by Paul Doherty
Ostensibly, Lord Henry Percy was loyal to the king, but he had ties with Lancaster and the Lords Ordainers. A noble who kept to the shadows, quite happy to hunt with the hounds and run with the hare. A dour, hard man, Lord Henry was already winning a reputation for ruthlessness. Alnwick might be impregnable, but it was also a grim place, with harrowing displays of Lord Henry’s power of axe and tumbril. Corbett and Ranulf had already seen the corpses dangling by their necks from the castle walls, whilst cages hanging on either side of the barbican contained malefactors condemned to be exposed to the elements until they were dead. The stench from these executions was truly offensive. Constable Thurston, refusing to meet Corbett’s eye, muttered how Lord Henry kept those condemned to the cages confined until their very flesh rotted.
Corbett got to his feet and walked to the lancet window. He peered through and glimpsed Percy’s retainers bustling about in the bailey below. The various noises of the castle drifted up: the cries of children mingled with the clatter of wheels, the creaking of ropes and the neigh of horses. Once again he reflected on that camp in the clearing: Cacoignes slipping out of the darkness even as members of Corbett’s escort succumbed to the sleeping potion. Who had done that, and how? He had questioned Ap Ythel and the others closely, but they had pointed out how the pottage had been stirred and ladled by many. As for Roskell’s poisoning, on their approach to Alnwick Corbett had interrogated the other hostages and their guards. He was firmly convinced that they had told him the truth. Nobody could explain how Roskell, who only ate and drank what the others did, could have been fed such a noxious potion.
A knock on the door made him turn. Ranulf ushered Cacoignes into the room, gesturing that he should sit on the stool close to the scribe’s chair. Corbett clasped the man’s hand and studied him closely. The castle barber had shaved Cacoignes’ head and face, and Corbett could glimpse traces of that courtly softness so common amongst the coterie of beautiful young men surrounding the king.
‘You’ve broken your fast, Master Cacoignes?’
‘Spiced oatmeal, light ale and some fresh bread. I feel—’
‘Tell me what happened,’ Corbett broke in brusquely. ‘I mean over the last five years. Master Cacoignes, time is short. I do not really know who you are or – forgive me – if you can be trusted.’
Cacoignes pulled a face. ‘Very well.’ He rubbed his hands together and glanced quickly over his shoulder at Ranulf sitting on the edge of the bed behind him. ‘Five years ago, during the old king’s reign, after his victory against the Scottish rebels at Methven Bridge, I, along with others of the royal retinue, was ordered to seize the Scottish royal regalia from the abbey of Scone, the Scottish royal chapel and sacred enthronement place, and take it south to Westminster. Our group was charged with one item, the precious Lily Crown of Scotland, fashioned out of the pure golden rose that Pope Lucius III sent to William the Lion in 1182. The old king was being cunning; he wanted different items taken by different groups. I don’t think he fully trusted the honesty of everyone, and of course it confused the Scots.’ Cacoignes pointed at Corbett. ‘I understand you had retired from the royal service at the time?’
‘I heard about what Edward did. I wrote to the old king and urged him to be more conciliatory. He not only seized the royal regalia of Scotland but placed some of Bruce’s womenfolk, including his wife, in cages at various castles. I believed then, and still do, that those actions were both cruel and very, very stupid. But continue . . .’
‘Each of the groups was under a captain. Ours was a Gascon, Ravinac. You may know him, Sir Hugh, a man loyal to the old king. We seized the Lily Crown from Scone and rode like the very furies for the border, only to be attacked by a Scottish war band. We resisted stoutly, but only Ravinac and myself escaped. We fled across the border to Tynemouth Priory on its rocky promontory overlooking the sea.’
‘And Prior Richard welcomed you?’
‘Yes, he did, a very astute, cheerful soul. He gave us good food and comfortable quarters.’
‘You delayed there?’
‘We were exhausted, wounded after the fight and our flight, our horses blown. Then Ravinac fell ill of some illness of the belly.’
‘And the Lily Crown?’
‘Sir Hugh, I swear by all that is holy, after we arrived at the priory, Ravinac and I quarrelled about the treasure, who should look after it and whether we should take it by ship or by land to London.’
‘Who did look after it?’
‘Ravinac did. I left the priory to search for a way south. By the time I returned, Ravinac’s fever had grown worse. He had also hidden the Lily Crown. He was too delirious or too obstinate to divulge its whereabouts. He died at Tynemouth and is buried there, and the secret with him.’ Cacoignes wetted his lips. ‘I left the priory again, going down to one of the coastal villages. I was there when it was suddenly attacked by Scottish pirates. I was captured and taken to a hideous peel castle north of the Forth. Last Yuletide, when my guards were drinking heavily, I escaped. I made my way south and crossed the border. I visited Tynemouth, but Prior Richard could not help me. I learnt about the old king’s death, the accesion of Edward of Caernarvon and the exaltation of Gaveston. However, by then I was posing as a mercenary under a different name, a swordsman waiting to be hired. I blundered into one of Darel’s war parties foraging out of his fortress, the great coastal castle of Blanchlands. I had to continue the pretence, which was easy enough: I am a skilled swordsman and archer. I looked and acted what I claimed to be. I sealed indentures to wear Darel’s livery and became his man in peace and war, against all enemies both within and without. Believe me,’ Cacoignes wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, ‘you do not alienate Darel lightly. He and his henchmen are brutal and ruthless.’
‘Blanchlands?’ Corbett queried. ‘What is it really like?’
‘A fortress like this. Darel’s own patrimony. He has fortified and enlarged it. There is a formidable curtain wall with watchtowers; this, along with a deep moat and battlemented barbican, is its first line of defence. The inner keep is cordoned off by equally daunting strongholds. Only Darel and his henchmen are allowed to enter there.’ Cacoignes blew his cheeks out. ‘In many ways Blanchlands is similar to Alnwick.’
‘And Darel’s power?’
‘Sir Hugh, you have witnessed what is happening in the north. The Scots raid with impunity. The Sheriff of Northumberland is a laughing stock. Outlaws and other wolfsheads plague the forest and wasteland. Darel at least offers safety and protection to the peasant farmers, traders, tinkers and travelling merchants. He levies tolls and exacts his dues, but God help anyone who infringes his peace.’
‘And his relationship with Lord Henry?’
‘Wolves very rarely turn on each other. Rumour has it that Percy sees himself as king of the north. He is building up his strength at Alnwick so that one day he can attack Darel and utterly annihilate him.’
‘So why did Darel attack us, a royal party?’
‘He received information . . .’ Cacoignes lifted a hand. ‘Sir Hugh, how or from whom I cannot say. However, whispers claimed that you were bringing the Lily Crown back to Scotland as a bribe to open a peace dialogue with Bruce.’
‘The Lily Crown!’ Corbett shook his head in disbelief. ‘In God’s holy name, why did Darel think I was carrying that?’
‘Why else would the English king’s most senior clerk be travelling north with war carts and a comitatus of Welsh archers?’ Cacoignes retorted. ‘And why else would Darel attack you unless the enticement was very great? I mean, no self-respecting outlaw or wolfshead would go anywhere near a war party displaying the royal standards.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett whispered. ‘I can see how he was lured into attacking us. Well, he failed, and he must be furious: his war dogs slaughtered, foot soldiers killed, his kinsman Hockley captured along with his witch woman Richolda.’
‘Is she a witch?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘To misquote the prophet Jeremiah,’ Cacoignes replied, �
��there are three gateways to hell: the first is in the desert, the second in the ocean and the third is through Blanchlands. As I have said, we were not allowed into the inner keep, but there was rumour aplenty about how Richolda is the leader of a coven devoted to demons and the blasphemous rites of midnight. They call themselves the Black Chesters, after a local village where the ancient religion is still venerated.’ He ignored Ranulf’s sharp burst of sarcastic laughter and leaned forward, hands clasped together. ‘Trust me, Sir Hugh, Darel is obsessed with Richolda. They claim she has all sorts of powers, like being seen in two different places at the same time, conjuring up demons and invoking the dead to come to her.’
Corbett nodded. He walked across to the window and stared moodily down. What Cacoignes had told was true of so many places in the kingdom. Witchcraft and the worship of demons had a vigorous life of its own. Wandering warlocks claimed to possess magical powers. Corbett didn’t know what to believe, though he had found two constants in his study of those who practised the midnight rites. First, there was more trickery in them than truth, and secondly, it was the use of powders and potions that created trances and dreams, visions and nightmares, rather than any real skill in summoning up the powers of hell. As Ranulf had once remarked, anyone could call Satan up from the deepest pit; the real question was, would he come?
Noises from the bailey below distracted him. Brother Adrian was busy with his parishioners, children of the castle seated around him. The monk had changed his black robe for working clothes and was talking to them about Christ; he was holding up a wooden crucifix and asking the children to come forward and kiss it in veneration. However, when they did, he made a subtle sleight of hand, and the crucifix would mysteriously disappear to be replaced with an egg; or a sweetmeat would mysteriously be discovered in a child’s pocket, or behind an ear, or even nesting in someone’s hair. The children loved this and shrieked with delight.
A sharp clatter of wheels and the cries of soldiers claimed the monk’s attention, and his audience also turned to watch whatever was happening across the bailey. A bell began to toll. Corbett decided to go down and see for himself.
‘Sir Hugh!’
He turned.
‘I would like to join your retinue.’
‘Master Cacoignes, that would be fine. I think we are going to need every swordsman we can get.’
Cacoignes thanked Corbett and left. Ranulf closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
‘Master, you were retired when the old king won his victory at Methven. Afterwards the Chancery became very busy issuing letters, writs, licences and indentures regarding the Scottish regalia. I certainly remember the king’s fury over Cacoignes.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’ Ranulf pushed himself away from the door. ‘When we heard about the attack on Ravinac and Cacoignes, the old king organised a thorough search of the northern march. I had the distinct impression that Cacoignes wasn’t trusted, but that’s just a suspicion. Perhaps we should ask Ap Ythel; he was a member of the comitatus sent to find out what happened.’
‘Ap Ythel?’
‘That’s what I recall.’
Corbett made a face. ‘I certainly will. But come . . .’
They left the tower to find the outer bailey very busy. Two catapults had been pulled out of their storage place and were being hauled close to the entrance through the barbican. Lord Henry’s siege men were busy positioning these clumsy machines of war, placing blocks beneath their wheels to keep them stationary and steady before they began pulling at the ropes to bring the deep-bowled cups at the end of the throwing poles back in taut suspension. Close by, two huge braziers had been lit, the flames leaping hungrily as the fire was fed by sweat-soaked spit boys, who heaped on tinder and bundles of dry wood. Some distance away, others were stacking squares of dry straw from the castle barns, along with bulging oilskins.
‘What is the matter?’ Corbett asked Brother Adrian, who came hurrying across. ‘Are we to be attacked, besieged?’
The monk scratched his shaven face, eyes narrowed as he peered up at the parapet spanning the barbican. Corbett followed his gaze. Lord Henry, Lady Eleanor, Thurston and his sister were standing there staring out over the walls. Corbett glanced behind him. Seton, Sterling and the squire Richard Mallet huddled close together, deep in conversation. All three hostages had been given their freedom to wander the castle after they had taken solemn oaths over the pyx in the castle chapel not to escape ‘or do anything malign, be it by word or deed, to harm Lord Henry, Alnwick Castle and all who dwell there’.
‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ Thurston came hurrying down. ‘Lord Henry asks you and yours to join him on the parapet walk. Your captain of archers is bringing the prisoners up.’
‘Why?’ Corbett demanded. ‘And why now?’
‘Outriders have returned. Lord Henry dispatched them before dawn. They’ve brought news of Darel and a cohort of his mercenaries making their way towards Alnwick. They apparently approach with banners furled, so they wish to negotiate.’
‘About the prisoners?’
‘Of course.’ Thurston spat his answer. ‘But we have to be careful with that viper.’
‘You do not trust him?’
‘Would you?’
Corbett smiled and shrugged. ‘You hate him?’
‘I hate him and his kind, Sir Hugh. I was born and raised in these parts. My family are from Berwick; we were there when it was sacked. Darel was one of the king’s captains. For days Berwick was given over to be pillaged and burnt. Darel, I understand, was foremost in the slaughter.’
‘I was there too,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ap Ythel and I arrived just before the king ordered an end to the massacre.’ He shook his head. ‘I know Darel of old: a mailed clerk, a true blood-drinker, a killer to the very marrow of his being. But Master Constable, you say you were raised here?’
‘My sister and I were orphans. We entered the household of Anthony Bek, Bishop of Durham. When he sold Alnwick to Lord Henry, he secured the position of constable for me—’
A piercing scream shrilled across the bailey. Ap Ythel and his archers were leading Hockley and Richolda out through the inner barbican. Both prisoners were heavily manacled. Hockley was sullen and uncooperative and had to be pushed and shoved by his escort. Richolda was fighting and continued to do so until one of the guards drew his dagger and pressed the point against her throat.
‘Lord Henry is waiting,’ Thurston murmured.
Corbett and Ranulf followed the constable up the outside steps and onto the parapet walk that spanned the top of the majestic barbican. A strong breeze whipped their hair and faces. Corbett steadied himself against the crenellations and stared out over the heathland that lay either side of the trackway leading up to the moat. The water in that deep ditch glittered in the early-morning sun, reeking strongly of the filth floating on its surface. He heard the clank of chains as the broad drawbridge was pulled up and the porticullis lowered. Lord Henry and Lady Eleanor stood staring out over the moorland, men-at-arms ranged either side, helmeted and buckled for war. They carried long oval shields, which they would use to protect both themselves and their lord and lady. Corbett turned and stared down into the bailey. Hockley and Richolda were still struggling against their guards. Brother Adrian, together with Kathryn Thurston and Cacoignes, were trying to calm them.
‘Master,’ hissed Ranulf, ‘look either side of the gateway.’
Corbett stepped up onto the narrow fighting platform and glanced over the wall. Just below him hung a cage fashioned out of blackened wooden lattice and reinforced with iron strips. The cage, two yards high and about the same across, was bolted to the wall. On the top was a door that could be hooked back to allow the prisoner to be lowered inside.
‘There’s another on the other side of the gateway,’ Lord Henry declared, acknowledging Corbett for the first time. ‘The cages are held fast, the door on top is padlocked. Food and water, if I agree to it, can be thrust down for the prisoner.
Not the most comfortable of quarters, but at least they have been hosed down after their most recent use. Master Thurston,’ he bellowed, ‘fetch the prisoners.’
Hockley and Richolda were pushed up the steps. Hockley was pale-faced. Richolda, now realising that her shouts and protests meant nothing to this northern lord, was weeping in terror, begging for mercy. Lord Henry blithely ignored her, his only response being to hawk and spit in her direction. Castle guards, skilled and experienced in what they were doing, now took over from Ap Ythel. One soldier used his spear to hook back the lid of the cage; his comrades lifted the screaming woman and lowered her into the gap to collapse on the floor. Hockley was then pushed along the parapet, Lord Henry and the others stepping aside to let him past. The guards hoisted the prisoner onto the fighting platform. The door of the second cage was pulled back and Hockley was lowered inside, then a guard gingerly climbed over and drew across the three heavy bolts, thrusting them deep into their clasps. The prisoner had no chance of stretching up to reach these cleverly placed locks. Once he was satisfied that the cage was secure, the guard pushed through the lattice opening a small waterskin and a loaf of coarse rye bread, the same being given to Richolda.
‘My lord,’ Thurston exclaimed, pointing to the dust rising further down the trackway.
‘Oh good!’ Lord Henry exclaimed. ‘Welcome to the feast,’ he added sarcastically.
‘They have wasted no time,’ Corbett declared.
‘Those we drove off yesterday probably met Darel coming to find them,’ Thurston replied. ‘But we shall see.’
Corbett waited until Ap Ythel came up the steps; then, plucking at the Welshman’s sleeve, he led him away from the rest.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘You did not tell me that you led a comitatus north five years ago to search for Cacoignes.’
‘No, Sir Hugh, I did not. I also haven’t told you that there are men in this castle who have served alongside me, whilst the same could be said of those approaching under Darel’s banner. For God’s sake, Sir Hugh,’ Ap Ythel’s voice became sing-song, ‘we live in a state of constant war. Yes, I was sent north. I discovered very little. Yes, I visited Tynemouth, and for a number of weeks whilst we searched for Cacoignes, I sheltered here in Alnwick Castle when Bishop Bek was its lord. Believe me, Sir Hugh, it was a grim and very boring watch. Things change. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s foe.’
