Song of a Dark Angel hc-8 Read online

  'And why are you here, Hugh?' Monck peered at Ranulf, who stared coldly back. 'Why do Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal, and his loyal but rather lecherous servant Ranulf-atte-Newgate wander the wilds of Norfolk?'

  Corbett stared into his cup. He really did hate this man. Lavinius Monck was the Earl of Surrey's principal clerk, spy and professional assassin. Trained in the halls of Cambridge, Monck had won a name for ruthlessness, unwavering loyalty and a cunning that would be the envy of any fox. If John de Warenne was the king's right hand then Monck was a dagger in that hand. Corbett usually kept well away from him, but sometimes, when necessity demanded it, they had to cooperate and share information.

  'Why, Hugh?' Monck repeated with mock severity.

  Corbett opened the wallet in his belt and brought out a small roll of parchment. Monck grabbed it greedily. He broke the purple wax seal, opened it, leaned forward and studied its contents by the light of the fire.

  'Sealed by the king at Swaffham four days ago.' He looked up and grinned, his white, well-set teeth reminding Corbett of one of the king's hunting dogs. 'I see. You are sent to assist me.' He emphasized the phrase. 'Do you understand that, Sir Hugh?'

  'I understand,' Corbett replied. 'But assist you in what, Lavinius?'

  Monck shrugged, rolled the parchment up and slipped it up the sleeve of his leather jerkin. He leaned back, steepling his fingers, and stared into the fire.

  'Ah!' he sighed. 'That's the problem, Sir Hugh. It's best if we each plough our own furrow. My Lord of Surrey was most insistent on that.'

  'I thought you were here because of the Pastoureaux?' Gurney interrupted.

  Monck smiled. 'Perhaps, Sir Simon, perhaps not. Only time will tell.'

  Corbett steeled his features and sipped from the posset, kicking Ranulf gently on the ankle lest his angry-faced servant take up the cudgels on his behalf.

  Gurney and his wife sat back in their chairs, Alice's eyes pleading with her husband to remain silent. Corbett tensed in fury. He couldn't abide Monck's smug secretiveness and he was angry with the king, who had despatched him here after telling him as little as possible. Corbett could hardly believe he was here because Monck's servant had been murdered or because a baker's wife had been hanged from a scaffold. The Pastoureaux, however, were a different matter. They were dangerous. His agents in France had reported how these fanatics, with their strange dreams and eerie visions, walked from city to city prophesying the end of the world and launching violent attacks upon Jews, foreigners and all of society's poor outcasts. Now groups of Pastoureaux, literally by the shipload, had arrived in England. Harmless at first, they lurked in the wild and waste places. The group here in Norfolk, however, had grown and attracted the attention of the royal commissioners and, ostensibly at least, Monck had been sent north to investigate.

  Corbett shifted uneasily in the chair, ignoring the murmur of conversation that flowed around him. Monck, satisfied that he had emphasized his own importance, now indulged in easy conversation with his hosts about crops, village scandal and the licence to brew ale. Corbett studied the black-garbed clerk. Monck had one weakness – he liked his drink. He could drink claret, beer and ale as a horse munches grass, without any ill-effect. Corbett idly wondered if he, as the king's master spy, should spend some time studying Monck more closely, finding out more about his habits and perhaps discovering other weaknesses. Corbett smiled to himself -Maeve was always teasing him about his own secretiveness, his close scrutiny of the most minor information.

  His smile faded. In this matter the king had been sly and secretive. What was Monck really doing here? One of Corbett's spies in the exchequer had reported that Monck had spent days at the Tower going through records and collecting information. That had been some six or seven weeks ago, soon after Michaelmas. Monck had then disappeared from London. Corbett had heard that he was in Norfolk but had dismissed it as unimportant – John de Warenne held estates here and Monck often acted as the earl's steward. Corbett half-closed his eyes. He rolled the cup between his fingers. Why the exchequer? God knows, the treasury was empty. Edward was desperate for money to keep his depleted fleet at sea and wage bloody war against the Scottish rebel William Wallace. Corbett flinched as Monck placed cold fingers on his hand.

  'Hugh, Hugh, are you dreaming?'

  The clerk rubbed his face and smiled apologetically across at Sir Simon.

  'No, no. I'm tired.'

  'Not too much, Hugh, I hope.' Gurney said. 'We have a dinner in your honour this evening. I have invited guests – Father Augustine, our village priest, and Dame Cecily, Prioress of the Holy Cross convent. Our physician, Selditch and my man Catchpole will also be there.'

  'In which case…'

  Corbett got to his feet just as Maltote, his hair tousled, his face heavy with sleep, burst into the room and gazed beseechingly at Corbett.

  'Master, I am sorry, I did not know you had arrived. I went upstairs and fell asleep.'

  Corbett smiled at the man's innocent, open face.

  'Don't worry, Maltote.'

  Corbett signalled to Ranulf to collect their boots and cloaks. He bowed at the others and allowed Gurney's steward to lead them up the winding staircase to their chamber. Maltote, still heavy with sleep, found it difficult to cope with Ranulf's teasing and without the steward's guidance would not have been able to find his own way back to the chamber they were to share. The steward explained that the house was so full of visitors and guests it was difficult to find a room for everyone. Corbett thanked him, slipped a coin into the fellow's hand and quietly closed the door behind him.

  The room contained three beds with thick mattresses and heavy bolsters, probably of swan feather. Woollen rugs were strewn across the wooden floor and so many candles were lit that the chamber reminded Corbett of a church. After his gruelling journey, Corbett found it warm, sweet-smelling and comfortable. A chest stood at the foot of each bed, a large cupboard against the wall. There were two wall-paintings. One was of Christ arguing with Satan, done in brilliant, vivid colours so that in the flickering candelight the black demon seemed to writhe before Christ. The other was more restful; it was of a young lady working on a piece of tapestry beneath a window which looked out on to a light blue sea.

  Ranulf and Maltote were already chatting. They sat on the edge of a bed, bemoaning the cold, wild emptiness of the countryside. The servants had already unpacked their saddlebags. Corbett's chancery pouch was, of course, untouched – it was buckled and secured with his personal seal. Corbett walked across the room and unfastened the shutters on one of the windows. There was a small, opening panel in the leaded glass. Ignoring Ranulf's protests, Corbett pushed it open, allowing the cold night air to seep in. The window must have overlooked the cliffs, for he could hear the faint murmur of the sea. The mist parted. He caught a glimpse of water and heard the faint cry of gulls. He closed the window against the cold, just as a huge moth, attracted by the light, fluttered in.

  'Why are we here, Master? I mean, why are we really here?' Ranulf spoke up for himself and Maltote.

  'I don't know,' Corbett replied. 'All I know is that the king and John de Warenne have some secret stratagem, that is why Monck is here. But time will tell.' He stared at the leaden-paned glass. 'It will be dark in London. Maeve will still be at table. Uncle Morgan will be singing his heart out.'

  Corbett chewed his lip. Maeve's uncle had come for a few weeks and stayed almost a year. The boisterous Welsh lord was for ever on the move, drinking in the scenes of London as well as every pot of ale on offer. He'd then stagger home to take his great-niece, the baby Eleanor, and sing her to sleep with some Welsh lullaby.

  'I should be there,' Corbett said only half aloud.

  'What was that. Master?'

  Corbett, not bothering to turn, shook his head. Ranulf pulled a face and winked at Maltote.

  'Old Master Long Face,' he whispered, 'is in one of his moods!'

  For once, Ranulf was correct. Corbett was worried. He had spent too m
uch time away from Maeve and his daughter. Oh, his wife could more than cope. She ran their business affairs with a shrewdness that made her the terror of every merchant and the manor at Leighton was rich and prosperous in its crops. But the king was growing old, his moods becoming more sharp and cruel. And when he died, what then? Would the Prince of Wales, with his love of hunting, music and handsome young men, still need Corbett's services? The war with France would end – the Prince of Wales was already betrothed to Philip IV's daughter Isabella. In Scotland, Wallace would be beaten – it was only a matter of time before the king's troops hunted him down and either killed him or brought him south for execution.

  Perhaps, Corbett thought, I should leave the royal service now – follow the example of Gurney and retire to my manor, raising crops and tending sheep, and turn merchant and sell the wool to the looms of Flanders. He smiled to himself. When he had said as much to Maeve, she had shrieked with laughter, falling back on to the bolsters, her silver hair fanned out around her. She had giggled so much Corbett couldn't even kiss her quiet. 'You a farmer!' she'd teased him. 'I can just imagine that. You'd be drawing reports up on what the rams were doing, how the apples grew and whether the orchard was in the best place.'

  'Sometimes I tire of my job,' Corbett had replied heatedly.

  Maeve had sobered up. She lay in the four-poster bed, hugging the blankets around her.

  'You don't like your job, Hugh? You may hate the tasks the king assigns you but perhaps that's what makes you so good at it?' She leaned over and took her husband's dark face in her hands. 'Whatever you say, Hugh Corbett, you have a hunger for the truth and…'

  'And what?' Corbett had asked.

  Maeve had giggled.

  'As Ranulf says, a very long face!'

  Corbett looked up as the moth beat against the window pane.

  'It's very dark,' he muttered. 'God knows when we will see the light again.'

  Ranulf looked at him strangely. He wondered whether his master was talking about the weather or the mysteries that now confronted them.

  Chapter 2

  Marina was running for her life, eyes wide, heart pounding, mouth dry. The icy gorse caught her legs and clutched at the brown robe she wore. She stopped, chest heaving, cursing the mist. She stared round like a frightened doe. 'Where can I go?' she moaned to herself. The mist closed in more thickly around her. She crouched on all-fours, sobbing for breath. She had to get to safety. She squatted like an animal, ears straining into the darkness. An owl hunting over the flat headlands made its sombre cry and a vixen prowling near the village yipped in frustration at the mist-covered sky.

  The young woman licked dry lips. Where could she go? The villagers would drive her out. Father Augustine? He would only shout at her. Perhaps she should go back to the Hermitage! She might get help there, if she told her friends what she knew. But which way? She looked around, vividly remembering her younger days when she and the other village children used to play along the cliff tops pretending to be elves or fairy queens. They would close their eyes and build make-believe palaces. But what could she do now? She moved forward, then froze as a twig snapped behind her.

  'Marina!' a soft voice called. 'Marina!'

  She could stand it no longer. She ran blindly, not caring whether she blundered into pool or marsh. As long as she ran she was safe. The ground beneath her feet, however, seemed to take on a life of its own. The briars and brambles clutched like cruel sharp fingernails at her ankles. She saw a light beckoning and could have shouted with joy. Her legs were growing heavy. She ran, but a bramble bush caught her ankle like a noose. She crashed to the hard, cold ground. She was beginning to scramble to her feet when she heard the soft footfall behind her. She half-turned, but the garrotte tightened around her neck.

  The loud knocking of the steward summoned Corbett and his two companions down to the manor hall. Gurney's servants had laid the great table down the centre of the room. They'd covered it with green samite cloth and judiciously placed two-branched candlesticks to provide soft pools of light. The place smelt sweet – aromatic herbs had been placed in small pots beneath the table and scattered on the roaring fire and on the small capped braziers that stood in each corner. On the floor lay some of the most luxurious rugs Corbett had ever seen. Costly Turkey cloth, emblazoned pennants and bright banners hung from the hammer-beam roof. The air was thick with fragrant odours from the nearby kitchen and buttery. Instead of the usual hard-baked traunchers and pewter spoons, silver plates, golden knives and jewel-encrusted condiment pots decorated the table..

  Gurney and his wife had changed. Alice now wore a murrey-coloured dress whose high collar emphasized her swan-like neck; a gold cord bound her slim waist and a thick white gauze wimple, circled by a silver cord, hid her beautiful hair. Sir Simon was dressed in a russet gown with green hose and brown leather boots. The gown was slashed with green silk on either side of the chest, the sleeves were puffed out with dark-blue taffeta. Corbett hoped he and his party would pass muster. He felt rather dowdy in his dark-brown gown till he glimpsed Monck who, as usual, was dressed completely in black.

  Servants ushered them to their seats. The steward blew on a silver horn and, while minstrels played on the gallery at the far end of the hall, Gurney's retainers began to serve the meal. First the steward brought the great silver salt cellar, bowing three times to his master before placing it in the centre of the table. After him came the pantler, with trays of white manchet loaves. He was followed by the cupbearer carrying a great, two-handled ewer brimming with wine which he tasted and placed in front of his master. Gurney and his guests washed their hands in bowls of rose water, wiping them quickly with the towels on the servants' arms. Only then did Gurney introduce his other guests. Father Augustine was a tall, youngish-looking priest with sandy hair and pale face. He had a sharp, green eyes and a slightly bent nose over thin lips and a firm chin. He gave Corbett the impression of quiet authority. The prioress, Dame Cecily, was small and fat, her round face framed by a heavily starched white wimple and a grey-blue, gold-edged veil. A merry soul, Corbett considered, with her dimpled cheeks, small chin and retrousse nose. But her dark eyes were small and shrewd and her mouth firm and Corbett quietly concluded that she could be as commanding as any lord in the convent she ruled. Finally there was Adam Catchpole, Gurney's principal henchman, a veteran of the old king's wars – a hard-bitten, taciturn man with eyes like flint and a face hewn out of granite. Catchpole kept scratching his close-cropped, greying hair and played with the silver plate and knife as if he felt uneasy in such opulent surroundings.

  Once the introductions were over, Gurney rapped the table and invited Father Augustine to say grace. The priest delivered it in a high nasal voice. Corbett noticed Father Augustine's command of Latin – he said the prayer smoothly without a second thought. The servants came in and served beef and mutton cooked with olives; broiled venison, the flesh sweetened with brown sugar and flavoured with lemon juice, cinnamon and ginger; and chickens spit-roasted and stuffed with grapes. All the time the servants kept filling the goblet beside each guest. Corbett sipped his wine carefully, though Ranulf and Maltote ate and drank as if there was no tomorrow.

  At first the conversation was general. Monck, sitting restlessly beside Corbett, drummed his fingers on the table top. After a few minutes he raised his goblet and looked at Gurney sitting in his high-backed chair.

  'Sir Simon, your hospitality is magnificent but tomorrow Sir Hugh and I have business on your estates!'

  Gurney put down his own goblet, biting back his annoyance.

  'You mean the Pastoureaux? '

  His words stilled all conversation.

  'Yes, the Pastoureaux.'

  'But why now? You have seen them before,' Gurney said.

  'I have studied them from afar,' Monck replied. 'And spoken to their leader, Master Joseph. I have never been into the Hermitage.' He smirked and glanced sideways at Corbett. 'Perhaps tomorrow Sir Hugh could change all this?'

  'Why are y
ou interested in them?'

  Father Augustine leaned forward, chewing carefully on a small morsel of chicken. He had eaten and drunk sparely and so far contributed little to the conversation.

  'Why shouldn't I be?' Monck snapped. 'Who else would kill my man Cerdic? I also wager they had a hand in the death of the baker's wife.'

  'What proof do you have?' Father Augustine asked.

  'Well, someone killed them!' The voice came from the doorway, where a bald-headed, red-faced man of middle years stood, pulling back the cowl of his gown.

  Gurney's face broke into a smile as he got to his feet.

  'Giles, welcome!'

  He beckoned to his steward to pull up another chair and lay a place for the new arrival, who sat down and immediately grabbed a small loaf of bread, hungrily tearing off chunks and popping them into his mouth. He swallowed hard and bowed towards Gurney.

  'My apologies,' he spluttered between mouthfuls, 'but babies have the habit of being born at the most ungodly hours.'

  'You have been to the village?'

  'Yes and I thought I would never make my way back through the mist.'

  Gurney clapped his hands softly. 'My apologies, Hugh. May I introduce Master Giles Selditch, family friend and physician. He resides here at the manor, more for my health than his.'

  'Tush, man.' The doctor teased back. 'Who else would look after an old physician like myself? Sir Hugh, you come from London?'

  'Aye, sir.'

  'What news do you bring?' Alice smiled down the table at Selditch. 'Whose child has been born?'

  'The Reeve's. A lusty baby boy. I think they'll have it baptized Simon as a mark of respect to your husband.'

  'And the mother?'

  'Riccalda. A little weak but her husband's newly found wealth will make sure she is given the best food.'

  The physician's words created a stillness as if he had touched upon a sensitive point.

  'We were talking about the Pastoureaux,' Monck said abruptly. 'Master Giles, do you have anything to do with them?'