Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18) Page 10

  Corbett questioned Sokelar further, but the harbour master and his close-faced daughter could provide no more information, so he thanked and dismissed them. They had just left when Corbett heard Chanson’s voice raised in protest, followed by a loud knocking on the door, which was flung open. A man dressed in the cream and brown robes of a Carmelite swept into the room.

  ‘Sir Hugh Corbett!’

  ‘And who are you?’ Ranulf swiftly seized the sword from the table and swung it so the razor-sharp blade rested against the side of the intruder’s stringy neck.

  ‘I am Brother Jerome, a lay brother in the order of Carmelites. I am also a member of the household …’

  ‘Clerk and secretarius,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘of our noble French envoy, Monseigneur Amaury de Craon. I have heard of you and your doings. I have come across your name in documents and had it whispered to me in the Secret Chancery chamber at Westminster. Be careful, Brother Jerome! Ranulf’s sword is sharp. A mere cut could open a deep wound in not the thickest neck I’ve seen.’ Jerome shifted slightly, eyes as hard as black pebbles, and Corbett glimpsed the stiletto blade appear in the Carmelite’s right hand. ‘I truly wouldn’t,’ he warned. ‘Please.’

  The dagger disappeared, and Corbett stared at this true killer, an assassin who hid behind the robes of a Carmelite. Brother Jerome was a sinister soul: head and face completely shaved, pasty white skin glistening with nard, a long, aquiline nose above prim, bloodless lips. He had the look of a ferocious hawk, yet Corbett also acknowledged his reputation. A brilliant clerk, skilled in all sorts of ciphers and secret alphabets, but also a dagger man; a professional assassin, expert with the knife, garrotte strings or pot of poison.

  ‘Ranulf,’ Corbett warned, ‘lower your sword. Brother Jerome, it is good to meet you at last. Even in retirement, during the last two or three years, I have heard of your name and reputation. Ranulf!’

  Corbett’s companion reluctantly lowered his sword. Corbett extended his hand for Jerome to clasp. The Carmelite did so, and Corbett pulled him close for the osculum pacis, the kiss of peace.

  ‘Pax tecum, Frater,’ he whispered. ‘Peace be with you, Brother, but be very careful.’ He stood back and beamed at a man he knew to be his implacable foe, one who would like nothing better than to take his head. ‘So, Brother, what does the monseigneur want? Peacefully now.’

  ‘He is an accredited envoy. He has business with your king’s chancellor at Westminster. He cannot,’ Jerome gestured at the table, ‘be summoned before one of your courts. You have no right …’

  ‘He is not summoned to a court. The chancellor and his advisers at Westminster are not expecting your master today. I simply wish to meet the envoy of the king of France at the request of my king, who is also the son-in-law of yours. Now,’ Corbett clapped his hands and gestured at the door, ‘go tell your master I will see him in due course …’

  Crispin Slingsby, once minehost of the Salamander tavern, was sworn next. Ranulf and Chanson had done diligent work and discovered the unfortunate taverner to be residing at the Hope of Heaven, a cramped, greasy hostel not far from the blackened ruins of the Salamander. A large, pot-bellied man with an aggressive red face and the rolling gait of a former mariner, Slingsby almost sauntered into the Cana chamber. He took his seat and slowly mouthed the words of the oath before leaning back in the leather chair and staring at Corbett from under bushy eyebrows. The clerk gazed back, narrowing his eyes as he racked his memory. He recognised the man but couldn’t recall the details.

  ‘Will the Salamander be rebuilt?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘I hope so,’ came the muttered response. ‘I am casting about amongst the merchants and river traders for finance. The Salamander was popular in its time, and of course the site belongs to me. I have the necessary charters and indentures.’ Slingsby stumbled over his words. Corbett suspected that, despite the early hour, the taverner had imbibed considerably before presenting himself. He stared hard at Slingsby and then smiled.

  ‘Puddlicot!’ he declared. ‘Richard Puddlicot, leader of the coven that, eight years ago, broke into the crypt at Westminster and stole the royal treasure.’ Slingsby paled, gawping nervously. ‘I recall questioning you, sir,’ Corbett pressed on, turning to wink at Ranulf. ‘According to reports, when Puddlicot was planning his outrage, he allegedly did so at the Salamander. He and his fellow malignants hired a chamber there.’

  ‘One of the many taverns he used,’ Slingsby blurted out. ‘Sir Hugh, of course I remember you visiting me, your questions, but I was an innocent bystander.’ He ignored Ranulf’s burst of sarcastic laughter.

  ‘If I recall correctly,’ Corbett insisted, ‘you were accused of sheltering Puddlicot and his coven after the robbery.’

  ‘All lies. No witnesses came forward, no proof was offered for such an outrageous accusation.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett replied impatiently. ‘But isn’t it strange, Master Slingsby, that Gabriel Rougehead, also known as John Priknash, an alleged henchman of Puddlicot, reappeared in your tavern three years ago last January, probably to drink and wench.’ Slingsby stared bleakly back. ‘He later accused two of your customers of speaking contumaciously about the king and Lord Gaveston and making public mockery of them by simulating the act of sodomy.’

  ‘Of course I recall that.’

  ‘And the names of the two accused?’

  ‘Sumerscale and Fallowfield.’

  ‘Had you ever met them before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do their names mean anything to you?’

  ‘They didn’t then,’ Slingsby sniffed, ‘and they don’t now.’

  ‘And were you a witness to this contumacious talk, you being the owner of the tavern?’

  ‘You must have read the record of the court, Sir Hugh. I understand the master of The Candle-Bright drew up a memorandum about the trial.’ Slingsby paused, licking his lips. ‘I did hear shouted mockery about His Grace the king, laughter, raucous remarks. Being His Grace’s most loyal subject, I objected, threatening to eject the perpetrators if I identified them. I then went down into the cellar, and was some time there as one of the casks had split. I did hear shouting and roars of laughter, raised voices, but when I returned to the taproom, Sumerscale and Fallowfield, apparently much the worse for drink, had left. I was summoned to the tribunal on board The Candle-Bright, where I told Naseby what I have told you.’

  ‘And you never recognised Rougehead from years earlier when he and Puddlicot frequented the taverns of Queenhithe?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ Ranulf mimicked, raising his head. He took a fresh quill and sharpened it.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Slingsby screeched.

  ‘It means I think you are lying through that filthy bowl you call a mouth. Sit down and keep still,’ Ranulf snarled. ‘I suspect you did recognise Rougehead.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You knew he was a rogue, a king’s approver, someone who laid testimony against another in the hope of a pardon and a reward.’

  ‘Never, and nor did Master Naseby. Rougehead’s testimony was supported by others.’

  Corbett glanced away. He had read and studied the brief transcript of the trial, which provided very little. Sumerscale and Fallowfield had faced a military tribunal. Evidence was laid, in this case the testimony of at least four witnesses, and the two accused could produce nothing to counter it.

  ‘Liars fit for hell.’ Corbett pointed at the taverner. ‘Do you know, Master Slingsby, I believe Sumerscale and Fallowfield were trapped, indicted and executed as part and parcel of some bizarre plot, the reason for which is as yet unknown. In my view, as the angels be my witness, Rougehead and his coven were guilty of the most heinous perjury, worthy of death – as, when we discover the truth of the matter, you might well be too …’

  ‘I know nothing of this,’ Slingsby blustered. ‘I …’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Corbett smiled bleakly, fingering the pommel on
the sword lying close to his right hand, its blade pointing directly at Slingsby. ‘Let’s move on in time to the spring of 1308, just before Lent began. Rougehead and the three other perjured witnesses gathered at your tavern for a banquet. A feast of good food and wine in a chamber especially hired for the occasion.’

  ‘God damn his eyes!’

  ‘God damn whose eyes, Master Slingsby?’

  ‘The stranger. You are correct. It was before Ash Wednesday, the time of feasting before the rigours of Lent. I adhere to them, as does Mistress Slingsby …’

  ‘I am not interested in your spiritual life, Slingsby.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Then tell me?’

  ‘One evening around Vespers. The curfew bell had tolled, beacon lights glowed in the steeples …’

  ‘Master Slingsby!’

  ‘Yes, yes, a tap boy came to me. He said a stranger was waiting outside. He needed to speak to me urgently, that it would be to my great profit.’

  ‘You were not suspicious?’

  ‘It was only outside, not far from the main door. I took one of my cellarmen with me. The stranger stood deep in the shadows, cowled and visored. He hid behind the light of a lanternhorn hanging on a post. He tossed me a silver coin and held up another.’ Slingsby smirked. ‘I told the cellarman to go back. I asked the stranger his business. He told me to organise a splendid repast for Shrove Tuesday on the sole condition that Rougehead and the other three witnesses attended. I was to publicise this and say that the invitation was at the behest of a henchman of my lord Gaveston, a token of thanks for the destruction of two felons who had besmirched his master’s honour and that of the king.’

  ‘Would Rougehead believe that?’

  ‘The stranger passed over four silver coins. One for each of them as a further token of favour. He also gave me a heavy purse to cover the costs of the banquet and the hire of a private solar in the first gallery of the Salamander, a truly spacious chamber. The walls were beautifully decorated …’

  ‘Yes, yes, what else?’

  ‘I was to serve the courses then leave Rougehead and his coven to their revelry. In addition, the stranger warned that he intended to visit his guests later in the evening. He would enter by a postern door, and was not to be troubled. He assured me,’ Slingsby added bitterly, ‘that I would, after the meal was over, receive an extra unexpected return for my troubles.’ He snorted noisily. ‘I certainly did!’

  Corbett stared hard at this veritable rogue, a man who lurked in the twilight world of the city. His tavern had been the meeting place for wolfsheads, night slinkers and other dark prowlers. The man who had hired that chamber had known that Slingsby would rise to the offer of good silver as any fish to the bait and it would be easy for the taverner to pass on the invitation to those concerned.

  ‘Sir Hugh, why are you staring at me?’

  ‘Oh, I am just reflecting, Master Slingsby. Now tell me, what actually happened on that evening?’

  ‘Rougehead and his three henchmen blundered into the trap, for that is what it was. They truly believed they were being rewarded. The prospect of a sumptuous meal, as well as good silver, with the possibility of earning even more, sharpened their greed.’

  Corbett covered the lower half of his face with his hand to hide his laughter. Slingsby was describing kindred spirits, and he recalled Scripture’s words about sinners coming to judgement. He dropped his hand.

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘Rougehead and his company arrived at the appointed hour on the appointed day. The solar was prepared, the table laid with fine linen, pewter cups and platters, and the banquet was served: sorrel soup with figs and dates, lentils and lamb, fresh venison and dilled veal balls …’

  ‘Very good,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘With wine and ale?’

  ‘That flowed like a river,’ Slingsby agreed. ‘Though Rougehead had a reputation for avoiding strong drink.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘A manservant saw the stranger enter, cloaked, cowled and visored. The scullion summoned me. I watched the visitor climb the stairs.’

  ‘No other description?’ Corbett interrupted.

  ‘He was tall, well-spoken; his robes exuded a pleasant perfume as he swept by me.’

  ‘Like soap of Castile?’ Corbett recalled his conversation with Parson Layburn.

  ‘Yes, yes, it was. I have bought similar for my lady wife as a gift for Twelfth Night …’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘The stranger arrived late. The tavern was emptying, the chimes of midnight could be heard. The Salamander was settling for the night.’ Slingsby blew his cheeks out. ‘Then the alarm was raised: a fire had erupted on the first gallery. The building was old, the wood very dry. Those who tried to fight the fire maintained it started in the solar.’

  ‘It could have been an accident?’

  ‘I thought that. Rougehead’s coven were drunken bastards. One of them could have been clumsy, knocked a candle over. Anyway, the fire raged through the tavern, reducing it to nothing more than blackened timbers.’ Slingsby’s head went down as he looked from beneath his brows at Corbett. ‘That’s when we found Rougehead and his coven all murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, this was not proclaimed abroad. Oh, their corpses had been reduced to blackened bones, their flesh nothing more than hardened globules of gristle. But before they were burned, their heads had been sheared off like you would snip a rose flower. It was hard to tell one from another, but they had all been decapitated.’

  ‘Four fighting men,’ Corbett exclaimed, ‘dispatched so quietly and easily. You and yours heard no swordplay, no clash of steel, no disturbance?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘So this stranger, well-dressed and well-spoken, went into a solar where four daggermen were celebrating their sins. Undoubtedly they were merry, mawmsy with drink, yet this stranger took the heads of each of them?’

  ‘He promised me unexpected recompense,’ Slingsby muttered bitterly.

  ‘Do you have any suspicion about who it was?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘But the slaughter of those four men must have something to do with the two unfortunates Sumerscale and Fallowfield?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘The four perjurers were punished,’ Corbett remarked, ‘and so were you, Master Slingsby. The Salamander, the place where Sumerscale and Fallowfield allegedly committed their treason, was totally destroyed.’

  ‘So it would seem, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Corbett rubbed the side of his face, ‘when Puddlicot broke into the crypt and I listed his henchmen – I could never obtain a clear description of Rougehead.’

  ‘True, Sir Hugh. When I saw him, he had long hair, a bushy moustache and beard; it was difficult to see who he really was. A master of disguise.’ Slingsby pointed to Ranulf. ‘What you said earlier about recognising Rougehead – very few did.’

  ‘Aye.’ Corbett watched the candle flame fall and rise in the faint breeze through the room.

  ‘Sir Hugh? May I go now?’

  ‘I think you are a liar, Slingsby.’ Corbett turned back to the taverner. ‘No, don’t puff yourself up like a barnyard cock. I find it difficult to believe that everything that happened was mere chance. I believe you knew Rougehead and possibly the other three. They used your tavern to destroy two men. Time passes, these perjurers are trapped and killed and your tavern is burnt to the ground. I believe that beneath all this lies a tangled tale that we have scarcely brushed. But don’t worry, Master Slingsby, you know me by reputation. I will hack away until the tangle is clear. Until then, you are dismissed.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Ranulf asked as soon as Slingsby closed the door behind him.

  ‘I truly do, my friend.’ Corbett pushed himself away from the table, using his fingers to emphasise his points. ‘First, Rougehead and Slingsby were both, to a greater or lesser extent, suspected of being involved in the robbery at Westminster e
ight years ago. Rougehead destroys two apparent strangers, Sumerscale and Fallowfield, who happened to be drinking in Slingsby’s tavern, a place where they had no friends or allies to counter Rougehead’s allegations against them. Slingsby says he knows nothing about the incident, though he cleverly hints that something may have happened. Yes?’

  Ranulf nodded in agreement.

  ‘I know what you are going to ask,’ Corbett grinned, ‘which is my second point. Why did Sumerscale and Fallowfield go to the Salamander? They gave no reason for that during their trial. Were they invited there? Were they lured into a trap, or was it just sheer coincidence? Third, just who were these two mariners? Where did they come from? They cannot be traced; their names do not appear in any document. At first they can be dismissed as two hapless souls drifting into this city like so many others, and yet somebody, somewhere close by, had deep affection, even love for them. The mysterious stranger who approached Slingsby was intent on a deadly revenge: the execution of Rougehead and his coven followed by the destruction of the Salamander. Not only that, but Naseby, master of The Candle-Bright, was grimly reminded about the execution of Sumerscale and Fallowfield and warned of the dire consequences of his involvement. Such dark prophecies came to hideous fruition. The Candle-Bright was attacked by The Black Hogge, Naseby, Torpel and their crew were slaughtered and the ship that served as the gallows for Sumerscale and Fallowfield was totally destroyed. This in turn begs a further question.’ He paused. ‘Was The Candle-Bright annihilated as part of Philip’s secret, dark design against Edward of England, or as an act of vengeance for Sumerscale and Fallowfield?’

  ‘Or both?’

  ‘Yes, Ranulf, or both. And if that is the case, then I ask myself: were Sumerscale and Fallowfield somehow involved in Philip and de Craon’s treacherous plotting against this kingdom and its king? You see,’ he played with the miniature paperweights on the table, carved in the shapes of grotesques and gargoyles, ‘we have these two men here in the middle. We do not know who they truly were. Here to the left are the forces that destroyed them, and to the right, the powerful response to their untimely deaths. Yet how all this merges together remains a mystery.’