by Paul Doherty
He stared at the crudely depicted wall fresco: St Christopher wading through the water with the Christ Child holding an orb resting on the saint’s broad shoulder. On the far bank of the river they were crossing, a dragon surged up out of a ruined castle. Further along the bank, more terrifying images. A hunter had trapped a bear, hung it from a tree, then shot arrows into its chest. Corbett wondered about the significance of that. Perhaps it was a reference to something in St Chad’s life or that of St Christopher. In the river, the ruins of a wrecked ship protruded through the water, just the mainmast on which three huge ravens rested. Corbett read the prayer on the scroll beneath the painting: ‘St Christopher, many are your saving powers. May those who greet you in the morning smile in the evening.’ He read the prayer again and recalled how his own mother had taught him that a morning prayer to St Christopher would ensure safety throughout the day. ‘I pray for my safety and all those I care for,’ he murmured. ‘God save us and guide us out of this danger.’
He rose to his feet, walked around the chapel and returned to his wall bench. He decided that yesterday’s business at Clairbaux would have to wait until he met Lord Henry and his full council. He recognised that he and Ranulf had exchanged promises with Darel and given assurances, but he didn’t believe a word of it and Ranulf was equally cynical. Both clerks had concluded that Darel was manoeuvring, but for the moment, they couldn’t perceive why, or how the robber baron hoped to promote his interests. Darel seemed very zealous to be admitted back into the king’s peace. He’d purged his offence, apologised handsomely and assured Corbett that such actions would never be repeated. Of course he must have been wary of being put to the horn and publicly defined as ‘outlaw’ or ‘wolfshead’, but Corbett was sure there was more to it than that.
‘I will return to it by and by,’ he murmured to himself. ‘When I meet Lord Henry and we decide to move.’ Until then, it was best to shelter here in the dark silence of St Chad’s and reflect not so much on his meeting with Darel as on what had started all this. Corbett had thought and thought again. Undoubtedly certain questions were emerging that would help resolve the mysteries confronting him. He was determined to find answers, yet he was also worried how this would end. He needed to discover and establish a safe way forward, but how?
‘Let’s go back to the beginning.’ He spoke into the darkness. ‘Let’s concentrate on certain questions and approach the problem from a different perspective.’ He leaned back on the bench and folded his arms, his eyes closed as he began to itemise certain matters. First, had Dunedin the Scottish clerk, a prisoner in the Tower, been murdered? On the balance of probability, yes. Dunedin had been an adherent of Bruce. He may have made friends with Roskell, who had also been killed. Second, Seton was apparently not only a fervent household retainer of Red Comyn but his personal bodyguard and a skilled assassin. There was a very strong possibility that Dunedin had been killed by Seton with the connivance of Sterling and Mallet.
Third, Seton and his companions had all been murdered too, but why? The only logical answer was that someone knew they intended to assassinate Bruce. ‘And there’s the problem,’ Corbett murmured. Seton and his comrades were openly hostile to Bruce. If the latter had accepted them back, it would be to kill them as adherents of Red Comyn as well as self-declared witnesses to what had really happened when Bruce and Comyn met in that Dumfries friary. ‘So,’ Corbett whispered to the darkness, ‘whoever killed those men realised the truth: that Seton and the others were going to be allowed to escape in order to inflict hideous vengeance against Bruce. Consequently they must have been murdered to protect the Scottish war leader.’ He shook his head. But who would know the full story? Not even he had been given an indication of what was being plotted until he reached Alnwick. Only the king and Gaveston knew the truth about Seton and his comrades.
Fourth, Darel’s attack on Corbett’s camp in that copse before they reached Alnwick. The war dogs had come surging in, followed by a line of foot and then horsemen. So how had the traitor, the assassin, hoped to escape? A ferocious battle-hound was no respecter of persons, and neither were the wolfsheads who flooded the camp in the grey light of dawn. The traitor must also have made sure that he did not eat that tainted oatmeal or anything else that might have been polluted with a noxious potion. Corbett and his party had not eaten due to delicate stomachs. But the others? Who apart from the Thurstons had been able to assist Corbett and his comrades in rousing the drugged men? The clerk recalled Brother Adrian stumbling heavy-eyed out of the dark. The Scottish hostages? Cacoignes? Gaveston?
Fifth, the killings here in Alnwick. Corbett shifted on the bench, the very memory of such murders making him uneasy. He was pleased that Ranulf, Ap Ythel and Chanson were guarding all the approaches to this sombre chapel. The killings in Alnwick truly puzzled him. He could not impose any logic on them, nor on the assaults on his own person. He had been attacked three times, once by fire, twice with an arbalest. Nor must he forget the caltrops hidden away in Ap Ythel’s chamber. Was the person responsible for all that also guilty of the murders of Richolda and the three Scottish hostages? Was the killer one and the same person or did two quite distinct killers prowl this castle?
‘I cannot make sense of this,’ Corbett muttered. ‘How they were murdered, why and by whom. Oh Lord.’ He put his head in his hands and prayed as fervently as he could. For a while he sat thinking about Maeve and his two children. He just hoped that all three were well. He glanced up at the gargoyle face on the top of a pillar, a wild-eyed, evil-grinning monkey in a jester’s hat, and fought to calm the panic that abruptly seethed within him. That carved madcap face seemed to represent the fog of murderous anarchy that shrouded his life here in this grim castle. He just wanted to be away, to be free of this place. Perhaps he should concede that there was little more he could do and leave, hurry to Tynemouth, dispatch Gaveston to foreign parts then hire a cog and sail south to Scarborough or one of the other Yorkshire ports.
‘Sir Hugh?’ He glanced up. Brother Adrian was smiling down at him. ‘Lord Henry and the others are now assembled in the great hall. We need—’
‘We need to leave,’ Corbett declared, getting up and clapping the monk gently on the shoulder.
‘Be careful, Sir Hugh.’ Brother Adrian drew closer. ‘Be most prudent in what you say. I am sure you do not forget that this castle houses a soul totally dedicated to your destruction and that of everything you stand for.’
‘I shall remember,’ Corbett declared. He glanced over the Benedictine’s shoulder. Ranulf was waiting at the door, watching them carefully. Corbett drew comfort from his henchman’s presence; he felt his fear and panic recede. He was determined to go forward to confront whatever monsters awaited him.
The great hall of Alnwick was poorly lit. A few cresset torches illuminated the dais, and the high table was polished to a sheen, with the shimmering silver nef placed in the centre. Lord Henry sat in the place of power, Lady Eleanor to his right, the Thurstons on his left along with the captain of his bodyguard. Corbett and his three companions including Cacoignes took their seats. Lord Henry snapped his fingers and Brother Adrian gabbled a hasty grace. The servants came in, but there was some confusion as they were not used to such mid-morning gatherings. They milled about serving stoups of ale and platters of bread smeared with cheese and herbs along with pots of spicy sauce in which the guests could dip their bread. Lord Henry wolfed both food and drink, belching loudly as he glared about. Corbett tried to hide his disdain at such a lack of manners and frowned at Ranulf, who began to laugh behind his hand.
‘Well, Sir Hugh,’ Lord Henry turned in his throne-like chair, ‘what happened at Clairbaux?’
Corbett gave a brief, pithy summary. He made it clear that Darel was not reconciled to Lord Henry, though the wolfshead had apologised unreservedly for his assaults on the royal envoy and welcomed the release of the prisoners, a matter Corbett had immediately addressed on his return to Alnwick. In return for this, Darel had sued for a royal pardon to
cover all past offences and promised solemnly never to interfere with the royal envoy’s progress again.
Once Corbett had finished speaking, Lord Henry began to clap slowly and loudly, the mocking sound echoing around the great hall.
‘And you believe him, Sir Hugh?’ Lady Eleanor gibed.
‘By St Oswine,’ Kathryn Thurston exclaimed, plucking angrily at the long cuffs of her gown. ‘What nonsense do you peddle, clerk? Do you really trust Darel’s promises? That limb of Satan, that lying degenerate of a man? He lurks like a beast, a true monster, in Blanchlands. He makes our lives here at Alnwick a living hell. He consorts with witches and warlocks. He is a man of blood steeped in blood. He attacks us out on the king’s highway and here in Lord Henry’s castle.’ She glared at Corbett, who stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
‘You must pardon my sister,’ Constable Thurston intervened swiftly, ‘but we truly hate Darel. Wicked to the bone, he’s the bane of our life, this castle and above all, Lord Henry.’ He paused and drank greedily from his goblet. ‘Edmund Darel wouldn’t know the truth if it grasped him by the throat; that is why my sister dismisses his assurances as nonsense.’
‘They are not nonsense.’ Corbett broke from his reverie, his mind tumbling like dice in a cup. He stared closely at Lady Kathryn’s wrists, but as always, the cuffs of her gown were pulled so far down they reached the palms of her hands. ‘For the time being,’ he murmured, ‘they might be the way forward.’
‘The Black Chesters,’ Lady Eleanor demanded, ‘what did Darel say about them? He shelters, protects and patronises them. Those two witch sisters shared his bed.’
‘Sir Edmund dismissed the Black Chesters,’ Corbett replied. ‘He claims to know little about who they are or what they do.’ He shrugged as the remark was greeted with mocking laughter, though he noticed Lord Henry, lips pursed, nodding in agreement.
Brother Adrian spoke up. ‘You can hardly expect him to openly declare his support for a coven of witches and warlocks.’ He rose and hurriedly brushed what looked like a piece of silver-gold thread from the pocket of his gown as he drew out a set of Ave beads and held up the crucifix at the end. ‘I am sure that if we rode to Blanchlands and asked him to take an oath on this rosary, which carries a relic of the true cross, he would still swear that he knows nothing about them.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Corbett retorted, ‘Sir Edmund and I have agreed on a way forward. His dispute with Lord Henry is certainly not concluded. However, Darel has promised us safe passage when we travel to the priory at Tynemouth. He claims to have no inclination or desire to be drawn into the question of the heinous murders committed in our company. So,’ he brushed the crumbs from his mud-coloured jerkin, ‘we will leave early tomorrow morning.’
‘But do you trust him?’ Lady Eleanor insisted. ‘That he will not attack you?’
‘I certainly do not. However, before I left Clairbaux, Lady Hilda asked if her community of anchorites, about fifty in number, could join us. They wish to go on pilgrimage to St Oswine’s tomb at Tynemouth Priory.’ Corbett paused at the exclamations around the table.
‘Fifty of them!’ Kathryn Thurston exclaimed. ‘Of course, of course,’ her severe face broke into a smile, ‘they wish to make their devotion to St Oswine, my favourite saint as well as a very fine warrior.’ She caught Corbett’s look of puzzlement. ‘A Saxon king who led his people in a most saintly way. He lies buried at Tynemouth, and soon it will be his feast day.’ She turned to her brother.
‘I think it’s appropriate,’ Lord Henry declared, ‘for you, Constable Thurston and Lady Kathryn, to escort Sir Hugh to Tynemouth. There you can make your devotions before the tomb of St Oswine and give Prior Richard my kindest regards.’
‘And I should go too,’ Brother Adrian declared. ‘Indeed, I have to. I have business with my good brothers at Tynemouth.’
Corbett nodded his agreement and sat cradling his wine cup. He suspected that Lord Henry was allowing the Thurstons, not to mention Brother Adrian, to accompany him in order to keep a sharp eye on the royal envoys. He did not mind this. The presence of members of Lord Henry’s household would provide further protection for their journey to the coast. He was more interested in other matters. He had seen and heard something and he fully intended to pursue it, not dramatically, but slowly, in his own time and at a place of his choosing. In the meantime . . .
He was aware of the shadows dancing around him. Flames flickered, cresset torches crackled and candles fluttered constantly, yet there was a darkness in this hall that stretched beyond the veil separating the visible from the invisible, the physical from the spiritual. The atmosphere was baleful, with an aura of brooding watchfulness. He sensed that matters were now moving like a tide on the turn and he recalled the words of the philosopher: ‘Sooner or later all things break down and hurry to their logical conclusion.’
‘What do you know, Sir Hugh,’ Lord Henry’s voice was harsh and carrying, ‘about Richard Twyen, Prior of Tynemouth?’
‘An old king’s man.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Very similar to his master: strict, ruthless. Nevertheless, in a world of constantly shifting moods, Prior Richard is stalwart in his loyalty to both king and Crown.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lord Henry hurriedly agreed, catching Corbett’s gentle hint that perhaps not all subjects of the Crown were as loyal to their king as Prior Richard. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘you do not trust Darel, and of course I heartily concur with that, but to repeat Lady Eleanor’s question: are you sure he poses no danger to your journey?’
‘No,’ Corbett declared, choosing his words most carefully. The spy, the minion of the Black Chesters, could well be sitting here with them. ‘I do not trust Sir Edmund, but naturally he is desirous of receiving a pardon, of being readmitted to the king’s peace. He does not wish to shatter that security. Moreover, Lady Hilda and her companions are accompanying us, and I am sure Darel will do nothing to upset his redoubtable aunt.’
He fell silent as others joined in the discussion about Darel and the aftermath of his attack on Alnwick. Constable Thurston declared that all the prisoners had been released; given a linen parcel of food, taken across the drawbridge and dispatched on their way. He also mentioned black-garbed riders being seen more frequently out on the moorland. How tinkers and traders hid in ditches or deep in the grass as these riders pounded by, hooded heads down, black cloaks flapping. His words created a chill of fear. Corbett wondered if Bavasour had safely reached Carlisle; if he had, would Harclay move east to assist the royal envoys? But what if he didn’t? What if Bavasour had fled or been captured? Corbett stared at Lord Henry as he recalled what his chancery coffers, sealed in the castle’s arca, contained.
He glanced up. The Thurstons had now risen and were making to leave, pleading that they had preparations to make. Brother Adrian followed suit. Cacoignes, who had sat silent throughout, slipped away into the shadows of the hall. Corbett watched him go. He wanted to have words with that cunning man, but first he needed to think, to reflect, to plot and plan. Any confrontation would have to wait until they reached Tynemouth. He intended to leave at first light and journey south-east using the well-worn trackways and bridle paths that ran like narrow veins through this shire. Before he left, however, he needed to speak privately to Lord Henry Percy, and the sooner the better.
PART FIVE
‘For at these times the enemy who lurked continually in hiding did them all the harm he could.’
Life of Edward II
Six prisoners – five men and one woman – had been condemned to be drowned as punishment for the murder of a fisherman and his son and the theft of their boat. Richard Twyen, Prior of Tynemouth, had indicted all six pirates before his court held in the priory chapter house and sentenced them to death. The prior had all the powers and jurisdiction of a feudal lord: the right of axe and tumbril, gallows and stocks. He could erect gibbets and execution platforms and use these as he thought fit.
The condemned had been taken straight from the chapter
house and dragged down to the lonely, desolate beach over which the great crag of Tynemouth brooded like an eternal shadow. The priory occupied that rocky promontory as an eagle would its eyrie: a man-made structure built on what God had created. Others, including Corbett and his party, had joined Prior Richard on that barren strip of wave-and windswept sand. After three days of uneventful riding, Sir Hugh and his entourage had reached Tynemouth village the previous evening and made their way wearily up across the great drawbridge that spanned the deepest of ditches. Once across, they entered the armed enclosures of walls and towers that protected the western approaches to the great priory. The other three sides of the towering crag needed no such defence. Nature supplied the best, a dizzying sheer drop to the beach below where this macabre execution was now taking place.
Prior Richard had welcomed Corbett and his companions most warmly, assigning them comfortable quarters in the guest house, stables and other buildings. Nonetheless, he had insisted that the life of the priory must not be disrupted, and he demanded that Corbett, as a royal envoy, be present to witness the king’s justice being done. Not wishing to alienate this formidable prior, Sir Hugh had graciously conceded. He just wished it was over.
He turned and winked at Ranulf, who sat all hooded and solemn on his mount next to Chanson. The clerk of the stables was busy judging the horse flesh of other riders, whilst Ap Ythel seemed fascinated by the priory rising from the majestic crag so far above them. It was a cold, windswept morning. The tide was still far out, the edge of the northern sea a shimmering mass. The daylight was strengthening and the ominous sound of the incoming tide was growing more distinct. The creeping waves would gather pace and, by the end of the day, come crashing in to snatch the lives of these wolfsheads lashed so tightly to the execution stakes. Corbett stared around the desolate beach, which stretched either way, curving in to create the great cove of Tynemouth. He tried to ignore the muffled groans and curses of the prisoners.
