by Paul Doherty
‘And?’ De Craon’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.
‘My sovereign lord the King,’ Corbett continued, smiling with his eyes, ‘will insist on reassuring you personally. He will want to know as much about this attack as possible.’ He leaned forward. ‘Within the week you will be escorted to London and given comfortable lodgings in the Tower. You can join the court’s Christmas festivities.’
‘I protest!’ de Craon broke in. ‘I must return to France.’
‘Amaury, Amaury!’ Corbett got to his feet, put his hand gently on the Frenchman’s shoulder and squeezed tight with his fingers. ‘We must make sure you are safe. We must show the Holy Father at Avignon the cordial relationship which exists between our two courts. Surely, Amaury, you are not going to refuse my royal master’s invitation? I mean, he would take grave insult.’
Corbett’s hand fell away. De Craon’s face was a picture, a mass of controlled fury, white froth bubbling on the corner of his mouth. The Frenchman was breathing rapidly through his nose.
‘You must be safe, Amaury, I would die a thousand deaths if anything happened to you.’
‘I,’ de Craon stepped back, ‘I must think about your offer.’ Ranulf was quietly laughing. This proved too much. At the door de Craon turned. ‘One day, Corbett . . .’
‘Aye, de Craon, one day, but for now, do make yourself available. Perhaps I may have other questions for you.’
De Craon drew back the bolts and disappeared through the doorway. Ranulf, laughing loudly, kicked the door shut.
‘Can you do that?’
Sir Edmund came away from the wall, eyes watchful.
‘I don’t want him to leave,’ Corbett declared, ‘and I want to keep him in England as long as possible. He’ll enjoy the Tower. He shouts he is an envoy; then he should at least present his letters to our lord. Perhaps the snow will return and, with a little luck, King Philip will have to do without his Keeper of Secrets until the spring.’
‘You will accuse him of the murders?’ Ranulf asked.
‘He is a murderer,’ Corbett replied. ‘A malevolent black spider who spins his webs in dark corners. He hired those pirates. He tried to fill our bellies with food and wine and I think I know why. Sir Edmund, whatever happens, keep the drawbridge raised. Apart from myself, nobody must leave this castle. Now I believe we have other business to do.’ Corbett roused himself, blew out the candles and strapped on his war belt. ‘Ranulf, fetch Bolingbroke. Sir Edmund, where will the court be held?’
‘In the council chamber in the keep.’
‘Tell Bolingbroke to meet us there,’ Corbett ordered. ‘He is skilled in languages. Let these miscreants know why they are going to die.’
Any educated person may listen with profit to this boy, John. No one is so learned that this boy may be dispensable to him in so many ways.
Roger Bacon, Opus Maius
Chapter 13
The corpses, all bloodied, were stretched out on the cobbles, row after row like slabs of bloody meat on a flesher’s stall. Corbett followed Sir Edmund as the Constable inspected each corpse on what was proving to be a dark, freezing morning, the sky threatening more snow. The pirates, even in death, still looked sinister and ferocious. Corbett had heard of their exploits in the Narrow Seas. The Flemish fleet comprised all the scum, cutthroats and murderers from the ports of Flanders, Hainault, France, even from Genoa, Venice and further east. They were dressed in a motley collection of gaudy robes and filched armour, hair grown long, faces almost hidden by thick moustaches and beards; here and there lay the occasional youthful, clean-shaven one. Their corpses were already plundered of jewellery; this lay piled high on a table brought out from the tower, and Sir Edmund’s scribes were busy making a tally. The air reeked of blood and iron, and the sight of such corpses had tempered the rage and resentment of the castle folk.
‘At least one hundred,’ Ranulf whispered. Death had been inflicted in a variety of ways. Many still carried the feathered, barbed shafts of the longbowmen; others had hideous wounds to their head, face or chest; a few had been speared in the back; one had lost his head and this had been placed as a macabre joke under his arm.
‘Did they have horses?’ Corbett asked.
‘No,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘Only some sorry mounts they managed to steal from a farmstead.’
Once he had finished his inspection, the Constable climbed a barrel and gave a pithy address extolling the castle folk for their bravery, gesturing at the prisoners now bound and gathered in a huddle, promising that the King’s justice would be done publicly and swiftly.
Once Sir Edmund had climbed down, he, Corbett and Ranulf, with Bolingbroke acting as interpreter, crossed to the council chamber in the keep. This had been transformed, lit by a myriad of candles and warmed by the many capped braziers lined up against the walls and placed in every corner. The great table had been turned round to face the door. Sir Edmund sat in the middle chair, beneath the crucifix, Corbett on his right, Ranulf to his left, with a worried-looking Bolingbroke at one end of the table and a castle scribe at the other. In front of Sir Edmund lay a sword, a small crucifix, and a copy of the chapel breviary. Corbett took out his own commission and unrolled it, using four weights to hold down the corners. At the bottom of the document were his seal and those of the King and Chancellor.
The prisoners were brought in, and pushed and shoved to stand in front of this crudely devised King’s Bench. Sir Edmund declared that they were pirates, invaders, with no rights and subject to martial law. As he spoke Bolingbroke quickly translated. Sir Edmund then listed the charges against them.
‘That they maliciously and feloniously invaded the noble King’s Realm of England, causing devastation by fire and sword, pillaging and killing the King’s good loyal subjects contrary to all usage and law . . .’ Every so often he would pause for Bolingbroke to translate. At the end he asked if they wished to say anything in their defence.
‘Merde!’ a coarse voice shouted.
Sir Edmund asked again if any of them could claim innocence of the charges levelled against them. One of the pirates in the front hawked and spat. Corbett’s unease at such swift justice receded as he studied these invaders. They looked what they were, violent, murderous marauders who had no fear of God or man and would have shown little compassion to any of their victims. He thought of the lonely charcoal burners, poor Horehound and his coven, corpses stiffening under the snow. Staring at these scarred, cruel faces he wondered what other cruelties they were guilty of. He tugged at Sir Edmund’s sleeve and whispered quickly in his ear. Sir Edmund nodded in agreement.
‘Is there anyone here,’ he declared, ‘who can claim innocence of any of the charges? I’ve asked before and I’m asking again, for the final time.’
He was answered with a tirade of abuse in at least half a dozen languages. Despite their shackles the pirates were still dangerous. Corbett noticed how they were shuffling towards the table in front of them, so much so that Sir Edmund’s officers had to form a cordon between them, shields up, swords drawn.
‘Listen!’ Sir Edmund shouted. ‘I am empowered to offer free pardon and amnesty to anyone who can lay evidence on who hired you and why you came here.’ A deadly silence greeted his words. One of the pirates shuffled forward, almost pushing aside the guard.
‘We don’t know who hired us,’ he replied in guttural English. ‘Only our Admiral could tell you that, and he is frying in Hell or raping one of your women. You mean to kill us, why not get on with it?’
‘In which case . . .’ Sir Edmund stood and, one hand holding the hilt of his sword, the other his crucifix, intoned the death sentence: ‘That they are all found guilty of the terrible accusations levelled against them, being the perpetrators of divers hideous crimes . . . and by the power given to me of high and low justice, as Constable of this royal castle, I condemn you to be hanged, sentence to be carried out immediately.’
His words did not need to be translated and were greeted with a roar of abuse. The pirat
es surged forward, only to be beaten back by Sir Edmund’s guards. They were thrust out into the inner bailey and divided into batches of six. Corbett left the hall as the first prisoners were hustled up the steps to the parapet walk. The nooses had already been prepared, the other end tied round the castle’s crenellations. Father Andrew stood at the foot of the steps, quietly reciting prayers; many of the pirates cursed him as they passed. Once they had reached the parapet walk the noose was put round their necks and they were kicked unceremoniously over the edge. The castle folk had already left, standing in the frozen fields outside to watch one figure after another be thrown over the castle walls to dance and jerk at the end of a rope.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Sir Edmund, I ask you again to make sure no one leaves this castle.’
‘Where are you going?’ the Constable asked.
Corbett smiled. ‘I need to talk to a priest.’
Corbett was relieved to put the castle behind him. The execution party was now moving round the walls, and as he looked back he could see those small black figures, some still, others kicking in their death throes. He turned away and whispered a prayer, patting his horse’s neck, then pulled up the edge of his cloak to cover his nose and mouth, turning his head slightly as the bitter breeze stung his face. He held the reins slack, allowing his mount to pick its own way along the frozen track. Behind him, huddled on his mount, sat Ranulf, deeply silent. Corbett knew the reason. Many years ago he had rescued Ranulf from a hanging, and the sight of such executions always provoked bitter memories.
The snow had turned to ice, and on either side of the track Corbett saw signs of the recent attack, wet patches of blood, a shattered club, a buckle or button. He paused as Ranulf pushed his mount towards a thick clump of gorse where the corpse of another pirate lay, sprawled crookedly in death, one hand turned as if trying to pluck the yard-long shaft embedded deeply in his back. They entered the line of trees; here again were more scenes of the bloody pursuit: a corpse half hidden by the snow overlooked by Sir Edmund’s men, and more and more of those dark bloody patches.
When they reached the tavern, its cobbled yard was deserted. Corbett dismounted, told Ranulf to wait and walked into the tap room. He was met by the chief ostler, who informed him that Sir Edmund had given the tavern to his care for the time being. ‘We are still looking for those who fled.’ His sad eyes held Corbett’s. ‘Young boys and maids out in the freezing forest. We’ve been out there and seen some terrible sights. Corpses, throats slit from ear to ear, tinkers and travellers, God’s poor men, only looking for a warm fire.’
‘The Castilians?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir, we thought they were what they claimed to be. They would leave now and again; I always thought they were going to the castle. Then the others came, silently, just before dark, terrible men, Sir. They kept careful watch on the road. Some of the maids were cruelly abused.’
‘Well they are either dead,’ Corbett replied, ‘or about to meet their final judgement.’ He told the ostler to keep careful watch lest pirates who had survived the fight were hiding out amongst the trees.
‘Is it going to end like that?’ Ranulf asked as Corbett remounted. ‘Bodies dangling from the wall? Who, Sir Hugh, will answer for the hideous murders in the castle? Your good friend Louis—’
Corbett held up a hand. ‘I’m tired, Ranulf, of secret books and hidden ciphers, de Craon’s treachery and his lust for my blood. There’s still work to do.’ He smiled. ‘We have a priest to see. Always remember, the mills of God’s justice may grind infinitely slowly, but they do grind infinitely small.’
The trackway outside the church and the churchyard itself bore witness to the recent conflict. Some of the crosses and headstones had been overturned whilst a pile of bloody rags lay heaped against the cemetery wall. Father Matthew was standing on the church steps, busy sprinkling water in all directions.
‘I’m hallowing this place,’ he explained, as Corbett and Ranulf dismounted. ‘Well,’ he held up the holy water stoup and the small asperges rod, ‘it’s the least I can do.’ He sprinkled a little water in Corbett’s direction. ‘Sir Edmund told me about Mistress Feyner. You did well, clerk; another devil in our midst, though.’ Father Matthew sighed. ‘God rest the poor woman.’
Corbett stared at this kindly priest with his heavy peasant face, now unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, and realised how shrewd a man he was; just a glance, a movement of the lips proved the old proverb that still waters run very, very deep. Corbett rested one foot on the bottom step of the church.
‘I came to thank you, Father.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘And to congratulate you on your return to good health. When I came here last you were warning us, weren’t you? You could smell the odour of cooking and so could I. And what poor priest would throw a beautiful bronze bowl out amongst the rubbish near the rear door?’
‘I hoped you would see that.’ Father Matthew kept his head down. ‘God have mercy on me, Sir Hugh, I had no choice. They were in every chamber in the house and they held the hostages in the church; they were as fearsome as Hell. I thought I would never meet devils incarnate! Hell must have been empty, for all its demons came to Corfe.’
‘You escaped?’
‘A long story.’ Father Matthew smiled. Corbett noticed how clean and even his teeth were, whilst the ragged black mittens on his hands couldn’t hide the elegance of his long fingers. ‘The pirates were leaving, eager for more mischief. I simply escaped into the church and barred the Corpse Door. Thanks be to God, if I hadn’t I’m sure they would have slit my throat and those of the other people they brought in.’
‘Where have they gone?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, back to their homes. I gave them what I could.’ Father Matthew made to turn away.
‘John?’
Father Matthew whirled round, and if he hadn’t been holding the water stoup so carefully he would have dropped it. He gaped towards Corbett.
‘I, I don’t . . .’
‘You’re not a priest,’ Corbett replied quietly. ‘You are a scholar pretending to be a priest. Your real name is John. Many years ago, in a different world, you were the disciple, the close friend, the personal messenger of the Franciscan brother Roger Bacon, scholar of Oxford and Paris.’
‘I, I don’t know.’ Father Matthew had turned so pale Corbett strode up the steps and grasped him by the arm.
‘I think you had best come into the church where you have hidden for so long.’
The priest didn’t resist as Corbett led him into the dark, smelly nave which still bore signs of occupation by the pirates. Stools and benches were overturned; near the baptismal font was a pile of horse manure. The floor was stained and two shattered pots lay directly beneath the oriel window, catching the poor light pouring through.
Ranulf pulled back his cowl and absentmindedly blessed himself. Corbett’s declaration had taken him by surprise. He found it difficult to accept that a great scholar of Oxford should be hiding in such a shabby church. Yes, old Master Longface had his own ways; if the King wouldn’t let his right hand know what his left was doing, Corbett was even worse. The priest was deeply shocked, trembling so much Ranulf had to prise the water stoup from his grip and urge him to sit on the small high-backed chair just under the window. Corbett sat on the stool opposite.
‘Would you like some wine, Father? I will call you Father, though you are not a priest. Oh, you tried to be, but you hold the Host the wrong way. Now and again you forget your duties, such as neglecting to administer the last rites to that poor maid found on the trackway outside.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Yes you do,’ Corbett continued evenly. ‘We could go across to that house, and sooner or later I will find a hidden compartment. I wonder what it will contain? An astrolabe, a calculus, a compass, maps of the heavens, charts of the seas, perhaps one or two books, and a jug of that fiery powder which the King uses to loose his bombards and hurl bricks at castle walls?’ He pause
d. ‘Why should a poor parish priest have such an expensive bronze bowl and use it so much it is caked with black powder? But there again, you know all there is to know, don’t you, about Friar Roger’s ignis mirabilis? You’ve read the formula, you know how to mix it.’ Corbett smiled. ‘You’ve committed no crime, Father Matthew, except one, I suppose. You will produce letters from some bishop which will declare you are a priest, yet I’m a royal clerk and even the best forgeries can be detected. I mean, it wouldn’t be hard for you, would it, to buy the finest vellum, a quill, a lump of wax, and forge your own seal? How many people can read such a document? And who really cares? After all,’ he waved around, ‘St Peter’s in the Wood, outside Corfe Castle, is not the richest benefice in God’s kingdom. What are its tithes and annual revenues, Father, a mere pittance?’
‘They’ll burn me!’ Father Matthew lifted his head. ‘You know that, Sir Hugh. They’ll ransack my house, take away the gold and silver I have hidden. They’ll burn my books like they did Friar Roger’s. For what? Because I’m a scholar? Because I want to probe the mysteries? What harm have I done anyone? True,’ he nodded, ignoring the tears spilling down his cheek, ‘I have no power to change the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. I have no authority to loose people from their sins, but if there is a God, He must be compassionate. He will understand.’
Corbett listened as this former scholar made his confession. How he had been born not far from Ilchester, orphaned young, and had travelled to Oxford, where Friar Roger had received him kindly. He explained how the friar had given him an education second to none, in the Quadrivium and Trivium, in mathematics, logic, astronomy and Scripture, as well as a variety of different tongues.
‘He was my Socrates.’ Father Matthew smiled. ‘And I sat at his feet and drank in his wisdom. But,’ he sighed, ‘Friar Roger clashed with his own order in the person of the Father-General, the great scholar Bonaventure. He lost the protection of the papacy and spent years in prison. After his release, he travelled back to Oxford a broken man. When he died, the good brothers nailed his manuscripts to the wall to rot.’ He shrugged. ‘Or so rumour had it; by then I had fled. Friar Roger told me to hide, to keep well away from both his order and the Halls of Learning. I travelled back to Ilchester but no one recognised or knew me. I heard that this parish had no priest.’ He forced a smile. ‘Well, you know the rest. You’re right, Sir Hugh, no one cared. The Bishop’s clerk was so ignorant he couldn’t even translate the Latin on the letter I had forged. But what could I do? I wanted to continue my studies.’ His voice faltered.
