Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

Corbett and the rest joined in the refrain, ‘And delay no more, and delay no more. .’

The deep-throated singing swelled out under the leaden skies, proclaiming the coming of the Emmanuel, the King of Peace, the Christ child. The words of the antiphon cut through the freezing air, drifting towards Canterbury, the King’s own city, which housed the blessed bones of the murdered Becket and where even more hideous killings were being subtly plotted.

Once the singing was finished, Corbett felt better, and again clasped the Gleeman’s hand.

‘Where will you lodge? Not a stable?’ he joked as he pulled up his cowl.

‘May as well be,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘Perhaps the inn yard at the Chequer of Hope, but if not that. .’ He shrugged.

Corbett stepped closer, peering at the man. The Gleeman was broad-faced, with well-spaced eyes, thin lips, a snub nose and full cheeks, a merry-looking man with a tinge of cynicism. His light hair was shorn to a stubble, his upper lip and chin freshly shaved and scrubbed.

‘If you fail there,’ Corbett whispered, ‘come to St Augustine’s Abbey near Queningate. Use my name, and I’ll see what I can do. .’

Corbett made his farewells and strode across to where Ranulf slumped holding the reins of his horse.

‘Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured, one foot in the stirrup, ‘Christmas is a time of friendship, bonhomie and good cheer. All pilgrims to Canterbury pause here to say a prayer or sing a hymn.’ He swung himself up into the saddle. ‘Now we shall press on.’

Corbett spurred his horse forward. Ranulf followed, whilst Chanson on his own palfrey struggled to control the pack pony, which had revealed a wickedly stubborn disposition. Behind them the cries and farewells of the Joyeuses faded as they made their way along the icy trackway.

‘It’s lonely,’ Ranulf remarked.

‘Winter makes hermits of us all,’ Corbett retorted. He slouched low in the saddle, bowing his head against the biting wind. In truth, he’d be glad to reach St Augustine’s. He was tired of the icy sheets which hung everywhere, the cold-veiled mist, snowflakes flying thick and fast like the white bees of heaven, the earth hard as if clasped in a mail corselet, the sky like a cloak of lead stretching above them. At least, he comforted himself, the King had promised that his senior clerk would be home by the Feast of the Epiphany. Corbett desperately looked forward to that, longing to be closeted in his own private chamber with silver-haired Maeve and their two children, Edward and Eleanor. A time of peace, of roaring fires, hot posset ales, roasted chestnuts and apples, mulled wine spiced with nutmeg, braised beef, and above all, the Lady Maeve. He would lie with her and compose a poem. In fact he’d begun one already:

Strengthen my love, the castle of my heart. Fortify with pleasure. .

‘Master, this business in Canterbury?’

‘The King’s business, Ranulf!’ Corbett broke from his reverie. ‘Three years ago, Adam Blackstock, master of The Waxman , a privateer, was captured and killed off Orwell. The principal ordainer in this was a Canterbury merchant named Sir Walter Castledene.’

‘Who is now mayor.’

‘The same,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Now Castledene had, and still has, an intimate friend amongst the Hanseatic mercantile fraternity, Wilhelem von Paulents.’

‘Who is coming to England with his family.’

‘Precisely. They will be the guests of Sir Walter and the King, and will lodge at the manor of Maubisson on the outskirts of the city, not far from the Dover Road.’ Corbett squinted up at the sky. ‘Paulents, along with his wife, son, maid and bodyguard, a mercenary called Servinus. They are bringing something Paulents once thought he’d lost: the Cloister Map, showing where a great treasure hoard lies buried somewhere in Suffolk. It’s written in a cipher. About four years ago Paulents sent the map to Castledene, but Blackstock seized it from The Maid of Lubeck , which he intercepted and sank. He planned to take the map to his half-brother Hubert, a subtle and skilled scholar who could easily interpret the cipher and seize the treasure. Blackstock was sailing for Orwell to meet Hubert when he himself was trapped and killed. The original map was never found, and Hubert, a master of disguise even amongst the most cunning of counterfeit men, simply disappeared.’

‘And no one else survived from The Waxman ?’

Corbett’s horse suddenly started as an owl glided across the trackway, floating like some lost soul into the darkness beyond. He soothed his mount, stroking its neck, then reined it in for a while to let it settle. Behind them Chanson cursed as he fought to control the pack pony, which had also been frightened.

‘No one.’ Corbett threaded the reins through his hands and stared longingly at the distant lights of the city. ‘The entire crew was hanged. The Waxman was ransacked from the top of its mast to its hull, but no trace of the Cloister Map was found. Blackstock must have destroyed it. Anyway, Paulents has been busy searching, and has at last found a copy of the chronicle the original map was taken from. He is now bringing this to England, and he and Castledene will finance the search for the treasure.’

‘And the King? Us?’

‘We act for the King in this matter.’ Corbett wiped the snow from his face. ‘We are the King’s will. You must have listened to Drokensford, Langton and other officials of the Exchequer: the royal treasury is empty. Edward wages bloody war against Wallace and the kingdom of Scotland.’

‘And a greater part of any treasure trove belongs to the King?’

‘ Tu dixisti — you’ve said it!’ Corbett quipped.

He urged his horse along the rutted trackway. Now the countryside was not so lonely: houses rose on either side, their gates shut, doors firmly locked against the icy night. The smell of wood smoke, charcoal and fragrant cooking odours urged them on. Somewhere behind a lychgate, a dog barked. Darkness was sweeping in. The moon began to rise and the stars shimmered like pinpricks of light above them.

‘In a word, Ranulf,’ Corbett added, ‘we are here to help decipher the chart, though I believe it may already have been done. We are to ensure Castledene and Paulents agree to the King’s rights, safeguard Paulents, and deal with-’

‘The Lady Adelicia?’

‘Adelicia Decontet,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Soon to be arraigned before Sir Walter Castledene and other justices in the city Guildhall on a charge of murdering her husband, Sir Rauf Decontet. Adelicia was once the King’s ward. If Edward of England has a soft heart for anyone, it is Adelicia “La Delicieuse”. However, her late husband was also a friend of the King. He lent Edward money for his recent wars in Gascony.’

‘So the King will intervene in this matter?’

‘No.’ Corbett turned in the saddle, sheltering his face against the driving snowflakes. ‘We are here to see that justice is done. If she truly shattered her husband’s skull as you would a nut, then she’ll not hang, Ranulf, she’ll burn before the city gates.’

‘And why are we staying at St Augustine’s Abbey?’

‘Because it’s more comfortable; because Hubert once studied there. We might learn something, and. .’

‘And what?’

‘Wait and see. Come.’

Corbett urged his horse into a canter, and Ranulf and Chanson followed, unaware that ahead of them, those twin disciples of Cain, horrid murder and bloody mayhem, also crept towards the King’s city of Canterbury.

Wendover, captain and serjeant-at-arms in the city of Canterbury, was also concerned about murder. So anxious had he become, he truly wished he could slip into the shriving pew at St Alphege’s church and confess all his sins to Parson Warfeld. Yet was he as contrite as the rite of absolution said he should be? Indeed, although he was racked by the fear of hell, the allure of Lady Adelicia’s soft white body, so smooth and perfumed, her golden hair hanging down, those light blue eyes, her soft speech and elegant gestures seemed a total hindrance to God’s grace. Lady Adelicia Decontet had turned Wendover’s world upside down. He was reminded of that wall painting in St Alphege’s which showed three rats hanging a cat and, in the background, an antelope hunting a fox ridden by a rabbit: a parable of the topsy-turvy world he now lived in. After all, he was supposed to keep the King’s peace, not violate it through fornication with a leading citizen’s wife, especially one now imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the Guildhall.