Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (31 page)

‘That is a matter for God to decide, Sir Walter, and remember, the mills of God grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small. Christ’s vengeance will ring out. Our blood-soaked earth is a constant insult to the Lord. He will repay. Theology aside, more importantly, Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, sees himself as the Judgement of God. You, Sir Walter, if you are not careful and prudent, will die the same way as Wendover.’

‘Sir Hugh, what is to be done?’ Castledene’s voice turned pleading. ‘How can this bloody mêlée be brought to an end?’

Corbett was about to reply but he no longer trusted this man. He still had to search for the proof, bring the killer to justice, and Castledene had a great deal to answer for.

‘I tell you what I shall do, Sir Walter, tonight in this refectory.’ He pointed back towards the guesthouse. ‘I shall hold a feast. I am sending Ranulf and Chanson into London to seek certain information. You will summon on my behalf Lady Adelicia, Lechlade, Parson Warfeld and Physician Desroches for a sumptuous feast so I can make my farewells.’

Castledene was puzzled. ‘But Sir Hugh . . .’

‘Sir Walter!’ Corbett retorted. ‘I don’t care what you or they are doing. I will not tell you the whole truth, nor must you tell anyone of our conversation this morning. Bring them here. As the bells ring out for Vespers, the bells of God’s justice will also toll. Oh, and Sir Walter, your presence is certainly required.’

Corbett spun on his heel and walked back into the refectory. He summoned Ranulf and Chanson to his own chamber, where he gave them secret instructions. Ranulf looked concerned.

‘But Sir Hugh, you’ll be here by yourself.’

‘For a while,’ Corbett smiled, ‘and I’ll be safe. You, Ranulf, Chanson, take the London road. It is now clear of snow. You see, Ranulf, certain malefactors, murderers, thieves and rifflers, are brought to judgement by evidence in the King’s court, but not this time. Our assassin is too cunning; he has to be trapped and I intend to do this. It’s the only way. The King’s justice will eventually be done, and, indeed, God’s. Now, gentlemen,’ Corbett stepped back, ‘leave mid-afternoon, go through the city, let people see you ride away. I have other preparations to make.’

Corbett left and searched out the guest master, who agreed to the arrangements but gasped when Corbett told him what else he wanted.

‘His soul has gone to God,’ Corbett replied. ‘Do what I ask, Brother. Oh, by the way, once the banquet has begun and the meal has been served, neither you nor any of the good brothers must come anywhere near this guesthouse. Promise me.’

The guest master made to protest. Corbett held out his hand, displaying the chancery ring on his finger. ‘On your loyalty to the King, Brother, you must do exactly what I ask.’

The monk closed his eyes, sighed, crossed himself, and nodded. ‘As you say, Sir Hugh, whatever you want.’

The rest of the day Corbett busied himself supervising the cooks in the abbey kitchens, making sure the refectory was prepared for the evening. The fires were built up. Freshly charged braziers sprinkled with herbs were wheeled in. Coloured drapes hung against the walls; the refectory table was covered with a samite cloth, candelabra placed along it, fresh candles fixed on their spigots. The Gleeman arrived to see Sir Hugh. He pretended to be a tinker, carrying a tray full of writing tablets, glass rosaries, pocket knives, amber signets, coloured ribbons, laces, tags, silks, steel pins, imitation jewellery – a veritable chapman, a pedlar of everything. Corbett met him in the yard, pretending to make some purchase as the Gleeman explained how the Pilgrim had now fled their camp.

‘Like a dog on heat,’ the Gleeman whispered, ‘to the London road.’

Corbett laughed, made his purchases, patted the Gleeman on the shoulder and returned to his own chamber. He took an arbalest and slid a bolt into the groove, winched back the cord making it secure and placed it on a stool near the door. He drew his sword and dagger, turning them, letting the sharpened pointed blades catch the light. He locked and barred the door and slept for a while, waking early in the afternoon to make his farewells to Ranulf and Chanson.

Later that day, just as the bells of the abbey tolled for Vespers, Corbett’s guests began to arrive in the cobbled stable yard. Corbett waited for them in the refectory. He met each of them at the door and escorted them into a room now transformed into a small comfortable hall with its coloured cloths and turkey rugs, the trestle table laid down the centre covered with a shining white cloth, candelabra flaming brilliantly against the dark. Charcoal braziers spluttered while a fire roared merrily in the hearth. Corbett behaved as if relaxed, offering each guest a small cup of spiced wine before taking them to their seats around the table. The cooks had done themselves proud. Corbett made sure the wine jug circulated. At first the atmosphere was cold, even hostile. However, as the green almond soup was served, followed by oysters stewed in ale, crayfish, pork hash mixed with eggs, minces, roast capon in black sauce, venison in a pepper juice, and the wine jugs were refilled, the guests relaxed. Only Castledene remained watchful, still pale-faced, nervous and anxious after his brief but blunt encounter with Corbett earlier that day.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Parson Warfeld toasted with his cup, ‘this is most kind. What is the reason?’

‘Why, sir . . .’ Corbett slouched in his chair at the top of the table and gazed quickly at Lady Adelicia. She looked truly beautiful in a blue-mantled furred gown, her gorgeous hair pinned with a jewelled clasp almost, but not quite, hidden by an exquisite white veil. ‘Why, sir, because I’m leaving.’

‘Leaving?’ Desroches pushed away his silver platter and gazed expectantly at Sir Hugh. ‘The King’s business is finished here in Canterbury?’

‘Yes, sir, the King’s business truly is, thanks to a man called Edmund Groscote! Well, that’s how he was baptised at the font.’ Corbett laughed. ‘He goes by the name of the Pilgrim and consorts with troubadours, mummers and moon people. Now the Pilgrim was once an outlaw hunted by that
venator hominum
Hubert Fitzurse. Through his own secret, sly ways, he managed to acquire a description of Hubert.’

‘And?’ Lady Adelicia asked.

‘At this moment in time, the Pilgrim is taking sanctuary in St Michael’s church at Cornhill in London. He will speak only to me. I have sent Chanson and Ranulf along the icy roads to seize him and take him to the Tower or Newgate, or to bring him here. I suspect it will be the Tower. If the weather holds tomorrow, I shall certainly leave Canterbury. You see, the Pilgrim lived a chequered life. There are men and women who work for me. In a sense they are a secret society; I call them ‘the
ordinaires
’. They collect mere trifles, snippets of information, bits and pieces; the Pilgrim is one of these and he has earned his keep.’

‘Who do you think . . .’ Lechlade slurred from where he sat at the far end of the table. ‘Who do you think this Fitzurse is?’

‘What he claims to be, Master Lechlade: an assassin who lurks in the shadows.’

‘And those grisly murders,’ Desroches asked, ‘at Maubisson and elsewhere?’

‘I haven’t solved them yet,’ Corbett lied. ‘Nor why that poor city guard was killed at Sweetmead or how Sir Rauf and Berengaria were murdered. Of course, you’ve heard the news about Wendover?’ They replied that they had. Corbett glanced sharply at Lady Adelicia, who simply put her head down and picked up her knife to play with a piece of meat on her dish; embarrassed, she coughed, lifting her goblet to conceal her own confusion.

‘When we seize Hubert,’ Corbett continued, ‘I am sure the King’s interrogators will secure the truth, but more importantly,’ he smiled, ‘I have found the Cloister Map!’ His words created immediate silence; even Lechlade glanced up sharply. ‘Ah yes,’ Corbett declared, ‘we know how Stonecrop, who betrayed Adam Blackstock, survived the sea battle off the Essex coast. He stole the map before
The Waxman
was taken. For a while he hid, then made his way inland. Stonecrop needed good silver to discover that treasure, so he approached Sir Rauf Decontet and brought him the map. Sir Rauf, however, murdered Stonecrop, stole the map, then hid it.’

‘Where?’ Lady Adelicia asked.

Corbett sensed she was speaking for all, expressing their deep hunger for this marvellous ancient treasure. ‘Lady Adelicia,’ he asked, ‘where did your late husband spend most of his time?’

‘In his chancery chamber.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘He sat at his desk, but I—’

‘Oh, I am sure you looked for the map there,’ Corbett intervened. ‘But you were searching in the wrong place, Lady Adelicia, everybody was. You do remember me sitting in your late husband’s chair? I did so every time I used his chamber?’

Lady Adelicia’s face crumpled in disappointment.

‘I found it,’ Corbett declared, ‘in a secret pocket of the seat beneath the quilted cushion. When you return home tonight, you’ll find the gap, the aperture from which I drew it.’

‘I know you searched his chamber . . .’ Adelicia mumbled distractedly, ‘and sat in Sir Ralph’s chair.’

‘Of course you did,’ Corbett agreed quickly. ‘At first I could not understand it, but the map is clear. I will be gone within the day. Soon it will be in the hands of the King’s ministers. When spring comes, the royal household will go hunting in the wilds of Suffolk. True,’ Corbett picked up his goblet, ‘the murders of Paulents and others, Wendover and Sir Rauf, cannot be explained, but in time, royal justice will have its way and the felon responsible will go to the scaffold. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your cooperation. I toast you . . .’

Corbett added that he would answer no further questions and deftly turned the conversation to other matters. Glancing around the table, he knew the effect he had created and pretended to celebrate by drinking copiously. The evening drew to an end. The guests made their hasty farewells and left. Castledene dallied for a while, but Sir Hugh refused to answer any of his questions or see him alone. Eventually the guesthouse and the stable yard outside fell silent, cloaked in darkness and, as Corbett had whispered to Ranulf just before he’d left, the dead gathered to witness God’s judgement carried out . . .

Chapter 14

Ferreae virgae, metuende iudex
.
Dreadful judge, your rod is of iron.

Sedulius Scottus

Shortly after midnight, the shadowy figure of the assassin slipped across the yard and in through the unlatched door of the guesthouse. Hooded and visored, knife in one hand, a small axe in the other, an arbalest handing from a hook on his war belt, he gazed quickly round. One night flame still beckoned like a beacon, but the fire in the refectory was banked, the braziers capped, the candles snuffed, the table still littered with bits and pieces from the feast. The man started at the squeak of a rat; a dark shape scurried across the floor. He took a deep breath and softly climbed the stairs, pausing at every creak and groan of the weathered wood. Yet the night remained silent. He reached the stairwell and peered along the narrow gallery. One door was closed, the other slightly opened. He edged his way along, gripping the knife and axe tighter; he tiptoed closer, pushed the door open and crouched down, edging into the room. The chamber was still lighted; a candelabra stood on a table. One of the candles had guttered out but the other two still flickered beneath their metal caps. He gazed at the bed and glimpsed the outline of the sleeping clerk, his woollen jerkin, boots and hose strewn on the floor. The assassin smiled to himself. Corbett had drunk so much he must have staggered upstairs and fallen asleep, confident and secure that his task had been finished. The assassin raced towards the bed, stretched over the body and drove the dagger deep into the sleeper’s chest. He heard a sound, whirled round and gazed in horror as Corbett walked from the shadows in the far corner, sword and dagger out.

The assassin looked at the open door. He sprang to his feet, kicked a stool towards Corbett and raced across. He scrambled down the stairs, Corbett in pursuit. Another figure abruptly appeared in the doorway at the bottom, hood drawn back, a primed arbalest ready. The bolt was loosed and took the would-be assassin in the chest. He crumpled to his knees, then fell, crashing down the stairs.

Corbett lowered his own sword and dagger and hurried down the stairs towards Physician Desroches, who was already lowering his crossbow. Corbett, gasping for breath, turned the corpse of the assassin over, pulling back the hood and mask to reveal Lechlade’s ugly unshaven face. The man was dying, eyelids fluttering, blood bubbling between his lips. Corbett let him fall back and kicked him further down the stairs so that he landed at Physician Desroches’ feet.

‘Master Physician.’ Corbett walked down the stairs, sheathing both his sword and his dagger. He stretched out his hand. ‘I thank you. I owe you my life. Come.’ He gripped Desroches’ hand, making it clear he would accept no refusal. ‘You must come up for some wine. Fortify yourself, explain what happened.’ He waved Desroches up into his own chamber. The physician immediately went across to the bed and pulled back the sheet from the corpse Corbett had secretly taken from the mortuary house. He stared down at the pallid, pinched face of the beggar framed by a greasy mat of hair.