The Magician

Chapter 8

Ranulf of Newgate, Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, was very pleased and self-satisfied. He had, by mere chance as he told himself, met the Lady Constance and her maid when he returned to the solar to find something he had lost. Of course he never mentioned that he had paid a groom a silver coin to keep him apprised of where the Lady Constance was. Now, with her maid perched strategically on a stool near the door, Ranulf was attempting to show Lady Constance the wonders of the miraculous coin trick so beloved of the cunning men at Smithfield Fair.

‘Well, my Lady,’ Ranulf placed the three pewter cups taken from the waiting table, ‘which cup covers the coin?’

‘That one.’

Ranulf’s fingers brushed hers, heads drew together and he lifted the cup to show the coin had gone. Lady Constance’s eyes danced with mischief as she swiftly tried to find the coin beneath the other two cups.

‘You’re a cheat!’ she exclaimed.

Ranulf seized her wrist – he moved his chair so that the maid couldn’t see.

‘Sir,’ Lady Constance’s eyes widened, ‘release me.’

‘For a token,’ Ranulf whispered, ‘I’ll release you for a while.’

‘For words of love,’ she whispered.

‘Vos, quarum est Gloria amor et lascivia atque delectatio Aprilis cum Maio.’

‘Which means?’

‘If you were April’s lady and I were Lord of May-’ abruptly the tocsin sounded, the castle bell tolling like the crack of doom. Ranulf released her wrist, bit back his curse, and hastily remembered where he was and what he should be doing. Lady Constance jumped to her feet. At the door the maid was already standing, hands fluttering.

Corbett, his sweat-soaked body turning icy cold, also heard the tocsin as he crouched in the ruined doorway, staring out into the blackness. He wondered what it could mean. He could hear shouts; perhaps his assailant had retreated? Corbett moved, and hastily ducked as another crossbow quarrel hurtled into the stonework behind him. His anxiety deepened. That was the fourth time he’d moved, and the mysterious archer showed little intention of giving up. The sentries on the parapet walk were few and would not know of the deadly cat-and-mouse game being played out beneath them. Corbett had shouted, but his cry had not been heard and now the guards were leaving. He glimpsed one hurrying with a flickering torch to investigate the source of the alarm. They’d be totally unaware of the assassin below.

Corbett realised the murderous archer was watching the entrance to the dungeon. Any movement against the light-coloured stone, the slither of Corbett’s foot on the gravel or the crackle of icy snow would alert him. Corbett was alone, unarmed, and he sensed that his attacker was drawing closer. The quarrels now smacked into the wall with greater force; he must be only a few yards away, probably crouched or kneeling down. Corbett shivered. The castle bell tolled again but then fell silent. His hand went to his belt but he wasn’t even carrying a dagger. His fingers brushed the wallet and he recalled the penny whistle he had picked up. He took this out and, with all his breath, blew a long, piercing blast. He heard a sound in the darkness and began to shout the usual cry of a man being ambushed: ‘Au secours! Au secours!’ He took a deep breath and blew on the penny whistle again. Corbett felt slightly ridiculous crouched here in the freezing darkness, his only weapon a child’s toy. He shouted once more, heard scuffling sounds and blew a fresh blast on the penny whistle.

‘Who’s there?’ Corbett relaxed as he recognised Bolingbroke’s voice.

‘William,’ he shouted. ‘I’m over here.’ He edged out of the doorway. Bolingbroke stood a few paces away, sword drawn.

‘What happened?’ he exclaimed as Corbett came stumbling towards him.

‘Nothing,’ Corbett gasped, taking the sword out of Bolingbroke’s hand. ‘Did you see anybody?’

‘I came out into the castle yard,’ Bolingbroke explained. ‘There’s no real alarm. An accident, a small hay stall in the outer bailey near the walls caught alight. I looked around and couldn’t see you. I walked past the keep and heard the blast of the whistle.’ He laughed. ‘Anyone lodging with Chanson recognises that sound.’

‘Did you see anyone, anyone at all?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Bolingbroke caught him by the arm, ‘people were running. I thought I glimpsed something, but-’

‘I was attacked,’ Corbett said. He suddenly felt weak, and dug the sword point into the ground, resting on the hilt. ‘I went into the old dungeons. I was looking for the girl Alusia.’ He described what had happened next.

Bolingbroke would have hastened off into the darkness for help but Corbett caught his arm.

‘He’s gone, William, there’s nothing we can do. That’s the last time I walk this castle unarmed. Where’s Ranulf?’ he snapped.

They walked back across the warren, past the keep. People thronged there, drifting back as the source of the alarm was known and the fire put out. Corbett glimpsed Ranulf standing on the steps leading from the Hall of Angels. He felt anger seethe within him and, striding across, brought the flat of the sword down on Ranulf’s shoulder. His henchman turned, hand going to the dagger in his belt.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett glimpsed Sir Edmund and his family in the doorway, watching him, and behind them de Craon’s smirking face.

‘I sent you on a task,’ Corbett whispered, scraping the sword along Ranulf’s shoulder, ‘and while you were gone, I went looking for something and was attacked.’

‘Sir Hugh, is there anything wrong?’

‘No, Sir Edmund, I am just having words with a clerk who doesn’t understand me.’

The hurt flared in Ranulf’s eyes, and Corbett’s anger ebbed. He turned, tossed the sword to Bolingbroke and grasped Ranulf by the arm. He could feel the muscles tense, a mixture of alarm and anger. Ranulf’s fiery temper was difficult to control and Corbett did not wish to create a spectacle, or humiliate this man, his friend as well as his companion. In short, sharp sentences he told Ranulf exactly what had happened. The Clerk of the Green Wax heard him out, mouth and jaw tense, sharp eyes glittering.

‘Where were you?’ Corbett asked.

‘I was talking to the Lady Constance.’ Ranulf brought his hand down on Corbett’s shoulder. ‘Sir Hugh, don’t blame me for your stupidity. How many times have I told you, the Lady Maeve begged, the King ordered? You are never to be alone in a place like this.’ He pushed his face close to Corbett’s. ‘Don’t worry, Master, there won’t be a second time, and if there is, I’ll take the bastard’s head.’

Corbett drew a deep breath and stretched out his hand.

‘I’m sorry, Ranulf; the truth is, I was frightened.’

Ranulf clasped his hand. ‘You look as if you’re freezing.’

They returned to Corbett’s chamber. He was about to return the penny whistle to Chanson, then recalled how it had saved him. He crouched by the fire, drinking a posset, allowing the cold to seep away. A servant came to announce that dinner would be served in the Great Hall.

‘Did you see Crotoy?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, I didn’t.’ Ranulf shook his head. ‘In fact, when the tocsin sounded and everyone gathered in the yard, I looked for him, but he wasn’t there.’

Corbett stretched a hand out to the fire and suppressed a shiver, like an icy blade pressed against his back.

‘Where is he lodging?’

‘He has his own chamber in the Jerusalem Tower,’ Ranulf replied. ‘The staircase up is blocked off; he’s the only one who’s lodged there.’

Corbett put on his war belt, got to his feet and took his cloak. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered his companions.

They went down into the bailey. Corbett wasn’t aware of the flurries of snow as he strode across to the Jerusalem Tower, a great drum-like fortification approached by a set of steep steps. He hurried up these and grasped the iron ring on the door to the tower but it held fast. He drew his dagger and beat vainly with the pommel.

‘Chanson, go quickly, bring men-at-arms.’

Corbett walked down the steps and, looking round, glimpsed a window high in the wall, but there was no sign of light between the shutters. Covering himself with his cloak against the falling snow, he hastily pulled up his hood.

‘There’s something wrong?’ asked Ranulf.

‘Oh yes,’ Corbett whispered. ‘There is something dreadfully wrong.’

Sir Edmund came hurrying across. He had been changing for the evening meal and wrapped a cloak around him to protect him from the snow.

‘Are you sure Monsieur Crotoy isn’t elsewhere in the castle?’ he asked.

‘Sir Edmund, my apologies if I troubled you, but Louis is not a wanderer,’ Corbett replied.

‘Has he been seen?’

‘What is the matter?’ De Craon, followed by his cowled man-at-arms, came striding up.

‘Louis Crotoy,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is he with you?’

‘No, he isn’t,’ de Craon replied, wiping his face, ‘and he should be. The rest are gathered in my chamber; I wished to have words with him. A servant came down and told me about this. I hastened across. Is there something wrong? Louis is a member of my retinue. Sanson claims he hasn’t seen him since early afternoon.’

‘Force the door,’ Corbett urged.

At first there was confusion, but eventually Sir Edmund organised the men-at-arms to bring a battering ram, nothing more than a stout tree trunk with poles embedded along each side. Because of the steps, the men-at-arms found it difficult, and the pounding and crashing alerted the rest of the castle. The ward began to fill. The soldiers concentrated just beneath the iron ring, and at last the door broke free.

Corbett ensured he was the first through, almost pushing de Craon aside. The inside was cold and dark. Sir Edmund passed him a torch. Corbett held it before him and stifled a moan. Crotoy lay at the bottom of the inside steps leading up to the chamber, his head cracked, the dark pool of blood glistening in the light. Corbett glanced quickly to either side; there was no window. He took a step forward, shouting at Sir Edmund to keep the rest back. At first glance he knew his old friend was beyond any help: those staring eyes, the cold flesh, the blood like a stagnant pool. He moved the body tenderly; he could see no other wound or mark apart from the gruesome gash on the side of the head. He heard a jingle from the dead man’s wallet, and opening it took out two keys, small and squat; he realised these must be to the door of the Jerusalem Tower as well as Crotoy’s chamber. Meanwhile, the Constable’s men had forced the curious down the steps, leaving only Corbett, Sir Edmund and de Craon standing in that draughty passageway. Corbett crouched down and glanced at the door that had been forced. The lock had been snapped, but he realised that when he inserted the key he could turn it easily. He took the key out, thrust it at Sir Edmund and hurried back down to Crotoy’s corpse.

‘Send a messenger for Father Andrew,’ Corbett whispered to the constable.

Corbett plucked out the torch which he had placed in a sconce holder and, holding this out carefully, examined the steps leading up to Crotoy’s chamber. They were steep and narrow, with sharp edges, and to the left of the chamber was a stairwell filled with fallen masonry. He looked back at the corpse. Crotoy had his cloak wrapped around his arm, its hem trailing down. Corbett sighed, went up the steps and using the second key opened the door. The chamber inside was cold and dark. Sir Edmund came up, and Corbett stepped gingerly into the room, allowing the Constable to light the candles and large lanternhorn which stood on the round walnut table in the centre. A neat, tidy room. Corbett felt a pang of sadness at the sweet smell of herbs.

‘He always liked that,’ he whispered.

‘Liked what?’ Sir Edmund asked.

‘He loved the smell of herbs and spices.’ Corbett went over and placed the torch in a holder on the wall. ‘Very precise, was Louis. He loved the smell of spring and summer; his clothes, his chamber, his books, his manuscripts always had that faint smell of flowers and herbs.’

Corbett noticed the manuscripts piled high on the window, the candle pricket, the wax formed thick around the base, the clothes hanging from the peg. The curtains on the small poster bed were drawn and, on the far side, stood the lavarium, with napkins neatly folded next to a precious bar of sweet-smelling soap in a little copper dish.

Corbett heard voices from below. Father Andrew had arrived, busily intoning the prayers for the dead as he anointed the corpse. Ranulf came up the steps.

‘What happened, do you think?’ Sir Edmund sat down on the chair next to the bed. He glanced quickly at Corbett.

‘Another accident?’

‘That is for me to decide.’ De Craon spoke up, standing in the shadows. ‘I’m cut to the heart that my colleague is dead.’

‘No, sir,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Louis may have been a member of your retinue but he was my friend and this castle is under the direct governance of the King of England. Sir Edmund,’ Corbett called over his shoulder whilst holding de Craon’s gaze, ‘I would like to examine both the chamber and Monsieur Crotoy’s corpse. Is his death an accident, misadventure, or is there some other cause?’

‘I’ll delay the meal,’ Sir Edmund sighed. ‘Monsieur de Craon, Sir Hugh is right. This is the King’s castle, he has the right to act as coroner.’

‘Then I will stay and help him.’

Corbett didn’t object, and the Constable’s men cleared the stairwell below, bringing back the broken door so as to block some of the cold night air. Corbett had every candle and torch lit and scrupulously began his search. He and Ranulf carefully examined the chamber, de Craon keeping close to the table, watching them sift through various manuscripts, loudly objecting when Ranulf picked up a piece of parchment to study it more closely. Yet they could find nothing significant. Crotoy’s corpse, now laid out under a sheet at the foot of the steps, bore no mark other than the wound to the head, which was definitely the result of hitting the hard ground at the foot of the steps. Corbett fought back the memories of walking arm in arm with that clever scholar through Christchurch Meadows, or the orchards down by the Iffley Stream, or sitting in a tavern on the corner of Turl Street.

‘Master,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘look at his boot.’

Corbett did so; the heel on the right boot was loose.

‘He tripped,’ Ranulf explained. ‘The heel of the boot was loose, or his foot may have become caught in his cloak. He fell, bruising his head against the ground.’

‘But would that kill him?’ Corbett wondered. He returned to scrutinising the corpse, and lifting it up by the shoulders noticed how the head hung slightly to one side.

‘I’ve seen the same before,’ Ranulf muttered, ‘when a man has broken his neck.’

They stood aside as the castle leech arrived. He also inspected the wound to the head and, pulling up Crotoy’s thick woollen cotehardie, pointed to the light bruising to the right of the dead man’s chest and similar marks on his right arm and shoulder. He then examined the neck, moving the head slightly between his hands.

‘An unfortunate accident,’ he sighed, getting to his feet. He pointed to the door at the top of the steps. ‘Monsieur Crotoy locked the door behind him, his cloak over his shoulder. He became confused, his boot may have slipped, his other foot caught in the cloak. Those steps are steep and sharp, and they bruised his body as he fell, but he died of a broken neck.’

Corbett glanced up. De Craon stood in the doorway above, staring impassively down at him.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett looked over his shoulder. Bolingbroke was calling from outside. ‘Sir Hugh, can I help?’

‘Tell him to wait for me in my chamber,’ Corbett whispered to Ranulf. He climbed the steps. The Frenchman didn’t stand aside. ‘Monsieur?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’

‘Your colleague died of an unfortunate accident.’

‘So it seems.’ De Craon’s eyes held Corbett’s. ‘I lay no blame on Sir Edmund or you. Crotoy should have been more careful, shouldn’t he? I say the same to Vervins, who likes to stand on the parapet walk and stare out across your bleak countryside.’ De Craon lifted a hand. ‘What more can you do, Sir Hugh? Louis’ death will be mourned by his daughter, his colleagues, and by my Grace, his master.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps it was my mistake,’ he continued silkily. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen these old men and brought them to this cold castle. Well now, Sir Hugh, if you have finished, there are things I and my retainers must do.’

‘Crotoy had a copy of Friar Roger’s work, the Opus Tertium?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘I would like to see it.’

De Craon went back into the chamber and came back with a leather-bound book. He thrust this into Corbett’s hand, ‘Better still, borrow it for a while. You can return it tomorrow when we meet.’

Corbett thanked him and went carefully down the steps where Ranulf was waiting.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett stopped and turned. De Craon was halfway down the steps. The English clerk did not like his look, the smirking eyes. ‘Sir Hugh,’ de Craon’s words came like a hiss, ‘don’t grieve yourself. Accidents happen, we should all take great care.’

‘Was it an accident?’ Ranulf asked as soon as they were back in the chamber.

Corbett, slouched in a chair, kicked his boots off, vowing he must control his temper. He’d already had words with Ranulf; now he felt like grasping his sword, running back to the tower and confronting de Craon.

‘Oh, he is a clever viper,’ he snapped. He closed his eyes. ‘A clever viper,’ he repeated. ‘Ranulf, bear with me. The steps to the old tower lead up to a heavy wooden door, which was locked. There’s a small passageway beyond, no windows or gaps either side; the second set of steps are sharp-edged and steep. They lead up to Louis’ chamber and another heavy oaken door. Louis had locked that just before he fell. To the left of that inner door there is a passageway, a small stairwell, now filled with fallen masonry, I must examine that again. Inside the chamber everything is in order. So,’ he straightened up, ‘according to all the evidence, Louis doused the candles, made sure everything was safe, picked up his keys and cloak, went out of his chamber, locked the door and fell to his death.’

‘It must have been so,’ Ranulf declared. ‘I asked Sir Edmund, there’s no other key to any door. Louis himself asked the same of the Constable and received assurances that that was the case.’

‘Is that so?’ Corbett murmured. ‘Then it shows Louis was anxious, fearful.’

‘What other explanation is there?’ Bolingbroke picked up a stool and sat next to Corbett, spreading his hands to describe the passageway between the two doors. ‘Louis must have been by himself. He had both keys in a pouch on his belt, Sir Hugh, it’s a matter of logic; there’s no other key to that chamber or to the outside door. He must have locked the door behind him, and was going down to open the other one when he slipped and fell, smashing his head and breaking his neck.’

‘I would agree,’ Ranulf added. ‘Crotoy, by his own admission, was wary. He wouldn’t allow anyone into his chamber unless he felt safe.’

Corbett remained silent. According to every item of evidence, Louis Crotoy had slipped, an unfortunate accident. Reason told him that, but his heart said different. He couldn’t accept that those two French masters had come to Corfe and died by misadventure. Of course it looked suspicious, yet even if foul play was hinted at, it would surely be laid at the door of the perfidious English, rather than the wily schemes of the French court.

‘We must eat,’ Chanson grumbled. ‘My belly thinks my throat is cut.’

‘There speaks the last of the philosophers,’ Bolingbroke mocked. ‘We must go down.’

The evening meal, despite Sir Edmund’s best efforts, was a sombre event. The castle kitchens served a banquet of Brie tart, fried artichokes, sorrel soup with figs and dates, followed by farmstead chickens stuffed with lentils, cherries and cheese, fried loach with almonds and a pear tart. The musicians in the gallery played sweet hymns and popular minstrel songs, the high table was covered with a white samite cloth and the trancher and knives were of silver, with precious goblets for wine. Sir Edmund’s jester, a black-haired mannikin, could tumble, but the atmosphere remained dull. Corbett found it difficult even to look at de Craon. Ranulf sat embarrassed, this time rather wary of the Lady Constance, who gave up on her teasing and turned away to talk to Bolingbroke. Corbett, sitting on Sir Edmund’s left, apologised to the Constable’s wife for his apparent sullenness, claiming tiredness as well as a genuine sorrow for Crotoy’s unfortunate death. Sir Edmund left him alone and Corbett, listening to the minstrel music, let his mind drift. One of the tunes he recognised.

‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed.

‘What is it, Sir Hugh?’ the Constable asked.

‘This outlaw band,’ Corbett declared. ‘Their members take the names of herbs and wildflowers, but young Phillipa, the first to disappear, said she had a lover amongst the group called Goliard. That’s Provencal for a wandering minstrel, not the name of a herb or flower.’

He went back to his reflections, so immersed in his own thoughts he was almost unaware that the meal was ending and Father Andrew was making a hasty prayer of thanksgiving. Corbett excused himself and, followed by Ranulf and Chanson, made his way back to the Jerusalem Tower. The door still hung askew and the guard inside told him that both the corpse and the dead man’s possessions had been moved.

‘His body is in the church, sir. The other Frenchman, the one who looks like a fox, had everything packed away.’

Corbett stared at the ground still stained with Crotoy’s blood, then climbed the steep steps. The upstairs door was open; he pushed this aside and glanced in, then turned to the ruined stairwell. The fallen masonry was as firm and strong as any wall, and nothing was left except a narrow shadow-filled alcove.

‘Can I help you, Sir Hugh?’

De Craon stood in the doorway to the tower.

‘No, no, de Craon, you can’t help me.’ Corbett went down the steps. ‘Did you visit Crotoy today?’

‘Yes, I did. I came by myself earlier. Louis was alive and well when I left him. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go up there myself.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ve drunk rather deeply yet I must make sure everything has been taken.’ He brushed by Corbett and went up the steps.

‘I want to pay my last respects to Louis,’ Corbett declared, leaving the tower. He wished his companions goodnight and walked across the frozen castle yard. It had stopped snowing and, glancing up, he was pleased to see the clouds had broken and stars winked against the darkness. He spent some time in the narrow church, where three coffins now lay on trestles in front of the High Altar. He ignored the squeaking of mice, the cold which hung thick and heavy like a mist seeping through the very stones. He knelt, reciting the psalms of the dead, and started as he felt a brush on his shoulder. Father Andrew peered kindly down at him.

‘I thought I would find you down here, Sir Hugh. I’ve seen Sir Edmund and the Frenchman. We’ve agreed the Requiem Mass will be sung tomorrow. Rebecca will be buried in the churchyard. The corpses of the two Frenchmen are to be taken to Dover, embalmed and put aboard a French cog. Both I and Master Simon, the castle leech,’ he explained, ‘have done our best. At Dover there are more skilled practitioners. Anyway, Sir Edmund has said there’ll be no meeting tomorrow. The day will be given over to mourning.’

Corbett thanked him and left the church. He heard a sound deep in the shadows.

‘I thought you’d gone to bed, Ranulf. I can smell the soap you’ve washed yourself with. The Lady Constance must be pleased!’

‘I’ll retire when you do.’ Ranulf stepped into the pool of light thrown by the torches either side of the church door. ‘I thought it best to make sure you were safe.’

‘There’ll be no meeting tomorrow,’ Corbett declared, ‘and I must attend the Requiem Mass.’

‘I’m truly sorry, Master, about what happened earlier.’ Ranulf swayed slightly on his feet. He had drunk deep-bowled goblets of wine too fast during the evening meal.

‘Never mind.’ Corbett slapped him on his shoulder. ‘I’ve forgotten. Sleep well, Ranulf.’

Corbett returned to his own chamber. He knew Ranulf would follow him, at least to the entrance. He locked and bolted his door and made sure that the shutters were held firm against the window. Then he built up the fire and, taking his writing tray, sat for a while trying to make sense of the various problems which distracted him. He recalled the attack earlier in the evening, the crossbow bolts hurtling against the hard stone. How many people had seen him going there, how many people knew? But then he recalled striding across the castle yard. It would have been so easy for his attacker to see him, seize an arbalest and follow him through the darkness. Was that murderous bowman also responsible for the deaths of those young maids, or was the attack planned and plotted by de Craon? Was de Craon following orders, or was it simply that the Frenchman’s malice had got the better of him, unable to resist an opportunity to strike at his sworn foe? And the murders of these maids . . . had he learnt anything new? Nothing really, except the flirtation between the girls and that young man-at-arms, but that could be found in villages and castles up and down the kingdom. He wrote down the name ‘Phillipa’. She was different, a lonely and intelligent girl who spun fabulous tales about herself, about a landless knight, a fictitious outlaw called Goliard.

Had she gone into the forest and died? Was her corpse mouldering in some ditch, or had she run away? He recalled Mistress Feyner’s protestations. He rubbed his chin, wondering when the outlaw Horehound would meet him. Could he know anything? He glanced across at the pile of Friar Roger’s books and manuscripts, including the one from de Craon still lying on his bed. He placed the Secretus Secretorum back in the Chancery chest and returned to reflect on the deaths of those two Frenchmen, Destaples dying of a seizure in a locked chamber, Crotoy found dead between two locked doors, the keys to which he still had in his pouch. Accident or murder? Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. That would have to wait . . .

Ranulf of Newgate, Clerk of the Green Wax, was not as drunk as he pretended to be, and although his companions protested, he questioned both Chanson and Bolingbroke most closely about what had happened during his flirtation with the Lady Constance. Chanson, in particular, was only too ready to chatter. Ranulf was clearly furious, especially with himself.

‘I knew old Master Longface would go wandering off,’ he declared. ‘I should have been there. Now tell me again, exactly, what that red-haired wench said, and the man-at-arms and Mistress Feyner.’

Chanson described in great detail Corbett’s conversation with all three; he also referred to Corbett’s speculation on Father Matthew, a matter Ranulf already knew about. Bolingbroke filled in the gaps, and by the time he had finished his interrogation, Ranulf had decided upon his path.

‘What we must do,’ he declared to his sleepy-eyed companions, ‘is meet with this outlaw Horehound. Something has happened in the forest which he knows about. I suspect we’ll need his help over the murder of these maids.’

‘Do you suspect the priest?’ Bolingbroke asked.

‘Possibly, or that taverner. What I can’t understand is how the killer is able to place one corpse in a midden heap and another outside the castle, and a third on the trackway near the church.’

Ranulf kicked off his boots and, imitating Corbett, lay back against the bolsters. Chanson and Bolingbroke played a game of hazard, then retired. Ranulf sat listening to Chanson’s snores as he turned over what he planned for the following day. Lady Constance, her sweet face, was a constant distraction. Ranulf tried to ignore it; he had failed Corbett and must make amends. Eventually he fell asleep.

He woke in the early hours. Quietly he washed and changed, laying out his war belt, ensuring the sword and dagger slipped in and out of their sheaths, and took an arbalest from the chest near Chanson’s bed. Going down to the yard, he found the dirt and slush had been covered by a fresh layer of snow; only guards and cooks flitted like ghosts across to the bakehouses or kitchens. Men-at-arms were building bonfires, and few looked up as he crossed to the stable, shaking an ostler awake, urging him to prepare his horse.

‘No feed,’ he warned. ‘I want it quiet. Check the hooves, make sure it is well shod.’

He returned to his chamber and roused Chanson, almost pulling the sleepy groom up out of the thick coverlet, tapping his face.

‘Listen, Chanson, I’m leaving for the forest.’

‘But, but . . .’

‘Don’t start stammering,’ Ranulf warned. ‘Tell Sir Hugh that I’ve gone to meet Horehound. I hope to be back shortly after noon.’

‘But you’re frightened of the forest.’

‘Well it’s time I cured that. Now, while I’m gone, you follow old Master Longface like his shadow.’

Ranulf collected his cloak and left. His horse was saddled and ready in the yard. He mounted and rode through the outer bailey and across the drawbridge. The snow on the trackway outside the castle was well over ankle deep, but although the morning was grey, Ranulf took comfort that the clouds had broken, and perhaps the worst was past. He glanced at the line of trees and quelled his own fear, letting his mind go back. He had seen or heard something yesterday, but he couldn’t place it. He recalled the Frenchman’s corpse lying at the foot of the steps, the blood seeping out like spilt wine from a cup, then thought of Corbett sheltering in that ruin while the crossbowman took careful aim. He patted his horse’s neck. ‘Well, we will see who you are,’ he whispered.

He entered the line of trees, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully along the snow-packed trackway. Occasionally he passed other lonely travellers. A chapman, his bundle piled high on his back, hood up, face visored, plodded his way towards the castle. He hardly lifted his head as he passed. Ranulf reached the church, which lay silent under its snow coverlet, the black crosses and headstones of the cemetery thrusting up, a sombre reminder of the shortness of life. He urged his horse on. He didn’t want to tire it, but at the same time he wanted to be out of the forest before the day began to die or the snowfalls returned. He had a fear of getting lost.

When he reached the Tavern in the Forest he left his horse in the cobbled yard. The tap room was open and he was pleased to meet the boy Corbett had paid the previous day. He ushered Ranulf to sit in the inglenook. The fire had burnt down, and as the boy remarked, the tavern was as cold as the snow outside. He brought a pot of ale and some stale bread. Ranulf chewed on this, sipping on the ale to soften the bread in his mouth.

‘Would you like to earn a piece of silver?’ he whispered as the boy crouched like a dog in front of him.

The boy’s eyes widened.

‘Three pieces of silver.’

‘Three pieces of silver!’ The lad edged away. ‘You’re not one of those strange ones who thinks a boy’s bottom is better than a girl’s breasts?’

Ranulf laughed. ‘No, I want you to come with me. I’ll put you on the saddle in front of me. I want you to lead me into the forest where I can meet Horehound.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘Oh yes you do,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘I know about outlaws. They always come to the nearest tavern to buy or sell, to collect information. I would wager a silver coin you’ve sat with Horehound out beneath the trees, haven’t you, lad?’

‘Meet him yourself.’

‘Three pieces of silver,’ Ranulf repeated. He put down the pot of ale and took out his purse.

‘One now, one when I meet Horehound, and one when we return.’

The boy’s eyes widened with amazement.

‘Do you have parents?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Died five winters ago.’ The boy’s eyes never left the coins. ‘Work here for Master Reginald I do.’ He pointed to a table on the far side of the room ‘Sleep under there at night and eat whatever scraps I am given.’

‘Three silver coins,’ Ranulf repeated again, ‘and I’ll find you a post in the castle. You don’t have to come back here. How about that, lad, eh? Clerk of the kitchen, clean clothes.’ He pointed to the leather cloths wrapped around the boy’s feet. ‘And a proper pair of boots.’

The boy jumped to his feet. In the twinkling of an eye he snatched the coin, scampered across the tap room and returned with a tattered cloak and a small pathetic bundle.

‘Good.’ Ranulf got to his feet.

‘I’ve just got one more task. Master Reginald always tells me never to douse the fire in the morning,’ and lifting his tattered tunic and pulling down his hose, the boy urinated into the fireplace, then, dancing like an imp from Hell, followed Ranulf out to his horse.

The Clerk of the Green Wax helped him into the saddle and swung up behind him. The boy stank, his hair was thick with grease, and beneath his cloak Ranulf could feel his thin body and bony arms. For a brief moment he went back years to when, garbed in rags, he had fought along the alleyways and runnels near Whitefriars. He was glad he had brought the boy; it dulled his fear of the forest, of becoming lost. The boy chattered like a squirrel, divulging all the secrets of the tavern, telling how Master Reginald was a bully but fawned on the foreigners who came and went as they wished and ate like lords. Ranulf listened intently. He did not want to prompt the boy, who, for a silver coin, would have told any lie about the taverner. So engrossed was he, it was a shock to realise how deep the forest had become. Only the occasional cawing of a rook or the rustling in the undergrowth betrayed any sign of life. On one occasion he thought he was lost, but the boy pointed their way through the trees and said they were safe. They reached a small crossroads where a forest trackway cut across their path. Here, the boy slipped down from the saddle, and stared owl-eyed up at Ranulf.

‘You’ve got to stay there,’ he warned. ‘You mustn’t move. I’ll be back before you know it.’

Then he was gone, leaving the trackway, pushing through the undergrowth, disappearing into the darkness of the trees. Ranulf had no choice but to wait. He felt tempted to ride on. It wasn’t the gloom, the snow or the greying sky above him, but that ominous silence, as if people were watching from the trees, waiting for him to make a mistake. His horse stamped and whinnied, and the sound echoed like the crack of a whip. Ranulf dismounted and hobbled his horse, which was restless at its master’s unease. He stroked its neck, talking softly, reassuring it, trying to control the beating of his own heart. He thought of Lady Constance and wondered if she would give him a token, a light kiss perhaps, a brushing of the lips. His horse whinnied again and moved. Ranulf heard a click and turned slowly. Six men stood there, garbed in rags, tattered hoods pulled over their heads; three carried weapons, swords and axes, and the leader and the two standing either side of him brought their crossbows up, bolts in the grooves, the cords winched back.

‘You have a fine horse. We could take that, the saddle and harness and sell them in the nearest town. Your weapons too. You also have silver coins.’

‘Aye, you could do that,’ Ranulf warned, ‘and the King’s men will see you hang. Are you Horehound? I’m Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk of the Green Wax, a King’s man. I have come to offer you a pardon.’

‘I told you, I told you.’ The tap boy appeared swift as a rabbit from behind a bush. ‘I told you who he was.’

The crossbows were lowered, and the outlaw leader came forward, pushing back his cowl and the ragged cloth covering his mouth and nose. A dirty narrow face, the nose slightly twisted, a scar coursing down his left cheek. He had cropped grey hair, his moustache and beard were dirty and clogged with grease, his eyes were sharp and quick. Horehound stretched out his rag-covered hand. Ranulf grasped this and pulled the man closer, gripping him tightly.

‘No, don’t worry.’ He saw the fear flare in the outlaw’s eyes. ‘I’m not here to trap you. The day you met us,’ Ranulf half smiled, ‘in the cemetery at St Peter’s, you spoke of a “horror in the forest.” What did you mean? You know something, don’t you, about the maids who have been killed?’

‘I know a lot of things.’ The outlaw leader turned to the men on his right. ‘Don’t I, Hemlock? Isn’t that right, Milkwort?’ The two grunted in agreement. ‘A full pardon,’ he turned back to Ranulf, ‘you promise that?’

‘For every one of you,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Full pardon and amnesty, as well as silver to help you on your way.’

The outlaw fished beneath his rags and took off the crude-looking cross dangling round his neck; he thrust this into Ranulf’s hand.

‘That’s been in holy water and blessed by a priest. Swear your oath and come!’

Ranulf never forgot the subsequent breathless wandering through that frozen forest. The outlaws left the boy with one of their gang to guard the horse, and in single file, Ranulf behind the leader, entered the trees; an ancient place, the outlaws confided, full of elves, sprites and demons. Ranulf hid his fear, for the forest was a truly terrifying place. The trees clustered in as if they wished to surround and trap him, icy branches stretched down to pluck at his hood or catch his cloak. Snow-covered briars and brambles tugged at his ankles. He could make no sense of where they were going; to all intents and purposes he was lost, yet Horehound trotted on like a lurcher dog, every so often stopping to warn Ranulf to follow him more closely as they avoided an icy morass or marsh. Occasionally an animal was startled or a bird burst out of the branches, making Ranulf’s heart leap and the sweat start. They crossed a gloomy clearing where the sky was only slivers of light between the trees, then ducked back under the dark canopy, following paths as treacherous and dangerous as any alleyway in London. At last they stopped at the edge of a glade, and the outlaws fanned out behind Ranulf, reluctant to go any further.

‘They be afeared,’ Horehound taunted, ‘but I’m not.’ And off he went.

Suddenly, in a clearing, they came upon the ‘horror in the woods’. Ranulf could tell that, despite the fresh fall of snow, someone had been here recently. Horehound pointed to the grisly find and, taking him back through the trees, brought him to the edge of the swamp and the second corpse. By the time they reached the morass, Ranulf’s stomach was queasy at what he’d just seen: a girl, flesh decomposing, eyes hollowed, cheeks pinched. He agreed with Horehound, before they covered up the remains, that it was a young woman who’d been hanged from the oak branch above them. The second corpse was different. This time the outlaws helped scrape away the snow and ice and drag the body from the oozing mud. Ranulf used the snow and the edge of his own cloak to clean the face, trying to avoid those staring eyes. His hand moved across the corpse and brushed the quarrel embedded deep in her chest. Using his dagger, he cleared away the mud to reveal the purple wound, the feathered flight and the encrusted blood.

‘Nothing to do with us,’ Horehound announced. ‘Neither of these deaths, that’s what we tried to tell you in the cemetery. We will not be blamed and hanged for the murder of these poor wenches.’

‘That’s why I came,’ Ranulf said. ‘My master, Sir Hugh Corbett, wishes to have words with you.’

‘I had heard that,’ the outlaw leader replied. ‘The taverner, Master Reginald, he told the boys to pass the message on, as if it was beneath him. I did not know what to believe. It may have been a trap but you’ve sworn your oath, haven’t you?’

‘I have.’ Ranulf stared at the man squatting before him, the rest of his companions standing in a semicircle around them. He glanced at the corpse sprawled in the snow, hair, flesh, clothing and blood-encrusted mud.

‘The end of life.’ Horehound followed his gaze. ‘No better than a rabbit.’

Ranulf got to his feet, and in a loud voice repeated his oath. Then he told the outlaws to bring the corpses back to the castle; he would ride with them. Later they must bring the whole band. They would be given fresh clothing, hot food, money and a pardon written out by the King’s own man and sealed in the Crown’s name, so no one could lift a hand against them. Ranulf would have liked to examine the corpses more carefully, but he was aware of the passing of time, how cold and hungry he had become. He had done what he had come for and was determined to be free of this dreadful forest as quickly as possible.