Song of a Dark Angel hc-8 Read online

  'Monck's dead. A crossbow bolt in his chest!'

  Corbett and his two companions hurried down into the yard. Sir Simon, Catchpole and other retainers were grouped just inside the entrance to the barn. Corbett pushed his way through. Monck's corpse lay on a pallet of straw, arms and legs flung out, head back. The heavy-lidded eyes were half-closed. The left side of his mouth was stained with dried blood, the crossbow bolt deeply embedded in his chest.

  Corbett knelt down and stared at the white, waxen face.

  'What happened?'

  'Yesterday,' Gurney replied, 'Master Monck left late in the afternoon. He visited Father Augustine at Hunstanton before going on to the Holy Cross convent.'

  'Last night he was seen thundering through Hunstanton village,' Catchpole added, 'riding his horse as if pursued by Satan and all his demons.'

  'Where did you find him?'

  'Out on the moors, just sprawled on the grass. No sign of his horse. That could be anywhere.'

  'Where on the moors?' Corbett asked.

  'Oh, on the wasteland area. And, before you ask, Sir Hugh, there were no other marks of violence or any sign of a struggle. Just Monck's corpse and the hoof prints of his own horse. The beast must have galloped off after his master's fall.'

  Corbett glanced at the red-eyed physician; his face was drawn and unshaven. Sir Simon also looked as if he hadn't slept the previous night. Did you tell me the truth? Corbett wondered. If so, why didn't you go to bed? What kept you up all night?'

  'Is anything wrong?' Selditch asked.

  Corbett forced a smile. 'Oh, master physician, what do you think? Perhaps you could examine Monck?' Corbett got to his feet and studied Monck's boots, leggings and cloak, which were coated with mud. 'Where's his sword belt?' he asked.

  'It was rather loose,' Catchpole explained, 'so I took it off and put it over my saddle horn.'

  Corbett nodded and glanced down at the dead man's face.

  'God rest you, Lavinius,' he murmured. 'Perhaps you'll have peace now!'

  He walked out of the barn to inspect Monck's sword belt, slung across Catchpole's saddle horn. The belt was rather rucked. Corbett eased the sword and dagger from their sheaths. These were gleaming clean so he pushed them back again.

  'What's the matter, Master?' Ranulf whispered.

  Corbett shook his head and walked across to the water butt to wash his hands, drying them on his jerkin. He put his finger to his lips and led Maltote and Ranulf back into the hall. Servants were laying bread, cheese and slices of cured ham on traunchers so the household could break its fast. Corbett slid on to the bench, Ranulf next to him.

  'Why did you look at the sword belt, Master?'

  'Monck was a born street-fighter,' Corbett explained. 'He was a good sword-and-dagger man and he was no fool.' He bit absent-mindedly at a piece of cheese and stared up at the great shield above the hearth bearing the Gurney coat of arms. 'I think he went out to meet someone, and that someone carried a crossbow. Now, Monck's sword belt was loose. I think that what happened was this. Whoever killed Monck knew of his reputation as fighter and was wary. So he holds the crossbow up, tells Monck to unloosen his sword belt and, as Monck began to unbuckle, fires. Monck is knocked off his horse, which bolts, and the murderer, probably on foot, slips away.'

  Ranulf, listening, nodded his agreement. He put down his tankard and reached across the table to grab a piece of ham from under Maltote's nose.

  Corbett shook his head at him in mock reprimand and went on, 'I wonder, though, what Monck was doing at the Holy Cross convent and why he galloped like a madman through Hunstanton: Why the haste and who was he meeting?' Corbett got to his feet. 'Come on, Ranulf, you can always eat later. Let's visit Monck's chamber before anyone else does.'

  Ranulf softly cursed, grabbed a piece of cheese and bread, then he and Maltote followed Corbett out of the hall. Halfway up the stairs Corbett paused.

  'Oh, by the way, did you discover anything while I was away?'

  Ranulf shrugged. 'No one liked Monck. There again, Master, no one likes you. They don't take kindly to outsiders. In the village they want to see Gilbert hanged. Sir Simon appears to be a good lord of the manor. The Pastoureaux are harmless and the good sisters of the Holy Cross pompous and rich.'

  'There is also the matter of the lights,' Maltote said.

  'Oh, yes.' Ranulf spoke hastily, to prevent Maltote taking up the story. 'We went down to the dungeon to see Gilbert. We took him a jug of wine and our dice. He's got the courage of a rabbit, Master, he wouldn't kill anybody. But one thing we did discover. Apparently Gilbert goes poaching out on the moors. Sometimes, especially in good weather, he sees a lantern winking out at sea as if someone is signalling the shore.'

  'We have heard that before,' Corbett replied. 'Catchpole said he had seen those lights.' He paused as Alice hurried by. She smiled nervously, rather flirtatiously, at him. Ranulf and Maltote stepped aside, Ranulf licking his lips at the way Alice's hips swayed under her murrey taffeta dress.

  Maltote took advantage of the diversion to add his piece of information. 'Then we went to the inn in the village and talked to an old, rather garrulous fisherman. He claimed to have seen not only the lights from the sea but also answering lights from the cliff tops.'

  Corbett raised his eyebrows. 'That is new,' he said. 'Catchpole saw no light from the land. Well, come on, perhaps Monck's papers may reveal something!'

  His special key once again unlocked the door to Monck's chamber. The room was as he remembered it from his previous visit. Ranulf used his dagger to cut through the straps of Monck's the saddlebags. He emptied the contents out on the bed and Corbett began to sift through them.

  The door swung back and Gurney strode in.

  'You should have waited!' He exclaimed angrily.

  'What for, Sir Simon?' Corbett asked. 'Your permission?'

  'This is my house,' Gurney replied tersely.

  'Sir Simon, I mean no offence, but we may find something here to tell us who killed Monck and to shed light on the mystery he was investigating.'

  Gurney stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  'That's interesting,' Corbett murmured. He grinned at Ranulf. 'Lady Alice must have realized where we were going and hurried to tell her husband. I wonder if Sir Simon was angry because of our lack of courtesy or something else? Anyway, let's have a look.'

  They began to sift through the dead clerk's possessions. Two locks of hair, each in its small taffeta pouch, a wedding ring and a small, battered doll were sad mementoes of Monck's wife and murdered daughter. A short letter, the parchment yellow and cracking with age, proved to be a love note written twenty years ago by Monck's wife. Reading it, Corbett felt a surge of compassion for Monck.

  'God rest you, Lavinius,' he whispered. He shivered as if an icy hand had gently stroked the nape of his neck. Would this happen to him? Would another clerk sift through his intimate possessions after some fatal ambush in a London alleyway or sudden attack on a lonely road?

  'Master?' Ranulf shook him by the shoulder.

  'Ranulf, take all this to our chamber. Just wrap it in a blanket. Everything.'

  Maltote and Ranulf began to pile Monck's possessions on to the bed.

  'What are these?' Ranulf pulled some grimy clothes from a battered saddlebag.

  'Probably Lickspittle's,' Corbett said.

  He took the tunic, shirt and hose from Ranulf. The shirt was blood-stained and, like the tunic and hose, still slightly damp. Corbett threw them in with the rest.

  'Make sure you take everything,' he said. 'Sir Simon must be as curious as we are. And, Maltote, go down to the stables and see if any of Monck's possessions were brought back with the body.'

  Back in their own chamber they sorted through what they had found. Among the purely personal possessions were a small book and some rolls of parchment. Corbett had taken these to the table and begun to study them when Selditch came in, eager to be of assistance.

  'Sir Hugh, if it interests you, Mo
nck was killed by the crossbow bolt. There's no other mark of violence on his body, apart from a slight bruising just under his navel.'

  'How could that have happened?' Corbett asked.

  Selditch pulled a face. 'Monck could have knocked into something before he left, or it could have been caused as he fell from the saddle. It's nothing serious.'

  'And any possessions?' Corbett asked.

  'Your servant has already taken them.' Selditch smiled bleakly. 'And, before you ask, there was no money. I suspect that Catchpole helped himself.'

  Corbett thanked him and then went back to the parchments.

  Some were roughly drawn maps of the area very similar to the ones he had seen before. There was also a short memorandum about King John losing his treasure in the Wash and some rough scribblings which proved more interesting. Monck had drawn up a list of questions:

  Item – The lights at sea and the lights on the cliff top?

  Item – Where could the treasure be hidden? The Hermitage? Or the caves beneath Mortlake Manor?

  Item – Is Holcombe buried in the village churchyard?

  Item – Where is Alan of the Marsh?

  Corbett read on and smiled. There were similar questions about the reeve and the Pastoureaux and it seemed that Monck entertained suspicions of Gurney, Selditch and the sisters of Holy Cross convent. Corbett looked up. 'Alan of the Marsh,' he murmured.

  'What's that, Master?'

  'Alan of the Marsh,' Corbett said. 'I only found out about him because Gurney told me. So how did Monck know?' He sifted through the documents and found the parchment that gave him his answer. 'Monck may have been half-insane,' he said to Ranulf, 'but he was a good clerk. He found out that Holcombe's sister, Adele, married Alan of the Marsh. Certain property in Bishop's Lynn was handed over as her dowry. The grant, as was customary, was confirmed and included in the sheriff's report to the exchequer. Before he left London, Monck must have gone through the exchequer records and found the entry.'

  'So?' Ranulf asked.

  'Alan of the Marsh was described as living at Hunstanton,' Corbett explained. 'And that's why Monck came here. Alan of the Marsh was Holcombe's brother-in-law as well as his accomplice. Now, where would Alan be buried? And, more importantly, who are his descendants?'

  When Corbett met him in the hall below, Gurney was of little help.

  'Don't you think I haven't investigated that?' he said. 'Alan had no descendants. He disappeared about the same time as Holcombe did. Perhaps Father Augustine may be of some assistance? However, the burial, marriage and baptismal records of the church are in some chaos – the previous incumbent was not the most organized of men.'

  Corbett left Ranulf and Maltote to sort through the rest of Monck's possessions and, saddling his horse, rode out to Hunstanton. He was hardly made welcome – the villagers gave him dark looks and turned their backs as he passed. Women dragged their ragged-arsed children indoors and the men, coming from the fields for their midday meal, glanced sourly at him and muttered amongst themselves.

  Corbett found Father Augustine in a small sacristy beside the high altar. Robert the reeve, who was also the verger, was in attendance. He glowered at Corbett. The priest, though, was welcoming enough.

  'How can I help you, Sir Hugh?'

  'You have records here of baptisms, deaths, marriages?'

  'We have, Sir Hugh. Indeed, we have been trying to put them in order. Why? How can these assist you?'

  'I want to trace the name of a villager who lived here almost a hundred years ago. A man – probably fairly prosperous – called Alan of the Marsh.'

  'Why?' Robert the reeve came forward, eyes wide, lips tightly pursed.

  'Why not?' Corbett replied crossly.

  'Because he's my relation. An ancestor of mine.'

  'Is he buried here?' Corbett asked.

  'No, he isn't. He's not really-' The reeve coughed in embarrassment. 'He's not really a relation, in the blood sense. My great-grandmother was married to him. She came from Bishop's Lynn. But Alan disappeared soon after their marriage. They had no children and my great-grandmother married again. Father Augustine can show you the records.'

  The priest had already moved across to a large, iron-bound chest in the far corner of the sacristy and was rummaging among its contents. He brought out a great, leather-bound ledger and some scrolls and laid them out on the sacristy table. Robert the reeve was clearly determined to stay. He rearranged candles, then began to polish the brass censer. Corbett tried to ignore him as Father Augustine opened the great ledger.

  'Here,' the priest pointed a bony finger at one entry, the ink fading on the parchment, where a forgotten priest had recorded the marriage of Adele Holcombe to Alan of the Marsh on 8 November 1215.

  'That will be the only entry there,' Father Augustine said. He closed the book and turned to a crackling, yellowing scroll. 'This is the burial register for the years 1215 to 1253.' Unrolling the scroll he found the entry recording the burial of Adele Holcombe, now Adele-atte-Reeve, in the graveyard. 'And this' – he offered another scroll – 'is the baptismal record.' He and Corbett read through it together but could find no reference to any children of Alan of the Marsh.

  'Was Adele Holcombe's one of the graves disturbed?' Corbett asked.

  'No, I don't think so.' Father Augustine looked at the reeve. 'Was it?'

  Robert merely shook his head.

  'Would it have been easy,' Corbett asked, 'for a woman like Adele to have her marriage to Alan annulled so she could marry again?'

  The priest sat down at the table, resting his elbows on the arm of a chair. 'According to canon law, if a husband disappears and the marriage is childless, the wife can ask for an annulment after five years. Adele probably did this. Sir Hugh, I don't wish to be inquisitive, but why this interest in people long dead?'

  'I am sorry, Father, for the moment I can't tell you. But,' he continued, 'that means Adele must have known that Alan was dead.'

  'Not necessarily. She may simply have found another suitor after five years had elapsed and then applied to the bishop for an annulment. Such cases are quite common.'

  Corbett looked at the reeve. 'Master Robert, can I ask you a question? And you may deduce from it what you will. In your family, are there any legends or stories about hidden treasure?'

  The reeve stared back pompously, though Corbett caught the flicker of guilt in his eyes.

  'Master reeve,' he insisted. 'I suggest you be honest with me.'

  The reeve clasped his hands together and stared up at the ceiling. 'There are legends.'

  'Legends about King John's treasure?'

  The reeve flinched as if Corbett had touched a sensitive spot.

  'Master Monck asked the same questions.' 'He came here?' Corbett asked.

  'Oh, yes,' Father Augustine replied. 'That's why we found the entries so quickly.' The priest's brow furrowed in puzzlement. 'He came, I think, on the second day after his arrival to make the same enquiries as you. Didn't he tell you, Sir Hugh?'

  Corbett smiled wryly. 'Master Monck was a secretive man.'

  'Was?' the priest and reeve chorused together.

  'This morning Master Catchpole brought his corpse in. He was found on the moors, a crossbow bolt deep in his chest.'

  The reeve shuffled his mud-stained boots and looked away.

  Did you kill him? Corbett wondered. He recalled the black looks as he went through the village. Had Monck been murdered as a result of a village conspiracy?

  'Master reeve,' he said quietly. 'You still haven't answered my question.'

  Robert breathed in deeply. 'There are legends all over Norfolk about the old king's treasure. About a false guide called Holcombe whom Sir Richard Gurney hanged on the scaffold on the cliff top. There are also stories that Alan of the Marsh may have been his accomplice.'

  'And how do these stories end?'

  'They say Holcombe was hunted down.'

  'And?'

  'Either Alan of the Marsh was killed by the Gurneys who
seized his wealth 'Or?'

  'Or he hid away, trapped himself in a place he couldn't get out of and died of starvation.'

  'Father, have you heard these stories?'

  The priest smiled. 'As Robert says, they are common. But the whereabouts of Alan of the Marsh and the treasure are a mystery.' Father Augustine steepled his fingers together. 'I have even heard' – his long face broke into a grin – 'that the villagers here murdered Alan of the Marsh, seized his treasure and either hid it or distributed it.'

  Robert the reeve made a rude sound with his lips.

  'Did Master Monck examine Adele's grave?'

  'Yes, he did,' the priest said. 'No one knew where it was and it took some time to find it. He even examined the coffin.' He shook his head. 'But there's nothing there.'

  'A final question,' Corbett said.

  'Yes, Sir Hugh?'

  'Master Monck called here on the afternoon he died. Why was that?'

  'He was asking once again about his clerk Cerdic. I couldn't help him. He spent some time here with me, speculating on what had happened to Cerdic.' The priest glanced slyly at Corbett. 'He also said some rather uncharitable things about your arrival and he was in a terrible temper. He left, saying he was going back to the Holy Cross convent.' The priest paused. 'It must have been well after dark. Do you remember, Robert, I called you to the church after making a sick call?'

  'That's right,' the reeve confirmed. 'I was waiting here for Father Augustine when suddenly I heard hoof beats. I ran out of the church and Monck thundered by, riding his horse like the devil. He went through the village, scattering dogs and chickens, stopping neither for man, woman nor child.'

  'Why do you think he was riding so furiously?'

  'God knows. I thought he was going back to the manor or perhaps across the moors to the Pastoureaux.'

  Corbett thanked them and went outside. He unhitched his horse and wondered whether to go to the Holy Cross convent. The day was drawing in. Large, fat raindrops, carried by the driving wind, wetted his face. Damn it, Corbett thought and, turning his horse's head, rode back towards the manor.

  'I don't want to go to the convent and Dame Cecily's supercilious ways,' he murmured to himself. He stared into the gathering darkness. He was also being cautious – if Monck was murdered in an ambush, the same could happen to him.