Prince of Darkness hc-5 Page 17

  Maeve sat silent for a while. 'I don't know. Will you let the matter rest?' 'No.' Corbett patted her on the hand. 'Let me think for a while.'

  He crossed the room, pulled back the arras on the far wall and went into his own secret chamber. He took a tinder, lit the candles on his desk and stared at the bundles of letters awaiting him. They had arrived during his absence and he had scanned them quickly. News from foreign courts, spies, envoys, merchants and other clerks. Only one of them concerned the business at Godstowe. A short note from a spy in Paris: Eudo Tailler's head had been fished from the Seine where it had been thrown in a sack.

  'Christ have mercy on his soul,' Corbett whispered.

  Tailler had sent his master the news about the mysterious de Montfort assassin. Had that cost him his life? If so, the price seemed too steep. Corbett had discovered no trace of any assassin active in England. He put the letter aside and took a fresh piece of parchment, smoothing it out and rubbing it clear with a pumice stone. He then began to itemise the problems and questions which confronted him. He worked for hours, taking each name and trying to draw up evidence to prove that person the murderer. Outside the dark woods and fields were silent as if waiting patiently for the approach of winter. Corbett dozed for a while and was suddenly awakened by a knocking on the chamber door. It swung open to reveal Maeve.

  'The old nun, Hugh… isn't it strange?' She smiled. 'Remember I talk as a woman. Dame Martha wanted a bath and put a screen round the tub?'

  Corbett rubbed his eyes and nodded.

  'But if you go to the trouble of putting a screen round the tub, what else do you do?'

  Corbett shook his head wearily.

  'For God's sake, Hugh, any lady would do it! Your famous logic. She would lock the door!'

  'So?'

  'Oh, Hugh, think! You said the door was open.'

  Corbett fed back in his chair and smiled.

  'So, the old nun must have let her murderer in. She must have been in the bath, heard the knock and got out; the trail of water was not left by the murderer but the nun herself when she crossed to open the door.'

  Corbett stared down at his piece of parchment.

  'Thank you, Maeve,' he mumbled. But when he looked up, the door was closed and his wife had gone.

  Corbett bathed his hands and face in the bowl of water standing on the lavarium. He reviewed his notes in the tight of what Maeve had said, and began to follow it through. He forced his arguments on, jumping gaps, circumventing difficulties or problems. The cold hand of fear pinched his stomach. He knew the murderer! Was it possible? He scratched his tousled hair and went back again, taking in all the facts and like the lawyer he was, drawing up a summary bill of prosecution. He shook his head. A jury might not accept that he had proved his case, but they would agree there was a case to answer.

  Corbett suddenly remembered his last meeting with the nuns at Godstowe and his heart began to pound. They were all in danger, every one of them! He got to his feet, threw his cloak round him and went down to rouse Ranulf and Maltote, dragging both of them, sleepy-eyed, into the dark kitchen. He gave them instructions: they were to break fast, saddle the swiftest horses from the stables and leave with him.

  'We go to London first,' he declared. 'Then,' he grinned, 'visit every tavern along the Oxford road.'

  Of course they protested, but Corbett was adamant Within an hour he had kissed Maeve adieu and they were on the road south to Westminster. Corbett was determined to seek out the truth. He might not be able to stop murder at Godstowe, but at least he might trap the assassin who stalked the priory.

  Corbett was right in his dread premonition. At Godstowe Priory Dame Frances was only a few minutes away from death. The self-important Sub-prioress was both disturbed and fearful. She was troubled, distracted in meditation, and often found herself staring into the middle distance when the other sisters were chanting Divine Office. She had told her confidante but she had been no help, and how could she approach the Lady Amelia? No, she thought, that was out of the question Dame Frances gazed round the small kitchen of the novitiate. Upstairs the young postulants were now retiring to bed in the long dormitory. Each knelt in her partitioned alcove, commending heart and soul to God and praying that Satan, who wandered around like a lion seeking his prey, did not harm their bodies or souls that night

  Dame Frances sat down on a stool, her face in her hands. What that dour clerk had announced must be connected with the death of Lady Eleanor, and, perhaps the death of old Martha. Dame Frances had seen that motto, 'Noli me tangere' here, in Godstowe, but could not remember where or when. Should she flee the priory? Go to Westminster and seek an audience with Corbett or one of the King's Officers? But whom could she trust? Gaveston had his spies everywhere and the common jest was true, England had three kings; old Edward, his son and Gaveston. She stared dully at the logs crackling in the hearth. Perhaps she should wait her mind was tired. A good night's sleep and tomorrow she would plot and plan.

  Dame Frances rose, picked up the bucket and stopped, heart in mouth, at a sound outside. Was there someone watching her? Or was it just the wind rustling the leaves along the grass? Dame Frances walked towards the fire, muttering a short prayer that all would be well. She was still praying as she emptied the bucket over the logs. Her mumbles rose instantly to a terrifying scream as the flames jumped from the fire, ran along the hearth, and caught her robe. In a few seconds, Dame Frances was a blazing human torch.

  Only a few miles away other actors in the macabre drama surrounding Lady Eleanor's death were taking up new roles and stances. In his velvet-lined chamber, Piers Gaveston lay under the great, silken canopy of his four-poster bed, chewing his lip and wondering what would happen next He trusted his spy in London. Corbett had been snooping there and seized a juicy morsel, first visiting his old friend at St Bartholomew's and then the poisoner in Faltour's Lane. Gaveston had ordered the apothecary to be killed. He knew too much, and besides Gaveston could not understand why Lady Eleanor had not died of those powders. The apothecary had assured him that anyone who took them would gradually weaken and die as if from natural causes. The apothecary had lied and Lady Eleanor had been murdered by other means. So what should he do next? Gaveston looked at the young page boy standing near him, a goblet of wine in his small white hands. The favourite sat up and grabbed the cup so hastily splashes of wine fell on his silken, multi-coloured hose. He rounded in anger, slapping the page across his sulky, girlish face.

  'Get out!' he roared. 'Get out, until you learn how to serve a lord!'

  The boy hurried away, rubbing his flaming cheek, as Gaveston sipped from the goblet If only Corbett had kept his long nose out of this God-forsaken business! The royal favourite gazed moodily around the chamber. He would not forget Corbett a man to be reckoned with. Should he make him a friend? Gaveston bit his lip. Perhaps, but that was for the future. The old King was now hurrying south and with him would come those grizzled warlords who followed like mastiffs at the royal heels. Gaveston knew how much they hated him. If only the old King would die! Gaveston would keep the Prince sweet until then. He would confess all, go on his knees, say he was the Prince's slave, buy him expensive presents… But when would the old King die?

  Gaveston rose and went across to an old, ironbound chest taking a ring of keys from a gold chain which hung around his neck. He undid the three locks and swung back the lid. He took out the waxen figure which also contained straw and fat from a hanged man. It wore a silver chaplet round its head. Then he removed a bowl of incense and a black inverted cross. Squatting down on the floor like a peasant, Gaveston began the dark satanic ritual learnt from his mother for the total destruction of his enemies.

  In another chamber in the same palace Seigneur Amaury de Craon was also preparing to change tack. His assassins were dead, Philip would not be pleased by that; the dwarfs had carried out many an assassination on behalf of the French King and their skills and expertise would be sorely missed. De Craon pondered the choices facing him. If old E
dward died, if he was murdered, what would the gossips say then? Would they hint at patricide? That the young Prince, or Gaveston, or both, not only murdered hapless ladies in convents but even the Lord's anointed?

  De Craon shifted in his chair uneasily. He had searched for this assassin by silent threat and bribery but so far had discovered nothing. King Philip had sent him a name wrung from the captured spy Tailler, but de Craon could find no trace of such a man. De Craon smiled grimly to himself: Tailler had been brave and, to the very last, had told nothing but ties. Perhaps the assassin's fictitious name was Tailler's final joke. The envoy cursed quietly to himself. If only Corbett had been elsewhere. All might now depend upon that interfering, extremely lucky, English clerk. Perhaps he might fail? Perhaps Philip's final plan, of finding and using the de Montfort assassin, could still succeed? Or should he, de Craon wondered, abandon this game, resume his official status and demand the betrothal of the Prince of Wales to the Princess Isabella?

  Chapter 12

  The rain was still falling as Corbett and his party reached London's Aldgate and made their way down through Poor Jewry, Mark Lane, and into Petty Wales near the Tower. They stabled their horses and hired a wherry at the Wool Quay. Maltote of course protested, but the two wizened boatmen only mocked his fears at having to go downriver.

  'You only drown once!' they cried in unison. 'And it doesn't take long. If you fall in the water, just open your mouth and let the water gush in. You'll be amongst the angels within a few seconds!'

  'Which is more than we could say for you!' Ranulf hotly declared, coming to the aid of the newfound victim of his dice games.

  Corbett told them all to shut up. The boatmen cast off and rowed downriver past Billingsgate and Botolph's Wharf. The wherry shot under London Bridge where the water boiled between the closely built arches, the boatmen dipping their oars so the boats could squeeze by the starlings which protected them against the thick stone arches. Once they were through they all relaxed; the Thames was a cruel river but no more dangerous than in the seething cauldron under London Bridge.

  The wherryman now took their boat midstream, past Dowgate, Queenshithe and the Fleet. The stench there was dreadful. The city refuse, the corpses of dogs, cats, beggars, lepers and even unwanted babies, were dumped in the Fleet ditch and, when the rains came, were washed down to the Thames. As they rounded the bend towards Westminster, Ranulf nudged Corbett and pointed to the near bank. Despite the thick refuse which bobbed and dipped on the river surface, water carriers were now filling their barrels full of Thames water to sell on the streets and alleyways of London. Corbett grinned wanly and nodded.

  'Always drink wine or beer, Ranulf,' he murmured, then turned to the waterman. 'Is it true?' he asked.

  'What?'

  'That a sudden inrush of water will suffocate the breath immediately?'

  'Oh, yes.' One of the boatmen grinned at a green-faced Maltote. 'Best way to die.'

  Ranulf took up the argument as Corbett looked away and thought of old Dame Martha drowning in her bathwater.

  At Westminster they disembarked at King's Steps, Corbett pulling the hood of his cloak over his head to avoid recognition by any of his colleagues in the Chancery or the Exchequer for he did not want to waste valuable time in idle chatter. He left Ranulf and Maltote to feed their faces in one of the many pie shops which stood just within the walls of the palace and pushed his way through the crowds, taking the path around the Great Hall to the buildings beyond. Here he crossed to one of the small outbuildings and, making his voice sound pompous, loudly demanded entrance in the King's name. A querulous voice told him to go and jump in the Thames so he knocked again and eventually the door swung open to reveal a tall, gaunt figure, dressed in a long robe of dyed brown fur. The man's face was pale, long and lined, his blue watery eyes squinted in the daylight. Corbett kept his hood up.

  'Who are you?' the man demanded sharply.

  Corbett pulled the hood back.

  'Master Nigel Couville. I am a messenger from the King. He has decreed you are too old and senile for your post and I have been sent to replace you!'

  The old man's gaunt face broke into a smile and his thin blue-veined hands clasped Corbett by the arms.

  'You are as insulting as ever, Hugh,' he murmured. 'And as stupid! Come in. Unless you want us both soaked to the skin.'

  Corbett entered the room. The light inside was dim and the air musty with the smell of candle grease, burnt charcoal, and the lingering odours of leather and parchment There was a trestle table and a huge stool, the rest of the room being taken up with leather and wooden caskets of all sizes. Some were open to reveal rolls of parchment spilling out on to the floor. Around the walls were shelves which stretched up to the blackened ceiling, bearing more rolls of vellum. It all looked very disorganised but Corbett knew that Couville could select any document he wanted in an instant This chamber was the muniment room of the Chancery and the Exchequer with records dating back centuries. If a document was issued or received it would be filed in the appropriate place in Nigel Couville's kingdom. Once the senior clerk in the Chancery, Nigel had been given this assignment as a benefice, a reward for long and faithful service to the Crown. Couville had been Corbett's master and mentor when Hugh first became a clerk and, despite the gap in years and experience, they had become and remained firm friends.

  Couville searched around the room and brought a small stool forward.

  I can see you are going to be a nuisance,' he observed drily. 'Old habits never change.' He waited until Corbett sat down. 'Some wine?'

  Corbett shook his head.

  'Not if it's that watered vinegar you always serve!'

  Couville went into a small recess and brought out an unstoppered jar and two pewter goblets.

  'The best Bordeaux.' He filled a cup to the brim and handed it to Corbett 'Now I know what Scripture means when it says: "Don't cast your pearls before swine".'

  Corbett grinned as he sipped the rich red wine.

  'Beautiful!' he murmured.

  'Of course it is.' Couville sat opposite him, elbows on his knees, cradling the cup as if it was the Holy Grail. 'St Thomas a Becket drank the same wine. Do you know, even when he became an ascetic and gave up the pomp of court, even when he fasted, the Blessed Thomas could not abstain from his cups of claret.' Couville smiled at the clerk. 'And you, Hugh, you are wed? Maeve too?'

  They exchanged banter and gossip about old friends, new acquaintances, and fresh scandals. At last Couville put his goblet down on the floor beside him.

  'What is it you want, Hugh?'

  Corbett took the faded leather dog's collar out of his wallet

  'There's a motto written on this – "Noli me tangere". I think it's from a family crest. Do you recognise it?'

  Couville tapped his fingers together and narrowed his eyes.

  'Somewhere,' he mused, I have heard that phrase.' He rose, scratching his head. 'But the question is, where?'

  Corbett rested for an hour whilst his old friend, arms full of sheaves and rolls of parchment, searched the records of armorial bearings and heraldic designs. At first Couville confidently announced, 'It will not take long, Hugh, believe me!'

  But after an hour had elapsed, he stood in the centre of the room, shaking his head.

  'Tell me, Hugh, why you want this?' He raised a hand. I know your secret business, Master Corbett. I know you despatch letters of which no copy is sent to me.' He sat down again on the stool opposite his former student. 'But why is this motto so important?'

  Corbett closed his eyes and described the events at Godstowe: the death of Lady Eleanor Belmont, the subtle treachery of the French and Philip IV's evil intentions. He had almost finished when, as an afterthought, he mentioned the possibility of an assassin from the attainted de Montfort family being present in England. Couville's eyes lit up.

  'I have been looking,' he said, 'through the noble families of England and Gascony as they are today. But what happens to a noble family when it is found g
uilty of high treason?'

  'Of course!' Corbett cried. 'The insignia of such a house is destroyed, its titles removed and its lands seized by the Crown!'

  Couville rose and went across to a long leaden tube. He undid the top and drew out a thick, yellowing roll of parchment He laid it carefully out on the long table whilst waving Corbett over. The clerks studied the parchment curiously. It was divided into two; on one side were drawings of Coats of Arms. Corbett recognised a few: Percy de Bohun, Bigod, Mowbray. On the other side of the broad sheet of parchment were Coats of Arms with great black gashes through them.

  'What are these?' he murmured.

  'This is the Roll of Kenilworth,' Couville replied. 'Simen de Montfort rose in rebellion in 1258. As you know, Edward destroyed his forces amongst the apple orchards of Evesham in 1264. De Montfort was killed, his body hacked to bits and fed to the royal dogs. Some of his companions died with him, a few ded abroad, but most took refuge in Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire. After a long siege the casde surrendered and de Montfort's rebellion was over.' Couville pointed to the parchment 'On one side are the armorial bearings of those nobles who supported the King. These others with the black line drawn across their escutcheons belong to the leading supporters of de Montfort. Perhaps we can find your motto amongst them.'

  Corbett walked away whilst Couville, muttering to himself, pored over the Rod of Kenilworth.

  'Ah!' Couville looked up, face beaming with pleasure. 'Noli me tangere belonged to the Deveril family.'

  'What happened to them?'

  Again Couville muttered to himself and wandered round his room checking other rods and parchments and quarto-sized journals which contained an index of royal warrants and proclamations. He beckoned Corbett back to the table.