The Waxman Murders

Chapter 6

A short while later, Corbett and Ranulf mounted their horses, cloaks pulled tightly about them, and left the Guildhall. They made their way up the Mercery, turning right towards the corner leading to the Butter Cross, then along Burgate, which would take them to Queningate. Darkness was closing in. The air was still bitterly cold, the ground slippery as the ice hardened, yet the stalls and shops were very busy. The narrow, dirt-filled streets were illuminated by flaring torches, the light pouring through tavern and alehouse doors and windows. The shifting murk, the din, clamour and foul smells reminded Corbett of a wall painting in a church depicting the streets of hell. The rakers and scavengers were out with their dung and refuse carts. Pilgrims in their worsted cloaks, displaying pewter badges depicting the martyred head of Becket or the ampulae or miniature flasks representing the martyr’s blood, battled to make their way to and from the cathedral. They screamed abuse at the apprentice boys who darted from the stalls like grey-hounds to pluck at sleeves and cloaks, shouting their goods, inviting passers-by to inspect ‘ninepins for sale all in a row’, ‘boots of Cordovan leather’, ‘candles white and pure as a virgin’, ‘hot pies’, ‘spiced sausages’, ‘sharp knives’.

Tavern hawkers and idlers were encouraging two drunken women to fight; each would hold a penny in her hand, and the first to drop it would be judged the loser and dipped in the freezing water of a nearby horse-trough. A city serjeant fighting to control a loose donkey tried to intervene, whilst bawling for the market bailiffs with their metal-tipped staves to assist him. A chanteur stood on a plinth at the corner of an alleyway off the Mercery; he was telling a group of gaping pilgrims to pray most urgently and earnestly before Becket’s shrine: ‘Because,’ he declared, ‘the time of doom is fast approaching.’ The chanteur informed the pilgrims how he had recently returned from Paris, where a friend had invoked demons to advance him in his studies. On his deathbed, just in time, this friend had been persuaded to repent; as his fellow scholars assembled to sing the funeral psalms around his bier, the man fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed his soul plunged into a dark, sulphurous valley where a gang of fiends tossed his soul about, whilst others prodded him with claws which surpassed the sharpness of any earthly steel. When the man eventually woke up, he vowed to change his life, went on pilgrimage to Becket’s shrine and received God’s calling to enter the Benedictine order. So, the chanteur concluded, they too must pray most earnestly to save themselves from the traps and lures of Satan.

Corbett half listened to this man, clamorous as a sparrowhawk, as he waited for the street to clear before him. At last they moved on and reached the centre of Canterbury, with its great Buttery Cross soaring above the stalls and booths. On the top step a Crutched Friar was delivering the sentence of excommunication against a felon who had dared to rob his church.

‘I curse him by the authority of the Court of Rome, within or without, sleeping or waking, going or sitting, standing and riding, lying above the earth and under earth, speaking, crying and drinking; in wood, water, field and town. I curse him by Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I curse him by the angels, archangels and all the nine orders of heaven. I curse him by the patriarchs, prophets and apostles. .’ On a lower step, totally ignoring the friar, a relic-seller pointed to his leather chest, claiming it contained the stone where Christ’s blood was spilt, a splinter from the Lord’s cradle, a certain crystal vessel bearing shards of the stone tablet on which God had inscribed the law for Moses, straps from Jesus’ winding sheets and fragments from Aaron’s robe. A gang of burly apprentice boys standing around him demanded that the miraculous chest be opened to show them such wonders. The relic-seller refused and a brawl ensued. Market bailiffs and beadles were busy at the stocks, locking in foists, roisterers and drunkards alongside breakers of the King’s peace or the market regulations. A deafening clamour of noise dinned the ear. Corbett looked up at the great mass of Canterbury Cathedral rearing above him, black against the darkening sky. He cursed quietly, and Ranulf, riding slightly behind him, leaned forward.

‘Master, what is it?’

‘I still have the King’s special task to do,’ Corbett murmured, his words almost lost beneath the noise of the market. ‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

Eventually they had to dismount and lead their horses. The ground underfoot was thick and mushy, dung and mud mixing with the refuse thrown from the stalls and taverns. A moonman pushed his way through, wheeling a barrow with a small bear chained to it. Corbett wondered idly where he was going, only to be distracted by a loud-mouthed apothecary who plucked his sleeve, claiming he had an electuary distilled from silver which would cure all ills. Corbett shrugged him off as he glimpsed a goldsmith’s sign. He told Ranulf to hold the horses and walked over. He wanted to divert himself for a while, and was resolved to buy something unique for Lady Maeve.

The merchant behind the stall quickly appraised Corbett from head to toe and immediately led him into the back room of his shop, where he took down an iron-bound coffer locked with three clasps. He opened this and showed Corbett an array of diamonds, pearls, emeralds and sapphires which he called by fancy names such as ‘Bon Homme’, ‘The Dimple’, ‘The Barley-corn’, ‘The Distaff’, ‘The Cloud’, ‘The Quail’, ‘The Chestnut’, ‘The Ruby King’. Corbett studied each one, promised the man he would return and left the shop.

Rejoining Ranulf, Corbett grasped the reins of his horse and they walked on. Ranulf realised that any attempt at conversation would be futile, whilst he himself was eager to drink in the various sights of the city, catch a pretty eye or win a smile from some lovely face. At last they were clear of the main trading area. The bells of the city began to clang out the tocsin, the sign for the market to close and all good citizens to return to their homes. They passed the churches of St Mary Magdalene and St Michael, then turned left, following the route they’d taken into the city, along the old boundary wall through Queningate and out into the countryside. Once mounted, Ranulf spurred alongside Corbett to question him about what happened at the Guildhall, but he received little satisfaction.

‘I know nothing.’ Corbett reined in and stared up at the sky, where the clouds were breaking up. He murmured a prayer. ‘At least there’ll be no more snow tonight.’ He sighed. ‘What I must do, Ranulf, is reflect and think.’ His horse skittered on the trackway. ‘And this is a lonely place. Come now, God knows who follows us.’

On their return to St Augustine’s, they found Chanson, much improved, sitting in the small refectory enjoying a dish of rabbit stew with onions and a pot of ale specially brewed at the abbey. Corbett and Ranulf took off their boots, changed, washed their hands and faces and came down to join him. The room was well lit by torches and candles on the table and heated by braziers in every corner. It was a pleasant refectory with paintings on the wall depicting Christ’s Last Supper and his meeting with the disciples at Emmaus. A soothing and relaxing place. Ranulf insisted on telling a story about a stingy abbot and his grasping guest master. A visitor once sheltered in their abbey for the night. He was given only hard bread and water, and a thin straw mattress to sleep on. In the morning he protested to the guest master, who simply shrugged off his complaints. As he left the abbey, the visitor met the abbot and immediately thanked him for his lavish hospitality.

‘Of course,’ Ranulf joked, ‘the abbot immediately disciplined the guest master for wasting his resources. And then there’s the other story,’ he continued, ‘about a priest who’d been visiting his mistress. He arrived home late at night. Beside his church stood a haunted house, and as the priest passed, he heard a voice shout: “Who are you?” The priest went over. “I’m the parson of this church,” he declared, “and who are you?” “I speak from hell,” the voice replied. “Are you sure you are a priest?” “Why?” the parson replied. “Well,” the voice declared, “so many priests are in hell, I didn’t think there were any more left on earth. .”’

Ranulf stopped as the guest master bustled in to inform Corbett that Les Hommes Joyeuses would like to see him the next morning to thank him for his kindness towards them. Corbett agreed, then decided to join the good brothers in the choir to sing Vespers. Ranulf claimed he was tired and said he’d make his own oraisons.

Corbett went over to the darkening church. For a while he squatted at the foot of a pillar watching the monks file in as the bells marked the hour. He then respectfully approached the abbot, who indicated the stall next to him and gestured for a lay brother to bring a psalter. Corbett revelled in the atmosphere. For a while he could lose himself in this beautiful church with its curving arches and ornate pillars, the high altar bathed in light, the lamps and lanterns glowing and the massed voices of the brothers as they chanted the evening prayer. He glanced round. It was also a ghostly place. Shadows shifted amongst the monks, their faces half hidden in the light, tonsured heads lowered, yet all was redeemed by that melodious chant echoing through the church, reaching every darkening corner.

Corbett sang lustily with the rest, and later, as he sat listening to the lector, he thought of Griskin. The reader had chosen a text from the Second Book of Samuel, declaring in a clear, carrying voice David’s lament over Saul and Jonathan: ‘Alas, the glory of Israel has been slain on the heights! How did the heroes fall and the battle armour fail!’ Corbett wondered how Griskin had been trapped, but put such thoughts away as they rose to sing the psalm: ‘Lord of hosts, how long will you ignore your people’s plea. .’

Once Vespers was over, Corbett remained in his stall. He politely refused the abbot’s invitation to join him in his parlour, smiling up as the other monks passed by, for he wanted to be alone. He turned in the stall and stared at the high altar. Its great candles still flamed vigorously. He looked down the church, where a night mist had curled in beneath the door, moving like a cloud up the nave. He glanced up at the top of the pillars; gargoyle faces smirked stonily back. The place was now empty. He suppressed a shiver, got up, genuflected towards the pyx cup hanging from its gold chain, and made his way out through the Galilee Porch.

The night was freezing cold. Corbett walked along the path into the deserted cloisters. Lanterns hung between the pillars. At one point he stopped and glanced around. He felt uneasy. The cloister garth was hidden under a deep frost. In the centre a lonely rose bush extended its stark arms upwards as if seeking solace from the bitter cold. Shadows danced in the moving light of the lanterns. Somewhere a bell clanged. A voice echoed, then all fell silent. Corbett walked briskly on. Once again he paused and turned round. He felt he was being watched, yet nothing but a deathly silence permeated these holy precincts.

He was halfway down one side of the cloisters when the crossbow bolt zipped through the air and smacked into the grey ragstone wall behind him. He immediately crouched down, protected by a rounded pillar, and glanced across the cloister garth. The other side was hidden by the dark; an army could lurk there and he would never see it. ‘Pax et bonum,’ he shouted, hoping more to attract attention than discover who his assailant was. A voice echoed chillingly back.

‘Pax et bonum, king’s man, royal emissary.’ Another crossbow bolt sliced through the air.

Corbett realised that the archer, whoever he was, did not intend to kill but to frighten. There was no attempt to take aim, to mark his quarry. He half rose and glanced around the pillar. He could detect nothing. He stared up at the carving grinning back at him, a monkey’s face shrouded in a cowl with glaring protuberant eyes, tongue sticking out between thick lips, a wicked grimace on an evil face. He edged his knife out of its scabbard. He was safe as long as he didn’t move. He heard a movement on the far side of the cloister and quickly shifted into the shadows so as to confuse his attacker. Abruptly a door at the far end of his side of the cloister opened, and a voice shouted.

‘Who’s there? Is everything all right?’

‘God save you, Brother,’ Corbett called out. ‘I’m Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s emissary. I’m a little lost.’ He heard a sound from across the garth and realised his assailant was slipping away. The lay brother came lumbering forward. Corbett waited until he was almost upon him before he moved. ‘Thank you, Brother.’ He grasped the lay brother’s hand and stared into his face. ‘I was a little bit overcome and confused. Which way is it to the guesthouse?’

The lay brother was full of questions, but Corbett walked as fast as he could towards the door and the pool of light shed by the lantern hanging from its hook. Once inside, he relaxed, his body sweat-drenched, his heart thudding. The lay brother stared at him curiously.

‘Sir Hugh, is all well?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett gasped. ‘Just a phantom of the night, nothing much. I’d be grateful, Brother, if you would escort me to my companions.’

Back at the guesthouse, Corbett found Desroches sitting at a table with Ranulf and Chanson, sharing a cup of wine. The physician rose as he entered.

‘Sir Hugh, I have been waiting some time. I thought Vespers was long over?’

‘It is,’ Corbett declared, sitting down and willing himself to relax. ‘But Master Desroches, why have you come at such a late hour in such inclement weather?’

‘Parson Warfeld is also here. He has gone to see the prior on some business, but-’

‘I asked what you wanted,’ Corbett insisted. He felt tired and exasperated. He wished to retire and compose his thoughts. He wanted to write to Maeve, meditate, allow his mind to float.

‘Lady Adelicia,’ Desroches declared. ‘She is pregnant.’

‘What?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘You know what that means,’ Desroches continued evenly. ‘She cannot face execution now. Once we had left the Guildhall chamber, she demanded to see me. She claims that her courses have stopped for the last two months. I believe, Sir Hugh, after a superficial examination, that she is indeed pregnant. I have consulted with Parson Warfeld.’ He paused as the priest bustled through the door, shaking the water from his robe.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Warfeld declared. ‘Has Master Desroches told you the news?’ The parson eased himself over the bench and sat down. Grasping the wine jug, he poured himself a generous goblet and slurped noisily from it. ‘Our good physician told me the news and thought you should know — whilst I had business with the prior over the supply of communion breads so I came with him. It’s impossible!’ he gasped.

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well,’ Desroches sighed, ‘one important fact: Rauf Decontet may have married Lady Adelicia, but outside the seal of confession, Parson Warfeld and I can assure you, Sir Hugh, that he could no more have begotten a child than a eunuch in the seraglio of the great Cham of Tartary.’

‘Parson Warfeld?’

‘Sir Rauf often talked about it,’ the priest replied. ‘How he would love to have a son. Sir Hugh, in a word what Master Desroches and I are saying is that Sir Rauf Decontet was impotent, incapable of begetting a son. Therefore, the Lady Adelicia must have had a lover. I suspect you know who-’

‘Wendover!’ Ranulf intervened. ‘It’s Master Wendover, captain of the city guard.’

‘True, true,’ Desroches murmured.

‘Who is Wendover?’ Corbett asked. ‘What is his background?’

‘He is Sir Walter Castledene’s man, body and soul,’ Warfeld replied. ‘He served in his personal retinue, and when Sir Walter was elected mayor, Wendover was appointed captain of the city guard. He is a Canterbury man, a former soldier; he has seen service here and there. A blustery man but of good heart, with an eye for the ladies! More importantly, Sir Hugh, he was present when Adam Blackstock and The Waxman were brought to judgement. He witnessed the hanging.’

‘And he was also on guard at Maubisson,’ Corbett declared, ‘when Paulents and the others were killed.’ He filled his wine cup and sipped it gently. He was beginning to feel sleepy. He needed to withdraw, reflect and collect his thoughts. He recalled the lament of David over Jonathan and thought of poor Griskin, as well as something Les Hommes Joyeuses had said to him. ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

Desroches got to his feet; Parson Warfeld also.

‘We thought it only proper to tell you now,’ the physician explained. ‘I mean, before we met tomorrow morning.’

‘And Decontet’s house is still under guard?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Parson Warfeld replied. ‘I pass it many a time. It is securely guarded at every entrance. Sir Walter Castledene has insisted on that.’

‘And Maubisson?’ Corbett asked.

Desroches shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. Perhaps you had best ask Sir Walter yourself.’

When the two men had left, Corbett finished his wine whilst his comrades chattered amongst themselves. ‘I was attacked!’ he intervened brusquely, immediately the conversation died. ‘On leaving Vespers,’ he continued. ‘An assassin, a bowman as in the forest. Two crossbow bolts were loosed. I do not think he intended to kill but to warn me.’ He smiled thinly and was about to get up when Ranulf put a hand over his.

‘Sir Hugh, you should go nowhere by yourself. Next time I will be with you. Lady Maeve insists on that.’

‘And me,’ Chanson declared hotly. ‘My leg is well, the ulcer is healing.’

‘Who could it be?’ Ranulf mused. ‘Desroches was with us before Vespers ended and never left.’

‘And Parson Warfeld?’

‘He came but then went to see the prior; a lay brother took him there.’

Corbett rose to his feet. ‘I shall retire to my chamber. I will close the shutters over my window, lock and bolt my door, then I shall think. Gentlemen, good night. .’

Corbett flung down the quill in desperation and glared at the triptych on the wall celebrating the arrival of St Augustine in Kent and his meeting with the Saxon king. He noticed with amusement how the artist had depicted Augustine in all three panels as if suffused by a golden glow, whilst his adversaries, the Saxon king and his entourage, were hidden in a cloud of shadows. He rose and stretched, easing the soreness in his legs and arms. He ignored the goblet of mulled wine standing on the table and stared down at the document taken from Paulents’ casket. In truth, he was unable to break the cipher. At first he had thought it would be easy. Now a faint suspicion pricked his mind: was it all a farrago of nonsense? But in that case why was Paulents carrying it? As far as he could see, the so-called Cloister Map made no more sense than the jabbering of an idiot. Or was it just that he was frustrated? He had used his own cipher book, moving the letters scrawled on that piece of vellum, but all to no avail. Only the occasional word made sense.

Eventually Corbett had diverted himself by writing to Maeve, sending love and affection to her and the children, and concentrating on the petty aspects of their life such as the use of the long meadow at Leighton, the manor’s claims to the advowson of the local church, as well as his rights as manor lord over assart and purpresture. He left most of these things to Maeve, who loved the complex legal claims underpinning tenure. She thoroughly enjoyed arguing with her attorney, Master Osbert, their audacious serjeant at law, about payment in fee or the true meaning of assart. Once he’d sealed his missive to her, Corbett turned to the letters he’d received from Westminster. The first had been dispatched under the Secret Seal. The second was from the prior of the abbey there, William de Huntingdon. The King’s missive, written hastily, probably by Edward himself, gave details about the Lady Adelicia’s wardship. How it had been granted to Sir Rauf Decontet at the behest of Walter Castledene. How both men had been colleagues and comrades in the past and proved themselves to be loyal servants of the Crown. In other words, Corbett reflected cynically, they had loaned the Exchequer considerable amounts of money. Corbett had asked for such information before he left Westminster. He was surprised Sir Walter hadn’t described his relationship with Decontet more accurately, and wondered whether Castledene should be the right man to sit as judge of oyer and terminer in the case. The King had had no difficulty in sharing such information. Corbett could imagine Edward, iron-grey hair framing that falcon face, his right eye drooping, lips puckered, as he stood in some chancery chamber, kicking at the rushes and dictating the letter. Afterwards, pushing the poor scribe aside, he’d added a sentence in his own hand, a postscript about his precious snow-white hawk, now ill at the royal mews, reminding Corbett to pray at Becket’s tomb that the bird should recover.

‘I wish to God you’d given me more information about Castledene and Decontet,’ Corbett murmured. He tapped the letter against the table. That was another question he hoped to ask Sir Walter when they met tomorrow morning. In fact, although Corbett had made no progress with the cipher, he had decided how he would manage these affairs. So far he’d simply blundered around, acting on what others said or what he observed: that must end. He unrolled the King’s letter again and studied its hasty last line: ‘Dieu vous benoit, par la main du Roi.’ The Norman French letters were ill-formed, but the King wished Corbett well and assured his principal clerk that he still enjoyed his royal master’s favour and love.

The second letter, from the Prior of Westminster, was brief and succinct. Brother Hubert of Canterbury had left their community early in the summer of 1293. Before his swift departure he had destroyed all records of himself and disappeared from view. He had never returned. Hubert’s departure, the prior confided, was as abrupt and sudden as a summer storm. Until then he had been a veritable beacon of light: a great scholar with a flair for study, well liked by his brethren, an obedient monk who strictly observed the rule of St Benedict in every way. As to his description, he was slim, of medium height, with comely face and pleasant manner. The only thing the prior had discovered was that Brother Hubert had received a mysterious visitor around the time of Pentecost. Once he had left, Brother Hubert had retreated to his private cell claiming sickness; three days later he was gone. Rumours had seeped back that Hubert had forsaken not only his vows, but any love of God, becoming a venator hominum — a hunter of men — but the prior could not comment on this.

Corbett put both letters down as he heard a knock on the door and Ranulf calling his name. He unlocked and unbarred the door, and Ranulf came in bearing a fresh goblet of posset wrapped in a napkin. Uninvited, he sat down on a stool.

‘Chanson is sleeping, master, and so you should be.’

Corbett took the goblet, sat on the edge of his bed and sipped carefully. He was determined on a soul-fast sleep, no heart-shaking dreams, phantasms or nightmares fed by too much wine. He stared down at the cold grey stone floor and shivered at a nasty draught which seeped like a fiend beneath the door to prickle the skin.

‘Master?’

Corbett glanced up.

‘What sense do you make of this?’

‘What sense?’ Corbett laughed. ‘Why, Ranulf, none at all.’ He sipped once more from the wine, put the cup down between his buskined feet and leaned forward, hands together. ‘Ranulf, have you heard from Lady Constance?’

Ranulf blushed at the mention of the daughter of the Constable of Corfe Castle. He’d met her only a few weeks before when he and Corbett were on royal business in the West Country.

‘Oh, not yet, Master, but this present business?’

‘I mention this present business because you are determined on advancement in the royal service or, if you decide so, to enter the church as a priest, though one spurred by great ambition. Is that not true, Ranulf?’

His manservant shuffled his feet, wiping the palms of his hands on his hose, but he held Corbett’s gaze. This was a matter he had often discussed with Master Long-Face. Ranulf was determined on his own advancement. He had studied every book Corbett had loaned him, and scrutinised his master’s methods as carefully and avidly as any hungry cat would a mousehole.

‘One thing I have taught you,’ Corbett held his hands up as if in prayer, ‘is never to make a judgement until you’ve collected all the facts, everything you can. What we are dealing with here, Ranulf, is murder, the killing of another human being by another, an unlawful slaying. Rest assured of this: murder is the fruit of a poisonous, hateful plant. Remember, however, it’s always the fruit, the rotten blossom, not the root. Think of a bush thrusting up on the edge of black, weed-filled water full of rotting cones and dead leaves. On that bush is a ripening fungus, full and plump as a cushion. You don’t like the countryside, Ranulf, yet you must have passed such scenes: that’s what murder is like, some rotten bush fed by hate, anger and resentment. It’s what we have here. On the one hand there’s that poor family massacred at Maubisson. Why? How? We also have Decontet, his skull shattered like a wine jug. We have seen some of murder’s fruit: the corpses, the hatred, the division. But in this case the roots go much deeper: Blackstock the pirate waging war at sea, dying a violent death; his half-brother Hubert fleeing from his monastery to become a hunter of men. . and still we haven’t reached the roots. Why did Blackstock turn to piracy? What caused Hubert, a good monk, a follower of St Benedict, to renounce his vows and acquire a reputation as someone who feared neither God nor man? It’s only when we dig deep that we find the source, and possibly the cure, of all this rottenness. Many questions have to be asked and their answers closely analysed. If God gives me life and health, that is what I shall begin to do tomorrow.’ He rose to his feet and stretched out his hand for Ranulf to clasp. ‘Say your prayers,’ he murmured. ‘And if the spirit takes you, join me in the stalls for the Lauds Mass. Let’s sing, praise God and ask for his guidance. .’

Corbett rose long before daybreak. He opened the shutters and peered out through an arrow-slit window. The moon was still distinct, though distant, like the brightness of a small coin. It hadn’t snowed but it was bitterly cold. Corbett had to use a pair of small bellows to fan some heat back into the braziers before he stripped, washed, and dressed for the day. He took out woollen hose from the panniers, thick socks, a heavy worsted shirt and a quilted cote-hardie. Around his waist he wrapped his sword belt, even though he was attending Mass; once there he’d unbuckle it and place it in the porch. From the noise in the chamber next door he realised that either Ranulf or Chanson, or possibly both, was preparing to join him. He put the metal caps over the braziers, made sure the shutters were closed and left, locking the door behind him.

He waited in the refectory below, refusing the ministrations of a sleepy lay brother. Ranulf and Chanson, also dressed against the cold, soon joined him. Ranulf’s face was fresh and cleanly shaven but Chanson looked as if he’d just tumbled out of bed. The three of them made their way through the cloisters and joined the monks as they filed like dark shadows into the candlelit church. Corbett and his companions sat in those stalls reserved for visitors. As so often, certain words from the Scriptures caught Corbett’s attention and made him concentrate on the battle in hand. When the lector recited ‘For it is close, the day of their ruin, their doom come at speed’, he half smiled, for the text neatly summarised what he’d said to Ranulf, though for a while that would have to wait.

Once Lauds was over, Corbett and his party stayed just within the rood screen as the Jesus Mass was celebrated. Afterwards they adjourned to the refectory in the guesthouse, where a lay brother served salted bacon, soft cheese and jugs of watered ale. When they had eaten, Corbett ordered Ranulf and Chanson to prepare for their journey into the city, whilst he excused himself, saying he wanted to ensure Les Hommes Joyeuses were settled; it was the least he could do for fellow travellers. Ranulf demanded to accompany him but Corbett refused. On the insistence of his comrades, Corbett took a small arbalest from their weapon store and left, following the trackway leading through the fields to the disused church of St Pancras and its old priest’s house. The sky was lightening, though the darkness still clung, a sharp contrast to the white shroud of snow which covered everything, trees stark and black, bushes and undergrowth all weighed down by ice. Crows and ravens, defying the biting wind, walked stiff-legged across the snow, only to burst upwards in a flurry of black feathers at his approach. Corbett passed disused outhouses with their coarse grey stone and narrow slit windows. A fox slunk by, its coat all smeared with mud, belly close to the ground. Now and again he stopped to glance back, yet there was nothing but the path sneaking behind him. He rounded a bend and immediately paused. A figure, cowled and bent, was shuffling towards him. Corbett’s free hand went to his dagger as the dark shape approached, but it was only a beggar man, grey-faced and shivering, who stared watery-eyed at him then whined for a coin, which Corbett spun in his direction. The clerk watched the beggar man pass him by, then continued on his way.

At last the grim tower of St Pancras loomed above the trees. Corbett relaxed as he smelt wood smoke and the tasty odours of food mixed with the acrid tang of horse and hay. He crossed a small footbridge, up a path and through a crumbling lychgate into God’s acre. The church was nothing more than an old barn-like structure under a much-decayed sloping roof, with a squat ugly tower built on one side. Its lancet windows were boarded up, as was the old porch door. Corbett went round the church and heaved a sigh of relief. Les Hommes Joyeuses were already aroused, their gaudily covered carts lined up before the old priest’s house. The fence around this had crumbled, its thatched roof sagged, whilst the door and shutters hung loose. Fires had been lit and women were preparing small cauldrons of oatmeal or laying strips of salted meat across makeshift grills. A man came from behind a wagon, an arrow notched to his bow. Corbett put his arbalest down and lifted both hands in a sign of peace; in this poor light he didn’t want to make a mistake.

‘Greetings,’ he called out. ‘Greetings to Les Hommes Joyeuses. I seek the Gleeman.’

‘Sir Hugh.’ The Gleeman, hood pushed back, came out of the priest’s house shouting at the bowman not to be a fool, and beckoned Corbett forward.