Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘No, you can’t see him.’ he announced wearily. ‘He has had a cup of drugged wine and will sleep till mid-day.’

‘His eyes?’ Ranulf shouted, grabbing the priest by the sleeve. ‘Has he lost his eyesight?’

The physician gently prised himself free.

‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘The water you threw over his face saved him from further injury. I have cleaned his skin and the lime from his eyes; for the moment, that’s all I can do.’

‘His eyes?’ Ranulf repeated. ‘Will he go blind?’

‘I don’t know. Only time will tell. He may lose the sight of one eye or yes, Ranulf, he could be blinded for life.’

Ranulf turned and pounded his fists on the passageway wall.

‘Corbett,’ Brother Thomas continued. ‘I must go. I will keep you informed.’

Corbett shook him warmly by the hand, seized Ranulf’s arm and pushed him, still mouthing protests and curses, out of the hospital.

At the gate they met the lay-brother returning from Bread Street.

‘I told the Lady Maeve,’ he announced. ‘She is worried. She wishes you to return now.’

Corbett thanked him and walked on. They were half-way down the street, going back towards Newgate when Corbett heard the lay-brother behind him.

‘Oh, Sir Hugh! Sir Hugh!’

‘What is it, Brother?’

‘Well, as I left your house a little urchin stopped me, jumping up and down like some imp from hell. He said he had a message for the Lord Corbett.’

‘What was it?’

‘He said the Frenchman was ready to move with all his baggage.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’

The lay-brother hurried off. Ranulf, now sullen and withdrawn, though the fury of their recent battle still glowed in his face and eyes. He picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could down the street.

‘What’s that all about, Master?’

Corbett just stood, staring after the lay-brother.

‘Master, I asked a question!’

‘I know you did, Ranulf, but keep your bloody temper to yourself. Those attackers were probably stalking us all evening. If you’d gone to Farringdon they would have been waiting for you there. For all I know, if we’d stayed within doors, they may even have attacked the house itself.’

‘Well, who sent the bastards?’

Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Maltote’s in good hands. The Lady Maeve knows where we are. Let’s break our fast.’ He pointed towards a small tavern, The Fletcher’s Table which opened early to serve the butchers and slaughterers who worked in the Shambles. ‘A little food and some watered ale?’

‘Maltote’s lying half-dead!’ Ranulf retorted evilly.

‘Yes, I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But we need to think. The message the lay-brother brought; de Craon is preparing to leave. I suspect he sent those attackers.’

Ranulf shrugged and allowed Corbett to usher him across the street and into the still silent taproom. Sleepy-eyed scullions and black-faced cook boys served them fresh pies and jugs of ale. Corbett told Ranulf to stop moaning and sat eating and drinking, trying to recall every detail of his meeting with de Craon. At last Ranulf grew more amenable.

‘Master, what makes you think de Craon was behind the attack?’

‘Ranulf, you visited the Frenchman’s house, or at least saw it in Gracechurch Street. Did you notice anything untoward?’

‘Rather dirty, ramshackle. I thought it was a strange residence for an envoy of a French king. I mean, Master, the streets outside were littered with piles of refuse yet the dung carts were empty.’

Corbett half-choked on the piece of pie he was eating.

‘Of course,’ he whispered. Images flashed into his mind: the meeting with de Craon and de Nevers, the old gardener in the cemetery at Westminster Abbey, the silent street, the empty, deserted dung cart, Puddlicott in Paris then in London.

‘Listen, Ranulf, quickly, do two things. You are to hire a horse and ride as if Maltote himself was with you to the Guildhall. Cade will be there. You are to tell him that the Harbour Masters on the Thames are to stop all shipping. Also every soldier in the city is to muster at the corner of Thames Street. They are to be there within the hour.’ He grabbed the tankard from Ranulf’s hand. ‘Go on, man! We may not be able to do anything about Maltote’s eyes but we might seize the men who hired his attackers!’

After Ranulf had left, Corbett sat and cursed his own stupidity. He had established that the treasury had been robbed, the wall being finely breached within the last few days. Puddlicott must have worked on that tunnel like a farmer clearing a field, slowly, regularly over a number of months. Now, most of the plate hadn’t been touched, being too bulky and obvious to move and sell immediately. Perhaps the robbers had decided to divide their loot, Warfield taking the plate and Puddlicott the coins. Corbett gnawed on his lip and rose slowly to his feet. But, he wondered, didn’t the same apply to sacks of coin? Puddlicott could move them but if he started using them, surely he’d be traced? Where would such a flow of coins pass unnoticed. .? Of course! Corbett groaned, seized his cloak and hurried out of the tavern.

Corbett ensconced himself in one of the many taverns along Thames Street as he waited for Ranulf and Cade to arrive. He also hired five fishermen, who had been celebrating a successful night’s catch, to hunt amongst the wharves and docks for a French ship preparing to leave on the morning tide. Over an hour passed before his spies returned, saying there was a French cog, the Grace a Dieu , berthed at Queenshithe, which was a veritable hive of activity. One of the fishermen accurately described de Craon, and Corbett became alarmed when another reported how the ship was well manned, bore armaments and was guarded by soldiers.

‘Supposedly a wine vessel,’ the fellow concluded sourly. ‘But you know the French, Master? It’s a merchant ship turned man-of-war.’

Corbett cursed, and paid the fellows their due. If the ship slipped its mooring he did not want it to become involved in some sea fight on the Thames or, even worse, out in the Narrow Sea where it might give any pursuer the slip and make a quick dash for Dieppe or Boulogne. He left the tavern and paced restlessly up and down. By all rights he should be on the way to Sheen, but the King would have to wait. Corbett just hoped his guess would prove correct.

At last Ranulf returned with Cade, one of the sheriffs and troops of city archers and men-at-arms. They thronged the streets and narrow alleyways causing consternation amongst the early morning shoppers, seamen, traders, hucksters and costermongers. The under-sheriff, still looked peakish and nervous, realising his dishonesty about Judith had not yet been fully resolved.

‘Any news from the Tower, Master Cade?’

The under-sheriff shook his head.

‘Brother Richard has been released and Adam of Warfield keeps repeating his story but what’s this fracas about, Sir Hugh?’

‘This fracas,’ Corbett snapped, ‘is about treason!’ He looked at Ranulf. ‘The harbour master has been warned?’

Ranulf nodded.

‘Two men-of-war have been alerted,’ Cade added. ‘The Thames below Westminster has been sealed but a ship on this tide could force its way through and make a run for the open sea. I take it that our quarry is a ship?’

Corbett nodded. ‘A French merchant ship turned man-of-war, the Grace a Dieu . It’s berthed at Queenshithe. I want no nonsense. Forget about protests, protocol and diplomatic ties. I want the ship seized, the soldiers disarmed and the place searched from poop to stern.’

Cade blanched. ‘Sir Hugh, I hope you know what you are doing? If you are wrong, and I suspect we are looking for the stolen treasure, the King’s cup of wrath will spill over on us all!’