The Waxman Murders

Chapter 7

The clerk went into the small hall of the priest’s house. This had been cleared, the floor scoured; a weak fire crackled in the hearth and the narrow windows were blocked with blackened straw. The Gleeman asked the woman tending the hearth and the children clinging to her robe to leave. He invited Corbett to sit on a stool by the fire whilst he squatted down next to him, his back to the inglenook, as if they were old comrades, which in truth they were. Corbett waited until the small hall was emptied, then extended his right hand. The wind-chapped face of Robert Ormesby, former clerk, now Gleeman of Les Hommes Joyeuses, broke into a smile. Neither Ranulf nor even the King knew that Ormesby was Corbett’s spy. Corbett paid him directly from his own purse for the information he collected as he and his troupe wandered the wealthy towns and villages in the east and south of the kingdom.

‘A mere coincidence,’ Ormesby whispered, ‘meeting you on Harbledown Hill.’ He forced a smile. ‘The minute I heard about three horsemen led by a king’s clerk, I guessed who it was.’ He gestured round. ‘I thank you for our lodgings.’

‘You are well?’ Corbett leaned closer to the fire.

‘I still have dreams, nightmares,’ Ormesby muttered, not meeting Corbett’s eyes.

‘About Stirling?’

The Gleeman looked away, breathing quickly as he strove to clear his mind of that fatal battle six years earlier when the Scottish leader Wallace had trapped the English vanguard at Stirling Bridge.

‘I still see them,’ he muttered, ‘the Scots, a mass of men bristling with steel tips like some huge, malevolent hedgehog advancing towards us, great horns blasting, war cries ringing out. Cressingham, that stupid bastard!’

Corbett just stared into the flames. He’d lost other friends, mailed clerks, at that disaster when Hugh de Cressingham, Knight of the Swan and Edward’s treasurer in Scotland, had insisted on his hasty advance across Stirling Bridge, walking straight into Wallace’s trap. For men like the Gleeman, the only consolation was that Cressingham himself had been dragged from his saddle and killed, his fat corpse skinned to make tokens for the Scots; Wallace had even made a belt out of the piece given to him. King Edward had hurried into Scotland and reversed the defeat by his victory at Falkirk, but Ormesby had seen enough. He left the royal service, moved to a village outside Glastonbury and married a local girl. She had died in childbirth, so Ormesby had used his little wealth to finance Les Hommes Joyeuses and assumed the role of the Gleeman, their leader. Corbett had met him three years earlier during a commission of oyer and terminer in Essex, and promptly recruited him. Ormesby roamed the roads and collected all the gossip and tittle-tattle which Corbett could sift on behalf of his royal master.

‘And your news?’

‘I received your letter before the snows came,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘We moved into Suffolk, following the River Denham, making enquiries amongst the villagers, the wise women, the tavern-hunters, the wandering chapmen. It’s true, Sir Hugh.’ The Gleeman’s eyes glittered greedily. ‘There’s gossip,’ he whispered, ‘about what they call the Haunt of Ghosts.’

‘The Haunt of Ghosts?’

‘A lonely place, Sir Hugh, desolate moorland except for a dozen tumuli or grave-mounds, not far from the Denham. The gossip is that in ancient times a great king, with a treasure hoard beyond all expectation, was buried somewhere close. People have searched for it but nothing’s been found. A local priest talks of maps and charts, but. .’ He shook his head.

‘And recently?’ Corbett asked.

‘A bailiff near Denham said that about three or four years ago strangers came into the area asking about the local lore and legend, but he cannot remember their names or faces. Sir Hugh,’ Ormesby jabbed a finger in the air, ‘a great treasure does exist. There have been enquiries recently, nothing precise, just whispers, like the breeze on a summer’s evening.’

‘But there has been no report of diggings, of anyone searching for the treasure?’

‘As I said, local lore and legend, recent enquiries, strangers coming in and out with heads hooded and faces hidden. You must remember, Sir Hugh, it’s a busy place, people passing to and fro from Ipswich and the other market towns. The legends are so ancient no one really pays much attention.’

‘And Blackstock, The Waxman?’

‘Well known along the Colvasse peninsula. The Waxman often slipped into the coves and inlets around Orwell. Blackstock was respected and liked, regarded as a hero. He and his men never plundered or pillaged. They paid good prices to the local peasant farmers and kept the peace. Blackstock restocked and refurbished his ship, filled water barrels and slipped away like a sea mist.’

‘And his half-brother, Hubert the Monk?’

‘Again, gossip, but no one ever saw him. People said that Blackstock would meet someone, probably Hubert, at a derelict hermitage on the River Orwell.’ He paused. ‘Ah yes, that’s its name: St Simon of the Rocks. The locals also claim Blackstock was probably heading there when he was trapped by two war cogs against the coast in the October of 1300. The villagers still talk of the sea fight which took place. How afterwards Sir Walter Castledene’s ship The Caltrop sailed into Orwell with Blackstock’s corpse dangling by its neck from the poop. To be sure, Sir Hugh, the peasants did not like that.’ The Gleeman thrust a small log and some kindling into the charcoal now glowing strongly in the hearth. He turned, wiping his hands. ‘Do you want something to eat or drink?’

‘No, no thank you.’

The Gleeman got up and went into an adjoining room, probably the buttery, coming back with a tankard of ale and a hunk of bread. He drank and ate noisily.

‘A bloody sea fight!’ he said between mouthfuls.

‘Were there any survivors?’

‘Oh yes. According to the villagers, Castledene did the same as Blackstock had done to his crews. I believe he hanged his prisoners though he may have thrown some of them overboard. They could either drown or make their way to the shore; that’s where Castledene made a mistake. You see, Sir Hugh, along most coastlines shipwrecked sailors are shown very little mercy, but Blackstock and his crew were liked. One man survived and he was helped. No one knew his name. He was sea-soaked, half dead; they gave him some hot oatmeal, dried his clothes and sent him on his way.’

‘And The Waxman, the ship itself?’

‘Taken away, given to the merchants who’d helped Sir Walter.’

‘What happened to Blackstock’s corpse?’

‘Well, Sir Walter Castledene and Paulents were triumphant. They took their ships into Hamford Water, near Walton on the Naze The crews feasted. Blackstock’s corpse was dragged along the cobbles on a hurdle behind a horse before being hung from some gallows out on the mud flats. They put a guard about it, let it dangle there for the sea birds to have their fill, and then,’ the Gleeman shrugged, ‘according to popular rumour, it was flung into the sea, certainly not given honourable burial. I tell you, Sir Hugh, Castledene and Paulents made few friends that day.’

‘And Hubert the Monk?’

‘Ask Sir Walter Castledene. Hubert rarely showed his face, and after his brother’s death he disappeared completely. No one has seen him since.’

Corbett stared into the flames, watching one of the logs crackling in the heat. Outside he could hear the chatter and noise of Les Hommes Joyeuses as they prepared for another day. Somewhere far off tambourines sounded. Corbett realised that the morning was moving on; he had to return to St Augustine’s. He undid the purse on his belt, drew out some silver coins and pressed them into the Gleeman’s hands.

‘Sir Hugh, why do you ask me? Sir Walter will tell you all this.’

‘No, Master Gleeman.’ Corbett patted him on the shoulder. ‘He’ll tell me what he wants me to know, whereas you will tell me what you saw and heard. Do you know what caused such hatred? Why did Blackstock take to the sea and Hubert leave his monastery to become a hunter of men?’

‘Just rumours, Sir Hugh, legends about their childhood.’

Corbett stared up at the rough carving above the hearth, then glanced around. A strange place, he mused; so comfortable just staring into the fire, yet he could also feel the cold, seeping draughts, and the Gleeman’s impatience: there was a day’s work ahead and he wished Corbett to be gone.

‘And so we come to Griskin,’ Corbett said. ‘You knew who he really was? You referred to him at Harbledown.’

‘He spoke to me about his golden days, being a scholar in the schools. I recognised he was your man, Sir Hugh. He would come and go like the breeze. He rejoiced in acting the leper. He used to laugh at that, the way he could move so easily; not even outlaws or wolfsheads would approach him. He came into our camp and introduced himself. He carried a medallion like I do, the one you gave us to recognise each other, and introduced himself. I’ll be honest, I’d met Master Griskin before, though in different disguises. In fact,’ the Gleeman smiled, ‘if he’d wanted to, he could have joined our troupe. He was a true troubadour, a mime who rejoiced in his various roles. He reeked like a midden heap, and his face and hands were painted and roughened as if he’d suffered some grisly affliction. I met him outside the camp and asked him what he wanted. He replied that he’d come looking for Hubert the Monk. I couldn’t help him but I told him what I told you. We met just after we’d crossed into Essex. We were staying near Thorpe-le-Soken, for we tend to lodge near the coast. Fishing communities are friendlier than villages deep in the countryside, especially in winter. I asked Griskin if fortune had favoured him. Now he’d drunk quite deeply on ale; you know he liked that?’

Corbett nodded.

‘One of his great weaknesses,’ the Gleeman continued. ‘If he didn’t drink, he didn’t drink, but once he did, he rarely stopped. Anyway, Griskin said that he knew someone called Simon of the Rocks. I didn’t know what he meant.’

Corbett recalled how the Merchant of Souls had mentioned the same name.

‘Have you ever heard of St Simon of the Rocks?’ Corbett asked.

‘Vaguely. Griskin talked about the hermitage on the Orwell. How Hubert the Monk may have disappeared, though he suspected where he was hiding. Then he mentioned Simon of the Rocks, I think that’s the name of the hermitage chapel along the Orwell. Anyway, Griskin seemed keen to press on, so I let him go. He said that if he discovered anything of interest he would return. We stayed at Thorpe-le-Soken seven days. The following week, a chapman, a wandering tinker, came into our camp to warm himself by the fire. He talked about the gallows outside Thorpe-le-Soken; of a man hanging there completely naked. Those who’d seen the corpse thought it was a leper. Of course I became alarmed. Griskin hadn’t returned, so I and some of the men went out. The gibbet is high and stark, overlooking ice-blasted wastelands. A harsh, dark place, Sir Hugh, where the clouds hang down like the wrath of God. The biting wind tugs at your clothes as if it was a fiend sent to plague you. We saw the gibbet from afar, the corpse swinging like a rag. I tell you this.’ The Gleeman leaned closer in a gust of ale and sweat-soaked clothes. ‘I knew something was wrong. That gibbet was rarely used except for the occasional cattle thief or a felon caught red-handed by the sheriff’s comitatus. I drew closer. One glance told me it was Griskin. He’d been stripped completely naked. The noose, tight around his neck, was looped through the hook on the arm of the scaffold: a monstrosity out of a nightmare. His belly was puffed out like a pig’s bladder, tongue fastened between his teeth, eyes popping out. The crows and ravens had already been busy.’

Corbett closed his eyes and muttered the Requiem.

‘I knew Griskin. I couldn’t leave him, so I cut him down. We buried him there and erected a makeshift cross. I looked at the corpse.’ The Gleeman tapped the side of his head. ‘There was a blow here. I believe Griskin was enticed out on to that lonely wasteland of hell, his head staved in, then he was hanged, half alive, his breath choked out.’

‘You think Hubert the Monk was responsible?’

‘Who else, Sir Hugh? What would a leper have worth stealing? How could a leper threaten anyone? Even outlaws stay away from them. No, someone had discovered Griskin was not what he claimed to be, that he was searching for something or somebody. Of course it must be Hubert the Monk.’

‘You’ve heard what happened at Maubisson?’

‘The news is all over the city,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘An entire family hanging by their necks in that lonely manor with no sign of violence: they are talking of ghosts and demons. .’

‘They can talk about that to their hearts’ content,’ Corbett snapped, ‘as long as they call them Hubert. Ah well, Master Gleeman, so what have we discovered? That a treasure lies somewhere out in the wastelands of Suffolk near the River Denham. That there are legends about it, and always have been; that people have searched for it but no one has found it. There has been a quickening of interest, and then what? We have Blackstock and his half-brother; did they know where the treasure was? Adam Blackstock was certainly sailing to meet his brother so they could unite and discover this king’s ransom. However, Blackstock’s ship was attacked, and Blackstock was killed and gibbeted. Only one of his crew apparently survived. I sent messages to you and Griskin to learn all you could about Hubert the Monk and the lost treasure. Nothing is truly discovered except rumours and stories, but then Griskin is murdered.’

Corbett patted his thigh, got to his feet, opened his purse and slipped another coin into the Gleeman’s hand. He stared around the old priest’s house, the crumbling plaster, the cracked floor, the gaps in the windows, the sagging roof, the dirt and filth brushed into a corner. On reflection he didn’t like this place, he wanted to be gone. The story the Gleeman had told him about poor Griskin’s death was equally filthy, horrid and menacing. He thought of his walk back through the lonely woods to St Augustine’s. He turned at the door.

‘Master Gleeman, I would like an escort, maybe two of your men?’

‘Sir Hugh, I can’t spare any. I’ve sent some out to snare rabbits in the wasteland, but I can ask two of our boys.’ The Gleeman stood up, and went outside shouting. A short while later two lads, merry-faced, bright-eyed and clothed in rags, came leaping up. They introduced themselves as Jack o’ the Lantern and David of the Mist. They danced around Corbett like sprites, asking him questions, chattering away in a patois he couldn’t understand. He bade adieu to the Gleeman and moved away, the boys dancing in front of him, shoving and pushing, kicking up the snow, scaring the birds, flinging their arms out. Corbett smiled at the sheer exuberance of youth, a welcome relief from that dank cottage and the sombre news he’d received.

‘Come here, lads,’ he called. ‘Come here.’

Both boys fell silent and came running up. Corbett noticed they were barefoot.

‘You have no shoes.’

‘It’s not our turn to wear them, sir; it’s our turn to collect sticks, so we are pleased to act as your guides.’

‘And very good guides you are. Where are you from?’

‘We live in Birch Hall or Birch Manor,’ Jack o’ the Lantern replied.

‘We have lived there for years,’ David of the Mist teased as he chased his brother off.

Again Corbett called them back. ‘Birch Hall, Birch Manor, what do you mean?’

The two lads started laughing, pushing and shoving each other, and pointed to the trees on either side of the trackway.

‘This is Birch Manor; this is Birch Hall: the trees, that’s where we live.’ And chattering like squirrels on a branch, they ran ahead of Corbett, leading him back into the grounds of St Augustine’s Abbey.

Corbett was well down the lane when he heard his name being called. He turned and watched the figure emerge from the mist. The Gleeman hurried limping towards him.

‘Sir Hugh! Sir Hugh!’

Corbett walked back. The Gleeman paused, hands on his side, gasping for breath.

‘What is it, man?’

‘I forgot something about Griskin! When we cut him down from the scaffold and buried him. .’

‘Yes?’

‘His left hand had been cut off, severed completely at the wrist. I never understood why. I’ve heard stories, but I thought I should tell you.’

Corbett stared down the path; the mist was growing thicker. Behind him he could hear the boys shouting at him to come, how the abbey buildings were in sight, just a short walk, almost as if they could sense his apprehension.

‘I thank you, Gleeman.’ He raised his hand and bowed. ‘I am grateful; as you say, God knows why anyone should do that.’

He went back to join the boys, now skipping and leaping like hares in front of him. They passed through a gate into the abbey grounds. The boys, still dancing from foot to foot, asked him if he wanted anything else. Could they look around? Corbett called them closer and pressed a coin into each of their grubby hands.

‘No, no,’ he declared, smiling down at them. ‘Go back. The Gleeman is waiting for you. I think he has other errands waiting.’

The boys left as swift as lurchers, heading for the gate, jostling each other. Corbett watched them go. For a brief moment he felt a deep sense of envy at their innocence. They had no fear. To them this was not an icy, mist-strewn place where all sorts of demons and dangers lurked. He sighed and walked on across the snow-covered yards and gardens. Now and again a brother would pass him and whisper a salutation, Corbett would reply absent-mindedly; all he could really think of was poor Griskin, naked, bloated, and hanging from that lonely scaffold over those icy marshes. He had reached the small cloisters leading down to the guesthouse when he heard his name being called.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’

He turned round. The guest master came hobbling up, one hand held out, the other containing a leather sack bound and sealed at the neck. The monk handed this over, saying it had been left for Corbett at the abbey lodge, but by whom he couldn’t say. He then questioned Corbett about his lodgings. Were they warm and comfortable? Corbett nodded distractedly and the guest master, remembering other duties, hastened away.

Corbett walked into a shadowy alcove and lifted the bag up. It was of thick Spanish leather, the string pulled tight, the neck sealed with wax. He broke the seal and undid the knot, loosened the sack and put his hand in. He drew out a linen cloth containing something cold and hard. Even as he undid the folds, he felt a shiver of apprehension, then stared in horror at what he’d uncovered: a human hand, severed at the wrist, blackened like a piece of cured meat, and in between the forefinger and thumb, a blood-red tarot candle, its wick charred from burning. Corbett swallowed hard and tried to control the nausea in his stomach. Bile gathered at the back of his throat. He wanted to scream, to throw it away. He turned the hand over. The flesh had been smoke-dried, shrunk like a scrap of rotten pork. He placed it gently back in the linen folds and dropped the gruesome package back into the sack, tying the knot tightly. Then he sat down on a small bench in the alcove to control his breathing, the hot sweat on his back turning icy.

‘Griskin’s hand!’ he whispered.

He stared across at a small fountain covered in ice, the garden bed around it frosted and dead, then closed his eyes and leaned back. He knew what he’d been sent. A talisman, a diabolic token, the Hand of Glory, the curse of a hanged man. He fought to control his anger. He didn’t believe in such nonsense, but he recognised that Griskin’s killer, possibly Hubert the Monk, had done this to frighten him.

He took a deep breath, rose to his feet and walked through the abbey buildings until he found the smithy in the main stable yard. A lay brother stood at the entrance hammering a piece of metal with a huge mallet. The crashing stilled as Corbett approached.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ The brother looked Corbett over from head to toe, then glimpsed the ring on his left hand. ‘Ah, you must be our guest, the King’s man.’

‘You have a fire,’ Corbett asked, ‘a forge?’

The man nodded. Corbett handed the sack over. ‘Do not look inside; burn it, burn it now!’

The smith shrugged, took the sack and walked inside. Corbett stood and watched the great door of the forge opened, the abomination was thrust in and the door closed.

‘Push it deeper into the coals,’ he urged.

The smith shrugged, opened the forge, pushed the sack further into the coals with a poker, closed the door again, then walked back outside.

‘Sir, what was in there?’

‘Something devilish,’ Corbett replied, ‘but fire will cleanse it!’

He stood for a while in the smithy, relishing its warmth, the smell of horses, hay, and roasting iron. Then he went across to a makeshift lavarium and, pouring water over his hands, washed them carefully, drying them on a napkin. He thanked the smith, took directions to the guesthouse and returned there. He could hear Ranulf and Chanson as soon as he entered the small downstairs refectory; they were singing, and Ranulf was teasing his comrade. Corbett stamped up the stairs. Ranulf and Chanson came out of their room to meet him, took one look at Corbett’s face and hastily retreated.

Corbett went into his chamber, slamming the door behind him. He slung down the small arbalest from his shoulder, took off his war belt and lay down on the bed. He found it difficult to concentrate. He tried to recall a Goliard song he loved to sing to Maeve: ‘Iam dulcis amica — now my sweet friend. .’ but the words and tune were difficult to recall. He swung his legs off the bed. Ranulf and Chanson knocked on the door and came in.

‘Master, we are sorry.’

Corbett brushed aside their apology. He could not tell them about where he’d been or his meeting with the Gleeman, so he fended off their questions in a flurry of preparations.

Ranulf leaned against the aumbry and narrowed his eyes. Master Long-Face was certainly agitated, but about what? Edward the King often took Ranulf aside and, leaning close, his right eye almost closed, would grasp the clerk’s arm until Ranulf winced with pain. The King would then instruct Ranulf to keep a vigilant watch on Sir Hugh. Ranulf had long realised this was not solely due to affection. In a word, Edward of England did not trust Corbett fully.

‘Too soft,’ he’d whisper. ‘Corbett has a heart and a soul, Ranulf.’ Then the King would add, ‘Which is more than he can say about us! Eh, Master Ranulf?’

The Senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax had never truly answered that question, either to himself or to the King. Ranulf had not decided what choices he would make. All he concentrated on was the road sweeping in front of him, the path to honour, power, glory and wealth. In truth, Corbett was that path, and so he had to keep Master Long-Face safe, not just for Maeve, little Edward and Eleanor, but more importantly for himself.

‘You are ready?’ Corbett, booted and spurred, his cloak tied about him, was ready to leave. Ranulf hastened to follow. They went down to the courtyard, where Chanson had prepared the horses. A short while later they left the abbey precincts. Corbett, slouched low in the saddle, allowed Ranulf and Chanson to lead as they wound their way up past St Queningate church and into the city. He felt strange. He had still to recover from the shock of that gruesome hand. He wanted to concentrate, yet the scenes around him came like images in a dream or wall paintings glimpsed in a church. A row of crows cawed on the side of a cart. Traders and tinkers hurried by, their trays full of trinkets, scent boxes, St Christopher medals, Becket badges, inkwells and quills. A relic-seller, his skin burnt dark by the sun, bearded, with fierce glaring eyes, was bawling how he was prepared to auction the Virgin Mary’s wedding ring, one of Christ’s shoe latchets, and a piece of the door from the church Simon Magus had built in Rome. A master of the drains and ditches, preceded by two ruffians carrying a tawdry banner displaying the city arms, proclaimed to all and sundry how ‘the flushing of the drains and sewers as well as the houses of easement on this side of the River Stour will be carried out before the eve of Christmas’. A group of nuns clattered by in their black soutanes, woollen pelisses, white linen caps and rounded boots. Nearby a beggar had frozen to death in the stocks and the officials were arguing about who should remove the corpse and bury it. Children in rags, feet bare, jumped over frozen yellow pools. Householders pulled sledges across the ice heaped with Yule logs and greenery to decorate their homes for the great feast. Stall-owners shouted prices above the clatter of the carts. Pedlars and pilgrims, merchants and moon people, rich and poor, cleric and lay, all jostled like a shoal of fish along the narrow streets, made even more crowded by the stalls and shops. Somewhere an Angelus bell tolled to remind the faithful to recite one Pater, one Ave and one Gloria. However, most of the faithful seemed more intent on following the delicious odours trailing from the alehouses, taverns and pastry shops where the makers were drawing out fresh batches of gold-encrusted pies full of hot minced beef, highly spiced to hide its age.

Corbett and Ranulf dismounted on the corner of an alleyway outside the piscina of the cathedral church of the Holy Trinity. A lay brother allowed them into the monks’ cemetery, though this was no haven of peace as it also served as sanctuary for wolfsheads, outlaws and other fugitives from justice. A gang of wild men in their ragged hoods and animal-skin hats, they were dressed in garish rags, though all were well armed as they squatted around roaring campfires eating, drinking and arguing with the drabs and whores who’d come looking for custom. They glanced greedily at Corbett and his two companions, but the clatter of weapons and Ranulf’s hard stare persuaded them from any mischief.

‘Where are we going?’ Chanson whispered.

‘To Becket’s shrine,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I’ve explained before. His Grace the King, well, you’ve seen his menagerie at the Tower: dromedaries, camels, lions, huge cats, apes and monkeys; he likes his animals but he truly loves his hawks. On one occasion he almost beat to death a falconer who made a mistake and harmed one of them. Anyway, two of the precious birds at the royal mews near Eleanor’s Cross are ill. The King had two golden coins blessed over their heads and has asked Corbett to bring them here as an offering.’ He nudged Chanson playfully. ‘Better than taking a wax image. I heard about one poor nuncius who carried one of those to Walsingham. By the time he arrived, the image had melted.’

‘And?’

‘Made little difference,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘The bird was already dead.’

They hobbled their horses in the monks’ cemetery, leaving Chanson on guard, while Corbett and Ranulf went round through the deep snow under the brooding cathedral, a splendid mass of stone buttresses, soaring walls, elaborate cornices, grinning masks and stone-eyed faces. They slipped through a side door and entered a mystical world of arches, lofty vaults hidden in the darkness with shafts of grey and coloured light pouring through the windows; some of these were stained and painted, others opaque. They passed a glorious pageant of painted walls and squat round pillars, their cornices gilded at top and bottom, across floors tiled and decorated with phoenixes, turtle doves and sprouting lilies. Plumes of warm, sweet candle smoke wafted through the icy air in a vain attempt to fend off the cold and the stench of pilgrims.

The cathedral was fairly empty, only the most ardent visiting the shrine in the depth of winter. Corbett and Ranulf went singly along the choir aisle, turning right at the presbytery and up a long, worn flight of stone steps into Trinity Chapel, which housed the great table tomb of Becket. Above this the glorious shrine, its protective screens pulled up, shimmered like a vision from heaven. Ranulf gasped in amazement. Notwithstanding its great size, the shrine was entirely covered with plates of pure gold, yet that was hardly visible due to the precious stones which studded it: sapphires, diamonds, rubies, balas rubies and emeralds. Corbett and Ranulf walked around to study this magnificence more closely. On all sides the gold was carved and engraved with beautiful designs and studded with agate, jaspers and cornelians, some of these precious stones being as large as pigeon’s eggs. The tomb seemed to glow as if it housed some mysterious fire, and Ranulf easily understood why so many flocked here from all parts of Europe to pray before the blessed bones of Thomas a Becket.

Corbett approached the monkish guardian of the shrine, using his seal and signet ring to gain immediate access to the small cushioned alcoves in the altar tomb. There he knelt, pressing his lips against the cold marble. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, not so much for the King or his blessed falcons, but for himself, Ranulf, Chanson, and above all Maeve and their two children. He paused, crossed himself, then rose and gave the offering of two gold coins to the hovering sacristan. He went down the steps, lit a taper before the lady altar and left.

Ranulf was determined to tell Chanson everything he had seen, but Corbett was insistent. The hour was passing. They must meet Castledene and the rest of them at Sweetmead Manor. They collected their horses and led them out of the cathedral precincts, down narrow, stinking, ice-cold runnels haunted by dark shifting shapes, over a wooden bridge spanning the Stour, past St Thomas’ church and across the wastelands, following the frozen beaten track leading to Sweetmead Manor.