Devil's Wolf

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Remember the recluse!’

  ‘Oh, I certainly shall.’

  Corbett made himself comfortable just inside the rood screen of the priory church. He spent some time studying the rood itself, that intricately carved crucified figure, as he recalled his earlier reflection about logic offering the only conclusion it could. He then moved the sanctuary chair so he had a clear view of Oswine’s tomb. He heard the door open, and Ranulf and Gaveston swept into the church. The royal favourite was fully disguised, quite changed by the bushy moustache and beard, the leather eye patch, the filthy-mittened fingers, the slouched walk and the caustic, clipped speech. So complete was the disguise that even Corbett had to remind himself that this shuffling bowman was the exquisitely handsome, gorgeously attired favourite of the king and once lord of the realm.

  Gaveston didn’t speak, but waited until Corbett took him deep into the shadow of the church porch, where no one could even glimpse them, never mind eavesdrop on their conversation.

  ‘What is it, Hugh?’

  ‘My lord, one question. Only one! Seton and his comrades were publicly paraded as hostages being taken north to be handed over to Bruce. In truth, they were assassins who were to be dispatched across the border, buckled and armed for war, goodly provisioned and well harnessed. You and His Grace the king wanted them to draw close to Bruce and kill him. No, no, my lord,’ Corbett hissed, ‘I am not here to debate the whys and wherefores, what is moral and what is not, or even,’ he smiled wryly, ‘whether I should have been informed about what was plotted.’

  ‘Your question, Hugh?’

  ‘Who apart from you and His Grace the king knew the truth about Seton’s secret intentions?’

  ‘Nobody.’ Gaveston stepped closer. ‘I swear by all that is holy, nobody at all. Seton and the others swore a most solemn oath, hands on the Book of the Gospels, that they would only share their true purpose in returning to Scotland with God and their consciences.’

  ‘You are certain that is what they swore?’

  ‘Hugh, I was there.’ Gaveston tapped his padded jerkin. ‘And I don’t think I should stay here much longer.’

  Gaveston left, and Corbett returned to his vantage point in the sanctuary. When the monks filed in to sing the Divine Office, he was only too delighted to join them. Once the service was over, he continued his vigil. The following day he brought his chancery satchel with him and sat reviewing and revising, time and again, all he had seen, heard and felt. Occasionally he would stare at the tomb or kneel before the rood screen, gazing up at the crucified figure as his mind followed a long, twisting path dictated by the sheer logic of events. By the eve of the feast of St Oswine, he believed he knew the identity of both Paracelsus and the assassin who had dogged his own steps. Only then did he leave the church, asking Ap Ythel to dispatch three of his best archers back the way they’d come with urgent messages for Lord Henry.

  Brother Julian, sub-cellarer at Tynemouth Priory, would never forget that particular feast day of St Oswine. Indeed, none of the brothers would, but Julian took great pride in the fact that he was the first to witness the horrors about to come. He prided himself on his sharp eyesight; as he always informed his brothers, that was why, so many lifetimes ago, he had been a master bowman in the royal array. Age had not dimmed this gift, and accordingly, Brother Julian had been appointed leader of the night watch, which included all those monks excused from the Divine Office so as to act as watchmen, high in the belfry tower with its eagle-eye view over the countryside, Tynemouth Cove and the sea beyond.

  On that particular night, Brother Julian had been joined by Sebastian, his assistant. The rule was very strict on this, decreeing that for safety’s sake, no brother should be in the soaring belfry by himself. They had broken their evening fast on succulent chicken strips, fresh bread, a bowl of chopped vegetables and brimming tankards of ale. Now Julian stood on the parapet walk of the belfry, staring out into the night. All was ready. He and Sebastian had climbed the steep ladder into the belfry loft. They had checked on the four great bells: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, named after the four Evangelists. Most importantly, they had lit the great lantern with its specially crafted massive candle, the dancing spear of flame being somehow enhanced by the precious concave glass of the gigantic lanternhorn. The light served as a beacon for passing ships, a matter of great importance, especially given that the priory’s own cog, The Golden Dove, under its master Ralph Wodeforde, was due any day now. The beacon was a blessing to all seagoing vessels; if a storm blew up, they could use it to find their way into the protection of Tynemouth Cove. Brother Julian wondered if that might happen tonight. The wind had certainly quickened, whilst the moonlit sky was turning darker and the crashing of the waves more ominous.

  ‘There is a storm brewing,’ Sebastian declared sleepily from his straw-filled pallet. ‘Though I suspect it will come just before dawn. Oh, by the way, have you heard?’

  ‘Have I heard what?’ Julian replied testily. ‘Is it about the storm?’ Sebastian was a former mariner, so if he said a storm was sweeping in, then it would happen.

  ‘Oh no, not that. Brother Maurice was up in the heathland across the Tyne. There are rumours of a Scottish raiding party gathering near Coldstream.’

  ‘God help us,’ Julian murmured. ‘We already have the royal envoys and the pilgrims; now we’ve got the Scots. Ah well, take your rest, Brother.’

  A short while later, both monks were fast asleep. Julian was startled awake by the crash of thunder and the crack of jagged lightning as the storm broke. He shook himself, took a sip of ale and, rubbing his eyes, stared out to sea, noticing that the tide was coming in. More peals of thunder echoed. Fresh streaks of lightning cut the sky. The darkness was now beginning to thin, and he heaved a sigh of relief. At least no ship was battling against the storm. He could hear no creak or crack of timber, nor see any sail fluttering like a bird, and yet . . . He blinked. He was sure he’d heard the sound of horsemen galloping across the beach, but that must have been a dream, surely? What would horsemen want on a lonely, windswept beach at the dead of night?

  Brother Julian crossed himself, picked up his psalter and opened it at the Office of the Day, reading the extract from St Peter’s letter. He had studied this before and it always made him shiver, even more so with the wind howling and the waves crashing against the beach. The apostle’s description of the end of all things – ‘When the very elements will catch fire’ – always fascinated the sub-cellarer. ‘I just hope and pray,’ he murmured to the sleeping Sebastian, ‘that the elements catch fire when you and I are up here caught between heaven and earth.’

  He finished his office and dozed for a while as the storm retreated further and further out to sea. When he awoke, dawn had broken. The storm had cleared the air, and the usual morning mist had not formed. A bright day was promised. His gaze was caught by the execution posts driven into the sand. Ten poles in all, one for each of the Commandments, according to Prior Richard. He shivered as he glimpsed the bundles of rags still tightly fastened, the mortal remains of the pirates, a grisly spectacle that drew gulls and other seabirds to feast on the wet, salt-soaked flesh. Then he narrowed his eyes and gasped in surprise. ‘No, no, it can’t be,’ he whispered. He stared, blinked and counted again. Six pirates had been executed, six corpses displayed. No other judgements had been passed or enacted, yet there were seven corpses lashed to that macabre line of posts. Seven, not six! His yelp of surprise awoke the sleeping Sebastian even as Brother Julian scrambled up the ladder to ring the tocsin.

  Corbett was awake when the alarm bell began to toll. He swiftly pulled on his boots, buckled his war belt, grabbed his cloak and hurried down into the inner court, where Prior Richard was deep in conversation with two of his brothers. Orders had already been given: ostlers and grooms were leading out horses to be swiftly saddled and harnessed.

  ‘The beach!’ Prior Richard declared. ‘Our watchman claims a seventh corpse can be clearly seen. Someone has strapped it there without
our knowledge or authority. A victim, I suspect, of some grievous assault.’ The prior swiftly mounted but waited for Corbett and others to swing themselves up into the saddle. Once ready, they galloped across the lowered drawbridge and along the narrow high street, following the path as it pitched steeply onto the soft, clinging sand of the beach.

  After a good night’s sleep, Corbett felt refreshed. The morning was clear and dry, the ride exhilarating. The horsemen fanned out, galloping towards the shoreline and that grim row of execution posts. The wind sharpened, buffeting and stinging their faces with a thick salty spray. Corbett now rode slightly ahead of the rest, his horse’s neck stretched as it threw itself into a full charge. He gripped the reins, digging his knees in as he brought his mount back into a smooth canter, wheeling it slightly so as to ride along the line of execution stakes facing the sea. He took one look and swallowed hard, then turned away, fighting the urge to retch. The six corpses had been ravaged by birds and sea creatures: eyeballs hung gruesomely from sockets, noses, lips, cheeks and other portions of soft flesh had been picked, plucked and pierced.

  When he reached the seventh figure, he reined in, drew his sword and used its tip to force back the head. It was Geoffrey Cacoignes. Corbett groaned. The former royal squire had died most cruelly, his chest ripped open, the flesh spilling out where the heart had been gouged free. His stricken face was ghastly, his half-open mouth stuffed with what looked like rags. Corbett, aware of the others reining in behind him, drew closer and pulled the soggy remnants of parchment and sealing wax from the dead man’s mouth.

  ‘It is Cacoignes!’ He breathed in noisily as he resheathed his sword. ‘They were waiting for him and they are sending us a warning. They captured and tortured him, plucked out his heart for sacrifice and stuffed his dead mouth with the letters and seals we furnished him with. God have mercy on poor Cacoignes and bring him to a place of light and peace. Prior Richard, if you could arrange for this unfortunate to be taken down and given Christian burial?’

  ‘I will,’ the prior replied. ‘Strange,’ he mused. ‘Brother Julian, our watchman, was sure he heard horsemen cantering across the beach in the dead of night.’ He hurriedly blessed Cacoignes’ corpse. ‘At least I can tell him he wasn’t dreaming.’

  Corbett crossed himself and turned his horse away. He felt truly sorry for Cacoignes even as he realised that this gruesome display was only the herald of a deeper malignancy closing in around them. The Black Chesters were gathering, poised and ready to strike. The devil’s wolf was sloping through the dark towards them. Darel had been most cunning. He had promised to observe the law and he had sued for peace, but there again, he could afford to. The Black Chesters could carry on his war by proxy; they were not subject to any treaty or understanding.

  Corbett rode back to the priory feeling restless. He had prayed, studied and reflected. He was ready to confront his adversary, but he did not yet know how to implement his strategy. He returned to the chapel, where he knelt in the entrance to the rood screen and peered up at the tortured face of Christ under its circlet of thorns. As he prayed fervently, he smiled to himself and let his mind drift. He was lost in reverie when Chanson shook him gently by the shoulder.

  Corbett glanced quickly around. Lady Hilda’s pilgrims were now filing into the church, coming to help prepare the nave, bedecking the pillars with flowers in anticipation for the special ceremony to be held here once darkness fell and the Compline bell had tolled. He blinked and stared at his clerk of the stables. He had never seen Chanson look so agitated.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Master, Ranulf and Ap Ythel are outside. You must come, you must come now! You must see this!’

  Corbett followed Chanson out of the church, where Ap Ythel and Ranulf were waiting. The clerk of the stables beckoned them close.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ he hissed, ‘I think it’s best if only you and I visited the stables. I beg you to act as if we are just checking our horses.’ He glimpsed Corbett’s incredulity. ‘Sir Hugh?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Chanson,’ Ranulf demanded, ‘are you drunk?’

  ‘No, but I wish to God I was. Sir Hugh, please?’

  ‘You’d best show me. Ranulf, Ap Ythel, I will meet you later in the church.’

  Corbett and Chanson went across into the yard, a busy place reeking of horse flesh, sweat, wet straw, dung and the various odours from the smithy. Chanson led the way into one of the stables and Corbett followed him past a number of stalls until he paused and tapped the half-door that closed off one particular one. Corbett glanced swiftly in and his heart skipped a beat, but he continued to act nonchalantly, following Chanson outside and stopping to look around before making his way back to Ranulf and Ap Ythel. Once there, he dispatched Chanson to fetch Prior Richard, with the urgent message that they must meet here in the dark transepts of the priory church.

  PART SIX

  ‘The King sent Gaveston away for a time to a very safe place.’

  Life of Edward II

  Corbett, Prior Richard to his right, Ranulf to his left, stood before the rood screen of the priory church. They tried to appear relaxed, smiling at the pilgrims assembling in the nave in preparation for the celebration of the feast of St Oswine. Outside, darkness had fallen. The brothers had sung their vespers and left. Corbett swallowed hard and whispered a prayer. Ap Ythel was here too, his company of archers, about fifteen in number, hidden deep in the shadows of the sanctuary behind them. Others had been dispatched for this or that. Corbett’s heart sank as he realised that more pilgrims were pushing themselves into the nave.

  He and Prior Richard had heatedly discussed what to do. Chanson and three of Ap Ythel’s archers had been sent out into the countryside with strict instructions. For the rest, the royal clerk could only hope and wait. If their adversaries were alerted and the enemy within realised that they had been discovered, there was a real danger of hostages being taken: members of the community, townspeople and other innocents going about their God-given business. On one issue Prior Richard had been obdurate. Tempting as it would be to flee the priory and take refuge behind the fortified walls and barbican overlooking Tynemouth village, such a withdrawal would leave church and shrine vulnerable to those who wanted the utter destruction of both. In the end, they had all agreed. The priory church must be guarded, if necessary, with their lives.

  Corbett had also insisted that they must accept that all the pilgrims from Clairbaux were adherents, retainers, followers of the Black Chesters. These so-called pilgrims had flooded into the priory, acting the part with their crucifixes, pilgrim staves, rosary beads and Ave chains. They might chant psalms and sing hymns but, he argued, they truly were the enemy within. Some of them pushed wheelbarrows or pulled handcarts; others carried bulky panniers or sacks. They were undoubtedly bringing in weapons. He had ordered that they be allowed to gather here within the nave of the church, where they could be contained and confronted. The rood screen was a natural barrier with its trellised woodwork and small windows; it could act as a defence, offering protection to Ap Ythel’s bowmen.

  Undoubtedly the Black Chesters must include some former soldiers, men who had participated in the savage, bloody conflicts along the Scottish march and who were used to the cut and thrust of hand-to-hand combat. In the main, though, they were mummers who acted out their masques, and while it was one thing to terrorise some hapless traveller like Cacoignes, an armed military cohort was another matter. Corbett also doubted that Edmund Darel would publicly participate in this venture; instead he would act the unknowing innocent. Ranulf had asked if they should bring Brother Adrian and the Thurstons into their confidence. Corbett had been adamant in his refusal: no one else was to be trusted.

  ‘Alea iacta,’ he whispered now. ‘The die is cast.’

  He stepped forward and glanced up at a window. Late in the afternoon, a mist had crept in from the sea. Now it swirled like a chorus of ghosts around the priory, seeping under doors and making its presence felt even here in the church. The pil
grims were milling about, rubbing their arms or stamping their feet. Candle flames flared before shrines, sconce torches spluttered. Corbett glanced down the nave. Those assembling still acted the part of holy pilgrims. Nevertheless, he noticed how many kept their hoods and cowls pulled forward, whilst their mantles covered their mouths as effectively as any mask. Of course, some of them he recognised: the Thurstons with Brother Adrian standing close to Lady Hilda.

  ‘The die is cast!’ Corbett repeated loudly, glancing at his companions. ‘So let us begin.’

  He raised his hands, aware of the danger now mustering against them. There was no turning back, no retreat, no concession. He was committed. He was back on the field of battle here in the nave of this holy church. The Black Chesters were gathering. They had planned for this but they had made mistakes. They had undoubtedly killed Bavasour and stolen his horse. One of them had stupidly used that to join in the pilgrimage to Tynemouth; unfortunately for him, the garron, with its singular colouring and unique appearance, had caught the sharp eye of Chanson, a true clerk of the stables. For a brief moment Corbett wondered if this was Bavasour’s way of speaking to the living, of warning them, of demonstrating to Corbett that he had done his best to keep faith. Now those who had murdered him were assembling here in this holy place to kill again and wreak dreadful sacrilege.

  ‘We are waiting, clerk,’ a voice called. There was a challenge in this remark, like a trumpet braying across a battlefield.

  ‘Archers!’ Corbett shouted. ‘Archers, string your bows.’

  Ap Ythel’s bowmen, arrows notched, abruptly gathered in the entrance to the rood screen. Corbett quietly prayed that the enemy did not realise just how few they were.