by Paul Doherty
‘That’s very true,’ Ranulf replied, forcing the man back onto his stool, ‘and you have been rewarded. You are now a member of Sir Hugh’s retinue under the protection of the Crown. I am sure my master will vouch for you at Westminster—’
‘Fire! Fire!’
The cry of alarm was taken up by the clanging of bells and the wailing of horns.
‘In sweet heaven’s name!’ Corbett exclaimed.
They all hurried down into the bailey. The stench of burning was strong. Wisps of smoke drifted along the alleyways either side of the chapel of St Chad. Castle folk, under the direction of Constable Thurston, men, women and children, had already formed a line to pass a chain of water buckets.
‘It’s the death house behind the church,’ Brother Adrian shouted as he pushed his way past the carriers, gesturing to Corbett and his companions to follow him down the runnel.
Corbett flinched at the sudden gust of heat that brushed his face, whilst he caught the stench of flaming oil and the horrid reek of burning flesh. The smoke billowed and cleared to reveal the death house, a large storeroom of plaster and timber on a red-brick base built against the wall of the inner bailey. Tongues of flame licked through the thick thatched roof and danced at the square windows where the shutters had crumbled under the heat, as had the door, buckling on its hinges.
‘What corpses?’ asked Corbett, grasping the monk by the shoulder.
‘Hockley and Richolda. I was to bury them tomorrow morning, but not now.’ Brother Adrian led them back down the alleyway into the bailey and bade them farewell. The fire was now under control and Constable Thurston had rightly decided that as the death house stood alone, it was best to let the blaze burn itself out.
‘That’s no accident,’ Ap Ythel declared. ‘I’m sure it’s arson. The stench of burning oil is everywhere.’
‘I agree.’ Ranulf pulled down the wet cloth he had grabbed from a washerwoman and tied across the bottom half of his face.
‘Strange,’ Corbett mused. ‘The death house is being burnt from cellar to roof. I am sure the fire was started deliberately. Now there is no threat to anyone living so I ask myself, why burn a death house? What profit is there in turning two corpses to cinder and ash? There is nothing on their persons, no value for such cadavers. No, no.’ He turned and walked back to the entrance to the main hall. ‘In fact, I believe Brother Adrian is the reason for the fire.’
‘Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Richolda was a member of a Satanic coven. Whether you accept their twisted teaching is a matter for you. What is important is that they certainly believe in it. To cut to the chase: they would not want a priest to celebrate Richolda’s requiem, so someone in this castle set fire to the death house and gave Richolda her own peculiar pagan death rites. No priest, no requiem Mass, no book and taper, bell or candle, incense or holy water; her soul has gone into the dark and so has her body.’
‘So there must be a comrade of hers here in Alnwick?’ Ranulf declared. ‘Bavasour referred to that.’
Corbett agreed absent-mindedly; he was distracted by the noise and the smoke. He glanced up as drops of rain spattered down. ‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘The rain will help douse the fire. Now, let us wait until matters become more peaceful. We shall meet in my chamber again soon. Ranulf, find Chanson, check on our horses’ harness and saddlery.’ He chewed on the corner of his lip. He needed time to reflect.
‘Should we ask Cacoignes to rejoin us?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett led his henchmen out of the hearing of any castle folk. ‘Forget Cacoignes for the moment,’ he murmured. ‘We are surrounded by murderous mystery and we still have challenges to face. We must reach Tynemouth in safety, deliver a certain person, search for something precious and find our way unscathed out of the north. Now leave me for the moment.’
He watched them go before wandering back into the main hall and down into the cellars beneath. A man-at-arms wearing the Percy livery guarded the fortified chamber where Lord Henry kept his treasures in the great arca, the massive triple-locked, iron-bound chest that also contained Corbett’s small Secret Chancery coffers. At Corbett’s insistence, the guard unlocked the door and allowed the Keeper of the Secret Seal to enter. Corbett swiftly ensured that the arca was safe, secure and free of any attempt to prise it open by force or trickery.
He left the chamber and went back upstairs into the bailey, pulling his hood up over his head against the strengthening rain. He left the inner precinct and walked across to the Abbot’s Tower. The entrance door was off the latch. Corbett pushed it open and climbed up to his former chamber just off the first stairwell. The place still stank of fire and smoke, though repairs had begun. Carpenters had removed the door and servants had started to clear the debris caused by the fire. The place was now deserted due to the conflagration at the death house. Once again Corbett wondered if one person was responsible for all that was happening in Alnwick: the destruction of Richolda and Hockley; the poisoning of the Scottish hostages; the attack on him and his companions in St Chad’s chapel; the murder of Seton and the treacherous opening of that hidden tunnel beneath the Abbot’s Tower.
He broke from his reflection as he heard a sound below. He glanced through the lancet window. The sky hung grey and forbidding, the breeze was turning sharper whilst the rain pattered harshly against the cobbles outside. Again that sound. Corbett hurried down the stairs, but only a door creaked in the strengthening breeze. He glimpsed the steps leading to the cellar and its secret passageway. The workmen and guards had left. He recalled how Lord Henry had apparently ordered the tunnel to be sealed by bringing down part of the ceiling. Intrigued, he decided to investigate. He entered the cellar, lit by torches burning fiercely in their cressets, and went down into the tunnel. Flaring firebrands pushed into wall niches turned the air hot now that the other end of the tunnel had been sealed off.
‘A path into the night,’ Corbett murmured, walking down it. Who would have known of it before Darel’s attack? Who wanted to see this great fortress sacked and the power of Lord Henry shattered? He reached where the tunnel was sealed, then turned and made his way back. He took out his Ave beads, threading them through his fingers, and tried to pray, but his mind was distracted by other thoughts and memories. He stumbled, looked down and kicked away a kite-shaped shield. He stumbled again. There was an ominous click further up the tunnel, followed by the whirring of a crossbow bolt, which sliced through the air above his head. Corbett cursed and crouched down. Another bolt shattered against the tunnel wall. He realised his would-be assassin was moving backwards and forwards across the passageway.
Abruptly one of the wall torches, followed by another, was flung in Corbett’s direction. The clerk moved back and grasped the shield. He crouched behind it and waited. Another click. This time the barbed bolt shattered against the shield. Corbett drew his dagger and yelled, moving forward, shield in one hand, knife in the other. Another bolt, but this one was not aimed correctly and smacked against the tunnel roof.
Corbett paused. He heard a crash, followed by the sound of running footsteps. He peered over the rim of the shield and stared into the silent emptiness stretching out before him. There was nothing, only the cressets spluttering and dancing in the breeze. He walked forward at a half-crouch. He did not know if the would-be assassin was one person or more, or whether his attacker had simply retreated to a better vantage point. He left the shield and sheathed his dagger as he glimpsed the crossbow his assailant had dropped: a small hand-held arbalest for use at close quarters. He picked it up, weighing it carefully: a light weapon, easily hidden but deadly enough. He placed it on a ledge near the stairs leading up into the cellar.
‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf appeared at the top of the steps.
‘Did you see anyone?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Someone running away?’
‘No, no, but the rain is falling and a host of castle folk, cloaked and hooded, are hurrying around.’
‘How did you know I was here?’ Corbett aske
d, coming up the steps.
‘You may not know it, Sir Hugh, but I watch you. I realised you were coming here; I could tell that by the direction you took. Anyway, I went up to your chamber to ensure all was well and then decided to join you.’ Ranulf peered at him closely. ‘Something has happened?’
Corbett told him. Ranulf cursed, fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger. ‘Leave it, leave it,’ Corbett murmured. ‘There is nothing much we can do for the moment. Ranulf, summon Ap Ythel and Chanson to my chamber, along with our mysterious archer. I want to try and make some sense of what is happening.’
‘Well,’ Corbett looked around at his companions, ‘let us begin.’
He stretched out his hands towards the brazier, then grabbed one of the poker rods pushed through the narrow iron slats and prodded the charcoal, watching the red-hot cinders break in a blaze of flame and heat. The day was dying, darkness was falling. The rain had persisted, cold and almost sleet-like, drenching the bailey outside and rattling against the shuttered window. Castle retainers had laid out platters of freshly roasted chicken, slices of honey-coated pork, manchet loaves and a jug of hot mulled wine heavily laced with spices. Chanson, half dozing on a stool, was on guard outside. The clerk of the stables conceded that he was heavy-eyed but said he would be vigilant enough.
‘Let us reflect most carefully on the tangled maze we have entered,’ continued Corbett. ‘First, we have five Scottish prisoners taken by the old king and imprisoned in the Tower of London.’
‘One of them was captured by me,’ Ap Ythel broke in. ‘Matthew Dunedin was not of Seton’s ilk.’
Corbett stared at the Welshman and smiled at the forcefulness of his voice. ‘True, true,’ he agreed. ‘I must remember that. Anyway, four of these prisoners, although Scottish, were not adherents of Bruce but sworn followers of the murdered Red Comyn. They claim that their master was the innocent victim of Bruce’s murderous hate and that they were witnesses to this. They placed their case before the old king, but he ignored them. However,’ he pointed at Gaveston, who had now pulled back his hood and removed his eye patch, ‘they convinced you.’
‘Like streams flowing together,’ Gaveston’s voice was lilting, ‘it served our purpose to send assassins into Scotland and ourselves into exile.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Lancaster believed our story. He insisted that you, Sir Hugh, as the Crown’s most senior clerk, lead the delegation north. In truth, he just wanted you out of the way. Another faithful, loyal and skilled servant of the Crown dispatched as far from the king as possible.’
‘Lancaster will certainly wonder what has happened,’ Ranulf declared.
‘Let him,’ Corbett retorted. ‘It’s not his business. Let us return to the matter in hand. The Scottish prisoners. Originally there were five, but Dunedin died in mysterious circumstances. An accident? Murder?’ He pulled a face. ‘We have no evidence for either, no proof of foul play. True, Dunedin was different from the other four, a self-proclaimed adherent of Robert Bruce, though apparently he was just a prisoner who wanted to go home. He seems to have befriended one of the other hostages, Malachy Roskell. They were both religious, much taken up in the contemplation of the Four Last Things and apocalyptic literature. I am not too sure whether Roskell was of the same mind as his three colleagues, but they seemed determined on Bruce’s death.’
Corbett paused and drank from his wine cup. ‘We were also joined by three of Lord Henry’s household: Constable Thurston, his sister Lady Kathryn, and Brother Adrian, a Benedictine monk who is chaplain here at Alnwick. All three were sent south as a mark of respect, a courtesy, as well as to act as guides and advise us on our journey here. After we left for the north, someone in our party alerted Darel to our strength, gilding the story with the fable about us carrying the Lily Crown. Now why we should be doing that, I don’t know, except that the Lily Crown has disappeared and could be anywhere. Darel could not resist the prospect of seizing it, so he planned to attack us. Geoffrey Cacoignes also emerged from the murk. He sent me a garbled message that he wished to join us. We’ve heard Cacoignes’ story about being attacked, taken prisoner, escaping and joining Darel’s retinue under another name. We’ve also learnt about his involvement with the Lily Crown. We have to accept his declaration that he does not know where it is because his companion and comrade, now dead, allegedly hid it in or around Tynemouth Priory. Cacoignes evidently doesn’t know that Ravinac confided in Prior Richard how the Lily Crown now hangs between heaven and earth in God’s own graveyard.’
‘And we don’t know what that riddle means.’
‘No, Ranulf,’ Corbett replied absent-mindedly, ‘we don’t. That will have to wait until we reach Tynemouth. However, to return to our journey north. Who is the spy, the traitor who informed Darel?’ He pointed at Ap Ythel. ‘Your archers served as a screed of scouts around us. Nothing suspicious was reported either in the countryside or in the villages we passed through?’
‘Nothing, Sir Hugh. As I suspected at the time, we were being followed, shadowed, but that is not unusual. I must admit I never thought Darel would mount such a ferocious assault.’
‘Which Cacoignes saved us from,’ Gaveston reminded him.
‘Yes, he did. And now we come to the murders. Roskell was the first, poisoned near that stream. Even more mysterious, Sterling and Mallet were killed in their own chamber, which was locked and bolted. We detected no sign of violence or trace of poison in that room, be it drink, food or anything else. As for Seton, who showed him through that secret entrance? Who knew about it? Why did he go so willingly with the murderous soul who secretly poisoned him – and he certainly did. A thick, tangled mystery, twisted even further by the assassin who loosed crossbow bolts at me, tried to burn me in my chamber and placed caltrops in Ap Ythel’s room.’
‘And beyond the walls,’ Ranulf declared, ‘lurks Darel and his power along with the Black Chesters. They watch and wait. Further north, the Scots also have a deep interest in us.’
‘The Black Chesters are truly dangerous.’ Ap Ythel spoke up. ‘Sir Hugh, was Bavasour correct? Is there an adherent of that witches’ coven here in Alnwick? After all, someone set fire to the death house so the witch Richolda would not be buried according to the rites of Holy Mother Church.’
‘Possibly,’ Corbett murmured.
‘And there’s greater danger facing us,’ Gaveston declared. ‘Sooner or later we have to leave Alnwick to reach Tynemouth. We need protection, but we cannot have Lord Henry and his retinue too close. If he discovers who I am, he will seize me and use me as a hostage against Edward, my brother. We also have to cross open countryside plagued by Darel and his devil-worshippers. Sir Hugh, I thought you were going to prepare for this?’
‘I have, I have,’ Corbett insisted. ‘You remember Bavasour? I have sent him west to Carlisle. He is to beg Lord Harclay to bring his comitatus to Alnwick and, if necessary, on to Tynemouth.’
‘What if Bavasour just flees for his life?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Then, my friend, we have a further problem, and one I will have to resolve.’
Corbett held a hand up at the loud knock at the door. He rose, opened it slightly and peered out at Chanson, who indicated with his head that someone was in the gallery behind him.
‘Brother Adrian, Sir Hugh. Lord Henry has sent him. He wishes to see you and yours immediately.’
Corbett collected his cloak and went out into the gallery, shouting at Ranulf and Ap Ythel to join him as he clattered down the stairs and into the great hall. Lord Henry was warming his backside against the fire whilst lecturing those seated on stools around the majestically carved hearth: Lady Eleanor, the Thurstons, Cacoignes and, just to the side, a grey-haired, grey-faced, grey-cloaked woman, one hand resting on a stout walking stick whilst the other played with the small painted cross of San Damiano on a chain around her scrawny throat. She rose as Corbett joined the group, extending a vein-streaked hand for him to kiss whilst Lord Henry introduced her as the anchorite Lady Hilda of Whitby.
‘A sa
intly woman, Sir Hugh, who moved from the abbey on the coast to establish a community of anchorites at Clairbaux.’
‘Which is where?’
‘A few miles to the south-east,’ the anchorite replied, her voice as cultured and refined as any court lady. She smiled at Corbett with her eyes as if to soothe his unease. The clerk could detect that this old woman must have been a great beauty in her prime.
‘And what is Clairbaux?’ Corbett demanded as he took the proffered seat.
‘Once a great Celtic monastery,’ Lady Hilda replied, sitting down. Corbett nodded, then swiftly introduced his companions, relieved that Gaveston had resumed his pretended role and promptly disappeared.
‘Lady Hilda is here,’ Lord Henry declared, ‘at the behest of her beloved nephew, Edmund Darel.’
The anchorite laughed behind her fingers at Corbett’s startled expression. ‘Let me explain.’ She leaned across and gently touched the back of Corbett’s hand. ‘Look around, Sir Hugh.’ He did so. ‘See the fire burns merrily? Yet it also forms shadows and sends them dancing. The Darels are like that, light and dark. My youngest sister married Darel’s father, a true wolf of a man who, with sword and shield, hacked his way to wealth and served as one of the old king’s bodyguards. He seized Blanchlands and held it against all comers. He became a lord of the north, a true bane to the Scots. Edmund, his sole surviving son, was educated in the halls and schools of Oxford. He later entered the chancery, becoming a mailed clerk, where he met you, Sir Hugh.’ She smiled. ‘Edmund trusts you. In fact, he wishes to meet with you to . . .’ she paused, ‘resolve all differences.’
‘Never!’ Ranulf retorted.
‘Never?’ she queried and sat up straight, head slightly to one side. ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ she murmured, ‘Sir Hugh Corbett’s faithful henchman.’
‘Which is why my master will not be meeting the robber Darel, who has already committed high treason . . .’ Ranulf paused as Corbett gently pressed his arm.
‘You know that.’ Corbett pointed at Lady Hilda. ‘And so does your beloved nephew. He attacked a royal envoy travelling under the king’s own standard. He later attacked us here.’
