by Paul Doherty
Philip of France now lounged in his huge chair, staring at the gold and silver stars painted on the ceiling, gently drumming his fingers on top of the table. Across from him sat his Chancellor and Master of Secrets, the apostate William of Nogaret. This Keeper of the King’s Secrets talked softly, yet rapidly, as he moved from one European court to another and all the time he watched this most impassive of kings. Philip, whom men nicknamed ‘Beautiful’, with his long, white face, pale blue eyes and hair the colour of burnished gold, looked every inch a king. He exuded majesty, as a woman would perfume, or a court fop an exotic fragrance, but Nogaret knew his master to be a cunning, sly fox who kept his face and his manner inscrutable, leaving others to guess his true intentions.
Nogaret paused and swallowed hard. He edged his stool slightly sideways for he knew that on his side of the desk was a dreadful oubliette, a trap door in the floor controlled by a lever under the rim of the King’s desk. Nogaret knew what would happen if that trap door suddenly opened. He himself had seen a victim fall on to the steel-tipped stakes below.
‘You have paused, William?’ the King murmured.
‘Your Grace, there is the matter of finance.’
Philip’s blue eyes swung lazily at Nogaret.
‘We have our taxes.’
Nogaret’s dark hooded eyes blinked and he gently stroked his skin, a gesture which made his sallow, narrow face look even more drawn and pinched.
‘Your Grace, a war against Flanders will empty the Treasury!’
‘We can borrow.’
‘The Lombards won’t lend!’
‘There are merchants who will.’
‘They are taxed to the hilt.’
‘So, what do you suggest, William?’
‘There is the Church.’
Philip smiled slightly and gazed hard at his master of secrets.
‘You would like that, wouldn’t you? You would like us to tax the Church?’ Philip leaned forward, lacing slender fingers together. ‘Some men, William,’ he continued, ‘some men maintain you do not believe in the Church. You do not believe in God or Le Bon Seigneur.’
Nogaret gazed blankly back. ‘Some men say the same of you, your Grace.’
Philip’s eyes rounded in mock innocence.
‘But my grandfather was the sainted Louis, whilst your grandfather, William, together with your mother, was condemned as a heretic, placed in a barrel of tar and burnt in the public market place.’
Philip watched the muscles in Nogaret’s face tense with fury. He liked that. He relished it when others lost their calm and showed the true nature of their souls. The King leaned back and sighed.
‘Enough! Enough!’ he muttered. ‘We cannot, we will not, tax the Church.’
‘Then “we cannot, we will not”,’ Nogaret snapped back, mimicking the King’s words, ‘invade Flanders.’
Philip curbed the rush of fury within him and smiled. He gently smoothed the green-baized table top. ‘Be careful, William,’ he murmured. ‘You are my right hand.’ The King lifted his fingers, ‘But if my right hand knew what my left hand was doing, I would cut it off!’
Philip turned, grasped the wine jug and filled a cup to the brim, watching the wine wink and bubble around the rim. He handed it to Nogaret.
‘Now, my Master of Secrets, enough of this bandying of words. I need money, and you have a plan.’
Nogaret sipped gingerly at the wine and stared back.
‘You do have a plan?’ Philip repeated.
Nogaret placed the cup down. ‘Yes, your Grace, I do. It will involve us in the affairs of England.’ He leaned forward and began to talk quietly.
Philip listened impassively but, as Nogaret described his scheme, the King folded his arms, almost hugging himself with pleasure at the honeyed words and phrases which dripped from Nogaret’s lips.
Chapter 1
Edward of England sat slumped in a window seat in the small robing chamber behind the throne room of Winchester Palace. For a while he watched one of his greyhounds gobble the remains of some sugared wafers from a silver jewelled plate, then gently lope across to a far corner to squat and noisily crap. Edward smiled to himself and gazed under bushy eyebrows at the two men seated on stools before him. The old one, John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, gazed blankly back. Edward studied the Earl’s cruel face; his beaked nose, square chin and those eyes which somehow reminded Edward of the greyhound in the corner. De Warrenne, he mused, must have a brain in that close-cropped hair but Edward could not swear to it. De Warrenne never had an original idea, his usual reaction to anything would be to charge and kill. Edward secretly called de Warrenne his greyhound for, whatever Edward pointed to, de Warrenne would always seize. Now the Earl just sat there perplexed by the King’s angry litany of questions, watching his master and waiting for the next order to be given. Despite the early-summer morning, de Warrenne still wore a thick, woollen cloak and, as always, a chain-mail shirt and the brown, woollen leggings of a soldier, pushed into loose riding boots, the spurs still attached. Edward chewed his lip. Did the Earl ever change his clothes? the King wondered. And what happened when he went to bed? Did his wife Alice bear the imprint of that mail on her soft, white body?
Edward glanced at the man next to de Warrenne, dressed simply in a dark-blue cote-hardie bound by a broad, leather belt. This man was as different from de Warrenne as chalk from cheese, with his dark saturnine face, clean-shaven chin, deep-set eyes and unruly mop of black hair which now showed faint streaks of grey. Edward winked slowly at his Master of Clerks, Hugh Corbett, Edward’s special emissary and Keeper of the Secret Seal.
‘You see my problem, Hugh?’ he barked.
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘Yes, your Grace!’ Edward mimicked back.
The King’s sunburnt face broke into a mocking smile, his lips curling so he looked more like a snarling dog than the Lord’s Anointed. He rose and stretched his huge frame until the muscles cracked, then he ran his fingers through his steel-grey, leonine hair which fell down to the nape of his neck.
‘Yes, your Grace,’ the King jibed again. ‘Of course, your Grace. Would it please your Grace?’ Edward lashed out with his boot and caught the leg of his clerk’s chair. ‘So, tell me Master Corbett, what is my problem?’
The clerk would have liked to have informed the King, bluntly and succinctly, that he was arrogant, short-tempered, cruel, vindictive and given to wild bursts of rage which profited him nothing. Corbett, however, folded his hands in his lap and stared at the King.
Edward was still dressed in his dark-green hunting costume, his boots, leggings and jerkin stained with fat globules of mud. Moreover, every time the King moved he gave off gusts of sweaty odour; Corbett wondered which was worse, the King or the King’s greyhound. Edward crouched before Corbett and the clerk stared coolly back at the red-rimmed, amber-flecked eyes.
The King was in a dangerous mood. He always was after hunting; the blood still ran hot and fast in the royal veins.
‘Tell me,’ Edward asked with mock sweetness. ‘Tell me what our problem is?’
‘Your Grace, you have a revolt in Scotland. The leader, William Wallace, is a true soldier and a born leader.’ Corbett saw the annoyance flicker across the King’s face. ‘Wallace,’ Corbett continued, ‘uses the bogs, the fens, the mists and the forests of Scotland to launch his attacks, plan his sorties and arrange the occasional bloody ambush. He cannot be pinned down, he appears where he is least expected.’ Corbett made a face. ‘To put it succinctly, your Grace, he is leading your son, the Prince of Wales and commander of your forces, a merry jig.’
The King’s lips parted in a false smile. ‘And, Master Corbett, to put it succinctly, what is the rest of the problem?’
The clerk glanced sideways at de Warrenne but found no comfort there. The Earl sat as if carved out of stone and Corbett wondered, not for the first time, if John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, was in full possession of his wits.
‘The second part of the problem,’ Corbett
continued, ‘is that Philip of France is massing troops on his northern borders and, within the year, he will launch an all-out assault against Flanders. On the one hand, if God wills it, he will be defeated but, if he is victorious, he will extend his empire, destroy an ally, interfere with our wool trade and harass our shipping.’
Edward rose and clapped his hands slowly. ‘And what is the third part of the problem?’
‘You said you had a letter from the Mayor of London but, as yet, your Grace, you have not revealed its contents.’
The King sat down on a stool, dug inside his jerkin and pulled out the white scroll of parchment. He unrolled it and his face became grave.
‘Yes, yes,’ he spoke up. ‘A letter from the Mayor and the Council of London, they require our help. There’s some bloody assassin, some killer slitting the throats of whores, prostitutes and courtesans from one end of the city to the other.’
Corbett snorted with laughter. ‘Since when have the city fathers been concerned about the deaths of some poor whores? Walk the streets of London in the depths of winter, your Grace, and you’ll find the corpses of raddled whores, frozen stiff in ditches or starving on the steps of churches.’
‘This is different,’ de Warrenne spoke up, turning his head slowly as if noticing Corbett for the first time.
‘Why is it different, my Lord?’
‘These are not your common night-walkers but high-ranking courtesans.’
Corbett smiled.
‘You find it amusing, clerk?’
‘No, I don’t! There’s something else isn’t there?’
Edward balanced the small scroll of parchment between his fingers. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied wearily. ‘There’s something else. First, these courtesans know a lot of secrets. They have made it clear to the sheriffs and the great ones of the city that if something is not done, our ladies of the night may start telling everyone what they know.’
Now Corbett’s grin widened. ‘I’d give every penny I have to be there when it happens. All our virtuous burgesses having their dirty linen washed in public.’
Edward smiled at the thought. ‘I could say the same but these burgesses raise taxes for me. The city of London offers interest-free loans.’ His voice became a snarl. ‘Now you can see the problem, Corbett. I need silver to keep Philip out of Flanders and drive Wallace out of Scotland, otherwise my armies will melt away like ice before a fire.’ The King turned, hawked and spat into the rushes. ‘I couldn’t give a damn about the whores, I couldn’t give a damn about the burgesses. I want their gold. I also want vengeance!’
‘Your Grace?’ Corbett asked.
Edward just stared moodily at the greyhound, now getting ready to cock its leg against one of the wall tapestries. The King absent-mindedly took off a boot and threw it at the dog who yelped and scampered away.
‘Some whores have died,’ Edward answered. ‘But there are two deaths I will not accept.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There’s a guild of high-born widows in the city. They call themselves the Sisters of St Martha, they are a lay order dedicated to good works. To be specific: the physical and spiritual well-being of the young girls who walk the streets. Now, I gave these Sisters my personal protection. They assemble in the Chapter House at Westminster Abbey where they pray, meet and plan their activities. The Sisters do good work, their superior is the Lady Imelda de Lacey whose husband went with me on crusade. Did you ever meet him, Corbett?’
The clerk shook his head but watched the King carefully. Edward was a strange man. He could swear, be violent, treacherous, cunning, greedy and vindictive but he always kept his word. Personal friendship was as sacred as the Mass to him. The King especially remembered the companions of his youth, those knights who travelled with him and the now dead, but much beloved, Queen Eleanor, to fight in Outremer. If any of these companions or their interests were hurt, the King would act with all the speed and energy he could muster. Corbett felt a secret dread. He had promised his wife Maeve that he would return to London and take her and their three-month-old baby daughter Eleanor to visit her family in Wales. Corbett cringed at what the King might ask.
‘Now, amongst the Sisters of St Martha,’ Edward continued slowly, ‘was the widow of one of my boon companions, Lady Catherine Somerville. Two weeks ago, Lady Catherine returned from Westminster along Holborn, her companion left her at St Bartholomew’s and Lady Somerville took a short cut across Smithfield to her house near the Barbican. She never reached her home. The next morning her body was found lying near the gallows, her throat slashed from ear to ear. She died the same way as the whores she tried to help. Who,’ Edward glared at de Warrenne, ‘would kill an old lady in such a barbaric fashion? I want vengeance,’ the King muttered. ‘I want this killer seized. The city fathers are in uproar. They want their good names untarnished and the widows of high-ranking lords protected.’
‘You mentioned a second death, your Grace?’
‘Yes, I did. In the grounds of Westminster Abbey there’s a small house. I persuaded the Abbot and monks to give it, as a stipend, a sinecure, a benefice, to an old chaplain of mine, Father Benedict. He was a saintly, old priest who loved his fellow man and was dedicated to good works. The night after Lady Somerville was killed, Father Benedict was burnt to death in his house.’
‘Murder, your Grace?’
The King made a face. ‘Oh, it looked like an accident but I think it was murder. Father Benedict may have been ancient but he was careful, quick on his feet. I cannot understand why he reached the door of his house, even had the key in his hand but failed to get out.’ The King spread out his fingers, carefully examining an old sword cut across the back of his hand. ‘And before you ask, Corbett, there is a connection. Father Benedict was chaplain to the Sisters of St Martha.’
‘Is there any motive for these murders?’
‘In God’s name, Corbett, I don’t know!’
The King rose and hopped across the room to collect his boot. Corbett sensed his royal master was hiding something.
‘Your Grace, there’s something else, isn’t there?’
Now de Warrenne began to pluck at a loose thread on his cloak as if he had discovered the most interesting thing in the room. Corbett’s apprehension grew.
‘Yes, yes, Corbett, there’s more. One of your old friends is back in London.’
‘Old friend?’
‘Sir Amaury de Craon, personal emissary of His Most Christian Majesty, King Philip of France. He has rented a house in Gracechurch Street and brought quite a small retinue with him as well as letters of friendship from my royal brother the King of France. I have issued de Craon safe conducts but, if that bastard’s here, then there’s more trouble brewing in London than I would like to contemplate.’
Corbett rubbed his face in his hands. De Craon was Philip’s special agent. Where he went, trouble always followed: treason, sedition, conspiracy and intrigue.
‘De Craon may be a bastard,’ Corbett answered, ‘but he’s not a common murderer. He cannot be involved in these killings!’
‘No,’ de Warrenne answered, ‘but the flies which feed on shit are not responsible for it either.’
‘Very eloquently put, my Lord.’
Corbett turned to the King, now leaning against the wall.
‘Your Grace, what has this got to do with me? You gave me your word, once this royal progress in the West was finished, I was released from all duties for the next two months!’
‘You are a clerk,’ de Warrenne jibed out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I am as good a man as you, my Lord!’
The old Earl gave a long rumbling belch and looked away.
‘I want you to go to London, Hugh.’
‘Your Grace, you gave me your word!’
‘You can kiss my royal arse. I need you in London. I want you to stop these murders, find the slayer and see the bastard hanged at Tyburn. I want you to find out what de Craon and his companion Raoul de Nevers are up to! What mounds of shit they are turning over!’
‘God knows. Some petty French nobleman with all the airs and graces of a court fop.’ The King grinned. ‘They have both shown an interest in you. They even paid a courtesy visit to the Lady Maeve.’
Corbett started and felt a shiver of apprehension. De Craon’s meddling was one thing but de Craon under his own roof with his wife and child was another.
‘You will go to London, Hugh?’
‘Yes, your Grace, I will go to London, collect my wife, child and household and, as planned, go to Wales.’
‘By God, you will not!’
Corbett rose. ‘By God, Sire, I will!’ He stopped by de Warrenne and looked down. ‘And you, my Lord, should drink more milk. It will relieve the wind in your stomach.’
The clerk walked towards the door and turned as he heard the hiss of steel. Edward now stood beside his throne, he had drawn his great sword from its sheath hanging on the back of the chair.
‘Your Grace intends to kill me?’
Edward just glared back and Corbett saw the King was on the verge of one of his most spectacular outbursts. All the usual signs were there: pale face, the gnawing lips, the threatening gesture with the sword, the nervous kicking of the rushes. Like a child, Corbett thought, a spoiled brat who can’t get his own way. Corbett turned back towards the door. The cup the King threw, narrowly missing Corbett’s head, reached it before he did. Corbett was about to lift the latch when he felt a dagger prick the side of his neck. De Warrenne was now standing behind him; one word from the King and Corbett knew the Earl would kill him. He felt the hilt of his own dagger pushed into his belt.
‘What now, my Lord Earl?’ he murmured, looking over his shoulder at the King who now slouched on his throne, all signs of anger gone, his eyes pleading.
‘Come back, Hugh,’ he muttered. ‘For God’s sake, come back!’
