Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

Corbett smiled. 'How long is a piece of rope, Ranulf?'

Ranulf changed tack. 'The villagers have already made up their minds who killed that girl. Sir Simon is right – if Gilbert falls into their hands they will kill him.'

Corbett pulled on his reins and stared at Ranulf. 'Do you know Master Joseph?'

Ranulf scratched the stubble on his chin. 'I've been thinking about that. He certainly recognized me and I think I recognized him.'

'From where?'

'I don't know. I can't remember.'

'What do you make of the Pastoureaux?' Corbett asked.

'Cranks and tricksters.' Ranulf grinned. 'My old mother told me to beware of religion. It attracts few saints and many, many rogues.'

'You think the Pastoureaux are rogues?'

'I think we should talk to the young men and women of their community.'

Corbett nodded. 'When we have finished here, you and Maltote will take my compliments and condolences to Master Joseph. See if you can talk with the community.'

Ranulf closed his eyes. 'Master, I'm cold and I'm hungry!'

'Aye, and when you return there'll be a warm meal and a good bed and you and Maltote can play dice.' He held up an admonitory finger. 'But not with Sir Simon's servants.'

Ranulf blinked innocently at him.

'I mean that,' Corbett insisted. 'And you aren't to gull them into buying the medicines you try to sell whenever we come into the countryside, the strange concoctions and elixirs handed down to you from the ancient Egyptians.'

Ranulf swallowed hard and stared guiltily at Maltote. How did old Master Long Face know about his little leather bag and the remedies he was always ready to sell to the gullible?

'Now,' – Corbett urged his horse forward – 'let's look at the gallows.'

They rode along the cliff edge until they came again to the three-branched scaffold. It soared up against the darkening sky, only about seven yards from the cliff edge. Corbett gathered the reins and tried to keep his skittish horse still. He looked up at the great iron hook in each of the scaffold branches.

'I suppose,' he said, more to himself than to his companions, 'if some poor unfortunate's to be executed, he's brought out here, pushed up a ladder, the ladder's turned and he's left to hang. But that's not what happened to the baker's wife.'

He stared down at the ground, where the grass had long been worn away. His horse was so nervous that he wondered whether someone was buried there – it was, he knew, the custom to bury suicides and excommunicants beneath a scaffold. Why, he wondered, had the baker's wife come out here? Why had she allowed someone to place a rope round her neck? How was it that the murderer had left no sign? And who had ridden the baker's horse back to the village?

The sound of hoof-beats made him look round in alarm. Monck came galloping out of the mist; with his black cloak billowing out, he looked like some evil raven. Corbett nodded a dismissal at Ranulf and Maltote.

'Go to the Hermitage,' he ordered. 'I'll meet you back at the manor.'

Ranulf and Maltote galloped away as Monck, his mount slowing to a trot, came up beside Corbett. He pulled back his hood and Corbett saw that his face and hair were soaked. Had he been on the beach, staring into the stinging spray? Monk gestured towards the scaffold.

'A mystery, eh, Corbett?'

'You saw the corpse?' Corbett asked.

'Yes, nothing but a noose mark around her neck. Not like the poor girl we discovered this morning.' Monck pushed his horse closer. 'I thought you'd be either in the village or here. I came to find you.'

Corbett stared at him. 'Why?'

Monck wiped his mouth with the back of his black-gloved hand.

'I came to apologize.'

For a few seconds Monck's face relaxed and Corbett glimpsed a younger, pleasanter man. Monck stared out at the mist-covered sea and spoke softly.

'You've heard the gossip?'

'Aye,' Corbett replied. 'I've remembered. You had a daughter.'

'She was sixteen,' Monck said, still looking out to sea. 'She was pretty as a summer's day. Every time I looked at her I thought of her mother, who died giving her birth. It happened so quickly. My Lord of Surrey had organized a small banquet. It was a most beautiful day. Caterina, my daughter, said she wished to go for a walk in the nearby woods. I was stupid, I let her go. We were on the earl's estates. I thought she'd be safe. An hour passed and she didn't return. I became anxious. I went searching for her. She was like that girl we found this morning, just lying there.' Turning to face Corbett for the first time, he blinked away tears. 'She had been attacked, raped, then choked to death. And there was nothing I could do. I kept talking to her.' His voice faltered. 'I even took my dagger and cut myself in case I was dreaming. My Lord of Surrey was most kind, but the murderer was never found.'

Corbett leaned across and touched him gently on the arm.

'I am sorry, Lavinius. Truly sorry.'

'There were suspects, though,' Monck continued.

'There were Pastoureaux on the other side of the wood. They occupied an old ruined church. They swore they had nothing to do with Caterina's death.'

'The same group?' Corbett asked. 'The people we have here now?' Monck shook his head. 'I don't know. I was prostrate with grief. My Lord of Surrey brought in the sheriff's men but they could discover nothing.'

'Do you think the Pastoureaux killed Marina?'

Monck's face twisted into a sneer. 'That's for you to prove, Corbett! I don't give a damn who murdered Marina. But one day someone is going to pay for my daughter's death!' Monck grasped the reins of his horse and leaned over, pushing his face to within a few inches of Corbett's. 'I know what you | think of me,' he whispered. Corbett saw the murderous hatred blazing in his eyes. 'You think I've no scruples, no principles, no morals. But how can you have these, Corbett, when you have no soul? My soul, my life, died the day my daughter was murdered. God took away my wife, then he took Caterina. I don't listen any longer to the mumbling of priests!' Monck threw his head back and stared up at the grey skies. A strangled sound came from his bared lips. 'I'll curse and I'll curse till the day I die!' Monck tugged at his horse and galloped back towards the manor.

Corbett watched him go. He felt uncomfortable. He had judged Monck but had not realized the nightmares and ghosts that haunted the man's soul. He felt a surge of compassion for a man who had made his daughter's life the centre of his being and then had that life so barbarously removed. Corbett spurred his horse forward at a leisurely pace along the path. What else had the gossips said? Hadn't there been suspicions that Monck's murdered servant, Cerdic Lickspittle, had been too sweet on the girl? Monck had certainly blamed his manservant for not keeping better care. Corbett stared down at his horse's bobbing head. What if Monck had asked for this assignment? What if he had come into the wilds of Norfolk to settle a number of grievances – with the Pastoureaux and with his own servant? Had there been any link between Monck and the baker's wife? His horse's whinny jolted him from his reverie. He looked up and saw he was only a stone's throw away from the gate of Mortlake Manor.

In the courtyard, an ostler took his horse. Corbett walked through the main entrance. The hall and solar were deserted and a servant told him that Sir Simon was with his wife in their chamber. Corbett snatched something to eat from the buttery and carried a pewter cup of mulled wine to his own chamber. Once he had warmed himself by the small fire he lit candles and placed them on the table. He took out quill, inkhorn and parchment and tried to make sense of the mysteries that faced him.

First he drew a rough map, showing the line of the coast and the location of different places. Then he began to list the people concerned, starting with Sir Simon Gurney. Corbett chewed the end of his quill and considered. Sir Simon was nervous, slightly withdrawn and fearful – but of what? Then there was Giles Selditch, the physician: an enigmatic figure. Next, Catchpole, Sir Simon's henchman: he was loyal, disliked strangers and deeply resented the Pastoureaux. Next, Lavinius Monck: insane or simply motivated by malice and revenge? His name led to all kinds of questions. What is he really doing in the area – investigating the Pastoureaux, seeking personal vengeance, or pursuing some other, secret aim? Who killed his servant, Cerdic Lickspittle? What was Cerdic doing out on the moors? Why was he murdered in such a barbaric fashion – head cut off and stuck on a pole on a misty, cold beach? How had the assassin managed to leave no signs, no clues?