Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘What did you know?’

‘Sir Hugh, many strangers enter the camp. I thought this man was a mummer, a travelling player, a moon person, a counterfeit man pretending to be a leper begging for alms. He had been noticed. I tried to find out a little more. How he and the Gleeman had been closeted together. I went back and told Fitzurse this. I met him in the shadows. He gave me a coin, and since then I’ve heard no more from him.’

‘And he has not approached you here?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett rose to his feet, took a coin from his own purse and spun it at the Pilgrim, who caught it.

‘Sir Hugh, what am I to do?’

‘If you want to live,’ Corbett declared, ‘I would flee Les Hommes Joyeuses. Run as fast as you can, despite the snow; try and reach London. Take sanctuary in the Church of St Michael’s, Cornhill. Tell the sheriff and his bailiffs that you do so at the behest of Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal. If you stay there, Master Pilgrim, you may receive a pardon. If you do not, I would wager a tun of wine that the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze will catch up with you, if not to kill you, then certainly to ask you more questions. .’

Berengaria stood in the south transept of St Alphege’s, her cloak pulled tight about her, warming her hands over the cresset candles lit before the statue of the martyred Saxon archbishop, who gazed sorrowfully down at her. Nevertheless, Berengaria felt comfortable. Parson Warfeld was like any other man with his needs. He had given her comfortable lodgings in his finely furnished house, so why should she be in a hurry to return to Lady Adelicia? Berengaria had made her decision. She had enough silver salted away to bid Lady Adelicia adieu, perhaps obtain a few coins from her and seek her fortune elsewhere, and what better place than a priest’s house? Parson Warfeld might be a cleric, but he had the same hungers and appetites as any man, the way he’d first looked at her, slyly, out of the corner of his eye, his tongue wetting his lips, how he would place his hand on her shoulder or arm. Sure enough Berengaria, with her winsome ways, had fluttered her eyelids and enmeshed Warfeld in her silken net. Of course there was the other matter. Warfeld had confessed to her about informing that snooping royal clerk about Berengaria’s secret visits back to Sweetmead to meet Sir Rauf. How he’d often glimpsed her cloaked and cowled. Berengaria had masked her fury behind a smile, accepting the parson’s protestations that he had to tell Corbett, he’d been on oath. Well, she thought, preening herself, sometime in the future she might have to tell someone about the good parson!

Berengaria had been with Warfeld when the morning Mass had been celebrated. They were about to leave the church to break their fast when Desroches arrived to see the priest on certain matters. Parson Warfeld had promised her a visit to a splendid cookshop closer into the city, and though she’d pouted prettily, the priest had decided to meet with Desroches and asked her to stay here until his return. Berengaria stared up at the tortured face of the saint and then walked along the walls, studying the paintings. The artist had conjured up a vividly cruel scene of hell, depicting a plain filled with men and women of all ages, lying naked, fixed with iron nails into the earth, writhing in torment. Demons moved amongst them beating them with whips. In another part of the fresco, victims sprawled on their backs whilst dragons, serpents and fiery toads thrust glowing needles into their bodies before devouring them. Some of the hell-bound corpses hung by hot chains fastened to one of their limbs; others were being tortured in red-hot frying skillets or pierced on spits roasting over fires. In a further scene, a house smoked horribly; nearby human beings were being lowered into vats full of molten metal, naked men and women being thrown back up into the air as if they were sparks of fire. Fascinated, Berengaria moved along. She felt no guilt at her own sin as she studied the wretches who, no longer able to endure the excessive heat, leapt into biting-cold rivers. In the centre of the fresco yawned the mouth of hell, a vast pit spitting out globes of black flames towards which a horde of evil spirits were dragging legions of lamenting souls, urging them on with scaly whips and burning tongs.

Berengaria shivered and moved back to the candle flame. This was an old church; Parson Warfeld had explained how it had been here before the Normans arrived. Berengaria didn’t know who the Normans were; instead she now concentrated on her fingers. Parson Warfeld called them long and slender, elegant and beautiful, and that flattered her. She studied her hands as she thought about the future. She definitely had plans. She knew more than that clever-eyed clerk with his snooping ways and prying questions. She could wait, so why shouldn’t the others, particularly her next victims? They would all have to wait for a while, though she’d hinted at what she knew. Oh yes, when they had all gathered at Sweetmead the previous evening, she’d shown her true mettle! She recalled a proverb a soldier had once taught her: ‘Sometimes it is best to half-draw your sword, let your enemy see the gleam of metal.’ Well she’d done that!

‘Berengaria, Berengaria?’

She turned quickly. Apart from the candle glow, the church was mantled in darkness.

‘Berengaria?’

‘Who is it?’ She moved from the transept into the nave. ‘Who called my name?’

She heard a sound behind her and turned. As the cloaked figure walked quickly forward, Berengaria’s smile faded. She turned to flee, opened her mouth to scream, but the noose whipped fast around her neck, cutting off her breath, the blood rushing to her ears. The grip tightened and Berengaria choked swiftly to death.

Corbett and his two companions reached Maubisson around mid-morning, the city bells were still calling the faithful to the last Mass of the day. Wendover and a group of guards sat camped before the main steps of the manor. Corbett ordered them to open the doors and wait outside until he summoned them. Wendover tried to draw the new arrivals into conversation, but Corbett curtly waved him away, urging Ranulf and Chanson up into the gloomy hallway. Once inside, he slammed the door behind him and leaned against it.

Ranulf took off his cloak and slung it over a bench. Then he tightened his sword belt, easing the sword and dagger in the scabbard, nervous gestures because Master Long-Face had been in such a hurry. He had swept into the guesthouse, dragging himself and Chanson away from a platter of bread and honey, dried bacon and tankards of the most delicious-tasting ale, and urged them to bring the horses out. They had saddled them and galloped as swiftly as the snow and ice would permit back to this dire place.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf forced a smile, ‘we have searched this house: there are no secret entrances, no recesses where someone could hide, no hidden tunnels or passageways.’

Corbett took a feebly flickering torchlight from its sconce; then he fired one already primed and held it downwards, waiting until the flame caught. He thrust this into Ranulf’s hand, telling Chanson to fetch another.

‘My fellow scholars,’ he began, ‘I apologise for the swift summons and the hasty ride, but I have been thinking and reflecting.’

Ranulf groaned quietly. Corbett was a great watcher, a patient man. Sometimes he would sit for hours just staring at a piece of manuscript, then suddenly he’d become more busy than a lurcher eager for the hunt.

‘Ranulf, have you ever been asked to look at the clouds and search out a certain shape: a head, a horse, a shield?’

Ranulf thought of lying with Maeve’s maid in a cornfield on a beautiful summer’s day, but decided to hold his tongue.