by Paul Doherty
Corbett shook him warmly by the hand, seized Ranulf’s arm and pushed him, still mouthing protests and curses, out of the hospital.
At the gate they met the lay-brother returning from Bread Street.
‘I told the Lady Maeve,’ he announced. ‘She is worried. She wishes you to return now.’
Corbett thanked him and walked on. They were half-way down the street, going back towards Newgate when Corbett heard the lay-brother behind him.
‘Oh, Sir Hugh! Sir Hugh!’
‘What is it, Brother?’
‘Well, as I left your house a little urchin stopped me, jumping up and down like some imp from hell. He said he had a message for the Lord Corbett.’
‘What was it?’
‘He said the Frenchman was ready to move with all his baggage.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’
The lay-brother hurried off. Ranulf, now sullen and withdrawn, though the fury of their recent battle still glowed in his face and eyes. He picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could down the street.
‘What’s that all about, Master?’
Corbett just stood, staring after the lay-brother.
‘Master, I asked a question!’
‘I know you did, Ranulf, but keep your bloody temper to yourself. Those attackers were probably stalking us all evening. If you’d gone to Farringdon they would have been waiting for you there. For all I know, if we’d stayed within doors, they may even have attacked the house itself.’
‘Well, who sent the bastards?’
Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Maltote’s in good hands. The Lady Maeve knows where we are. Let’s break our fast.’ He pointed towards a small tavern, The Fletcher’s Table which opened early to serve the butchers and slaughterers who worked in the Shambles. ‘A little food and some watered ale?’
‘Maltote’s lying half-dead!’ Ranulf retorted evilly.
‘Yes, I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But we need to think. The message the lay-brother brought; de Craon is preparing to leave. I suspect he sent those attackers.’
Ranulf shrugged and allowed Corbett to usher him across the street and into the still silent taproom. Sleepy-eyed scullions and black-faced cook boys served them fresh pies and jugs of ale. Corbett told Ranulf to stop moaning and sat eating and drinking, trying to recall every detail of his meeting with de Craon. At last Ranulf grew more amenable.
‘Master, what makes you think de Craon was behind the attack?’
‘Ranulf, you visited the Frenchman’s house, or at least saw it in Gracechurch Street. Did you notice anything untoward?’
‘Rather dirty, ramshackle. I thought it was a strange residence for an envoy of a French king. I mean, Master, the streets outside were littered with piles of refuse yet the dung carts were empty.’
Corbett half-choked on the piece of pie he was eating.
‘Of course,’ he whispered. Images flashed into his mind: the meeting with de Craon and de Nevers, the old gardener in the cemetery at Westminster Abbey, the silent street, the empty, deserted dung cart, Puddlicott in Paris then in London.
‘Listen, Ranulf, quickly, do two things. You are to hire a horse and ride as if Maltote himself was with you to the Guildhall. Cade will be there. You are to tell him that the Harbour Masters on the Thames are to stop all shipping. Also every soldier in the city is to muster at the corner of Thames Street. They are to be there within the hour.’ He grabbed the tankard from Ranulf’s hand. ‘Go on, man! We may not be able to do anything about Maltote’s eyes but we might seize the men who hired his attackers!’
After Ranulf had left, Corbett sat and cursed his own stupidity. He had established that the treasury had been robbed, the wall being finely breached within the last few days. Puddlicott must have worked on that tunnel like a farmer clearing a field, slowly, regularly over a number of months. Now, most of the plate hadn’t been touched, being too bulky and obvious to move and sell immediately. Perhaps the robbers had decided to divide their loot, Warfield taking the plate and Puddlicott the coins. Corbett gnawed on his lip and rose slowly to his feet. But, he wondered, didn’t the same apply to sacks of coin? Puddlicott could move them but if he started using them, surely he’d be traced? Where would such a flow of coins pass unnoticed . . .? Of course! Corbett groaned, seized his cloak and hurried out of the tavern.
Chapter 12
Corbett ensconced himself in one of the many taverns along Thames Street as he waited for Ranulf and Cade to arrive. He also hired five fishermen, who had been celebrating a successful night’s catch, to hunt amongst the wharves and docks for a French ship preparing to leave on the morning tide. Over an hour passed before his spies returned, saying there was a French cog, the Grace à Dieu, berthed at Queenshithe, which was a veritable hive of activity. One of the fishermen accurately described de Craon, and Corbett became alarmed when another reported how the ship was well manned, bore armaments and was guarded by soldiers.
‘Supposedly a wine vessel,’ the fellow concluded sourly. ‘But you know the French, Master? It’s a merchant ship turned man-of-war.’
Corbett cursed, and paid the fellows their due. If the ship slipped its mooring he did not want it to become involved in some sea fight on the Thames or, even worse, out in the Narrow Sea where it might give any pursuer the slip and make a quick dash for Dieppe or Boulogne. He left the tavern and paced restlessly up and down. By all rights he should be on the way to Sheen, but the King would have to wait. Corbett just hoped his guess would prove correct.
At last Ranulf returned with Cade, one of the sheriffs and troops of city archers and men-at-arms. They thronged the streets and narrow alleyways causing consternation amongst the early morning shoppers, seamen, traders, hucksters and costermongers. The under-sheriff, still looked peakish and nervous, realising his dishonesty about Judith had not yet been fully resolved.
‘Any news from the Tower, Master Cade?’
The under-sheriff shook his head.
‘Brother Richard has been released and Adam of Warfield keeps repeating his story but what’s this fracas about, Sir Hugh?’
‘This fracas,’ Corbett snapped, ‘is about treason!’ He looked at Ranulf. ‘The harbour master has been warned?’
Ranulf nodded.
‘Two men-of-war have been alerted,’ Cade added. ‘The Thames below Westminster has been sealed but a ship on this tide could force its way through and make a run for the open sea. I take it that our quarry is a ship?’
Corbett nodded. ‘A French merchant ship turned man-of-war, the Grace à Dieu. It’s berthed at Queenshithe. I want no nonsense. Forget about protests, protocol and diplomatic ties. I want the ship seized, the soldiers disarmed and the place searched from poop to stern.’
Cade blanched. ‘Sir Hugh, I hope you know what you are doing? If you are wrong, and I suspect we are looking for the stolen treasure, the King’s cup of wrath will spill over on us all!’
‘And if I am right,’ Corbett soothingly replied, ‘then we shall all dance round the maypole.’
He led the archers and men-at-arms into the narrow alleyway leading down to the wharves and quays. Instructions were whispered and, at last, they reached the riverside. Corbett glimpsed the Grace à Dieu; its ramps were still down but the sailors were already scaling the masts to prepare the ship for sail.
‘Now!’ Corbett shouted.
He, Cade and Ranulf led the charge across the cobbled stones. The ramps were stormed. Two men-at-arms, wearing the royal livery of France, tried to block their progress but were knocked aside as English archers and men-at-arms swarmed all over the ship. Sailors caught unawares in the rigging were ordered down, soldiers found between decks were disarmed.
In a few minutes the ship was secured and the French soldiers reduced to mere bystanders. The door of the small cabin in the poop opened and de Craon, followed by de Nevers, stormed across the deck to where Corbett and Cade stood at the foot of the great mast.
‘This is outrageous!’ de Cr
aon yelled. ‘We are the accredited envoys of King Philip, this is a French ship!’ He pointed to the large banner jutting out from the poop. ‘We sail under the royal protection of the House of Capet!’
‘I don’t care if you sail under the direct protection of the Holy Father!’ Corbett replied. ‘You have been up to mischief again, de Craon. I want the King of England’s gold back. Now!’
De Craon’s eyes flickered with amusement. ‘So, we are thieves?’
‘Yes. You are!’
‘You’ll answer for this!’
‘Either way, monsieur, I’ll answer!’ Corbett turned to Cade. ‘Search the ship!’
The under-sheriff turned and rapped out orders and, despite de Craon’s protests, the English soldiers fell to with a will. The cabin was ransacked but the searchers came out grim-faced, shaking their heads. A troop was sent down to the hold. Corbett just stared at de Craon, who stood arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently on the deck. The English clerk deliberately did not look at de Nevers but whispered to Ranulf where to stand. The soldiers came up from below.
‘There’s nothing,’ they said. ‘Just cloth and sacks of food stuff.’
Corbett controlled his panic as he sensed the dismay of Cade and the other officers. He knew the gold and silver were on board; but where?
‘Master.’
‘Shut up, Ranulf!’
Ranulf grabbed Corbett by the arm. ‘Master, I used to run along these wharves. This ship is ready for sea, yes? There are sailors in the rigging preparing to sail. They are looking for a speedy departure.’
‘So?’
‘Master, the ship’s anchor is down. It should be up!’
Corbett turned his back on de Craon. ‘Ranulf, what are you saying?’
‘Master, they haven’t raised the anchor!’
Corbett smiled and turned to Cade. ‘I want three swimmers to make sure that the anchor of this ship is fine. Perhaps check the hawser chain?’
De Craon’s face paled, his jaw fell open. De Nevers began to move to the rail but Corbett seized him by the arm.
‘Master Puddlicott,’ he hissed. ‘I insist you stay!’
‘Puddlicott!’ de Craon snapped.
‘Yes, monsieur, an English criminal wanted by the sheriff of this city and other counties for a list of crimes as long as this river!’
De Nevers tried to break away. Corbett clicked his fingers and indicated to two men-at-arms to hold him fast. Meanwhile, Cade had selected his volunteers. Three archers stripped off their helmets, sallets and sword belts, kicked off their boots and slipped like water rats into the scum-covered river. They dived out of sight and resurfaced, shouting triumphantly.
‘Sacks!’ one of them yelled, spitting out water and shaking his head. ‘There are heavy sacks of coins tied to the anchor chain!’
‘Bring a barge round,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Have the swimmers retrieve the sacks, place a strong guard and order carts to take the sacks to Sheen Palace!’
Cade hurried away, shouting orders. Corbett looked at his opponents.
‘Monsieur de Craon, I will leave you now. I will take Master Puddlicott; for it is Richard Puddlicott, not Raoul de Nevers, isn’t it? He’s an English subject owing allegiance to our King and will undoubtedly answer for his terrible crimes.’
De Nevers yelled at de Craon but the Frenchman just shook his head and the white-faced prisoner was hustled away.
‘We knew nothing of this,’ de Craon protested. ‘We accepted de Nevers for what he claimed to be.’
Corbett grinned at the blatant lie and pointed to the anchor chain. ‘And I suppose,’ he replied, ‘as you raised anchor and set sail you would have found sacks tied by strong cords to the chain. Of course, you would claim it was treasure trove and take it home to your royal master as a fresh subsidy for his armies in Flanders. Naturally, when the time was ripe, you would whisper about what you had done and turn Edward of England into a laughing stock, a prince who lost his gold so his enemy could use it to attack his allies.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘Come, come, monsieur. Our Chancery will lodge objections with yours. You will protest your innocence but you are still a liar and a bungling fool!’
Corbett, followed by Ranulf, walked to the rail.
‘Did you send them?’ Corbett shouted back over his shoulder. He turned and stared into the hate-filled eyes of the Frenchman.
‘Did I send whom?’ De Craon snapped back.
‘The assassins who attacked us?’
De Craon smiled and shook his head. ‘One day, Corbett, I will!’
Corbett and Ranulf strode down the ramp where their prisoner waited, now securely chained between two guards. Behind him the clerk heard the whistles of the officers ordering their men off the French ship and the hurried cries of the French captain, eager to get the Grace à Dieu to sea as swiftly as possible.
‘Where shall we take the prisoner, Sir Hugh?’
Corbett looked at the officer, then at Puddlicott.
‘Newgate will do, but he is to remain chained between two guards.’ Corbett stepped closer and stared into the bland face of this master trickster. ‘Puddlicott, the actor,’ he whispered and touched the man’s blond hair. ‘How often was this dyed, eh? Black, red, russet? And the beard? Grown and shaved, then grown again to suit your purposes?’
Puddlicott stared back coolly. ‘What proof do you have, Master Corbett?’
‘All I need. You know Adam of Warfield has been taken? He puts the blame squarely on you. Oh, I know about the disguises; the beard, the different coloured hair, the cowl and the hood, but they won’t save you from the hangman’s noose. I take no enjoyment in this, Puddlicott, but you are going to hang.’
The arrogant coolness slipped from Puddlicott’s face.
‘If you make a confession,’ Corbett continued. ‘And answer certain questions, then perhaps something can be done.’
‘Such as what?’ Puddlicott sneered.
‘You committed treason. You know the new laws. To be half-hanged, cut down, disembowelled and quartered.’
Corbett flinched at the fear in the prisoner’s eyes.
‘Well, Master Clerk,’ he slurred. ‘Perhaps we should talk.’
Corbett stared along the quayside. There was nothing he could do for this man except make his captivity a little easier.
‘Bring the prisoner!’ he ordered.
The soldiers, with Puddlicott in between them, followed Corbett and Ranulf into a small ale house. Corbett demanded that the room be cleared.
‘Release him!’ he ordered the soldiers. ‘Let him keep his chains. You can guard the door outside.’
The soldiers, disappointed – their hopes of a free meal being dashed – released Puddlicott but rearranged the gyves of his chains so he could shuffle and still use his hands. Corbett pushed the prisoner over to a corner table.
‘Make yourself comfortable on that stool. Landlord, your best dish. What is it?’
‘Fish pie.’
‘Is it fresh?’
‘Yesterday the fish were swimming in the sea.’
Corbett smiled. ‘The largest portion for my guest here and some white wine.’
Puddlicott, a half-smile on his face, watched the landlord bustle off to serve them as if he was some important guest of state rather than a doomed malefactor. They waited in silence until the landlord returned. Puddlicott ate the food eagerly enough and Corbett had to admire the man’s cool nerve. When he had finished, Puddlicott drained his wine cup and held it out for more.
‘Make hay whilst the sun shines.’ Puddlicott grinned, then he became serious. ‘I do have a favour to ask, clerk.’
‘I owe you nothing.’
‘I have a brother,’ Puddlicott persisted. ‘He’s been witless since birth. The Brothers at St Anthony’s hospital look after him. Give me your word he will be well looked after. A royal stipend, and I’ll tell you what I know.’ He half-raised his cup. ‘If I am to die I want it to be quick. Richard Puddlicott was not put on God’s earth for the am
usement of the London mob!’
‘You have my word on both matters. Now, you stole the gold and silver?’
‘Of course. Adam of Warfield and William of the palace were involved. William is just a toper but Adam of Warfield is a malicious bastard. I hope he hangs beside me!’
‘He will.’
‘Good, that will make it all the more enjoyable.’ Puddlicott sipped from his cup.
‘Eighteen months ago,’ he began, ‘I was in France after a short stay at Westminster where I helped William of Senche remove some of the abbey treasure from the monk’s refectory. Now, I am not a thief,’ he continued with a grin, ‘I just find it difficult to distinguish between my property and everyone else’s. I tried the same ruse in Paris at the house of the Friars Minor. I was arrested and sentenced to hang. I told my gaoler that I knew a way of making the French king rich at the expense of Edward of England.’ Puddlicott blew his lips out. ‘You know the way of the world, Corbett? When you’re in a corner you’ll try anything. I thought it would be forgotten but, the day before I was due to hang, de Craon and the Keeper of the King’s Secrets, William Nogaret, visited me in the condemned cell. I told them my plan and heigh-ho, I was released.’
‘You could have gone back on your word,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘Shown them a clean pair of heels.’
‘And fled where?’ Puddlicott asked. ‘To England? As a ragged-arsed beggar? No,’ he smiled and shook his head. ‘De Craon said if I broke my word he would hunt me down. Moreover, I had my own grudge against Edward of England. Oh, by the way, Corbett, de Craon hates you and one day intends to settle scores.’
‘So far, you have told me nothing I didn’t know already,’ Corbett snapped.
‘Ah, well, I returned to England. I grew a beard, dyed my hair black and arranged the festivities at the abbey.’
‘Why?’
‘Adam of Warfield has his brains between his legs. He has a weakness for whores, heady drink and good food. William of the palace can be bought for a good jug of wine, so I had them both. I told them my plan; the cemetery was declared unuseable; I thickened the undergrowth by sowing hempen seed – it sprouts quickly and covered my activities.’
