Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18) Read online

  Corbett slouched in the chair, narrowing his eyes. If Tallefert and Pietal were dead, then sooner or later his other spy, the Deacon, that gregarious eternal scholar with his gift for mimicry and disguise, would establish the truth, though by then it might be too late.

  ‘Sir Hugh!’

  Corbett stared at the Magister’s weather-beaten face under its mop of spiked white hair. Could this villain, he wondered, provide a way out of the tangled mysteries and problems confronting him? A seed of an idea had taken root in Corbett’s mind. He entertained no illusion about the source of the murderous mayhem about to engulf him, along with de Craon, and behind him, deeper in the shadows, those two sinister souls Philip of France and Guillaume de Nogaret.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf was concerned at his master’s deep detachment.

  ‘Ranulf, a parchment script,’ Corbett pointed at the hour candle, ‘some wax, a quill pen and a little ink. Magister, please wait.’ Ranulf hurried to comply. Corbett seized the proffered quill pen, wrote out his message on the script, sealed it with his chancery ring and then pushed it towards the Magister. ‘First, sir, you must listen to all the chatter of the alleyways on the matters I’ve raised with you. Sift such gossip carefully and report back to me. Understood?’ The Magister, studying the parchment, murmured that he would. ‘Second,’ Corbett continued, ‘you would deeply love a pardon for all past crimes?’ The Magister looked up, astonished. ‘You would be even happier if you were offered the post of king’s mariner?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Very well.’ Corbett tapped the parchment script. ‘This will gain you entry to the chancery office at Westminster. Now, besides the other duties I have assigned you, you must spend your time studying the king’s sea charts, which describe the coastline from the mouth of the Thames north to the Wash. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do.’

  ‘You enjoy the reputation of being a master mariner. In your previous life you were Elijah Woodhead, a seaman of distinction. Well, I want you to go back to that. I need you to become Gaston Foix, master of The Black Hogge. You must set up house in his soul to see the world through his eyes. You must then become his nemesis, his implacable opponent, and plot how you would, if you could, destroy him totally. Remember,’ Corbett held up a hand, ‘this is no easy task. Gaston Foix knows which ships leave the Thames. Even if a fleet of war cogs went hunting him, he would know it soon enough. He could hide, do what he wished. Even if our ships sought him out for battle …’

  ‘The outcome would not be inevitable,’ the Magister excitedly intervened. ‘Gaston is skilled in war. He is also master of a powerful cog, which, according to all reports, can outsail and outfight anything fielded against it.’

  ‘So,’ Corbett insisted, ‘think as his implacable enemy. If you were the king’s admiral, from the Thames north to Berwick, how would you trap Gaston and The Black Hogge?’ He clutched the Magister’s wrist. ‘In this I trust you, and I assure you, if you are successful, I shall move heaven and earth for you. Betray me and the cause I serve, and I swear, not even St Michael and all his angels will be able to save you. Remember what I have said about the other matters. I know you have your spies, your legion of minions, the swallows of the alleyways. Set up watch on both the lazar hospital of St Giles and the Merry Mercy tavern. Discover who comes and who goes. Where they go and what they do. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ The Magister clasped Corbett’s hand, nodded at Ranulf and left the chamber.

  ‘Chanson!’ Corbett called over his clerk of the stables, who was crouched on a stool close to the door. He handed him a small waxen copy of the secret seal. ‘As swift as a bird, Chanson, go to the muniment room in the Tower. Search out Fitzosbert, the chief muniment clerk.’

  ‘You mean the Ferret?’ Chanson burst out.

  ‘Aye.’ Corbett grinned. ‘Fitzosbert the Ferret among the records.’

  ‘He certainly looks like one,’ Ranulf laughed, ‘with his pointed face and his little black eyes, constantly sniffing over the dust that clogs his nose – or so he claims.’

  ‘Search him out,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Fitzosbert is to go through all the documents seized from Templar holdings throughout this kingdom. He is searching for two names, Matthew Fallowfield and Henry Sumerscale. If he can’t find these, I would like him to concentrate on their forenames, any Templars called Henry or Matthew. Describe the ages of both men and whatever else we know about them. Fitzosbert must also be given the names of the Templars now sheltering in St Giles. I want to know where they served before their order was dissolved.’ He held a hand up at the sound of distant shouting. ‘For the moment we shall return to St Giles …’ He paused as the door was flung open and Peterkin the ship’s boy burst in, followed by an irate lay brother who had tried to stop him.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ the boy pleaded, ‘you must come back to the Merry Mercy! A most hideous murder! Master Slingsby has been found cruelly stabbed in a jakes house!’

  Gaston Foix, master of The Black Hogge, sat in his small cabin beneath the stern castle of his formidable fighting ship. He moved restlessly on the armless leather backed chair bolted to the deck floor and plucked at a loose thread on his stained thick blue hose. He was glad his ship had anchored. They had been at sea for days; now they could reprovision and take on fresh purveyance. Gaston had sunk The Candle-Bright, then sailed on to deliver certain letters and packages to officials in Calais before returning to his continual prowling along the Essex coast. He had charts that accurately described the various estuaries, ports and natural harbours of the rugged and desolate coastline. Of course there were the fishing smacks, but Gaston, an experienced sailor, knew what hour the fishing boats sailed and what hour they returned. Occasionally a mistake was made, but no fishing boat ever escaped The Black Hogge. If danger really threatened, Gaston could sail further north, tacking into the frozen seas, or due east, well away from the usual trade routes. Raised on the savage, treacherous seas off the Breton coast, he knew how to play the ghost, slipping in and out of the mist. The real danger was the way he and his crew felt now: dirty, dishevelled, tired of stale bread, hard meat and brackish water.

  Gaston stared down at his scuffed boots, ran a hand around his unshaven chin and grinned. He was truly dirty. He must reek like a midden heap, whilst his clothes were so salt-soaked, they were beyond any washing. Thankfully Ysabeau, his wife, could not see or smell him now. Immediately he felt a sharp pang of homesickness. It would be so good to be sailing into the harbour of La Rochelle with its soaring tower defences, to be aiming like an arrow towards the quayside, where his wife and family would be waiting.

  Gaston murmured a prayer and crossed himself. He drank the brackish ale from the leather blackjack, his stubby fingers gathering the bits of dried meat and coarse bread on the platter before him. Instead of sailing home, he reflected, The Black Hogge was hiding off the windswept coast of Essex, where, despite the summer sun, the breeze could turn cold and biting, with sudden squalls rushing in to send the cog pitching and twisting. As the ship shuddered, tugging and pulling against the anchor stone, he steadied himself, listening keenly to the cries of the lookouts that all was well, clear on land and sea. Usually The Black Hogge harboured at night and was gone by dawn, away from any spy on shore or sea, but today was different.

  A knock on the door made him turn. His leading seaman, Blanquit, pushed his ugly face through to assure him that their precious cargo was fed, comfortable and resting. All was going well, he declared, and the landing party would soon be ready. His master grunted, and Blanquit left.

  Gaston sat back as he recalled how he and his ship had come to be here. Philip of France’s tapestry of treasons, as Gaston called it, was now being swiftly woven. The mariner recalled that eventful day when he had been ushered into the secret chamber of the Holy Chancery at the Louvre. A strange star-shaped room, its walls covered with polished Spanish leather sheets, and over these a dark-blue arras displaying the royal silver fleur-de-lis. The t
hickest turkey rugs carpeted the floor. As far as Gaston could see, there were no windows or apertures. The darkness was kept at bay by a host of fluted snow-white beeswax candles; these provided pools of light over the thick oaken table where Philip of France presided.

  Gaston closed his eyes as he recalled meeting the French king for the first time. No wonder they called him the Iron King: thick yellow hair tumbling down to his shoulders, those eerie light-blue eyes never flickering or blinking in their stony gaze. His face was ghostly white, yet his lips were so red Gaston wondered if they had been carmined. To the king’s right, de Nogaret, Philip’s nefarious soul comrade, his sallow, hard face a mask for a mind that teemed like a box of worms. On the king’s left, Monseigneur Amaury de Craon, russet-haired, white-faced, all eager to be dispatched as Philip’s envoy to Edward of England. Next to him the truly sinister-looking Brother Jerome, a demon soul if there was ever one.

  Gaston had been sworn to the utmost secrecy as the tapestry of treason was unfurled. There was a king to be trapped, mocked and weakened, both within and without; a kingdom to be held to ransom; a treasure seized, and the greatest source of protection and comfort for Edward of England to be brutally removed. There were enemies to be destroyed and men in their scores to be killed, either silently in the dark or during the blood heat of battle.

  De Nogaret and de Craon drew Gaston in and showed him his role in what Gaston secretly considered to be a murderous, macabre courtly masque. The ship’s master was flattered, praised and, as he quietly realised, threatened. He was told what he already knew, that he would be foolish to sail to and from a port on the Narrow Seas. Instead, he would take up position in the misty, mysterious and empty vastness of the northern ocean. He was instructed on the singular way he and de Craon would communicate. He was informed how he had been chosen because of his skill and reputation as a mariner and because of the unique skills he had learnt during his years of service with the Genoese. He would use what had become a most enjoyable pastime in the service of Philip of France, and so confuse and confound the French king’s opponents. Summer would pass, autumn would come, and by then, de Nogaret assured him in a whisper, everything would have come to fruition.

  Gaston had certainly played his part to the full. He had taken ships like The Candle-Bright and seized their secret papers. Already he knew from the messages he’d received how delighted de Nogaret was at capturing and silencing all those agents of the English Crown. Now they were set to remove the principal obstacle.

  Another knock on the door, and Blanquit came in again.

  ‘Master,’ he declared, ‘the shore boats have brought fresh provisions.’ He tapped Gaston’s cup. ‘Good Bordeaux, the finest Rheinish, roast capon and coney, fresh linen, clean water. We will wash, change and feast well tonight.’

  Gaston rose, clasped his henchman on the shoulder and went out on deck, which his crew were swilling down with buckets of water. A strong breeze buffeted his face, cooling the sweat on his skin. The Black Hogge strained and creaked in a groan of wood, cordage and sail, like some destrier eager to break free and charge into battle.

  ‘Soon enough, my terrible beauty,’ Gaston murmured patting the great middle mast.

  The Black Hogge was turning on the tide, pulling constantly against the anchor stone rope. The sails were reefed but the crew stood ready to loose them at the first hint of trouble. Gaston, eyes blinking against the salty breeze, stared out across the mist-hung water. The sea was still a sullen grey mass; the sun had yet to rise, but the shoreline was becoming more distinct as the mist shifted and thinned. Others were coming up from beneath deck: de Nogaret’s assassins, well-armed and buckled for war beneath their cloaks, hoods hiding their faces. Professional killers, mercenaries from de Nogaret’s personal retinue, each of them carried a saddle bag. They moved gingerly towards the side of the ship, where the taffrail had been removed and a rope ladder lowered.

  Gaston stared around. The ship was now reprovisioned with all the necessary purveyance. Once the assassins had finished their business, he would return for them and fresh supplies.

  ‘It is time,’ he declared.

  He followed the mercenaries down the rope ladder to one of the two bobbing shore boats. He sat in the prow and shouted to cast off. The rowers leaned over their oars, straining mightily as both boats clattered against the side of the cog towering above them, then pulled away, heading for the shore. Gaston breathed in the smells of salt, dead fish, and that distinctive tang from the brambles and briars that stretched down to the beach. At last the surge of the sea weakened, the boat’s keel scratching the shale. The oarsmen leapt out to pull the boats as far from the waterline as possible.

  Gaston leapt over the side and strode across the beach, climbing the sand hills on to the wild heathland of gorse and sturdy trees. He glimpsed the cart and horses that brought the provisions. A man broke free of these and strode up the beaten-earth track. He pulled back his hood to reveal a dark, close face, full lips strangely twisted, narrow-set eyes wary and aggressive as those of a war dog.

  ‘Gaston Foix.’ The stranger clasped the mariner’s hand. ‘It is good to see you again. Your companions?’ He gestured at the eight men behind the mariner.

  ‘You have your orders,’ Gaston replied. ‘You must take these comrades to the meeting place and wait.’

  ‘What is your name?’ The leader of the assassins stepped forward.

  ‘You have your papers?’ the stranger retorted, ignoring the question.

  ‘Our documents are all in order,’ the leader of the assassins replied, ‘signed and sealed. Master Foix here did not give us your name; what are you called?’

  ‘My name is Rougehead,’ the stranger replied, ‘Gabriel Rougehead. Once a Templar serjeant but now the most faithful servant of His Grace the king of France.’

  The Deacon was also, at least ostensibly, the most faithful subject of Philip of France. In reality, he was one of Sir Hugh Corbett’s most resourceful spies in Paris. Baptised Walter Creswell over the ancient font in the village church of Castle Acre in Norfolk, he was an actor, a mummer, who sheltered deep in the shadows. The eternal student, he had migrated from the halls of Oxford and Cambridge to study in the colleges and schools of the University of Paris. He could often be seen walking the cloisters of the Abbey of St Victor. Despite his sacred title, the Deacon was most skilled in lying. He often admitted the same to himself. He was a liar by nature, by upbringing, by training, by profession and by permission of his own free will. The only person he did not lie to was Sir Hugh Corbett.

  For the rest of his time, the Deacon sold lies. Not only his name, his profession, his so-called loyalty, but a wide array of false relics, from which he made a considerable profit. He assured his buyers that they would be saved for eternal life whilst quietly conceding, in those sombre early hours of each day, that he himself would be closeted with the damned. Yet he could not stop or change, because he did not want to. He loved what he did, and Sir Hugh Corbett recognised that. The Deacon lived, thrived and feasted on deception. He could change his appearance and his trade to be a furrier, a barrow man, a baker, a butcher or a candlestick maker. When he tired of selling relics, he traded in lard, selling it in glazed earthenware jars sealed against the rats; or fresh eggs, waxed and embedded in straw and sand. He was always eager that every deception be successful. He would openly discourse on the Sentences of Abelard, at the same time sitting on a stool and pretending to be a cook boy turning a spit, his face protected from the raging fire by a wicker screen. He used his access to kitchens to provide him with the wherewithal to make relics of the highest quality; be it the cord worn by the Saviour, or Goliath’s foreskin.

  On that bright summer’s day, the Deacon was sheltering in one of the student auberges close to the Tour de Nesle and, more importantly, the narrow street that was home to Guido Tallefert, clerk of the Holy Chancery in the Louvre, close friend and secret ally of Sir Hugh Corbett. He sipped at his watered wine and quietly cursed as one of the city
provosts, surrounded by men-at-arms, pushed a movable gallows into the auberge’s stable yard. The city authorities often did this as a public warning to the riotous, lusty students and scholars who thronged that quarter, feasting and revelling once released from the halls and schools. The sight of a sun-dried blackened corpse with crows poking and pecking at its hollowed eyes was judged to be the most powerful deterrent to riotous behaviour. The Deacon was tempted to rise and leave, but that might attract attention, so he sat as if listening to the sounds of the streets: the songs of the taverns, the cries of the daughters of joy, the clink of goblets, the thud of running feet and the slamming of shutter or door.

  At last the provost’s men decided to take their grisly memento mori back out on to the street. The Deacon waited for a while, then followed. He needed, as usual, to check that all was well with Tallefert. He crossed the thoroughfare, glancing across to the greenish-grey moss-covered wall that ran along the Seine. The various enclaves in this barrier were used to exhibit criminals in the stocks, gibbets for hanging river pirates, and the corpses of those fished from the river, stripped and stretched out on hand carts in the hope that someone might recognise them. Two corpses, naked as newborn babes, occupied one enclave. The Deacon stopped and stared at them in horror. They were unrecognisable. The faces of both appeared to have been furrowed or ploughed by some malevolent worm that had turned and twisted in the rotting flesh to create buboes and suppurating boils. The damage had been worsened by the nibbling of fish and of the vermin that swarmed along the riverbank. The eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. The noses were swollen lumps of putrid flesh, the thickened lips gaping and corrupt.