Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (11 page)

‘Do you know of him?’ Corbett asked. ‘Indeed, how do I know you are not he?’

The Merchant of Souls laughed, a merry sound. ‘Trust me, Sir Hugh, I am not Hubert the Monk. Griskin talked about him and said he was a man of great deceit and subtle wit. They say he, too, was one of the few men not frightened by the likes of us.’

‘Have any of your brothers ever met him?’ Corbett asked.

‘Many, many years ago. One of our brothers, now deceased, went to the cloister school with him; Magister Fulbert taught them both. That is all. But as I said, we stand by gateways and porchways; we listen to the chatter of everyone. You are hunting him, aren’t you, Sir Hugh? I wish you well. God’s grace go with you, for I have told you all I can.’

Corbett thanked him and rejoined Ranulf, and they made their way back up towards Queningate. They passed through that yawning arched entrance into the city and Ranulf stared around. He’d been to Canterbury with Corbett once before, but that had been through the outskirts, not the city itself. This was a stark contrast to the silent countryside. Despite the snow and ice, the place was busy as an upturned beehive. The broad pathways and lanes were packed with people, a sea of surging colour as the crowds moved to and from the markets. Corbett and Ranulf had no choice but to dismount and lead their horses, forcing their way through, following the old city wall down beneath the glorious massy-stoned cathedral and on to Burgate Street, which cut through the centre of Canterbury.

On either side of this main thoroughfare rose the beautiful mansions and stately homes of the merchants and burgesses of the city. These were sumptuous houses of pink and white plaster and black beams, each storey jutting out above the other and resting on a solid stone base. The doorways and gables of these mansions, carved, gilded and painted, overlooked the cacophony of sound along Burgate as pantlers, grooms, buttery boys and other servants bustled out to buy provisions for their masters. Herb wives and milkmaids were eagerly selling their produce. Apprentice boys scampered up to attract their attention by plucking at their sleeves before retreating back behind the broad stalls, erected against the front of houses under their billowing striped awnings. The poor clamoured for alms as the rich, with sparkling eyes, red lips and lily-white skin, processed by in their satins and samites, heads covered in short hoods with the liripipes wrapped around their necks, their shoulders mantled in wool, their waists girdled with belts studded with silver and gold. Dirt-smattered blacksmiths in bull’s-hide aprons stood outside their smithies shouting for custom, whilst beside them water boiled in buckets from the red-hot irons thrust there. Merchants’ wives in costly robes furred with ermine, multicoloured and lined with soft vair, surveyed the stalls and made their purchases. A jester offering to do a somersault wandered amongst them, his head, completely shaven, covered in glue and decorated with duck feathers. An old woman with a tray shrieked how she had night herbs which would cure all ailments. Beside her a chanteur, a professional story-teller, explained how in Ephesus the Seven Sleepers had turned on to their left side, a gloomy sign of how the times were growing more perilous. Carters tried to force their way through, whilst more enterprising citizens pulled sledges full of produce. Dogs yipped and yelped; a piglet, specially greased, had been released by a group of children and ran loose across the thoroughfare, pursued by a legion of its young tormentors.

They passed the main entrance to the cathedral. Ranulf wished to go in but Corbett replied that they would visit it later. They continued on their way up into the great courtyard of the Guildhall, a three-storey building, wattle-daubed and timbered on a honey-coloured stone base. Servants ran up to demand their business, but as soon as they saw Corbett’s warrant they immediately became obsequious, offering to take his horses. Once Ranulf had dealt with this, they entered the Guildhall, turning right into the main chamber, a long, draughty room, its doorways and windows protected by heavy cloths.

For a while they just sat on a bench whilst a common serjeant loudly listed the goods of some dead citizen: ‘three canvas cloths, twelve barrels, two tubs, four bottles, six leather pots . . .’ Corbett listened to the man’s sonorous voice rise and fall. He could have stood upon his authority, showed his seal, demanded immediate access to the Mayor, but he wanted to collect his thoughts, and looking at Ranulf, he believed his companion felt the same. At last the cold began to seep out of his fingers and he relaxed in the glow of warmth from the braziers, piled high with charcoal, which spluttered and sparkled in every corner. He was about to rise to his feet when an usher suddenly burst through the door and gestured frantically at them.

‘Sir Hugh, Master Ranulf!’ he gasped. ‘His Worship’s apologies, please, please follow me.’

He took them up some stairs to a richly furnished room draped with thickened arras and warmed by chafing dishes laid out along the great table which ran down the centre. Corbett and Ranulf had scarcely arrived and taken off their cloaks when Sir Walter Castledene entered. He was dressed in a long robe of dark murrey, a silver cord around his waist, a gold chain of office about his neck, soft buskins on his feet. He had shaved, his hair was freshly oiled, and he looked more calm and composed than earlier in the day. He greeted Corbett and Ranulf and gestured to the high-backed chairs placed before a specially carved brazier; this was capped with a pointed lid and perforated with small holes to allow the sweet fragrance of the herbs sprinkled on top of the coals to seep through the room. Once seated, ushers served them biscuits sweetened with saffron together with mulled wine smelling strongly of cinnamon. After the usher had left, securing the door behind him, Sir Walter explained that this was his own private parlour. He pointed out its various treasures: the gilt-edged jasper salt-cellar; the spoons, porringers, dishes, ewers, bowls, cups, jugs and goblets, all precious metalled and studded with gems, which adorned the open-shelved aumbry against the far wall. He then described the origins of the diptychs on the tables and chests as well as the pictures on the embroidered arras, which depicted the city arms, those of Castledene as well as grisly scenes from the martyrdom of Becket.

After these pleasantries had finished, Corbett politely brushed aside Castledene’s speculations on what had happened at Maubisson and succinctly informed the Mayor about what had occurred since he left that brooding manor earlier in the day: the attack in the woods, the crossbow bolt smashing into the shutter of the guesthouse chamber, the disappearance of Griskin and the strong possibility that he had been murdered. Castledene grew agitated, lacing his fingers together, and now and again leaning forward towards the brazier to catch some of its warmth.

‘You have been threatened again?’ Corbett asked harshly.

Castledene nodded. ‘You know I have, the same as Paulents.’ He closed his eyes. ‘“You have been weighed in the balance . . . you have been found wanting.” I am to be punished for the death of his brother.’ He opened his eyes and glanced at Corbett. ‘Beneath this robe, Sir Hugh, I wear a shirt of light chain mail. I carry a dagger, and where I go, Wendover or my guards always follow. This is a time of judgement.’ He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. ‘Hubert has come back to harvest his revenge against Paulents, against me and against the Crown. He intends all three to suffer.’

He paused as an usher came in to announce that the physician Peter Desroches was waiting downstairs.

Castledene lifted a hand. ‘Ask him to wait for a while,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Then he can join us.’

‘Paulents wasn’t threatened in Germany?’

‘No,’ Castledene agreed. ‘It was only when he arrived in Dover.’

‘And you?’

‘Yesterday, and again this morning,’ Castledene replied. ‘The same way: a small scroll of parchment was found lying in the hallway below amongst other common petitions. The tag on a piece of string bore my name. A clerk brought it up. You wish to see it?’ Without waiting for an answer, he rose and moved to the small side table, unlocking a coffer and bringing back what Corbett had expected: a yellowing piece of parchment which could have been cut from anything. The words inscribed in thick ink, like those in a child’s horn book, repeated the earlier warnings.

‘Anyone,’ Castledene muttered, ‘could have written that.’

‘Do you have a description of Hubert the Monk?’ Corbett asked. ‘If he was Canterbury born, people must know him.’

‘As a young man in the Benedictine order,’ Castledene sat down, ‘they described him as comely faced, always personable, courteous, a brilliant scholar. He later joined the community at Westminster but left to become a
venator hominum
. One thing I have discovered: Hubert very rarely, at least to our knowledge, came in to Canterbury. He tended to prowl between the Cinque Ports on the south coast and as far north as Suffolk, around the town of Ipswich: good hunting ground for the likes of him. He would trap outlaws and bring them in. Of course when he did, he would always be hooded and visored; there is no law against that. After all, he could argue that he needed to disguise his appearance so as to apprehend those who lurk in the twilight of the law.’

‘So you have no real description of him?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Castledene conceded. ‘Nor have we discovered anything about his habits, where he eats, drinks or sleeps. Does he own property? What shire or town does he live in? He is a veritable will o’ the wisp, Sir Hugh; he comes and goes like the breeze.’

‘But how can he be in two places at once?’ Ranulf asked. ‘A message was delivered at Dover on Monday to Paulents, and around the same time to you in Canterbury.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, it’s possible for someone, despite the snow, to travel from Dover to Canterbury and deliver both messages.’

‘Or arrange for them to be delivered,’ Corbett declared. ‘I could go down into the street and hire a dozen boys who are prepared, in return for a penny, to take a missive to this person or that.’

‘But the abbey?’ Castledene asked. ‘How could he get into the abbey church of St Augustine?’

‘Again very easy,’ Corbett conceded. ‘I suspect our Master Hubert is well disguised. He can dress as a lay brother and scale the curtain wall. It wouldn’t be difficult. People are going to and fro, a busy place Canterbury, and St Augustine’s is no different.’

Castledene nodded and stared at the crucifix on the wall.

‘And you believe he murdered your man Griskin?’

‘I do,’ Corbett replied, ‘but God knows where or how or why. Griskin would have made enquiries; sooner or later some of this must have reached Hubert. I suspect he pays taverners and alehouse masters to keep him informed. He would have to, wouldn’t he, if he was hunting an outlaw? Griskin is dead,’ Corbett declared. ‘That golden cross, he would never give it up! Not in this life.’

He rose, stretching his hands above the brazier, savouring its warmth, then glanced at the window. He’d been in Canterbury for some time. He needed to think, to reflect, to discover where the enemy really was, and then plot.

‘Sir Hugh? What are you thinking?’

‘The business at Maubisson will have to wait a while. Lady Adelicia Decontet?’

‘She should be committed for trial,’ Castledene declared. ‘The King has asked me to delay it until you have investigated the case. However, come the New Year, certainly once Epiphany is over and the twelve days of Christmas are finished, I and two justices must sit, certainly no later than the Feast of Hilary.’

Castledene got to his feet. A frightened man, he kept plucking at his fur-lined mantle, staring anxiously towards the door.

‘What I have done,’ he continued in a hurry, ‘is to invite Master Desroches and Lechlade here.’ He glimpsed Corbett’s mystification. ‘Sir Rauf Decontet’s manservant, though I am afraid you will not find him much use. He is a toper, a drunkard born and bred. Lady Adelicia will also be brought up. I have had fresh robes sent down to her, and she has been allowed to wash and prepare herself. Her maid Berengaria will accompany her.’ Castledene went across and stared at the hour candle fixed on its iron spigot. ‘The day is fading,’ he murmured as if to himself. ‘Sir Hugh, we’d best begin now.’

Chapter 5

Regis regum rectissimi prope est Dies Domini
.
The day of the Lord, of the most rightful
King of Kings, is close at hand.

Columba

Corbett sat at the top of the table, Ranulf to his right, their sword belts on the floor beside them. Ranulf opened his chancery bag, taking out quills, ink pots, pumice stone, a sand shaker, fresh rolls of parchment and strips of green ribbon. The chamber became busy. Desroches bustled in. He smiled at Corbett and Ranulf and took his seat on the bench. He was followed by Lechlade, a grimy, grey-haired, shuffling figure, his swollen red face marred by a broken nose and ugly warts. He was unshaven, slobbery-mouthed, bleary-eyed and reeked of ale fumes. His cote-hardie was blotched and stained with dried food, his thick, dirty fingers protected by ragged mittens. He bowed towards Corbett and sat down next to the physician, who wrinkled his nose in disgust at the other man’s rank smell.