by Paul Doherty
Puddlicott shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Will you tell me the real reason?’
Puddlicott lay back on his bed, crossing his hands behind his head.
‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘I’ve got nothing to gain,’ Puddlicott snapped.
‘There’s your brother, and, as you know, Puddlicott, the hangman has his own way of easing pain. I am also sure our good friend the gaoler could provide a deep-bowled cup of spiced wine before your last ride in the death cart.’
Puddlicott lay whistling softly through his teeth.
‘Agreed,’ he said sharply and swung himself off the bed. ‘I am a dying man, Ranulf. You know any oath made to me is sacred.’
‘I’ll keep it.’
Puddlicott tapped his feet on the ground. ‘Would you like to look on the face of Christ?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Would you like to look on the face of Christ?’
‘Of course. What do you mean?’
‘You know the Order of the Templars?’
‘Of course!’ Ranulf snapped.
‘Well,’ Puddlicott drew in his breath. ‘I don’t know the full story but sometimes de Craon babbled in his cups. His master, Philip of France, is desperate for money; the roads of northern France are clogged with men-at-arms as Philip assembles his armies for all-out war against Flanders.’ Puddlicott held a hand up. ‘I realise you know that. Anyway, Philip has heard of a precious relic, the Shroud of Christ held by the Templars.’
‘And now he wants it so he can sell it abroad?’
Puddlicott made a face. ‘Ah, but there’s more. You see, I had three tasks: breaking into the crypt was one, the others were to collect information about the Templars in England as well as the whereabouts of their famous relic.’
‘Why this information?’
‘Ah.’ Puddlicott rose and whispered in Ranulf’s ear. He then stood back, enjoying the amazement on Ranulf’s face.
‘You are telling the truth?’ he asked.
Puddlicott nodded. ‘The breaking into the crypt is nothing compared to Philip’s plans for the future. Only four others now know what you do.’ Puddlicott held up his fingers. ‘Philip of France, Master Nogaret, de Craon and myself.’ Puddlicott shrugged. ‘I’ll soon be dead. Let’s face it, that bastard de Craon did nothing to save me.’
Ranulf eased himself off the table and hammered on the cell door.
‘You’ll keep your word?’ Puddlicott pleaded.
Ranulf looked over his shoulder. ‘Of course, provided what you have told me is the truth!’
In the porter’s lodge, Ranulf dug deep into his purse and slipped some silver coins into the gaoler’s palm.
‘You’ll do what I say?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I understand, Master,’ the fellow replied. ‘On the morning he dies, Puddlicott will drink deeply and go high up the hangman’s ladder.’
Ranulf assured him that he would check that his silver was well spent and, breathing a sigh of relief, stepped out of the prison, the iron-studded door slamming firmly behind him. He stood for a while sucking in the cool night air and staring up at the stars.
‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ he whispered to himself. ‘The searcher of secrets.’ He recalled what Puddlicott had whispered to him. Oh, he would tell Master Long Face but his own quick wits would choose both the time and the place. The revelation of Puddlicott’s terrible secret would be the key to Ranulf’s fortune.
Author’s Note
The events described in this novel actually occurred. Richard Puddlicott was an educated clerk, a master of disguise and a well-known villain with an international reputation. He had been a merchant in the Low Countries and, because of Edward I’s economic measures, suffered financial hardship there. Puddlicott returned to England where he, with Adam of Warfield and William of the Palace, plotted the great robbery at the Abbey. The situation at Westminster was as described in this novel; there was no real authority in the deserted palace buildings and the Benedictine monks, lax in the observance of their monastic duties, were easy targets for a man like Richard Puddlicott. Midnight revelries were organised in the deserted palace buildings in which Puddlicott, Adam of Warfield and William of the Palace were the principal protagonists. Prostitutes and courtesans were invited to these revelries and, from midnight feasts, Puddlicott and Warfield moved on to robbery.
The old deserted cemetery was sown with hempen, and Puddlicott, under Warfield’s protection, tunnelled his way into the crypt. A great deal of plate was removed as well as freshly minted coins. Fishermen found goblets floating in the Thames, some of the plate turned up at Kentish Town and even the city goldsmiths, men like William Torel, whose work can still be seen in the Abbey, were happy recipients of the stolen plate. When the robbery was discovered Edward was furious; the monks were committed to prison whilst Richard Puddlicott and William of the Palace paid for their crimes with their lives. The crypt at Westminster can still be visited and I have sat in what used to be the deserted cemetery and reflected on this most daring of robberies which took place almost six hundred and ninety years ago.
Accounts of the robbery, including Puddlicott’s confession, are still extant. The chief source is manuscript Chetham No. 6712 which is still preserved in the Chetham Library, Manchester. Indeed, the author of this account may well have been one of the forty-nine monks indicted in the subsequent investigation and sent to cool his heels in the Tower. Puddlicott’s cheeky confession, in which he claims full responsibility for everything, can be read in the original (Exchequer Accounts K.R. 322/8 at the Record Office, Chancery Lane), whilst there is even a picture of the supposed robbery in a manuscript of the Cotton Collection Nero D. ii Folio 192D at the British Library. In all these original documents, Puddlicott comes across as an able, quick-witted rogue, a born charmer, and one can only regret the manner of his death. He suffered the supreme penalty for his insolence and there is no doubt that his corpse was flayed and the skin nailed to the Abbey door. Hundreds of years later, archaeologists found traces of this skin still embedded in the old Abbey door. It might have been left there to rot: a powerful testimony of Edward I’s violent reaction to the plundering of his treasure.
A survey of the court records for London, during the year mentioned in this novel, shows that a number of prostitutes were killed. I have weaved this list of tragic deaths in with Puddlicott’s raid on Westminster Abbey. Puddlicott’s links with France are tenuous, to say the least, but what cannot be denied is the increased diplomatic activity by both Philip’s and Edward’s agents as each king struggled for dominance over the other. Philip IV’s economic and financial measures ranged from an attack on the Church to the investigation of whether alchemy did actually work. His designs on the Templars, the famous religious fighting order, later led to one of the greatest scandals in medieval Europe, but that will be the subject of another novel.
Many people have written and asked me whether Hugh Corbett is based on an actual historical person and, perhaps, now it is time I confessed to the truth. He is; and this real clerk was a principal agent in discovering the crime and bringing Puddlicott to justice and the treasure back to the King. His name was John de Droxford and if anyone wants to look at the real Corbett’s handwriting then look at Cole’s Records (Record Commission 1844) which prints the indenture in which de Droxford specifies the jewels lost and recovered. John de Droxford was also commissioned to empanel the juries to try Puddlicott and was instrumental in resolving this and many other mysterious incidents. Perhaps it is only right and time to give credit where credit is due.
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