Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Horehound?’

‘Oh, he and his coven take the name of herbs and plants, but they are not as fierce as they sound. Petty thieves and poachers,’ she sighed, ‘men and women trapped between the castle and the forest. So, if that’s all?’ and not waiting for an answer, she opened the door and left.

Corbett began to put on his riding boots.

‘Oh no,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘Are we going hunting, Master?’

‘Let’s eat.’ Corbett got to his feet, strapping on his war belt. ‘We’ll visit the tavern and taste Master Reginald’s cooking, then we’ll visit the church. I understand Father Matthew celebrates Mass late in the day.’

Ranulf and Chanson prepared hastily, and booted and spurred, they collected their horses from the stable. The snow had stopped falling but lay ankle deep. Corbett carefully led his horse across the slush-strewn cobbles, then mounted.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett turned in the saddle. Bolingbroke hastened down the steps from the Hall of the Angels and, cloak flying, came running across. ‘Do you wish me to accompany you?’ The clerk pushed back his thinning hair and wiped the drops from his face. ‘I’m wasting my time here. Sanson and I are comparing the manuscripts. They are the same, but as for their meaning . . .’

Corbett leaned down and patted Bolingbroke on the arm.

‘No, no, stay here and watch what happens.’

They crossed the outer bailey, silent under its carpet of snow. Most of the garrison had now withdrawn indoors. They clattered across the drawbridge, the smells of the castle fading as they reached the trackway leading down to the fringe of trees. It was a bitterly cold landscape, the sky iron-grey and lowering, and beneath it only two colours, black and white. The trees and bushes, stripped of their leaves, made a sharp contrast to the silent whiteness around them. Corbett was glad of his heavy cloak and warm gauntlets. He guided his horse carefully along the trackway whilst above them two crows disturbed from their tree cawed noisily. He could tell from the track that few had left the castle. Here and there he could see the prints of birds and animals. A splash of blood and a few pathetic feathers showed where an animal had gorged on warm flesh in this icy wilderness.

Slumped in his saddle, Corbett reflected on the various problems facing him. He was so absorbed, he started with surprise as Ranulf called to him that they were approaching the Tavern in the Forest. They entered by the main gateway, an arrowshot from the trackway. The inn was a two-storey wooden-plaster building on a red stone base; it boasted a tiled roof and a small stack for the smoke to pour out. The yard was empty apart from two ostlers, one breaking the ice in the water trough whilst the other swept manure into a pile in the corner. The reek of horses mingled sharply with the sweetness from the nearby bakehouse and kitchen.

Corbett, throwing back his cloak, walked into the tap room. Ranulf followed, noticing the various doors and windows, just in case they had to leave more quickly than intended. It was a comfortable room with clean, whitewashed walls, and a black-beamed ceiling from which small sacks of vegetables and rolls of smoked meat hung to dry in the heat, well away from the rats and mice. A brazier stood in each corner, a large one in the centre. At the top of the communal table a fire glowed in the hearth built into the outside wall. At one end, near the kitchen, were a range of vats and barrels, and from the kitchen Corbett could hear the clatter of pans and pots, the shouts and cries of slatterns and servants. A few villagers were seated around the table; they looked up as Corbett entered and huddled closer to discuss the newcomers. In the far corner, grouped around a brazier, were five men, their dress almost hidden by cloaks and cowls. They too turned. Corbett glimpsed swarthy faces, black beards and moustaches.

The three newcomers took a table just near the door. One of the villagers turned and gave a chipped-toothed smile, lifting his hand, palm exposed, the customary greeting for peace. Corbett responded. A tap boy came running up with a tray of leather blackjacks full of ale, and without being asked, placed them on the table.

‘Is Master Reginald here?’ Corbett asked him.

‘I’m here.’

The taverner emerged from the shadows around the barrels and vats where he had been working, a dark-haired, sour-faced man, small and thickset but quick and soft-footed. Unlike other taverners, there was none of the hand-wringing or wiping of the hands on the apron, the greasy smile or bowing of the head.

‘You are strangers here? Why should strangers be travelling in such weather?’ Master Reginald glimpsed Corbett’s silver chain; now he did smile, the quickest of bows, and snapping his fingers, he called the tap boy back, gesturing at the blackjacks. ‘Proper tankards,’ he demanded, ‘and the best ale from the barrel.’

He paused as an old woman, resting on a cane, staggered out of the kitchen and came to sit in a chair directly opposite him. She had a scrawny neck and the face of an angry chicken, hair piled high on her head. She beat her cane on the floor as she glared at the newcomers.

‘My mother.’ Master Reginald’s smile was genuine. ‘Sirs, would you like something to eat? I have a fine venison stew, the meat is fresh and cured, newly baked bread and a bowl of onions and leeks fried in butter?’

Corbett nodded. He took his horn spoon from his wallet and waited for the taverner to bring the food from the kitchen.

‘You’re the King’s man, aren’t you?’ Corbett nodded and made the introductions, then pointed at the tankards. ‘There should be four. I would like you to join us, sir.’

‘I’m busy.’

Ranulf grasped his wrist. ‘We are King’s men,’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘I want some food,’ the old woman shouted.

‘Ask the cook,’ Master Reginald shouted back. He tried to pull free from Ranulf’s grasp.

‘We are King’s men,’ Ranulf repeated, ‘and carry his seals. We wish to buy you a tankard of ale and share local gossip.’

The taverner agreed reluctantly and sat like a prisoner at the bar. Corbett ate hungrily, while Master Reginald became more nervous and wary. When he had finished his meal, Corbett wiped his bowl with a dollop of bread, cleaned his spoon on a napkin and put it away.

‘Do you know the outlaw Horehound?’

‘I’ve never-’

‘Yes you do.’ Ranulf picked up his dagger, which he had used to share out the bread. ‘You’re a taverner, on the edge of a forest where outlaws lurk. They come to you for food and sustenance, they sell you fresh meat, they tell you who’s on the road.’

‘Tell the outlaw Horehound,’ Corbett continued, ‘that the King’s man wants urgent words with him. It will be to his profit. You won’t forget, will you? Secondly, these young women who have been killed. Some of them served in this tavern. Do you have a crossbow, Master Reginald?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a crossbow, as have many of the villagers and castle folk. I also have a longbow, a quarterstaff, a sword and a dagger. I served in the Earl of Cornwall’s retinue in Gascony. My mother owned this tavern, as her grandfather did before her.’

‘And you have made it splendid with the plunder of war. Did you know any of those dead girls?’

‘Of course I did.’ The taverner kept his voice low. ‘I often need help in the kitchens and tap room. In winter trade is poor, but once spring comes, the roads and trackways are busy with people coming into the castle.’

‘Did you have a grudge against any of them?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Were they surly or impudent?’

‘Some were, some weren’t. Some had light fingers, others were prepared to sell themselves to customers. Some I liked, others I did not.’