Murder Wears a Cowl

Chapter 1

Edward of England sat slumped in a window seat in the small robing chamber behind the throne room of Winchester Palace. For a while he watched one of his greyhounds gobble the remains of some sugared wafers from a silver jewelled plate, then gently lope across to a far corner to squat and noisily crap. Edward smiled to himself and gazed under bushy eyebrows at the two men seated on stools before him. The old one, John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, gazed blankly back. Edward studied the Earl’s cruel face; his beaked nose, square chin and those eyes which somehow reminded Edward of the greyhound in the corner. De Warrenne, he mused, must have a brain in that close-cropped hair but Edward could not swear to it. De Warrenne never had an original idea, his usual reaction to anything would be to charge and kill. Edward secretly called de Warrenne his greyhound for, whatever Edward pointed to, de Warrenne would always seize. Now the Earl just sat there perplexed by the King’s angry litany of questions, watching his master and waiting for the next order to be given. Despite the early-summer morning, de Warrenne still wore a thick, woollen cloak and, as always, a chain-mail shirt and the brown, woollen leggings of a soldier, pushed into loose riding boots, the spurs still attached. Edward chewed his lip. Did the Earl ever change his clothes? the King wondered. And what happened when he went to bed? Did his wife Alice bear the imprint of that mail on her soft, white body?

Edward glanced at the man next to de Warrenne, dressed simply in a dark-blue cote-hardie bound by a broad, leather belt. This man was as different from de Warrenne as chalk from cheese, with his dark saturnine face, clean-shaven chin, deep-set eyes and unruly mop of black hair which now showed faint streaks of grey. Edward winked slowly at his Master of Clerks, Hugh Corbett, Edward’s special emissary and Keeper of the Secret Seal.

‘You see my problem, Hugh?’ he barked.

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Yes, your Grace!’ Edward mimicked back.

The King’s sunburnt face broke into a mocking smile, his lips curling so he looked more like a snarling dog than the Lord’s Anointed. He rose and stretched his huge frame until the muscles cracked, then he ran his fingers through his steel-grey, leonine hair which fell down to the nape of his neck.

‘Yes, your Grace,’ the King jibed again. ‘Of course, your Grace. Would it please your Grace?’ Edward lashed out with his boot and caught the leg of his clerk’s chair. ‘So, tell me Master Corbett, what is my problem?’

The clerk would have liked to have informed the King, bluntly and succinctly, that he was arrogant, short-tempered, cruel, vindictive and given to wild bursts of rage which profited him nothing. Corbett, however, folded his hands in his lap and stared at the King.

Edward was still dressed in his dark-green hunting costume, his boots, leggings and jerkin stained with fat globules of mud. Moreover, every time the King moved he gave off gusts of sweaty odour; Corbett wondered which was worse, the King or the King’s greyhound. Edward crouched before Corbett and the clerk stared coolly back at the red-rimmed, amber-flecked eyes.

The King was in a dangerous mood. He always was after hunting; the blood still ran hot and fast in the royal veins.

‘Tell me,’ Edward asked with mock sweetness. ‘Tell me what our problem is?’

‘Your Grace, you have a revolt in Scotland. The leader, William Wallace, is a true soldier and a born leader.’ Corbett saw the annoyance flicker across the King’s face. ‘Wallace,’ Corbett continued, ‘uses the bogs, the fens, the mists and the forests of Scotland to launch his attacks, plan his sorties and arrange the occasional bloody ambush. He cannot be pinned down, he appears where he is least expected.’ Corbett made a face. ‘To put it succinctly, your Grace, he is leading your son, the Prince of Wales and commander of your forces, a merry jig.’

The King’s lips parted in a false smile. ‘And, Master Corbett, to put it succinctly, what is the rest of the problem?’

The clerk glanced sideways at de Warrenne but found no comfort there. The Earl sat as if carved out of stone and Corbett wondered, not for the first time, if John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, was in full possession of his wits.

‘The second part of the problem,’ Corbett continued, ‘is that Philip of France is massing troops on his northern borders and, within the year, he will launch an all-out assault against Flanders. On the one hand, if God wills it, he will be defeated but, if he is victorious, he will extend his empire, destroy an ally, interfere with our wool trade and harass our shipping.’

Edward rose and clapped his hands slowly. ‘And what is the third part of the problem?’

‘You said you had a letter from the Mayor of London but, as yet, your Grace, you have not revealed its contents.’

The King sat down on a stool, dug inside his jerkin and pulled out the white scroll of parchment. He unrolled it and his face became grave.

‘Yes, yes,’ he spoke up. ‘A letter from the Mayor and the Council of London, they require our help. There’s some bloody assassin, some killer slitting the throats of whores, prostitutes and courtesans from one end of the city to the other.’

Corbett snorted with laughter. ‘Since when have the city fathers been concerned about the deaths of some poor whores? Walk the streets of London in the depths of winter, your Grace, and you’ll find the corpses of raddled whores, frozen stiff in ditches or starving on the steps of churches.’

‘This is different,’ de Warrenne spoke up, turning his head slowly as if noticing Corbett for the first time.

‘Why is it different, my Lord?’

‘These are not your common night-walkers but high-ranking courtesans.’

Corbett smiled.

‘You find it amusing, clerk?’

‘No, I don’t! There’s something else isn’t there?’

Edward balanced the small scroll of parchment between his fingers. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied wearily. ‘There’s something else. First, these courtesans know a lot of secrets. They have made it clear to the sheriffs and the great ones of the city that if something is not done, our ladies of the night may start telling everyone what they know.’

Now Corbett’s grin widened. ‘I’d give every penny I have to be there when it happens. All our virtuous burgesses having their dirty linen washed in public.’

Edward smiled at the thought. ‘I could say the same but these burgesses raise taxes for me. The city of London offers interest-free loans.’ His voice became a snarl. ‘Now you can see the problem, Corbett. I need silver to keep Philip out of Flanders and drive Wallace out of Scotland, otherwise my armies will melt away like ice before a fire.’ The King turned, hawked and spat into the rushes. ‘I couldn’t give a damn about the whores, I couldn’t give a damn about the burgesses. I want their gold. I also want vengeance!’

‘Your Grace?’ Corbett asked.

Edward just stared moodily at the greyhound, now getting ready to cock its leg against one of the wall tapestries. The King absent-mindedly took off a boot and threw it at the dog who yelped and scampered away.

‘Some whores have died,’ Edward answered. ‘But there are two deaths I will not accept.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There’s a guild of high-born widows in the city. They call themselves the Sisters of St Martha, they are a lay order dedicated to good works. To be specific: the physical and spiritual well-being of the young girls who walk the streets. Now, I gave these Sisters my personal protection. They assemble in the Chapter House at Westminster Abbey where they pray, meet and plan their activities. The Sisters do good work, their superior is the Lady Imelda de Lacey whose husband went with me on crusade. Did you ever meet him, Corbett?’

The clerk shook his head but watched the King carefully. Edward was a strange man. He could swear, be violent, treacherous, cunning, greedy and vindictive but he always kept his word. Personal friendship was as sacred as the Mass to him. The King especially remembered the companions of his youth, those knights who travelled with him and the now dead, but much beloved, Queen Eleanor, to fight in Outremer. If any of these companions or their interests were hurt, the King would act with all the speed and energy he could muster. Corbett felt a secret dread. He had promised his wife Maeve that he would return to London and take her and their three-month-old baby daughter Eleanor to visit her family in Wales. Corbett cringed at what the King might ask.

‘Now, amongst the Sisters of St Martha,’ Edward continued slowly, ‘was the widow of one of my boon companions, Lady Catherine Somerville. Two weeks ago, Lady Catherine returned from Westminster along Holborn, her companion left her at St Bartholomew’s and Lady Somerville took a short cut across Smithfield to her house near the Barbican. She never reached her home. The next morning her body was found lying near the gallows, her throat slashed from ear to ear. She died the same way as the whores she tried to help. Who,’ Edward glared at de Warrenne, ‘would kill an old lady in such a barbaric fashion? I want vengeance,’ the King muttered. ‘I want this killer seized. The city fathers are in uproar. They want their good names untarnished and the widows of high-ranking lords protected.’

‘You mentioned a second death, your Grace?’

‘Yes, I did. In the grounds of Westminster Abbey there’s a small house. I persuaded the Abbot and monks to give it, as a stipend, a sinecure, a benefice, to an old chaplain of mine, Father Benedict. He was a saintly, old priest who loved his fellow man and was dedicated to good works. The night after Lady Somerville was killed, Father Benedict was burnt to death in his house.’

‘Murder, your Grace?’

The King made a face. ‘Oh, it looked like an accident but I think it was murder. Father Benedict may have been ancient but he was careful, quick on his feet. I cannot understand why he reached the door of his house, even had the key in his hand but failed to get out.’ The King spread out his fingers, carefully examining an old sword cut across the back of his hand. ‘And before you ask, Corbett, there is a connection. Father Benedict was chaplain to the Sisters of St Martha.’

‘Is there any motive for these murders?’

‘In God’s name, Corbett, I don’t know!’

The King rose and hopped across the room to collect his boot. Corbett sensed his royal master was hiding something.

‘Your Grace, there’s something else, isn’t there?’

Now de Warrenne began to pluck at a loose thread on his cloak as if he had discovered the most interesting thing in the room. Corbett’s apprehension grew.

‘Yes, yes, Corbett, there’s more. One of your old friends is back in London.’

‘Old friend?’

‘Sir Amaury de Craon, personal emissary of His Most Christian Majesty, King Philip of France. He has rented a house in Gracechurch Street and brought quite a small retinue with him as well as letters of friendship from my royal brother the King of France. I have issued de Craon safe conducts but, if that bastard’s here, then there’s more trouble brewing in London than I would like to contemplate.’

Corbett rubbed his face in his hands. De Craon was Philip’s special agent. Where he went, trouble always followed: treason, sedition, conspiracy and intrigue.

‘De Craon may be a bastard,’ Corbett answered, ‘but he’s not a common murderer. He cannot be involved in these killings!’

‘No,’ de Warrenne answered, ‘but the flies which feed on shit are not responsible for it either.’

‘Very eloquently put, my Lord.’

Corbett turned to the King, now leaning against the wall.

‘Your Grace, what has this got to do with me? You gave me your word, once this royal progress in the West was finished, I was released from all duties for the next two months!’

‘You are a clerk,’ de Warrenne jibed out of the corner of his mouth.

‘I am as good a man as you, my Lord!’

The old Earl gave a long rumbling belch and looked away.

‘I want you to go to London, Hugh.’

‘Your Grace, you gave me your word!’

‘You can kiss my royal arse. I need you in London. I want you to stop these murders, find the slayer and see the bastard hanged at Tyburn. I want you to find out what de Craon and his companion Raoul de Nevers are up to! What mounds of shit they are turning over!’

‘Who is de Nevers?’

‘God knows. Some petty French nobleman with all the airs and graces of a court fop.’ The King grinned. ‘They have both shown an interest in you. They even paid a courtesy visit to the Lady Maeve.’

Corbett started and felt a shiver of apprehension. De Craon’s meddling was one thing but de Craon under his own roof with his wife and child was another.

‘You will go to London, Hugh?’

‘Yes, your Grace, I will go to London, collect my wife, child and household and, as planned, go to Wales.’

‘By God, you will not!’

Corbett rose. ‘By God, Sire, I will!’ He stopped by de Warrenne and looked down. ‘And you, my Lord, should drink more milk. It will relieve the wind in your stomach.’

The clerk walked towards the door and turned as he heard the hiss of steel. Edward now stood beside his throne, he had drawn his great sword from its sheath hanging on the back of the chair.

‘Your Grace intends to kill me?’

Edward just glared back and Corbett saw the King was on the verge of one of his most spectacular outbursts. All the usual signs were there: pale face, the gnawing lips, the threatening gesture with the sword, the nervous kicking of the rushes. Like a child, Corbett thought, a spoiled brat who can’t get his own way. Corbett turned back towards the door. The cup the King threw, narrowly missing Corbett’s head, reached it before he did. Corbett was about to lift the latch when he felt a dagger prick the side of his neck. De Warrenne was now standing behind him; one word from the King and Corbett knew the Earl would kill him. He felt the hilt of his own dagger pushed into his belt.

‘What now, my Lord Earl?’ he murmured, looking over his shoulder at the King who now slouched on his throne, all signs of anger gone, his eyes pleading.

‘Come back, Hugh,’ he muttered. ‘For God’s sake, come back!’

The King threw his sword into the rushes. The clerk turned and walked towards him; he was shrewd enough to know when he had reached the limits of royal patience.

‘Put your dagger away, de Warrenne! For God’s sake we are friends not three drunken travellers in a tavern! Corbett, sit down!’

The King stared at his master clerk. Corbett saw the tears brimming in Edward’s eyes and groaned inwardly. He could deal with the King in one of his royal rages but Edward growing maudlin was both pathetic and highly dangerous. Corbett had attended the recent interview between the King and his eldest daughter who had secretly married someone whom the King considered beneath her. At first Edward had tried rage then tears and, when that did not work, beat his daughter, tossed her jewellery into the fire and banished both the hapless princess and her husband to the draughtiest manor house in England. The King’s rages could be even more dangerous. Corbett had heard of certain Scottish towns who’d had the temerity to withstand his sieges, being taken by storm and no quarter given to woman or child.

The King clicked his fingers and de Warrenne, his dagger re-sheathed, served wine for them all. The old Earl then sat slurping noisily from his cup, now and again glaring at Corbett as if he wished to hack the clerk’s head clean off his shoulders.

‘Everyone leaves me,’ the King began mournfully. ‘My beloved Eleanor is dead. Burnell’s gone — do you remember the old rogue, Hugh? Hell’s teeth, I wish he was with me now.’

The King wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and Corbett sat back to admire Edward-the-player in one of his favourite roles — the old King mourning past glories. Of course, Corbett remembered Eleanor, Edward’s beautiful Spanish wife. Whilst she had been alive, the King’s rages had been held in check. And Chancellor Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells: he had been a shrewd old fox who had loved Corbett as his own son.

‘Everyone’s gone,’ the King moaned again. ‘My son hates me, my daughters marry whom they wish. I offer the Scots peace and prosperity but they throw it in my face whilst Philip of France dances round me as if I was some benighted maypole.’ The King reached out and clasped Corbett’s wrist. ‘But I have you, Hugh. My right arm, my sword, my shield and my defence.’

Corbett bit his lip sharply. He must not smile or stare at de Warrenne who now had his face deep in his wine cup.

‘I am begging you,’ the King wheedled. ‘Hugh, I need you. Just this once. Go to London, clear up this mess. You will see your wife, your baby child.’ The King’s grip tightened. ‘You called her Eleanor. I’ll not forget that. You’ll go, won’t you?’ The grip tightened even further.

‘Yes, your Grace, I’ll go. But when this is finished and the game is over, you will keep your word?’

Edward smiled bravely though Corbett caught the mockery in his eyes.

‘I am not a chess piece, your Grace,’ Corbett murmured and glanced sideways. Was the Earl sniggering at him?

‘De Warrenne!’ Corbett snapped.

The Earl looked up.

‘Next time you draw your dagger on me, my Lord, I’ll kill you!’ Corbett rose and walked towards the door.

‘Hugh, come back.’ The King was now standing, balancing the sword between his hands. ‘You’re no chess piece, Corbett, but I made you what you are. You know my secrets. I gave you wealth, a manor in Leighton. Now, I’ll give you more. Kneel!’

Surprised, Corbett went down on one knee whilst the King with all the speed he could muster, touched his clerk once on the head then on each shoulder, slapping him gently on the face.

‘I dub you Knight.’

The proclamation was short and simple. Corbett, embarrassed, knocked the dust from his tunic. Edward re-sheathed the sword.

‘In a month the chancery will send your letter of ennoblement. Well, Corbett, what do you say?’

‘Your Grace, I thank you.’

‘Bollocks!’ Edward snarled. ‘If de Warrenne threatens you again and you kill him I’ll have to execute you. But now you are a knight with a title and spurs, it will be a fight between equals.’ The King clasped Corbett’s hand. ‘You’d best go, my clerks will draw up the necessary letters, giving you my authority to act on these matters.’

Corbett left as quickly as he could, secretly pleased about the honour shown to him but quietly cursing the King for getting his own way.

Back in the robing room, de Warrenne wiped his eyes as he shook with laughter at the King’s duplicity. For a few seconds Edward basked in the Earl’s admiration then suddenly he leaned towards him.

‘John,’ Edward whispered. ‘I love you as a brother but if you ever draw your dagger on Corbett again, by my crown, I’ll kill you, myself!’

Corbett returned to his own chamber and absent-mindedly began to collect his belongings, tossing them into saddle bags. Maeve would be furious, he thought. Her beautiful, placid face would become pinched with anger, her eyes would narrow and, when she found the words, she would damn the King, his court and her husband’s duties. Corbett smiled to himself. But, there again, Maeve would soon be placated. She would be proud of the knighthood and pause a while before returning to her ripe description of Corbett’s royal master. Then there was Eleanor: three months old and already showing signs of being as beautiful as her mother. A lusty, well-proportioned girl. Corbett had been teased that he wanted a son, but he didn’t really care as long as Maeve and the child were healthy. He sat on the edge of his bed and half listened to the sounds from the castle bailey below. The child must be healthy! He thought of his first wife Mary and their daughter, dead so many years now. Sometimes their faces would appear, quite distinct in his mind, at others they would seem lost in a cloying mist.

‘It can’t happen again,’ Corbett muttered to himself, tapping his boots on the floor. ‘It can’t happen again!’

He picked up the flute lying on the bed and gently played a few notes. He closed his eyes and, in the twinkling of an eye, he was back down the years. Mary was beside him, the little girl, so quickly gripped by the plague, tottering about in front of her. Other memories followed, the cunning, shrewd look of Robert Burnell; the beautiful, passionate face of Alice-atte-Bowe. Other faces appeared, many killed or trapped in their own terrible treasons or subtle murders. Corbett thought of the King’s growing irascibility and dangerous swings of mood and he wondered how long he would stay in the royal service.

‘I have enough gold,’ Corbett muttered to himself. ‘There’s the manor in Essex.’ He shook his head. ‘The King will not let me go but how long will the King last?’ Corbett stared at the floor, running the flute between his hands, enjoying the texture of polished wood. ‘It’s treason,’ he whispered, ‘to even consider the death of a king.’ But the King was well past his sixtieth year and when he died what would happen then? The golden-haired Prince of Wales was a different kettle of fish with his love of hunting, handsome young men and the joys of both bed and board.

When the old King dies, Corbett wondered, what would his successor do? Would the new king need him, or would he be replaced? What would Maeve say? The thought of his wife recalled the King’s words about de Craon.

‘I wonder what that red-haired, foxy-faced bastard wants?’ Corbett muttered. He got off the bed and crossed to the table littered with parchment. Two pieces caught his eye. First, a dirty thumbed piece of vellum; the writing on it was a mixture of numbers and strange signs which the cipher his spy had used in Paris. Next to it, neatly written out in green-blue ink was the translation of the cipher by one of the clerks of the Secret Seal. Corbett picked this up, read it quickly and cursed. He had meant to tell the King about this. The spy, ostensibly an English trader buying up wines in the Paris market, had seen the English fugitive and outlaw Richard Puddlicott in the company of Philip IV’s Master of Secrets, William Nogaret, at a tavern just outside the main gates of the Louvre Palace. Puddlicott was a wanted man in England: a thief, a murderer who had killed a royal messenger but, above all, he was a trickster. No one had a clear description of Puddlicott but his fraudulent behaviour had wiped out the profits of many a merchant. He had been a clerk at Cambridge but now used his considerable wit and intelligence to separate people from their hard-earned wealth and kept reappearing either in England or France with his nefarious schemes. No law officer had managed to seize him or lay him by the heels. Corbett’s spy in Paris had sent a description of a blond-haired man with ruddy cheeks and a slight limp. Yet the King’s seneschal in Bordeaux had also described Puddlicott as black-haired, of sallow complexion, well proportioned in all his limbs.

Corbett re-read the letter. All the spy had learnt was that the Master of Secrets had been talking to Puddlicott, but about what, he could not tell except Nogaret had seemed most welcoming and attentive.

‘I should have told the King this!’ Corbett repeated to himself and, striding to the door, with the documents clutched in his fist, he bellowed for a clerk to take them immediately to the King.

Afterwards, Corbett stared round the untidy room. His agitation, caused by his recent meeting, had now subsided; it was best, he concluded, if he left immediately.

‘The sooner gone, the sooner done,’ he murmured. ‘Now, where is the honest Ranulf?’

Corbett’s manservant, the honest Ranulf, was in the great hall squatting in a corner with guardsmen of the royal retinue, slowly inveigling them into a game of dice. The red-haired, pale-faced manservant looked around solemnly, his green, cat-like eyes serious and unblinking.

‘I have little skill in dice,’ he murmured.

The soldiers smiled for they thought they had trapped a coney in the hay. Ranulf jingled his purse.

‘I have some silver,’ he said, ‘as has my companion here.’ He turned to Corbett’s groom and ostler, the blond-haired, fat-faced Maltote who sat next to him like some innocent plough boy. Maltote smiled owlishly at the soldiers and Ranulf grinned as he drew them into his trap. The dice was thrown, Ranulf lost and then, amidst shouts of ‘Beginner’s luck!’, he began to win. He was fully immersed in the game when he saw the soldiers look up fearfully just as he felt his master’s iron grip on his shoulder.

‘Ranulf, my dear man,’ Corbett whispered sweetly. ‘A word in thine ear.’

Ranulf glowered up at him. ‘Master, I am in a game.’

‘Ranulf,’ Corbett said. ‘So am I. A word, away from your friends.’

Ranulf clambered to his feet and Corbett led him away, still gripping his shoulder tightly.

‘Master, what is wrong?’ Ranulf winced as Corbett’s fingers dug into his shoulder.

‘First, Ranulf, I told you not to use those dice against the King’s soldiers. They are hard-working men and you are not here to fleece them of every penny they earn. Secondly,’ Corbett released his grip, ‘you are to return to London immediately.’

Ranulf dropped the look of mock innocence and grinned mischievously.

‘Thirdly,’ Corbett continued, ‘we need to pack our belongings.’

‘Master,’ Ranulf whispered hoarsely. ‘I am winning.’

‘I know you are, Ranulf, and you’ll give every penny back! Maltote?’

Ranulf wandered dolefully back, raising his eyes heavenwards as Maltote passed him. Corbett looked at the young groom anxiously.

‘You are not carrying any weapons?’ he asked warily.

The lad smiled.

‘Good!’ Corbett grinned back, marvelling at the innocence in the lad’s cornflower-blue eyes. Never had Corbett met a soldier such as Maltote who knew so much about horses, was so skilled in their treatment and management but was so hopeless with weapons. If Maltote carried a knife he’d either cut himself or anyone about him. If he carried a bow he would trip himself up or poke the eye out of some innocent bystander, and he was as dangerous as any enemy if he carried spear or sword.

‘Maltote! Maltote!’ Corbett murmured. ‘Once you were an innocent horse soldier, a good cavalryman and now you have met Ranulf.’ Corbett flinched at the look of admiration in his retainer’s eyes. ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Corbett muttered. ‘What Ranulf does not know about dice, women and drink is not worth knowing. But we are for London. We must leave immediately. Take two horses from the royal stable, ride as fast as you can and inform the Lady Maeve that Ranulf and I are following.’ Corbett licked his lips. ‘Tell her,’ he concluded, ‘we are not going to Wales but will stay a little longer in London.’

The young messenger nodded vigorously and scampered off, pausing only to watch a sorrowful Ranulf hand back the illicit gains of his crooked dice. Corbett watched him go, closed his eyes and hoped God and Maltote would forgive his cowardice. After all, the young messenger would be the first to receive the brunt of the Lady Maeve’s anger.