The Magician

Chapter 12

Corbett tried to remain calm as he sat at the high table. He pretended to eat and drink but his mind was a blizzard of ideas, notions, excitement and fear. The anxiety which had gripped him crumbled in a release of emotion. At any other time he would have gone for a vigorous walk, saddled his horse for a ride, or even taken his song sheets out to chant some carol or psalm. The conversation at high table swirled round him like a breeze. What did it matter? It was all pretence. De Craon could sit there, stuffing his maw with the delicacies from the kitchen, preening himself and listening ever so graciously to Lady Catherine’s chatter. You’re an assassin, Corbett thought, steeped in wickedness. He almost exclaimed with relief when the banquet ended. Sir Edmund rose and volubly thanked de Craon, who gave some simpering reply. Corbett winked at Ranulf and pretended he was in his cups, lounging in his chair, legs sprawled as if half asleep. Once the rest were gone, however, he insisted that he, Ranulf and Sir Edmund meet in the Constable’s private chambers. Corbett offered Lady Catherine his most profuse apologies.

‘No, no,’ she murmured, picking up a small bejewelled psalter from the table. ‘I was watching you during the meal, Sir Hugh; there is something very wrong, isn’t there?’

Ranulf, picking at a spot on his jerkin, looked up quickly. He had been so immersed in Lady Constance he had hardly given Sir Hugh a second glance, but now he could see the Keeper of the Secret Seal was not drunk or tired but tense with excitement.

‘What is it?’ the Constable asked, closing the door behind his wife.

‘Sir Edmund, Corfe Castle is about to be attacked!’

‘Nonsense,’ the Constable scoffed. ‘It would need a siege train, battering rams, scaling ladders-’

‘I don’t mean that way.’ Corbett sat down on a quilted stool. ‘It’s to be taken by treachery.’ He turned to Ranulf. ‘For days we have talked about secret signs, ciphers and codes. Ranulf, remember the one I taught you? I told you to pick a coin from a pile on the table and concentrate hard. Which king was on the coin? I asked you to reflect carefully.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Ranulf smiled, ‘and we astonished everyone because I always picked up a coin you could name.’

‘What’s the point of this?’ Sir Edmund loosened the cords of his shirt. He had scoffed at Corbett’s declaration but he knew this dark-faced clerk was both a soldier and a shrewd plotter.

‘Sir Edmund, you remember that piece of parchment you found on Mistress Feyner about bread to fill the largest stomach, and damsons for a Pope to eat before his dawn Mass? De Craon has confessed that he wrote it. It’s a secret cipher. When I taught Ranulf our trick I would use a certain word to denote a certain king. When I asked him to reflect, he would reply, “Yes, I’ve considered,” or “Yes, I’ve reflected,” or “Yes, I’ve remembered.” Each word stood for a certain king. “Reflected” could be Henry, “remembered” could be Edward, “considered” could be Richard. It’s a cheap fairground trick, but one which can be made more complicated. Now, de Craon knows that we are suspicious. We should never have found that message. At first he denied it until he realised that, by admitting to it, he can continue with his plot.’

‘Which is?’ Sir Edmund asked testily.

‘To storm this castle by stealth. The message gives the time, the place and the method. Consider his message carefully. Bread to fill any belly; the word for belly in French is ventre; it can also mean, used loosely, the entrance to a castle. They aim to seize the gates.’

‘When?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Ah, now we come to the damsons. De Craon is out of season; true, there may be some wizened plums, damsons preserved since autumn. However, he is not alluding to this. Damson means Damasus. He was one of the early popes. Tomorrow we celebrate his feast, and the reference to the dawn Mass names the time, before daybreak, when Father Andrew usually summons us to the first Mass of the day.’

Sir Edmund sat down in a chair and absentmindedly sipped from his goblet.

‘But how?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Whom can de Craon use? Has he hired the outlaws?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Suborned the garrison?’

‘Impossible,’ Sir Edmund declared.

‘The Flemish pirates,’ Corbett put in. ‘Sir Edmund, we have good intelligence that Flemish pirates have been seen in the Narrow Seas, cruising close to our southern shore.’

‘True, true, and they do land, though it’s villages they sack.’

‘This time it is different,’ Corbett declared. ‘They have the weather on their side. Corfe stands on the Island of Purbeck; to the south there is the sea, to the east the estuary. These Flemings are the most accomplished sailors; they have charts, maps and information they have collected. They can beach their ships in a lonely inlet or cove, assemble and move inland.’

‘But they would be seen.’

‘No, Sir Edmund, it’s the dead of winter. When was the last time you left this castle? They would enter the forest, and God help anyone they met. I would wager a bag of gold that corpses now litter the woods: charcoal burners, chapmen, peddlers, tinkers.’

‘The outlaws!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Poorly armed, weak, they wouldn’t stand a chance against such ferocious fighters.’

‘It’s possible,’ Corbett conceded, ‘which is why our outlaws did not meet us as agreed. God help the poor souls, they must be dead. In fact, Ranulf, we are most fortunate for I’m sure we almost met the Flemings ourselves.’

‘Where?’ Ranulf couldn’t believe his ears. He often confessed to Chanson how old Master Longface could surprise him, but now he was truly astonished.

‘We’re talking about two to three hundred men,’ Corbett closed his eyes, ‘and they have approached the castle as close as they can.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘I don’t think Father Matthew is ill at all. On the day we visited him the church was locked and barred. If we had forced the doors we would have seen a sight which would have terrified us just before the air became thick with arrows.’

‘You’re saying they were there, in the house and church?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, and even closer, perhaps in the tavern itself. They are going to use Master Reginald’s cart, as they probably plotted to use Mistress Feyner’s. When de Craon visited the tavern I’m sure he went to leave that same message which you, Sir Edmund, found on that woman’s corpse.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It could be done so easily, a piece of parchment dropped to the floor.’

‘But the priest would have told us.’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘So would Master Reginald.’

‘Both their lives are threatened,’ Corbett explained. ‘I’m sure that in the tavern, above stairs or in its cellars, lurk men with crossbows primed, or blades to the throats of Master Reginald’s servants, and the same in the church. In fact, the priest did try to warn us. Do you remember, Ranulf, Father Matthew claimed he hadn’t eaten, but we smelt the odour of cooking, and water had been drawn from the butt. Also there was that expensive brass bowl lying out in the garden. No poor priest would have thrown out something so costly.’

‘What bowl?’ Sir Edmund asked. ‘What is this, Sir Hugh? How do you know de Craon is behind this? Why?’

‘I don’t know why, Sir Edmund, not yet, but the Flemings are mercenaries; they can be hired by the French King, or his brother, or a member of the royal council. Everything is done in secret. A sum of money is given to some banking house; more is promised when the deed is done. Do you remember that fire, Sir Edmund? Don’t you think it was strange that your guards glimpsed a fire on the edge of the forest? And within a short while a similar fire started in the castle. De Craon was receiving and sending messages; like a chess game, all the pieces were moving into place.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Sir Edmund whispered, shaking his head. ‘Sir Hugh, de Craon is an accredited envoy.’

‘Precisely, Sir Edmund. He’ll wash his hands of it, claim he knows nothing about it. If I’m wrong I will apologise to you and the King, but I would like the opportunity to apologise; I don’t fancy having my throat slashed, or a crossbow bolt in my chest.’

Sir Edmund sat staring at the floor. ‘If they wanted to kill you, Sir Hugh, why didn’t they do it out in the forest, or in the tavern?’

‘Oh, that would alert you. But what you say is significant, Sir Edmund. They must be looking for something else. I know you are Constable of the castle, but I am the Keeper of the-’

‘And I have a wife and daughter,’ Sir Edmund snapped. ‘The solution is very simple, Sir Hugh, I’ll double the guards. I’ll secretly pass the word.’

‘Don’t let the French know the reason why.’

‘Of course not. I’ll order the outer drawbridge to be pulled up and the portcullis lowered.’

‘The inner ward as well?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No, no. If something should happen,’ Corbett explained, ‘and the attackers get into the outer ward, the defenders must be given the chance to flee across the second drawbridge. If it was raised, by the time it’s lowered again the attackers could follow the defenders deeper into the castle.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sir Edmund, I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight. Keep our preparations as secret as possible.’

‘Why not send out horsemen?’ Ranulf demanded, only to shrug as he realised the futility of his remark. ‘Of course, in the dead of night, in the depth of winter . . .’

Sir Edmund reluctantly agreed to all of Corbett’s requests. He had served with Corbett in Wales and along the Scottish march, and if Sir Hugh smelt danger, then danger there was.

Corbett and Ranulf returned to Corbett’s chamber. The castle yards were now deserted; only the occasional servant hurried across, carrying a torch. The sky was cloud-free, the stars seemed like pricks of light. Corbett walked down to the entrance of the first ward. Officers of the garrison were already gathering around the main gateway, and even as he turned away, the rumble of chains echoed across. Corbett glimpsed some servants, the travelling tinkers and chapmen gathered around a fire. All seemed peaceful enough. As soon as he returned to his chamber he checked the great coffer and changed, putting on a stout leather jacket, testing his sword and dagger, drawing them in and out of their sheaths, whilst Ranulf took from their stores two crossbows and quivers of arrows.

‘I had best tell the others,’ Ranulf declared.

‘No, no,’ Corbett warned. ‘Don’t! I want you to stay with me. You can sleep on the bed if you want.’ He pushed his chair in front of the fire and sat, recalling everything he had said to the Constable. He truly believed that the danger was real and insidious; all those little things he had glimpsed and heard in the castle, and beyond, now made sense. Yet he cursed his own tiredness, for there was something he had missed! He and de Craon had clashed swords for how long now? It must be years. And if de Craon was playing chess with other people’s lives, he would have plotted secret moves and strategies to further his designs.

‘Causa disputandi, for sake of argument,’ Corbett whispered, ‘let us presume that de Craon knows that I know what mischief he is planning. The Flemish pirates may be resolute fighters but they are not an army. They have no siege equipment.’

‘They do have ladders.’ Ranulf spoke up, sitting on the bed behind him.

Corbett smiled over his shoulder. ‘Long enough to scale these walls, Ranulf?’ He went back to his musings. ‘The drawbridge is drawn up, the gates guarded. Oh God, I’ve forgotten something!’

For a while he dozed, starting awake at any noise, even the faint cries of the sentries. He placed another log on the fire and went across to check the hour candle. It had been lit at noon the previous day and the flame was already eating down to the fifteenth circle.

‘If it comes,’ Corbett glanced at Ranulf on the bed, fast asleep, ‘if it comes, it will be soon.’

He returned to his chair, trying to recall what it was he had missed. He was falling asleep when he heard a sound outside, the slither of a foot. He sprang to his feet, drew his sword and tiptoed towards the door. He drew back the bolts, which had been recently greased, and turned the key in the lock, then lifted the latch, opened the door a crack and stared out. Nothing but shadows dancing on the wall. The cresset torch was leaping vigorously and he could feel the draught from the icy wind. He looked down at the floor; in the murky light he could see the imprint of footsteps. Someone had come up here. The door to the tower was unlocked. Someone had climbed those steps and tried his door.

Corbett, gripping his sword, went down the steps. As he rounded the corner to the bottom stairwell he heard the click of the latch as the outside door closed. Fear pricking the back of his neck, and fighting to calm his breath, he approached the door, lifted the latch and slipped through. The darkness was thinning; across the yard he could see the glow of a brazier, men lounging in the shadows wrapped in cloaks, fast asleep, nothing untoward or out of place. Corbett stepped back inside, drew across the bolt and returned to his own chamber. Ranulf was awake, already pulling his boots on.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, Ranulf, go back to sleep.’

‘I’ve been dreaming about the Lady Constance. Sir Hugh, have you ever seen such a beautiful neck? I mean,’ Ranulf added hastily, ‘apart from the Lady Maeve’s?’

‘So you think Lady Maeve has a beautiful neck . . .’

‘I mean I would love to buy the Lady Constance a necklace to hang round it, perhaps a silver cross or a costly stone?’

‘Why not a silver heart?’ Corbett replied. ‘But you won’t find anything like that in the castle. Perhaps when this danger has passed . . .’

‘There’s always the chapmen and tinkers,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Aye, there is.’ Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. He dozed for a while, thinking about the Lady Maeve and the silver collar he intended to buy for her as a New Year’s gift. He had seen something in Cheapside he had liked. That was the best place to go. Travelling tinkers . . . Corbett opened his eyes, his stomach lurched. Going over to the hour candle, he noticed it was close to the sixteenth ring. He heard a sound from outside like the cry of a bird. He stared at Ranulf and realised what he had forgotten.

‘Ranulf!’ His henchman started awake. Corbett was already putting on his war belt, picking up the arbalest. ‘Ranulf, do you have a horn, anything?’

‘What is it? I have something somewhere.’ Ranulf leapt off the bed. ‘It’s in my room. Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’

‘Tinkers, travellers, chapmen. Ranulf, think! During the last few days a number of them have drifted into the castle.’

‘Oh, St Michael and all his Angels,’ Ranulf breathed, pulling on his boots and picking up his own weapons.

Corbett pushed him through the door and down the steps. The bolt to the outer door was stuck and he caught his hand pulling it back. Once in the yard, Ranulf would have run across to his own chamber, but Corbett pulled him back.

‘It’s too late for that. Au secours!’ Corbett shouted, using the alarm signal for any military camp.

‘Au secours! Au secours!’ Ranulf echoed the shout. Slipping and slithering they raced across the yard.

Men-at-arms and archers, faces heavy with sleep, struggled awake and came out of the small cottages built against the walls of the inner bailey. They tried to challenge Corbett but the clerk was already racing across the cobbles, down to the second drawbridge. As he thundered across that into the first ward, he realised it was too late. The main portcullis was raised, the drawbridge was going down, and a group of armed men clustered in the murky light. One or two held torches, and there was the scrape of steel even as the piteous cry came from the gatehouse. Men-at-arms on the parapet walks above him were alarmed, roused by the clatter of chains and the crash of the drawbridge as it fell. The sentries were caught by surprise; they didn’t know whether to face the danger in the yard below or the horsemen and carts which seemed to erupt from the darkness, thundering across the lower drawbridge. Corbett, Ranulf by his side, hurried across the cobbles.

The door to the Hall of Angels was open, a shaft of light in the darkness. Sir Edmund and his officers came hurrying down, half dressed in armour, swords drawn, helmets on their heads. Corbett glimpsed something moving out of the corner of his eye and turned, sword and dagger out. He recognised two of the chapmen he had glimpsed the other day. Now they carried no bundles; one held sword and dagger, the other, hurrying behind, was slipping a bolt into an arbalest. Corbett met the first in a clash of steel whilst Ranulf hurled himself at the bowman. A violent, vicious fight. Corbett was aware of a bearded face, glittering eyes, the foul smell of the man and the curses he muttered. He was a poor swordsman lunging with dagger; turning slightly sideways, he left his chest exposed and Corbett thrust in his sword even as Ranulf, clutching his opponent’s crossbow, shoved it against his stomach whilst driving his dagger straight into his face. His assailant collapsed, blood gushing out. Ranulf danced behind him, clawing back his head so as to slit his throat.

Similar fights were already breaking out in the inner ward; individual duels, men rolling on the ground whilst the attackers surged through the main gate, massing in the bailey. A truly frightening force, they wore no armour but leather jerkins or long robes slit at each side. On their heads the pelts of foxes, badgers, wolves and bears. Well armed and organised, they were led by a line of crossbowmen, with fighters coming out from the flanks ready to take advantage. They had their backs to the gatehouse and were now advancing to the second drawbridge, whilst others were hastening up the steps to attack the guards and sentries on the parapet walks. As they edged forward Corbett realised that their main strength was on their right flank, and ignoring the whistles of the bolts and quarrels, he pointed towards the Hall of Angels.

‘They intend to take it,’ Sir Edmund, his face already cut, agreed.

‘I’ll defend that,’ Ranulf whispered.

Sir Edmund was now bringing his own archers into play. A ragged line of arbalests, they did little good, being far too slow, but at least they halted the advance of the enemy. Behind this line, ignoring the hideous cries of the wounded, Sir Edmund and his officers tried to impose order. Ranulf, surrounded by a group of men-at-arms, was already protecting the steps to the Hall of Angels. Sir Edmund now drew back, sending forward more crossbowmen and, behind them, a line of men-at-arms with long oval shields and spears. At first Corbett, fighting for breath, body drenched in sweat, his ears dimmed by the raucous noise, thought Sir Edmund was acting foolishly, panic-stricken, unable to plan. However, line after line of Welsh longbowmen, marshalled by their officers, came slipping across the inner drawbridge and formed in kneeling lines with gaps between their ranks. The pirates, displaying their black and red banners and reinforced by fresh forces from outside, edged forward, ready to rush Sir Edmund’s crossbowmen and the ranks of mailed men-at-arms. The outer bailey filled with these garishly garbed mercenaries. As in all battles Corbett could make no sense of it, only the sounds of shouting, men writhing on the ground, clutching at blood-gushing wounds, a body toppled from the parapet. He became aware of the enemy bowmen trying to shoot above their heads.

‘Sir Hugh!’ Both he and Sir Edmund were now protected by lines of men kneeling and standing before them, their shields out against the sickening thud of crossbow bolts. ‘Sir Hugh!’ Sir Edmund gasped. ‘When I give the order you must run! You must not stop, and if you fall, God help you!’

A similar order was passed along the ranks. The enemy lines drew closer, their archers doing terrible damage. Sir Edmund gave the sign, a shrilling trumpet blast, and the castle defenders turned and fled, Corbett retreating with the rest. He passed men in leather jerkins, small and dark, hair tied back, straining on their great bows, quivers hanging from their sides, one arrow notched, another in their mouths. Two rows were kneeling, and in between them two further ranks were standing. The smell of sweat, leather, and that strange oil used to keep their yew bows supple was all around them. Corbett hastened through, wary lest he knock against one of these archers now bringing their bows down. The enemy, taken by surprise, stopped, baffled by these stationary ranks of men, the mass of barbed arrows, the long cords pulled back. A few moments of silence, then one of the enemy, face painted, head shrouded in a sealskin, leapt forward whirling an axe.

‘Now!’ Sir Edmund shouted.

‘Loose!’ a master bowman in the rear rank shouted. Corbett heard a sound something like the strings of a thousand harps being plucked, followed by a whirr as if some giant bird was fluttering its heavy wings. A black shower of shafts hung for a second against the lightening sky. The sight took Corbett back to a mist-shrouded valley in Wales and English men-at-arms in their red and gold livery falling like ripening corn under a deadly hail of barbed shafts. It was the same here. The first wave of attackers seemed to disappear, stagger back and fall; the rest, disconcerted, halted, presenting even easier targets for the second shower of arrows which fell thick and fast. The inner bailey became full of men staggering away clutching at arrows in the face, neck and chest; others lay still on the freezing ice. Corbett had witnessed the deadly effect of the massed ranks of longbowmen, yet he was still amazed at the speed and violence of such an assault.

The archers were now turning under the direction of their officers, moving into a horseshoe formation to sweep the entire bailey with their volleys. The speed of their arrows, their accuracy and the closeness of their foe wreaked a telling, devastating effect. The ground became carpeted with dead and dying. The attackers had no choice but to retreat. The Welsh archers advanced to shouts of ‘Walk! Loose!’ followed by that ominous thrumming. The pirates became disorganised. Some of their leaders were killed. Even as they retreated, the deadly hail continued. Panic set in, and the ranks broke and fled, desperate to reach the main gate. A few of the archers strung their bows and followed, a mistake as the enemy turned with sword and club. The archers were no match for these desperate men and their skill in hand-to-hand conflict. Sir Edmund summoned them back. Trumpets and hunting horns sounded through the air as the Constable called for the horses to be brought out and saddled for the chase.

Corbett stood back. He felt exhausted and wearied and had no desire to engage in the pursuit. The yard became full of horses milling about. Sir Edmund and his officers mounted, shouting at the men-at-arms to gather round them. The horn sounded again and Sir Edmund led the cavalcade across the outer bailey, archers running behind them. The rest of the castle folk now emerged from their hiding places armed with whatever weapon they could find. They moved amongst the dead, cutting the throats of the enemy, searching for loved ones. Lady Catherine and her daughter came out of the Hall of Angels, accompanied by Ranulf and a group of men-at-arms. Lady Catherine imposed order. The killing of the wounded stopped. Scullions and servants were ordered to light fires, boil water and bring sheets from the stores. Simon the leech was already busy, and behind him, Father Andrew, a stole round his neck, moved amongst the dead, now and again crouching to talk to a fallen man.

Corbett leaned against the wall struggling to control the nausea in his stomach. He tried to breathe in, clearing his throat, fearful lest he be sick. Ranulf and Bolingbroke hurried across. Both clerks had donned stiffened leather breastplates. Ranulf had his war belt slung over his shoulder and his sword and dagger were drenched in blood. Corbett turned away and retched. The dreadful silence which always followed a battle was shattered as the wounded cried in agony, or some woman finding her man began to wail. If Lady Catherine hadn’t been present, accompanied by men-at-arms, a second massacre would have taken place. She insisted that the castle wounded be moved to the keep, the dead to the chapel, and those enemy prisoners able to walk quickly manacled and taken down to the castle dungeons. Corbett gestured with his hand for Bolingbroke to go and help her.

‘Ranulf, I am finished here.’

With his henchmen helping him, Corbett returned to his chamber, trying not to look at the corpses sprawled in their dark puddles of blood. He reached the tower, opened the door and paused at the sound on the stairs above. Ranulf pushed him aside and went ahead; Corbett climbed the steps slowly. The door to his chamber hung open. He paused.

‘I’m sure I locked it,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sure I did.’

He went inside the chamber. By the faint stains on the floor he could tell someone had been here; they had also removed a leather jerkin lying on the great chest. He crouched down and examined the locks.

‘Where was de Craon during the attack?’

Ranulf resheathed his sword, wiping the sweat from his face.

‘Hiding in the Hall of Angels, I believe.’

Corbett poured himself and Ranulf a goblet of wine. He drank greedily then lay on the bed. He felt as if he had hardly closed his eyes when he was shaken awake by Sir Edmund, his hair matted, face lined with sweat and dirt. The Constable looked furious.

‘Sir Hugh, I need you now!’

Corbett struggled awake and sat on the edge of the bed. Sir Edmund unloosened his sword belt, slumped in a chair and rubbed his face with his hands.

‘There were three hundred in all,’ he began. ‘We must have killed two thirds of them. We have forty prisoners.’

‘What will you do with them?’ Corbett asked.

‘They’re pirates,’ the Constable replied. ‘They carry no letters of patent, warrants or commissions. You know the law, Sir Hugh. Such men taken in arms are judged guilty and forfeit all right to life and limb.’

‘You mean to try them?’

‘Within the hour, Sir Hugh. You are a King’s justice, I need your help. There’s no other way. Ranulf here will act as your clerk, three justices under the law.’

‘Wait, wait.’ Corbett held his hands up. ‘Have you questioned them? Why did they attack Corfe?’

‘Their leaders have either fled or been killed,’ the Constable replied. ‘The captain of the fleet managed to escape. Those we’ve captured know nothing except that they were to attack the castle, ransack it, kill as many people as possible and withdraw to their ships beached along the estuary.’

Corbett accepted the goblet of wine Ranulf thrust into his hands.

‘Sir Edmund, you seem to be in a temper. The attack was beaten off, you have achieved a great victory.’

‘Have I? Have I?’ The Constable took off a gauntlet and sucked at a cut on his wrist. ‘I nearly lost my castle, my life, not to mention the lives of my wife and daughter. I risked your life, Sir Hugh. If you had been killed the King would have had my head. God knows what the Flemings would have done with the French envoys.’

‘But they hired them,’ Corbett mused.

‘Did they?’ Sir Edmund retorted. ‘Monsieur de Craon sheltered in his chamber and came out all afluster.’ The Constable forced a smile. ‘He claims he is not safe here and wishes to leave for Dover. In fact he has ordered his retainers to pack and leave as swiftly as possible. He’s demanding a heavy escort for the journey.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Corbett remarked. ‘I can just imagine your French guest throwing his hands in the air, eyes rolling, shouting that this place should be safer, that his person is sacred, and that he can’t leave quick enough.’

Corbett toasted the Constable with his cup. ‘Come, Sir Edmund, see the funny side. De Craon wishes to put as much distance between himself and Corfe as possible because he’s failed, the attack was beaten off.’

‘And yet, Sir Hugh,’ the smile faded from Sir Edmund’s face, ‘we lost thirty-five men. I made a mistake. Apparently the pedlars and chapmen we admitted attacked the guard at the main gateway, cut their throats and lowered the drawbridge. I should have been more careful. The pirates were hiding in the dark; they brought in a cart, forced the gate, and the rest you know.’

‘They were nearby all the time?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, yes. Now I’ll come to the cruel part. The pirates landed in the estuary and moved inland. From what I gather, they swept into the forest, killing the charcoal burners and woodmen. They slaughtered and raped. Those who knew the paths were taken prisoner and forced to show them the way. They reached St Peter’s in the Wood and used the church for shelter, as well as the priest’s house. They threatened Father Matthew, telling him that unless he cooperated, pretended to be ill and drove away all visitors, they would cut his throat and burn their hostages alive. They then moved on to the Tavern in the Forest. Apparently those Castilian wool merchants were part of the plot; they were the ones who lit the fire. They forced the taverner to cooperate. They planned to use his cart and that of Mistress Feyner. They thought they would catch us unawares, seize the drawbridges and ransack the castle to their hearts’ content.’

‘That’s why that bastard held his banquet,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘He hoped we would all be fuddled with wine, deeply asleep. Sir Hugh, isn’t there anything we can do?’

Corbett run a thumbnail around his lips. ‘Continue, Sir Edmund.’

‘They also cleared the forest.’ The Constable joined his hands together. ‘Poor Horehound and his coven were massacred. I sent riders into the trees. The pirates killed indiscriminately: Horehound and his group, foresters, charcoal burners. Good God, Sir Hugh, it’ll be summer before we find all their corpses.’

‘And Master Reginald?’

‘They forced him to drive the cart this morning. He was killed just by the gateway, whether by design or accident I cannot say.’

‘And Father Matthew?’

‘Ah, we expected to find him dead. However, our priest has more nimble wits than they thought. He and the hostages managed to escape to the church and barred themselves in, just as the outlaws began to mass for their attack on the castle. Obviously the pirates hoped to deal with us first. The priest is shaken and nervous but he and the poor forest folk were found safe enough.’

‘And the tavern?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Ransacked and looted. Most of the servants managed to escape into the forest.’

‘And the Castilians?’

‘From what one of the grooms said, one escaped, the rest were killed. They made a final stand just between the tavern and the church. I have brought the rebels’ bodies back so that my people can see. They are laid out in a line, just within the inner bailey. I want everyone here to see that justice was done.’

‘And the rest?’ Ranulf asked.

‘They will be hanging within the hour, but Ranulf is correct! Sir Hugh, what can we do about de Craon?’

Corbett rose, washed his face and hands and prepared himself carefully. ‘Tell de Craon I wish to see him here.’ He turned the high-backed chair to face the door. ‘I want to see him here, by himself. You can be my witnesses.’

A short while later de Craon, booted and spurred, body shrouded in a thick woollen cloak, swaggered into the room. Bogo de Baiocis followed like a shadow.

‘Sir Hugh, I’m glad to see you are safe.’ De Craon looked around for a chair; Corbett didn’t offer one. Ranulf lounged on a stool whilst Sir Edmund leaned against the wall, still picking at the cut on his wrist.

‘Tell your servant to stand outside.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Tell your servant to stand outside. This castle is the King of England’s, I am his commissioner, I decide to whom I speak.’ Corbett rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, he can leave of his own accord or I can have the tocsin sounded.’

De Craon lifted a gloved hand, waggling his fingers. Ranulf hastened to open the door and mockingly bowed as the henchman strode out, then slammed the door shut, drawing the bolts across. De Craon became alarmed.

‘Sir Hugh, you seem in a temper. I truly object, as will my master, to the hideous attack launched on this castle,’ de Craon gabbled. ‘Perhaps, Sir Hugh, our two kings can meet and discuss the dangers posed by these marauders. At the same time I must remind you that I am an accredited envoy. I no longer feel safe here. I wish-’

‘Oh shut up!’ Corbett sipped from his wine cup. ‘Monsieur de Craon, why don’t you just keep quiet? Do you know, sir,’ he continued, ‘if I could prove who hired those pirates I would build a special scaffold outside the gate and watch him hang. However, I have no such proof.’

‘Are you saying they were hired?’ De Craon’s eyes rounded in surprise. ‘Sir Hugh, you have proof of this?’

‘I said if,’ Corbett retorted. ‘The man who hired them is a murderer and assassin. He has the blood of innocent men and women on his hands. I call him a misbegotten knave, a cruel-hearted bastard who is not even worthy to wipe the arse of one of Sir Edmund’s dogs.’ Malevolence and anger began to seethe in the Frenchman’s eyes. ‘However, monsieur, you have made a very good point. Well, three, to be precise. First, we must gather as much information about this attack as possible, and you were witness to it. Secondly, you are an accredited envoy, and the King of England is personally responsible for your safety. Thirdly, there are still outstanding matters between us. So, to cut to the chase, I think it will be very unsafe, even with a heavy escort, to journey to Dover. These pirates may still be hiding along the roads.’

Corbett sipped from his cup, watching de Craon over its rim.

‘Who knows, they may even launch another assault. Your person, Monsieur de Craon, is very special, I mean, very sacred to me. I must keep you close and safe.’

De Craon flushed as Ranulf sniggered.

‘By the power given to me,’ Corbett raised his left hand, ‘I must insist that you be kept safe here at Corfe, given every comfort until we are assured that this danger is past.’

‘And?’ De Craon’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

‘My sovereign lord the King,’ Corbett continued, smiling with his eyes, ‘will insist on reassuring you personally. He will want to know as much about this attack as possible.’ He leaned forward. ‘Within the week you will be escorted to London and given comfortable lodgings in the Tower. You can join the court’s Christmas festivities.’

‘I protest!’ de Craon broke in. ‘I must return to France.’

‘Amaury, Amaury!’ Corbett got to his feet, put his hand gently on the Frenchman’s shoulder and squeezed tight with his fingers. ‘We must make sure you are safe. We must show the Holy Father at Avignon the cordial relationship which exists between our two courts. Surely, Amaury, you are not going to refuse my royal master’s invitation? I mean, he would take grave insult.’

Corbett’s hand fell away. De Craon’s face was a picture, a mass of controlled fury, white froth bubbling on the corner of his mouth. The Frenchman was breathing rapidly through his nose.

‘You must be safe, Amaury, I would die a thousand deaths if anything happened to you.’

‘I,’ de Craon stepped back, ‘I must think about your offer.’ Ranulf was quietly laughing. This proved too much. At the door de Craon turned. ‘One day, Corbett . . .’

‘Aye, de Craon, one day, but for now, do make yourself available. Perhaps I may have other questions for you.’

De Craon drew back the bolts and disappeared through the doorway. Ranulf, laughing loudly, kicked the door shut.

‘Can you do that?’

Sir Edmund came away from the wall, eyes watchful.

‘I don’t want him to leave,’ Corbett declared, ‘and I want to keep him in England as long as possible. He’ll enjoy the Tower. He shouts he is an envoy; then he should at least present his letters to our lord. Perhaps the snow will return and, with a little luck, King Philip will have to do without his Keeper of Secrets until the spring.’

‘You will accuse him of the murders?’ Ranulf asked.

‘He is a murderer,’ Corbett replied. ‘A malevolent black spider who spins his webs in dark corners. He hired those pirates. He tried to fill our bellies with food and wine and I think I know why. Sir Edmund, whatever happens, keep the drawbridge raised. Apart from myself, nobody must leave this castle. Now I believe we have other business to do.’ Corbett roused himself, blew out the candles and strapped on his war belt. ‘Ranulf, fetch Bolingbroke. Sir Edmund, where will the court be held?’

‘In the council chamber in the keep.’

‘Tell Bolingbroke to meet us there,’ Corbett ordered. ‘He is skilled in languages. Let these miscreants know why they are going to die.’