Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (3 page)

Blackstock had kept such information, as well as the map, to himself. He’d not even shared it with the villainous Canterbury merchant Sir Rauf Decontet, one of his manucaptors, who’d advanced some of the money for him to buy
The Waxman
and who still took a share of whatever plunder he seized. Blackstock licked his lips. In fact he’d kept a lot back from Decontet. One day he and Hubert would settle their final account with that miserly rogue. Most importantly, the two brothers had made a compact that once they had the treasure there’d be no more hunting by land and sea. They would quietly disappear and re-emerge in some other town, perhaps some other country, as prosperous wool merchants. No more filthy bilges, dirty taverns, vermin-infested alehouses; no more water or wine from clay-lined tubs or hard bread alive with weevils or sea biscuit which stank of rat urine.

‘Land, land to the west!’

Blackstock whirled around. He could make out the faint outlines of cliffs and hills before the mist closed again. He smiled and fingered the charm, a gargoyle, an imp with one leg crossed over the other, nailed to the mast. Soon they would make landfall.

‘Master! Master!’

Blackstock stared up as the horn wailed the alarm from the raven’s nest above him.

‘What do you see?’ he called.

The ship felt silent. No slap of bare feet against the sea-salted deck; no timber creaking or waves crashing. Some demon cloaked in the mist seemed to trail its fingers along Blackstock’s flesh.

‘What is it?’ he bellowed.

‘Ship to the north-east, an armed cog.’

‘What device?’

‘I cannot see.’

‘Damnation to you!’ Blackstock shouted back.

Stonecrop needed no second bidding. Ram’s horn already to his lips, he blew three wailing blasts and the crew scrambled for weapons: bows, quivers, long pikes, swords, daggers and shields, whilst small pots of burning charcoal were brought up from below. Those who had them donned helmets, hauberks and other pieces of armour. Blackstock hurried up into the prow and stared through the mist boiling above the grim grey sea. Some distance away, sails billowing, a war cog was using the easterly wind to bear down on them. It was a ship very like his own, though slightly bigger, with raised stern and jutting poop. Again the horn wailed from the raven’s nest.

‘Master, south-east another ship.’

Blackstock could hardly believe it. He went down the slippery steps from the prow and slithered across the deck, pushing and shoving his crew aside, up into the stern where the rudder men fought to keep the ship on a straight course. By the face of Lucca! Blackstock tried to quell his surge of fear. Another ship was heading out of the mist like an arrow. A cog of war, surely? Merchantmen would not be so bold. A king’s ship perhaps, but why now, on a freezing October day? They were here deliberately, they’d come to trap him! They must have left the mouth of the Thames and stood far out to sea, knowing the planned time and date of his landfall at Orwell. He had been betrayed!

Blackstock screamed at Stonecrop to bring his war belt. He strapped this on and gazed wildly around. Never in his worst nightmare had he envisaged this, being trapped by two cogs of war, fully armed, against the English coast! The east wind was against him; it would be futile to try and slip between his opponents. He could run for land, beach his ship on the rocks, but what then? This had all been well plotted. The local sheriff and his comitatus would be waiting. Blackstock realised he had no choice but to fight.

‘Master!’ the lookout shouted. ‘The first one to the north is
The Segreant
; its pennant shows a green griffin rampant.’

Blackstock clawed his face. Paulents! That powerful merchant of the Hanseatic league had decided to take his revenge.

‘And the other?’ Blackstock shouted back, though he already knew the answer.

‘
The Caltrop
,’ the lookout shouted back. ‘It flies the silver wyvern.’

Blackstock staggered to the taffrail and held it; staring down at the swelling sea, he felt sick. Von Paulents the German and Castledene the Canterbury merchant, the Kentish knight with fingers in every pie cooked in England, had plotted to trap him.

‘They are flying the Beaussons,’ Stonecrop yelled.

Blackstock, peering through the haze, could now see both ships clearly as they closed, sails billowing, poop and stern crammed with fighting men. From the masts of both cogs floated blood-red ribbons, a sign that it would be a fight to the death, no quarter given, no terms, no mercy offered.

Throughout that grim grey afternoon, Blackstock used every trick, every device he knew, but it was futile. The two ships were intent on a fight
à l’outrance
, to the death. Blackstock was beside himself with fury; it clouded his mind and dimmed his wits. He had certainly been betrayed, but by whom? Somebody on board? His brother? Had Hubert been taken, had he been arrested and tortured? The pursuers closed mid-afternoon, eager to bring their prey to battle before darkness fell. Blackstock’s only hope vanished. Despite rallying his crew, he knew it would be a futile fight. He swiftly clattered down to his small, narrow cabin to collect his armour before being summoned back by the cries of Stonecrop.
The Segreant
was now approaching rapidly, sails furled; it was trying to swing alongside.
The Caltrop
was still some way off. Blackstock donned his mailed hauberk and his helmet with its broad noseguard. He drew both sword and dagger, steadying himself against the sway of the ship. All around him massed his crew, attired in the most grotesque collection of rusty armour and animal pelts, the heads of dogs, wolves, foxes and bears still attached to them.

The Segreant
approached, turning slightly under the watchful eye of its rudder men; Blackstock realised these must be skilled seamen. The cog was broad-bellied but swift, and slightly higher than his; the men on board were dressed in dark brown or Lincoln green. Blackstock suppressed a shiver of fear as he glimpsed longbowmen amongst the enemy; Paulents must have the support of royal troops. Blackstock turned.
The Caltrop
was doing a broad sweep to pass
The Waxman
’s stern and approach from the other side. Something was wrong! Castledene was taking his time.
The Segreant
was closer. Blackstock stared across. The enemy were all hooded and masked; they looked like a horde of sombre, ghostly monks. Why were they wearing those masks across their faces? Then he saw one of the enemy urinating on to a piece of cloth before putting it over his face. Immediately he recalled what old Dieter had told him, about how the great privateer Eustace had been captured and defeated during the minority of the present king’s father. Blackstock gazed wildly around.

‘Lime!’ he screamed. ‘Lime!’

Already the archers on
The Segreant
were leaning back, yew bows bent, yard-long shafts notched. They loosed and the arrows fell like a deadly rain amongst
The Waxman
’s crew; some of these staggered back or twirled round as the goose-quilled shafts thudded into face, neck and chest. Blackstock ran forward, turning his face away. Too late: men-at-arms on
The Segreant
now released small sacks of lime. They’d taken careful note of the wind direction and the powder flowed across to sting the eyes and clog the mouths of
The Waxman
’s crew. The lime caused chaos. More arrows fell.
The Segreant
drew alongside, crashing into
The Waxman
, its men pouring across. Blackstock, eyes sore, mouth burning, ran to the other side as
The Caltrop
closed the trap, its captain using the powerful surging tide to come alongside, shattering the side rails of the enemy ship. Boards were lowered. Men-at-arms and archers poured across from both sides. The deck of
The Waxman
soon ran with blood from the vicious mêlée of hand-to-hand fighting with club, mace and dagger which ensued. The enemy, screaming and shouting, pushed Blackstock and the surviving members of his crew back towards the stern. Blackstock, standing on the top steps, stared down at the enemy pressing close. Paulents was there, small and balding, his smooth round face wreathed in smiles as if already savouring his triumph. Beside him was Castledene, in full armour except for a helmet, his chest covered in the livery of a silver wyvern couchant against a green background. The merchant prince’s sallow, pointed face beneath a mop of wiry grey hair was splattered with blood. He was already directing his men to finish off the enemy wounded with a swift thrust across the throat with a misericord dagger.

Blackstock watched all this as he and what remained of his crew were forced back up on to the stern castle. At last the fight petered out.
The Waxman
’s crew were exhausted; eyes streaming, their skin blighted by the lime, they threw down their weapons and were dragged away. Blackstock, armed with sword and dagger, remained alone on the deck of the stern castle. He glanced around. Both rudder men were dead, arrows deep in neck, chest and face. Castledene and Paulents approached, the German slipping on the blood-soaked deck. Castledene shouted at his own men to sluice the lime from the boards. He came to the bottom of the steps and glared up.

‘Finished, Blackstock!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll take you back to Orwell to hang, your brother next to you.’ He stroked his neatly clipped grey moustache and beard, his watery blue eyes flinty-hard as he glared hatefully at this pirate who had sunk three of his ships. ‘The Cloister Map!’ he demanded. ‘Hand me that and I’ll give you a swift death.’

‘How did you know?’ Blackstock countered, staring round. Behind the two enemy captains, his men were being bound hand and foot. Stonecrop, however, remained unfettered, standing apart from the rest. Blackstock had his answer. He glared down at Castledene and Paulents. ‘Hang?’ He smiled. ‘No, I’ll not hang, nor will my brother. You are both marked and sealed by the Angel of Death.’

Blackstock lunged forward, the image of his brother bright in his mind as the longbows twanged and the deadly shafts pierced his face and neck. His life was over even as he tumbled down the steps. Castledene turned the body over with the toe of his boot and stared down. Blackstock’s eyes were already clouding in death, blood gushing out of nostrils and mouth. Castledene knelt down, pulled back the mailed hauberk and rifled through the dead man’s clothes and wallet. When he found nothing, he shouted at his own lieutenant to go down to the cabin and search. The man came hurrying back up the steps, an empty coffer in his hands.

‘Nothing, sir, nothing at all. What shall we do with these?’ He pointed at the prisoners.

‘Hang them all!’ Castledene shouted. ‘From stern and poop! Especially this.’ He kicked Blackstock’s corpse.

Stonecrop came forward, hands extended.

‘You promised me my life.’

‘So I did.’ Castledene, suffused with anger, walked to the side. He turned and gestured at Stonecrop. ‘I promised this man his life. I keep my promises. Throw him overboard; he can swim to the shore.’

Chapter 1

Quis sait, si veniat
.
I do not know whether he will return.

Medieval lament

The three horsemen made their way along the old Roman road to Harbledown Hill. They’d sheltered at the priest’s house of St Nicholas’s church, using the royal seal to gain warmth and some food before continuing their journey. Now they were approaching the summit of the hill overlooking Canterbury and its splendid cathedral. Snow had fallen. The leaden grey skies threatened more. As they passed the crossroads with their empty gibbets and stocks, the lead rider reined in. Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal of Edward I of England, soothed his skittish horse and pushed back the cowl of his cloak to reveal a long, olive-skinned face. Some men called it hawkish, with its deep-set dark eyes, sharp nose above full lips and firm chin: a watcher and a brooder, or so they said, like a falcon upon its perch, an aspect enhanced by Corbett’s raven-black hair, tinged with grey, swept back and tied tightly in a queue on the nape of his neck. Corbett was tall and slender, careful and fastidious about what he ate and drank. He usually made a joke about this, saying that he would like to regard himself as ascetic; in truth, his stomach was delicate after long and arduous campaigns in Wales and Scotland, where, with the rest of Edward’s troops, he’d drunk brackish water, eaten rotten meat and cut his teeth on iron-hard rye bread. He was dressed in dark red and black, his leather jacket clasped close over a white linen shirt, his dark blue cloak pulled tight over red leggings and high-heeled boots, the best from Cordova, on which silver-gilt spurs jingled. He took off the long leather gauntlet on his left hand and the chancery ring, the symbol of his office, gleamed in the day’s dying light. Then he loosened the broad leather war belt round his waist from which sword and dagger hung.

‘Now,’ he leaned forward, gripping the high saddle-horn, ‘when we reach the top of this hill we’ll see Canterbury, and its cathedral, which holds the shrine of the blessed Becket. We’ll then sing a pilgrim hymn, or perhaps something more liturgical, appropriate to the season.’ Corbett had been looking forward to this. He liked nothing better than the plainchant of the Church, the rise and fall of the music emphasising the awesome words and the rolling Latin phrases which conveyed a deep sense of the spiritual, of man’s place before God. His companions were not so enthusiastic.