by Paul Doherty
'I am still angry de Montfort is dead, and I need to find the assassins. Did they kill him for some private reason, or did they kill him because they knew he had been bought? Body and soul de Montfort was mine. His killer is my enemy and I suspect sits close, even at the right hand, of that pompous treacherous prig, Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury.'
The king's chest heaved and Corbett noted that Edward was on the verge of one of his notorious royal rages. The king smacked his hands together and his pacing became more vigorous.
'I can tolerate bishops who oppose me for the right reasons, Master Clerk, but not Winchelsea! He has sly conniving ways, scurrying to Rome, to Avignon, appearing to be a saint, a Becket in finer clothes. Winchelsea is a politician who plots against me. He would like me to be beholden to him. He sees himself as a defender of the Church's liberties. I suspect,' the king almost spat the words out, 'he would relish the fate of Becket and, if he is not careful, he may well meet it.'
Corbett shrugged. The king, watching him closely, returned to sit on the trunk facing him, his anger apparently forgotten.
'You seem surprised, Master Clerk.'
'I am surprised, Your Grace,' Corbett replied. 'Because if I accept what you say, I must also accept the premise that someone discovered that de Montfort had been bought and then killed him. I still believe, however, that whoever murdered de Montfort wished to strike at you.'
'But they have done just that,' the king replied. 'They have stopped de Montfort speaking on my behalf and yet,' the king laughed falsely, 'they have made it appear I was responsible for his death. A clever move, Master Corbett. A brilliant stratgem.'
Corbett shook his head. 'I believe it is worse than that. There is an assassin in this city, Your Grace, who wants you dead. De Montfort was simply a means to an end. I actually believe,' Corbett continued, 'that something went wrong with the plot. One day I hope to prove it.'
The king leaned forward and virtually jabbed his finger in Corbett's face. 'Give me one shred of proof for this.'
'There is one shred of proof. The wine you sent. Why should someone make the clumsy mistake of poisoning it? After all, with de Montfort dead and no speech, why poison the wine? A matter known only to me and one of the canons of St Paul's.' Corbett chewed his lip. 'You see, Your Grace, the murderer, the assassin, made a fatal error. He panicked, for the wine was poisoned not before de Montfort's death but afterwards, to make it look as if you were responsible.'
The king rubbed his face and Corbett waited for him to speak.
'Well, well, Master Clerk,' he finally concluded. 'If you still have your doubts, you had better continue with this matter.'
'I will, Your Grace, on one condition.' The king looked sharply at him. 'On the one condition,' Corbett repeated firmly, 'that you tell me now whatever information you have about de Montfort. If I had known yesterday what you told me today it may have made my task easier.'
The king rose and walked across the room to peer through a crack in one of the shutters. Outside, the beautiful rose gardens of Westminster were carpeted in thick white snow. Nothing grew, no plants, no grass. He was tired of this interview. He feared men like Corbett, men from nowhere, with brains as sharp as the finest razors, a man who could not be bought. Edward knew, deep in his heart, that if Corbett was ever given a task which went against his conscience, the clerk would not do it. If Corbett found a matter which should be rectified, irrespective of the royal wishes, Edward suspected that Corbett would see it as a matter of conscience to do so. The king respected Corbett but saw him as a prig and slightly self-righteous. Edward sighed. He did not really care who had killed the pathetic de Montfort, a base-born, mercenary priest! Edward knew such men could be bought with anything, a house, gold, promotion to high office. What he really wanted was to find out who had spoiled his plan to embarrass Winchelsea. The king felt the rage still seething within him. Oh, how he would have loved to have listened to de Montfort's speech and quietly relished the stupefaction on Winchelsea's face and those of his sanctimonious fellow bishops! The king wanted that. And, above all, he needed the money the Church had in its bulging coffers to launch fresh raids across the Scottish march; to equip a new fleet and take it to Flanders; send his armies across France's northern borders; teach Philip of France a sharp, hard lesson of how English lands there were best left alone. It might still be possible. Perhaps Corbett would achieve this or, at least, help to achieve it. The king turned and smiled at Corbett.
'Master Clerk, I can tell you nothing more. You have our full assurance that whatever you do to unearth the terrible murderer and blasphemer will be supported by us, however long it takes.'
Corbett, recognizing the sign for dismissal, rose, bowed and backed out of the room. In the passageway he gave a deep sigh, grateful the meeting was over. He was fully aware Edward did not really like him but Corbett was equally determined to show the king that he did not trust him. He heard a door open and spun round. The king stood there still smiling like some indulgent father.
'Master Corbett,' he called out, 'your betrothed in Wales, Maeve ap Morgan?'
Corbett nodded.
'If this matter is resolved, we will let you leave our service so you can visit her.' The king continued to smile. 'Indeed, if it is resolved quickly, we will ensure she is brought here to London, to our court. Of course, if you fail,' the king bit his lip as if reluctant to continue. 'But,' he added ominously, 'we are sure you will not fail us.'
Corbett again bowed. When the door was closed he spun on his heel and strode down the corridor, aware of both the royal promise as well as the silent threat.
Corbett spent the rest of the day in his own writing-room, drawing up warrants in the king's name, which declared that Hugh Corbett, clerk, had the royal authority to act on certain matters, and all sheriffs, bailiffs, officials and everyone who owed allegiance to the king, should give him assistance in his task. Once these letters had been drafted and written by Corbett's chief assistant, a small, mouse-like man, William Hervey, they were sent for the king's approval and sealing. Corbett then finished other minor matters, gave orders to his subordinates, sent a servant to seek out Ranulf and instructed Hervey to meet him outside the great door of St Paul's shortly after prime the following morning. The little man nodded his head vigorously; he liked Corbett, who protected and entrusted him with special tasks. At the same time he was in awe of the senior clerk's evident ease of access to the king and other great lords. For his part, Corbett trusted Hervey completely. The man hardly lived outside the Chancery offices, his fingers constantly stained with the grease waxes and different coloured inks they used. He had virtually no life outside his calling; time and again, Corbett had to arouse him from sleep and send him home to his lonely dwellings in Candlewick Street.
Once all these matters were finished, Corbett met Ranulf in the great hall, now emptying of its officials, judges and lawyers. They went back up towards Bread Street where they stopped at a pastry shop, Corbett buying pies to eat as they walked, hot freshly cooked rabbit, diced and sprinkled with strong herbs. Both relished the meal as they hurried along, allowing the hot juices to run down their chins. At the corner of Bread Street Corbett took Ranulf into a tavern they frequented for their evening meal, usually a dish of stewed meat and vegetables, and tonight was no different. Ranulf, once he had drunk and eaten his fill though careful to avoid the excesses of the previous day, wandered off on his usual task of attempting to seduce someone else's wife or betrothed, leaving Corbett staring once again into the darkness.
Ranulf would have given half the gold he owned to know what the clerk was thinking and yet, if he had, it would have been money wasted, for Corbett just sat thinking about what the king had said, planning tomorrow's meeting, hoping that Hervey would ensure the canons Corbett had listed in his letter would be present in the chapter-house. Having gone over in his mind to satisfy himself all was well, Corbett once more turned to the matter of Maeve. So engrossed was he with his own private thoughts that h
e did not even notice the dark, cowled figure in the far corner glaring balefully across at him.
8
It did not snow that night and the outlaws were at least grateful for this small mercy as they stepped out of the line of trees, which marked the edge of Epping Forest, and made their way along the ice-covered track. Here the snow was not deep, having been scattered and crushed by the occasional cart and carriage which had braved the weather. They moved silently, six in number, all armed to the teeth. They wore an assortment of clothes: heavy leather jerkins over soiled lace shirts stolen from their victims or taken from a house they had ransacked; thick, woollen hose pushed into high leather boots; and cloaks of various colours wrapped tightly around their bodies. Each carried a number of daggers as well as swords in their broad leather belts and their leader, Robert Fitzwarren, boasted a small round shield and a conical steel helmet. He had had these ever since the day, years earlier when he had absconded from the royal commissioners of array, who had wanted to take him into Scotland with the king's armies. Fitzwarren had other ideas. He had killed the leader of his troop, stolen what money the fellow carried and, taking whatever arms were available, fled to the dark sanctuary of Epping Forest.
He had lived as an outlaw for years, turning felony into a successful business. The area was full of wolfs-heads, lawless men, peasants who had fled from their masters, soldiers who had deserted from the wars, criminals from the city, murderers, perjurers, blasphemers. Fitzwarren became their leader. Of course, there had been the occasional losses, the ambush which had gone wrong, those betrayed in taverns or drinking houses by some wench who believed her lover had crossed her, but Fitzwarren always survived and attracted other men to him like the glowing flame of a candle draws in the moths.
Now, however, his band had shrunk to less than ten men. It was difficult to track down the venison and even more dangerous to attempt assaults on lonely farmsteads. The peasants had become wary of him, taking steps to guard their families and stock at night. During spring and summer when the traffic of the road increased, the pickings were always easier but, even here, the ferocity of Fitzwarren's reputation had spread far and wide. Few people travelled alone; they were always in convoys and usually escorted by at least three or four soldiers from some castle or fortified manor house. Lately, however, Fitzwarren's luck had improved. When he attacked any traveller, convoy or house, he could only take what he needed: foodstuffs, weapons, clothes as well as enjoy the bodies of female captives. He had lived like an animal, hand to mouth, but then he had met the priest and a new venture had begun. Fitzwarren had begun to collect treasures, and simply moved them into London for the priest to sell. It was a highly profitable relationship which Fitzwarren encouraged, using all his greed and cunning. And if he raised enough money, what then? Perhaps buy a pardon? Re-enter society? Join the fold he had so often attacked?
This morning, however, Fitzwarren was angry, furious enough to leave the forests and take five of his closest followers with him. They kept to the line of trees as long as they could but, if they wanted to approach Cathall Manor, near the village of Leighton, they would have to go out in the open. Hence, Fitzwarren's strict instructions that they be armed to the teeth, each man carrying an arbalest and a quiver of evil-looking crossbow bolts.
As they came to the crossroads, Fitzwarren took his men back into the trees, sending forward the youngest to ensure all was safe. The young man crept forward like a hunting fox, his ears straining for any sound, his eyes momentarily blinded by the snowy whiteness. He looked out for any flash of colour, anything which would warn him not to proceed further. Like the rest, he was frightened of Fitzwarren. Their leader never tolerated failure; anyone who crossed him or failed to carry out a task could expect little mercy. The young man already felt nervous to be out of the forest. He spent most of his days there, protected by its deep darkness and the lack of paths; it was easy for pursuers to get lost, to fall into some marsh or bog and be sucked down, vanish for ever. Fitzwarren, however, knew the secret pathways and kept to them, so the young men realized the mission this morning must be highly important for their leader to take them out of the forest and so far out into the open.
The outlaw edged forward; the crossroads were deserted; on either side, the rough track continued between the line of trees. He could see or detect nothing. He looked at the black, three-branched gibbet which stood there, stark against the light blue sky. Three bodies hung from it in chains, a special punishment for those found guilty not only of robbery but murder as well. The young man grinned, showing a yellow, blackening row of teeth. He had known all three men. They were once members of Fitzwarren's gang, but they had disobeyed orders so Fitzwarren had handed them over to the sheriff's bailiffs at Chelmsford and received the reward. The men had been taken out late in the previous summer and left to dangle there. The bodies had long since decomposed, the eyes plucked out by hungry crows; only the whitening bones stirred gently in their iron cages, rattling as if in protest at the presence of the man who had betrayed them. The young man, satisfied that all was safe, indicated with his hand and was soon joined by his leader and comrades.
The gang walked in single file along the edge of the forest, following the track to the brow of the hill, where they stopped. Fitzwarren looked down at the deserted manor house, its huge encircling wall and barred gates. He gazed around. No sign, no movement: the place was deserted as usual. The only sign of any habitation was faint plumes of smoke on the horizon which rose from the fires and cooking-pots of the surrounding villages. He waited a while; from here he had a crow's-eye view of the entire manor house: the main building with outhouses running parallel to it, forming a courtyard. Usually such a place would be full of activity, grooms, ostlers, blacksmiths, but now it was empty, for the priest liked it that way. Satisfied that there was no danger, Fitzwarren led his small group down the slope through the snow. They avoided the main gate and moved like dogs around the curtain wall till they came to a small postern gate. As usual, this was open. They slipped in. The yard was a muddy quagmire. Fitzwarren examined the tracks carefully but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The stables, byres and barns were all empty and the fire in the blacksmith's long dead. He looked up and there, on the second storey of the manor house, he saw a red coverlet stuffed through a slit window, the sign that it was safe to approach. They walked up to the main door and confidently knocked. Footsteps sounded in the hollow passageway and the door swung open; the steward, Thomas Bassingham, stood there, his small anxious face attempting an ingratiating smile. Behind him, wiping her plump hands on a white apron, stood his wife.
'You are welcome, Master Fitzwarren,' he stuttered.
Fitzwarren smiled and, brushing him aside, strode into the manor house along the main hall into the kitchen and buttery beyond. No fire had been lit, according to his orders, but at least the man had had the sense to place warming dishes around the room and put burning charcoal into a rusting brazier. Bassingham's wife, terrified of these rough-looking men, quietly served them with cold meats, cheeses and flagons of rather watery mildewed beer. The outlaws ate greedily, slurping their food, indicating with their hands when they wanted more. Once they were finished Fitzwarren, seated in the large, oaken chair at the top of his table, stretched, belched loudly and brought his hands crashing down on the table.
'Well, Master Bassingham,' he said. 'You have news of your master?' The steward seemed exhausted. Fitzwarren peered closer. He noticed the lines of anxiety, the dark rings round his eyes, the unshaven face.
'Something has gone wrong?' he asked ominously.
Bassingham nodded. 'I came back from the city as fast as I could,' he bleated. 'I have been travelling ever since. The roads there are almost impassable. My horse -'
'Your horse?' Fitzwarren asked.
'I have not stabled it here,' the man replied smoothly. 'It is elsewhere. I finished the journey by foot. The snow, it is so deep. My wife, she thought I was dead.'
'She may well wish that y
ou were if the news you have brought is not satisfactory.'
'It is not my fault,' the steward almost screeched. 'It's not my fault that the priest is dead.'
Fitzwarren shot to his feet. Bassingham recoiled at the malice in the outlaw's eyes.
'He what!'
'The priest is dead. He collapsed during the mass.' 'So you have brought nothing?'
'How could I? How could I? His house in London has been sealed. There are royal guards around it. The king himself is angry at de Montfort's death. What could I do?' the man whined.
Fitzwarren strode down the table and, grabbing the man by the front of his dirty jerkin, lifted him off his feet.
'You could have brought the gold that your master owes me.' Fitzwarren smiled evilly, his eyes gleaming.
'I could not bring it,' Bassingham replied anxiously, now wishing he had not returned here. He should have stayed in London, fled. He looked sideways. Only his wife, fresh-faced, black curly hair, his beautiful Katherine, she would have pined away without him. Fitzwarren followed the steward's eyes and grinned.
'My men,' he said, 'my men have been in the forest long. It is wrong of me to give them nothing.' He turned and grinned over his shoulder at his comrades slouched round the table. 'Tie this rogue up and then,' he tossed Bassingham aside like a rag doll and walked over to the table, knocking off the dishes and cups with a sweep of his arm, 'and then he shall watch us have our pleasure.'
