Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

Edward laughed to himself. ‘Agreed. I knew Cade’s father. He began life as a yeoman bowman in my households. Cade was his thirteenth son. Do you know that even as a child Cade was forever lifting girls’ petticoats? He has to learn the hard way that a royal official must be careful with whom he sleeps, as well as those he does business with.’

‘And the girl, Judith?’

‘She will have her reward.’

Corbett shuffled his feet and glanced sideways at de Warrenne.

‘And Puddlicott and the others?’

‘Ah!’ Edward turned and Corbett did not like the look on the King’s face. ‘They will hang!’

‘Warfield is a priest, a monk!’

‘He’s got a neck like any other man.’

‘The Church will object.’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll point out that the monks of Westminster not only betrayed their vows but also their King. Can you imagine old Winchelsea of Canterbury?’ Edward smiled to himself. ‘Good Lord, sometimes I love being King. I am looking forward to telling our venerable Archbishop of Canterbury and his brother bishops how lax they have been in their pastoral care. They should keep a sharper eye on their vineyards and what they sanctimoniously call “their flock”.’

‘I gave my word to Puddlicott,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘That he would hang but die quickly. No mutilation. And there is the business of his brother. .’

The King slouched in the window seat. ‘I have no quarrel with witless men; the lad will be looked after. But Puddlicott. .’ The King shook his head.

‘Your Grace, I gave my word.’

The King made a face.

‘I gave my word,’ Corbett repeated. ‘Knowing, your Grace, that you would respect it.’

Edward made a sweeping movement with his hands.

‘Agreed! Agreed! Puddlicott will stand trial before the Justices at Westminster. He will be given a fair hearing then he will hang.’ The King rubbed his hands together and smiled evilly at de Warrenne. ‘A pretty mess, eh, Surrey?’

‘As you say, your Grace.’ The Earl looked squarely at Corbett. ‘But there’s the business of the murderer still roaming the streets and not yet laid by the heels. That was your task, Corbett.’

‘I was distracted, your Grace!’ Corbett snapped back.

‘You have no idea?’ Edward asked.

‘None whatsoever. Vague suspicions, but that’s all.’

‘And the Sisters of St Martha are being co-operative?’

‘Of course.’

The King grinned. ‘Especially the Lady Neville?’

‘Especially the Lady Neville!’

‘And old de Lacey is still frightening the wits out of everyone?’

‘I deal more with the Lady Fitzwarren.’

‘Ah, yes.’ The King narrowed his eyes. ‘I remember when her husband died. We were in Wales, near Conway, the Feast of St Martin, pope and martyr. A good man Fitzwarren.’ The King rose and clapped his hands. ‘Well, in which case, Corbett, it’s back to London for you.’ Edward extended his hand for Corbett to kiss. ‘I shall not forget, Hugh,’ he murmured, ‘your loyalty and commitment in this matter.’

Edward closed the door behind his clerk and leaned against it, waiting till the footfalls faded. De Warrenne smirked.

‘You’ll keep your word, Edward?’

‘About what?’

‘Cade and the woman, Judith.’

Edward shrugged. ‘Of course. You know Edward of England’s motto. “Keep faith”.’

‘And Puddlicott?’

‘Of course,’ Edward smirked, ‘I will keep my word. But now I have a task for you, Surrey. You are to join Corbett in London, present my compliments to the Lord Sheriff, publicly praise Cade, supervise Puddlicott’s execution, make sure he dies swiftly.’

‘And then, your Grace?’

‘I want the bastard’s body skinned!’ the King hissed. ‘Do you understand me, de Warrenne? I want the skin peeled off and nailed, like that of a pig, to the abbey door so everyone knows the price for robbing Edward of England!’

Corbett was relieved to find the Lord Morgan had not yet arrived at Bread Street.

‘He has been delayed,’ Maeve moaned. ‘Matters in Wales are not proving as easy to leave as he had thought.’

He’s bloody drunk, more like it, Corbett thought, and still can’t get his horse to take him across the drawbridge. However, he kept his unkind sentiments to himself for Maeve worried herself sick over the old rogue’s health and well-being.

Ranulf was absent when Corbett arrived but, on his return, declared that Maltote’s life was in no danger, though Brother Thomas could not say whether or not he would regain his sight.

Corbett retired to his small, chancery office, idly sifting through letters, memoranda, bills and petitions which the Chancery had sent on to him. Nevertheless, his mind was elsewhere: back in the abbey grounds watching that dark shape, so vividly described by Puddlicott, slip across to Father Benedict’s house to begin that dreadful fire.

Maeve came in with baby Eleanor, and Corbett cosseted and teased both until Anna arrived, talking volubly in Welsh. She seized the child, glared at Corbett, and mumbled something about the infant being too excited. Maeve stayed for a while as Corbett described his recent interview with the King and his frustration at being unable to catch the assassin and trap the murderer of the city whores.

‘It could be anyone,’ he muttered. ‘It could have been Warfield or another of the monks.’

Maeve seized him by the hand. ‘You are agitated, Hugh. Come, join me in the kitchen, I am cooking the evening meal.’

Corbett followed her down the passageway and helped prepare the meal, as Maeve chattered about this and that, trying to distract her husband. He always loved to watch her cook: she was so expert, so neat and tidy, and the dishes she served were always fresh and fragrant. After the hard-baked bread and rancid meat of London’s taverns and the royal kitchens, Corbett always appreciated whatever she cooked.

She deftly peeled the whitened flesh of a roasted chicken, dicing it with a small knife, scraping the portions into a bowl, mixing in oil and herbs. Then she looked up, startled, as her husband gasped. He stood, mouth open, staring at her.

‘Hugh!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Of course!’ Corbett murmured, as if in a trance. ‘Oh, by Hell’s teeth, of course!’ He put down the knife he had been holding and moved like a sleep-walker towards the kitchen door.

‘Hugh!’ Maeve exclaimed again.

He just shook his head, leaving his wife puzzled and exasperated. Outside in the passageway, Corbett stared at the white plaster, so surprised by his own thoughts he leaned his hot face against the wall, relishing its coolness.

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It can’t be, surely?’

Ranulf came running down the passageway. ‘Master, are you well?’

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied absent-mindedly. ‘I am glad Maltote’s well.’ He patted the surprised Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘Lady Maeve may need some help.’ Corbett shook himself and narrowed his eyes. ‘What did I say, Ranulf?’

The manservant just shook his head. ‘Have you been drinking, Master?’

‘No,’ Corbett murmured, striding down the passageway back to his office. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘But I wish to God I had!’ Back in his office, Corbett reached for the Calendar of Saints at the end of a Book of Hours then sat for an hour writing furiously as he developed the idea which had so surprised him in the kitchen. He tried to disprove his own theory but, whatever ploy he used, the conclusion reached was unshakeable and he cursed his own lack of logic.

‘So simple,’ he murmured to himself, lifting his head to stare out of the window. ‘I know the murderer. I can prove the murders, but what else?’