Paul Doherty: Murder Wears a Cowl

‘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.