowl more carefully, weighing it in his hands. It was of good quality, heavy, not something a poor priest would likely throw away. He sniffed and caught the smell of saltpetre, the same odour he had detected in the church. He gently placed it down.
‘Father Matthew!’
No answer. Corbett walked around the house again and knocked vigorously on the door.
‘Father Matthew, I wish to have words.’
He heard a sound above him and looked up. The priest was visible through the top window shutters, his face pale and unshaven.
‘Why, Sir Hugh. I’m sorry I can’t come down. The sweating sickness, I believe. I’ve not been well.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ Ranulf shouted back. ‘Do you need anything, any food?’
The priest shook his head. ‘I haven’t eaten for days but I think I’m getting better.’ He forced a smile. ‘Perhaps I will make some gruel or oatmeal. Please give Sir Edmund my regards and tell the castle folk they must use the castle chapel. Father Andrew will look after them.’
‘You know the outlaw Horehound?’ Corbett shouted up.
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I do.’
‘Have you seen him or any of his coven?’
The priest shook his head. ‘I heard the rumours, Sir Hugh, about how they’d entered the King’s peace, and I am pleased, but I have heard no sign of them.’ The priest was now gabbling. ‘Sir Hugh, it is cold. I will see you shortly.’
Father Matthew withdrew his head, closing the shutters behind him. Corbett walked back to the church steps and stood sheltering in the alcove, watching Ranulf go through the cemetery as if the outlaws were hiding there.
‘What are you looking for?’ he called.
‘I thought they might have come and left, but there is no sign of them; no one has been here.’ Ranulf walked back. ‘Though,’ he sighed, ‘the snow is beginning to melt.’
Corbett stared across at the silent, forbidding priest’s house.
‘Why should a priest,’ he asked, ‘use a good bronze bowl to mix saltpetre and other substances then throw it out into the garden? Why does he say he hasn’t eaten when I can smell the odour of cooking?’
‘He did say he was going to make some oatmeal or gruel.’
‘True.’ Corbett stamped his feet. The day was dying and they could not stay here much longer.
‘Ranulf, something may have delayed Horehound. He knows where we are; let’s return to the castle.’
They mounted their horses and rode back along the trackway. When they came to the tavern they saw the gates closed. Corbett glimpsed the light of lanterns and candles, and the faint, pleasing sound of a lute drifted out. They passed two chapmen, half bowed under the bundles piled up on their backs, eager to reach the castle before nightfall. They shouted a greeting; Corbett raised a hand in reply.
On their return to the castle, Corbett told Ranulf that he should begin preparations for leaving; he also asked his henchmen to bring some food and wine from the kitchens.
‘You are not joining us in the Hall of Angels?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I’m tired of de Craon’s smirking face. Anyway,’ Corbett slapped Ranulf’s shoulder with his gauntlets, ‘I know you will be busy with the Lady Constance.’
Corbett went up to his chamber, where he checked the great chest at the end of the bed and carefully searched the room for any sign of an intruder, but could find none. He built up the fire, lit more of the capped candles and cleared the small writing desk. He took out of the Chancery box some ink, his writing tray and a smooth sheet of vellum. He intended to write letters to the King and Lady Maeve, but what could he say? He couldn’t hide his growing anxiety as well as his anger at de Craon’s smug arrogance, as if the Frenchman had told a very funny story of which Corbett couldn’t see the point. He now accepted that de Craon had brought those three magistri from Paris to have them killed, but what further mischief was planned? He divided the piece of vellum into four, giving each column a heading, ‘De Craon’, ‘The Deaths’, ‘The Castle’, ‘The Church in the Forest’, then, using his own secret cipher, filled each of these categories with what he had seen and learnt, recording conversations, glimpses, who had been where when something had happened. He thought of Father Matthew, his pale, unshaven face, that lonely house and deserted cemetery.
Ranulf came up with a tray of food. Corbett drank the wine too fast; he felt his face flush and his eyes grew heavy. He could understand the deaths, the murder of the three Frenchmen, but how, and who was responsible? He took a second sheet of vellum and, going back to the Chancery box, brought out all he had learnt about Ufford’s stay in Paris. The hours passed and Ranulf returned to see that all was well. Corbett, immersed in his task, only mumbled a reply. He bolted the door once Ranulf had gone and lay down on the bed only intending to sleep for a short while, but he woke in the early hours, cold and tense, the fire gone down and many of the candles gutted. He pulled the cover over him and went back to sleep.
Corbett woke some time later and attended Father Andrew’s dawn mass in the small castle chapel. The priest wore black and gold vestments whilst he offered the intercessory prayers for the dead. The day was proving to be a fine one. Outside the chapel both the inner and outer wards were bustling with people coming into the castle. Now the roads were clearing, a servant told him, more chapmen and travelling tinkers seemed to be on the move, all eager to take advantage of the break in the weather. Corbett went over to the kitchen to break his fast. The servants were busy preparing for de Craon’s feast to be held that evening. He glimpsed the boy Ranulf had brought from the tavern, his hair and face all washed, an old jerkin about his bony shoulders. He even boasted a woollen pair of hose, and good stout boots on his feet. Corbett called him over. The boy, chewing on a piece of chicken, pushing the morsels into his mouth, came over wide-eyed.
‘You don’t want me to go back, do you?’
Corbett smiled, took a coin from his purse and gave it to the boy.
‘What do they call you?’
‘I think my name was Tom, but usually they call me Fetchit.’
‘Very well, Tom Fetchit. Did you know Horehound the outlaw well?’
The boy’s eyes slid away.
‘Come on,’ Corbett urged. ‘There’s no crime in speaking with men of the woods. Here, lad, you can have this coin too. You know Horehound,’ Corbett continued, ‘was going to take the King’s pardo
n? We were supposed to meet him yesterday. Ranulf, the red-haired one, took food down to him in the saddlebags.’
‘And?’ the boy asked as his curiosity quickened.
‘Neither Horehound nor any of his coven appeared.’
The boy stopped his chewing.
‘Are you surprised? Does that appear strange?’
The boy turned and dropped a piece of chicken on the floor; immediately a large mastiff snapped it up.
‘That’s not like Horehound, sir,’ the boy replied. ‘He would never refuse food; something must be wrong.’
Corbett gave the boy another coin and walked out across the yard. He heard the crack of a whip and turned as Master Reginald drove his cart into the inner ward, one of his ostlers sitting beside him. Corbett decided to return to his own chamber, to scrutinise everything he had written the night before. The others came up, Ranulf, Bolingbroke and Chanson, but they could see their master was distracted, and Ranulf was only too eager to return to the Hall of Angels and seek out the Lady Constance.
The day passed slowly for Corbett. Now and again he left to walk across to the Jerusalem Tower, and later in the afternoon he returned to that crumbling doorway and the dark, lonely passageway leading down into the old dungeons. This time he went armed, sword belt about him, accompanied by two of Sir Edmund’s Welsh archers. He recalled the terrors of that night, of hiding in the freezing darkness as the assassin waited to take advantage.
