Song of a Dark Angel hc-8 Read online

  Corbett murmured his thanks and stared at the fire. Such foundations were common, he reflected, built on generous endowments and constantly financed by a regular source of income.

  'How long has the convent been here?' he asked.

  'Sir Simon's great-grandfather issued the first charter. The building was completed in 1220.1 am the fifth prioress and our community is sixty strong.'

  'So you have no objection to the Pastoureaux. You don't see them as rivals?' Corbett said, half-teasingly, as the prioress lowered herself gracefully into a large, quilted chair.

  Dame Cecily shook her head.

  'Of course not. We give the Pastoureaux every help we can. We are only too pleased to accept their labour in our stables, farms and orchards. They cause us no problems.'

  'You have heard of the murder?' Corbett abruptly asked. 'The girl Marina?'

  Dame Cecily nodded. 'Of course, poor girl. She did apply to this convent, wishing to come to us as a lay sister, but…' Dame Cecily shrugged elegantly plump shoulders, with such a look of contrived sorrow on her face that, in any other circumstances, Corbett would have laughed.

  'Has Master Monck been here?'

  'Yes, this morning.' 'Why?'

  'He came about his servant, Cerdic Lickspittle, the one who was found murdered on the beach.' 'And?' Corbett asked testily.

  Dame Cecily became flustered. 'Well, specifically, he wanted to know if Lickspittle visited here the day he died. I said yes.' Dame Cecily played with the pleats of her woollen gown. 'But his visit was very short. He was a nuisance – our sisters were for ever seeing him riding out along the headland and staring out to sea. Master Monck is no better.'

  'Perhaps they were concerned?' Corbett suggested.

  'About what?'

  'About one of your order, Dame Agnes, who fell from the cliff top.'

  Dame Cecily became visibly agitated. 'That was an accident!' she snapped.

  'But Dame Cecily,' Corbett persisted, 'what on earth was one of your sisters doing out on the headland at the dead of night?'

  'I don't know. We are a foundation for noble ladies, not a prison. We guard against intruders, but do not prevent our sisters from leaving as they wish. I can only suppose that Sister Agnes wished to go for a walk.'

  'On a stormy cliff top,' Corbett said disbelievingly. 'In the dead of night?'

  Dame Cecily spread her plump little fingers.

  'Sister Agnes was a hardy soul.'

  'What position did she hold?'

  'She was our treasurer.'

  'Did you investigate her death?'

  'Yes. Sir Simon came, as did Master Monck. They examined the headland, but found no marks to suggest anything but that Agnes slipped and fell.'

  'So there was nothing suspicious about her death?' Corbett asked.

  'Nothing whatsoever. We found her corpse on the rocks below and she now lies buried in our graveyard, God rest her!'

  'And Cerdic?'

  'Oh, he came one morning. He stayed for Mass, saw round our church then left.' 'Is that all?' 'Of course.'

  'And the baker's wife,' Corbett asked. 'Amelia Fourbour?'

  'Poor woman, she would often ride past our gates.' Dame Cecily played with the gold bracelet around her plump wrist. 'But we knew nothing about her.'

  Corbett sensed he would get no further. He finished his wine and placed the goblet gently on the table beside him.

  'Dame Cecily, I ride to Walsingham. His Grace the King will be pleased at the hospitality you have offered me.'

  Dame Cecily's lips smiled, but her eyes were puzzled.

  'I would like to stay here,' Corbett explained, 'in your guest house.'

  The prioress clapped her hands girlishly. 'Of course, you will be our welcome guest.'

  Corbett thanked her, withdrew and went back to the stables. He told the groom that he would be back in the hour -he needed to ride, relax and marshal his thoughts. Once outside the convent he turned his horse's head in the direction of the headland, determined to make use of the dying day's light. First he found the long, winding path leading down to the beach. He hobbled his horse and went downwards. However, the mist was growing thicker and the tide was racing in, beating against the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. He went back and led his horse along the cliff edge, turning his head sideways against the buffeting wind. He walked carefully because the ground was treacherous. He passed the convent where it nestled in a small hollow, a sprawling collection of buildings behind its curtain wall. He continued along the headland and gazed out over the sea. The wind was even stronger here. His horse became nervous, so he left it to crop the grass, and went back to the spot where Sister Agnes must have stood. Darkness was falling. He was glad that he had a warm bed to go to – the night would be black, without stars or moon, and the wind, which snatched at his hair and stung his eyes, would grow stronger.

  He stood for a while. He could understand how Sister Agnes could have slipped, but what was a middle-aged nun doing out at night staring across the sea? Just what were the mysteries of these parts? Why had Monck and Cerdic come here? Corbett was about to turn away when he glimpsed a faint light on the sea. He stared and realized that, in spite of the mist and the loneliness, the sea roads beyond the horizon would be very busy, with cogs and fishing smacks sailing to and from Hull and other eastern ports and the many fishing villages clustered along the coast. Corbett walked further along, away from the convent, noticing how the cliffs turned in a series of little bays and natural harbours. Satisfied, he collected his horse and went back to the convent. He watched the groom unsaddle and stable the horse for the night and slipped the man a coin.

  'Take good care of my horse,' he urged. 'Tomorrow I have to travel far and fast.'

  'Where to, sir?'

  'Walsingham.'

  The man scratched his head. 'You'd best go back to the village and find the road from there. If you keep to it and the weather is fair, you should be at Walsingham by the afternoon.'

  Corbett thanked him. 'Oh, by the way, Sister Agnes, the nun who fell-'

  'God rest her, sir, I knew her well.'

  'Did she often go out for walks along the cliff top?'

  'Oh no, just occasionally. Always very careful she was, carried her staff and lantern but, there again, she was such a busy woman.' The groom gave a gap-toothed grin. 'A busy hive this convent, what with its farms, its sheep and its wool.'

  'But there was no pattern to her leaving?' Corbett asked.

  'Why?' The man became more defensive. 'Sister Agnes came and went as she pleased. I tell you this, sir, I was born in these parts and they be treacherous. The cliffs are made of chalk and can crumble. On the moors be marsh which will trap a horse and rider. And above all there's the tides – after heavy rain and in high winds the sea can race in faster than a greyhound.'

  Corbett thanked him and went back into the convent. One of the sisters showed him to the small guest house opposite the chapel and brought to him a savoury meat pie and a small jug of the best claret he had drunk in months. After which Corbett retired. However, as he lay dozing on the bed, his mind kept returning to that lonely, windswept headland and the figure of the nun resting on a stick, holding a lantern, staring out across the midnight sea.

  Chapter 7

  'Your Grace, I demand to know why Lavinius Monck is at Mortlake Manor.'

  Corbett stood in the royal chamber in the Augustinian priory of Walsingham and glared at the king, who was slouched in a window seat staring moodily out of the window.

  On the other side of the room, sprawled in a chair before the fire, the hard-faced John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, shifted his bulk uneasily and slapped mailed gauntlets against his knee.

  'Master clerk,' the earl called over his shoulder, 'you do not make demands of your king!'

  'Oh, shut up, Surrey, and don't be so bloody pompous!'

  Edward of England glared across at his boon companion and faithful friend. He wished the earl would keep quiet. De Warenne was fine leading a charge again
st the Scots but when it came to intrigue he had all the tact and diplomacy of a battering ram. Edward stared at Corbett and hid a grin. Usually so calm and poised, Corbett now was travel-stained, covered in flecks of dirt from head to foot. He was unshaven and his usually hooded eyes blazed with anger. The king extended his hands.

  'Hugh, Hugh. Why all this excitement?' He indicated the chair beside him. 'Sit down, man.' Edward smiled, his craggy, leonine face suffused with charm. 'I've come to the blessed shrine to seek peace and the wisdom of God.'

  Corbett walked over and took the seat. You are a liar, he thought. He stared at the king's falcon-like face. The silver-grey beard, shoulder-length hair, open, frank eyes and generous mouth were all a mask. Edward of England was a born plotter who loved intrigue and took to it as easily as a duck to water. Corbett, however, wasn't in the mood to be played with. He had ridden all day from Holy Cross convent, arriving at Walsingham just as darkness fell.

  'Why,' the king asked, 'are you so concerned about Lavinius?'

  Corbett seized his opportunity and explained in pithy sentences what was happening out at Hunstanton. Edward scratched his beard, becoming more and more embarrassed at the picture of Corbett, his principal clerk, blundering amongst the salt marshes and watery meadows of Norfolk.

  'I thought,' he said when Corbett had finished, 'that you might help Lavinius, particularly after the death of Cerdic.' He nodded towards de Warenne, who stared moodily into the fire. 'And Surrey agreed with me.'

  'Lavinius is a good clerk!' de Warenne said.

  'My lord,' Corbett replied, 'Lavinius is mad.'

  The earl swung round in his chair, but Corbett's gaze did not falter.

  'You know that, my lord,' he continued quietly. 'The man is driven mad with grief.'

  'And the Pastoureaux?' Edward asked quickly.

  'Your Grace, I would recommend that, when you next meet your council at Westminster, you issue a decree to all sheriffs, bailiffs and port officials, as well as leading barons and tenants-in-chief, banning the Pastoureaux from your realm.'

  'On what grounds?'

  'Public order and the maintenance of the king's peace.' 'Why? Do you think these Pastoureaux are responsible for the murders?'

  'They might be. But I am uncomfortable at strangers moving into an area and enticing the young people away with dreams of foreign travel.'

  Edward nodded.

  'But Monck's not there for the Pastoureaux,' Corbett went on. 'Your Grace, are you going to tell me the truth or do I surrender my seals of office and, like Sir Simon Gurney, retire to my manor?'

  Edward leaned forward and grasped Corbett's knee in a sudden gesture of affection. His blue eyes brimmed with tears. Oh, God, no! Corbett thought. Not the role of Edward, the ageing monarch, abandoned by his friends. He knew what the king was going to say.

  'Hugh.' The king's voice was throaty. 'You are tired.'

  'Accept his resignation!' de Warenne jibed.

  'Piss off, Surrey!' Edward bellowed. 'Just piss off and shut up!'

  He got to his feet, his mood altering violently, and went to stand over de Warenne.

  'This is your bloody mess!' he roared. 'I told you that. But oh, no, you had to send Monck!'

  De Warenne gazed back. The king winked at him. The earl sighed – ever since they were lads he had been the king's whipping-boy; he would just have to accept this latest pretend tirade. Corbett stared out of the window and schooled his features. He knew the king and de Warenne were play-acting but he relaxed, knowing that now he would be given at least some of the truth.

  Edward went across to the table, filled three goblets with white wine and served Corbett and de Warenne. He then sat sideways in the window seat and slurped noisily from his goblet, glaring at Corbett from underneath bushy eyebrows.

  'I'll have letters issued this evening,' he said. 'You will take over from Monck.' He smacked his lips. 'Now, my Lord of Surrey, tell my good friend Hugh here what Monck is doing at Mortlake Manor.'

  De Warenne got up and dragged his chair over. He patted Corbett on the shoulder.

  'No offence, Hugh.'

  'As always, none taken, my lord.'

  De Warenne stared into his cup. 'The story begins in October 1216, in the last year of the reign of King John, our present lord's most noble and puissant grandfather.'

  'Less of the bloody sarcasm!' Edward intervened.

  'Well, the story is as follows. John spent most of his reign fighting his barons, moving around the country, trying to bring this earl or that lord into submission. He died at Newark-on-Trent. Some people think he was poisoned, others that he died of a broken heart after losing all his treasure and regalia in the Wash.' He smiled at the change in Corbett's expression. 'Ah, so you have heard the story. Let me refresh your memory. John was travelling north from Bishop's Lynn. He had his whole household with him and a long line of pack horses carrying his treasures. He was trying to cross the estuary of the Nene when, according to the chronicle, he lost all his wagons, carts and pack horses with the treasures, precious vessels and all the other things he cherished.' De Warenne paused and licked his lips. 'According to the chronicler Florence of Worcester, whose writings my clerks have studied, the ground opened up and violent whirlpools engulfed men, horses, everything.'

  'What happened,' Edward explained, 'is that dear grandfather tried to cross the estuary too late in the day. You know the area? There was a sudden tidal surge, the waves rushed in and the treasure train was lost.' Edward shrugged. 'Dear grandfather went to Swynesford Abbey to console himself with fresh cider and rotten peaches and then on to Newark, where he gave up the ghost in something akin to the odour of sanctity.' Corbett smiled – 'Dear grandfather' had been the black sheep of the Plantagenet family; he had neither lived nor died in anything akin to sanctity.

  'What was the treasure?' Corbett asked.

  'A king's ransom,' Edward replied slowly. 'Dozens of gold and silver goblets, flagons, basins, candelabra, pendants and jewel-encrusted belts. The coronation regalia-' Edward sighed. 'And, what is worse, the coronation regalia of dear great-great-grandmother Matilda when she was Empress of Germany: a large jewel-encrusted crown, purple robes, a gold wand and the sword of Tristram.' Edward rubbed his stomach and groaned. 'A fortune,' he murmured. 'A bloody fortune lost in the sea!'

  'Was there any attempt to search for it?'

  'Well, you can imagine the confusion that broke out after grandfather's death. It was every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. Father was only a child. He had difficulty keeping the crown, never mind looking for lost treasure!'

  'And how does Monck come into this?' 'Well,' de Warenne replied. 'My family have always felt deeply ashamed about King John's disaster at the Wash. You see, my grandfather was in charge of the pack train.'

  He glared at Corbett, daring him to smile – planning and other intellectual skills had always been a rarety in the Surrey family. Corbett refrained from comment.

  'Good!' de Warenne breathed. 'Now, the treasure's lost. John dies. Everyone more or less forgets about it until a year ago, when Walter Denuglis, a leading goldsmith in London, purchased from a pawnbroker an ancient gold plate with John's arms on it.' De Warenne rolled his goblet in his fingers. 'Denuglis brought it to the exchequer. Then two other, very similar, pieces of plate were found. The clerks of the exchequer scrutinized the records from John's time. Sure enough, all three pieces had been part of John's treasure.'

  'But,' Corbett interrupted, 'I thought everything was lost. Is it possible that these pieces were thrown up on some marsh, found by a pedlar and brought to London to be sold?'

  'That isn't likely,' the king said. 'If it was a mere pedlar he hid his tracks very artfully. More importantly, Corbett, there's a legend in court circles that King John's disaster at the Wash was planned. Not even dear grandfather – who, admittedly, could be as dense as a forest – would try and cross the Wash without guides. Now a local man was hired, we know this from the records, called John Holcombe. He knew the e
stuary well. The accepted account says that he died in the tragedy.' Edward pursed his lips. 'But local legend has it that he escaped with a string of pack horses.' 'And if so, what happened to him?'

  'We don't know,' de Warenne answered. 'Our clerks have searched the records of both central and local courts. There's no record of any John Holcombe surviving.'

  'Are you sure?' Corbett insisted. 'Surely, after John's death the exchequer would have investigated such rumours thoroughly?'

  'They did,' de Warenne replied. 'And could report nothing except for a very garbled story that Holcombe had been seen somewhere to the north of Walpole St Andrew, between that village and Bishop's Lynn. After that, he disappears from history.'

  De Warenne paused as the bell of the priory began to ring for Vespers. Corbett reflected on the scraps of history he had been told.

  'Did anyone survive the disaster of the Wash?' he asked.

  'Oh, yes,' de Warenne said. 'Only the treasure train was lost. The king, the court and the escort escaped.'

  'Was there a Gurney amongst them?'

  Edward grinned. 'I wondered when you'd ask that! The answer is yes. Sir Richard Gurney, Sir Simon's greatgrandfather, followed the king to Swynesford Abbey where he witnessed a charter. After the royal army dispersed, Gurney went home.'

  Corbett chewed at the quick of his thumbnail.

  'And so,' he concluded, 'Monck was sent to Mortlake Manor, not to investigate the Pastoureaux but to look into the possibility that this treasure, or part of it, is hidden in the area?'

  The king nodded.

  'But why Mortlake Manor?' Corbett asked. 'Why not the countryside around Bishop's Lynn?'

  'It's a wild guess,' de Warenne said, 'based upon a scrap of information about the guide John Holcombe. He was seen riding north away from Bishop's Lynn. The only possible port could be Hunstanton, if he intended to flee abroad.'

  'There's another reason Monck was sent,' the king interrupted. 'Whoever sold the plate in London knew where to go. They didn't blunder into just any goldsmith's shop. No, the three pieces were sold in different parts of the city. One near the Tower, another in Southwark and the last to some grubby pawnbroker near Whitefriars. Now that requires planning. It also means someone who knows the city well.'