Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

Then there were the Pastoureaux? Were they fanatics, simpletons or saints? Would it be worthwhile writing to the chancery or the exchequer about them? He began to list names. First there was Master Joseph. Who was he? Why did Ranulf recognize him? Next, Marina, daughter of Fulke the tanner: why had she left the Hermitage and what was she doing out on the moors?

Corbett's list of names began to seem endless. He added Amelia Fourbour, the baker's wife. Why did she go out to the scaffold? Why hadn't she struggled? Why were there no signs of another horse at the scene? Who had ridden her horse back to the edge of the village?

Corbett wearily rubbed his eyes and sat staring for a while. He sighed, sipped from his cup of posset and continued writing.

Father Augustine: a stranger in the area, not really at home with the people of his parish. Dame Cecily: shrewd but luxury-loving. Robert the reeve: what was the source of his newly found wealth? Corbett put his pen down. He folded his arms on the table and studied his list of names. Other questions jostled in his mind. Who was disturbing old graves in the churchyard? How had Dame Agnes fallen to her death? He rose from his chair and stared into the shadows at the far end of the room. One question in particular kept nagging him. Why had he and Monck been sent here? What was so important that the king should send a trusted and confidential servant to assist the Earl of Surrey's right-hand man in, ostensibly, the investigation of a few admittedly bizarre murders?

Corbett returned to sit at his desk and thought back to his last meeting with the king. Edward had refused to meet his eye, but had kept shuffling from foot to foot, more engrossed with a peregrine jingling its jesses on a perch. John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, had also been present. Bland-faced, he kept stroking his mouth as if concealing a grin or some secret joke.

That had been at Swaffham. Now, Corbett knew, Edward and his young French queen, Margaret, would be at| Walsingham.

'I'll wait,' Corbett muttered to himself. 'I'll wait a little longer. If Monck doesn't tell me the truth, I'll ride to; Walsingham and demand it from the king myself!'

Corbett went and lay down on his bed. Closing his eyes, he drifted into sleep. Outside darkness fell and the rising song of the Dark Angel began to be heard above the roar of the sea.

'Master!'

Corbett opened his eyes. Ranulf was bending over him.

'Master, the steward is summoning us to supper!'

Corbett swung his legs off the bed. He stared at Ranulf and Maltote, who were still swathed in their cloaks, the raindrops glistening in the flickering candlelight.

'We went to the Hermitage,' Ranulf said. 'Master Joseph was surprisingly friendly. He allowed us to come in. He, too, thinks he's seen me before, though he can't remember where.'

Corbett rubbed his face in his hands.

'Did you talk to any of the community?'

'Yes, although Nettler and Master Joseph were always in attendance. Everyone we spoke to said that Marina was a happy girl. But they all agreed that, in the days before she died, she became withdrawn.'

'And?'

'She had nightmares. The women – they sleep in one dormitory and the men in the other – heard her calling out the name Blanche in her sleep.'

'Who is Blanche?'

'A childhood friend of Marina's. She was the reeve's daughter, one of the first to enter the community. She left over a year ago.'

Corbett sighed. He got up and went to the lavarium, where he bathed his hands and face and dried himself on a towel. Ranulf and Maltote took off their cloaks and boots, slipped on soft leather buskins, washed and followed Corbett down to the main hall.

The evening meal was a desultory affair. Gurney was taciturn, still worried about the girl's death and the events in the village. Alice caught her husband's mood and only picked at her food. Monck, smiling strangely to himself, ate in silence. Corbett watched him and wondered again whether his mind was slipping into madness.

They were still at table when Catchpole strode into the hall, damp and muddied, his bad temper apparent.

'God damn them all!' he swore. 'There's no sign of Gilbert or his bloody mother! They have fled!' He brought his hand from beneath his cloak. 'I found this in their house.' He opened his hand to show glistening amber beads.

'That is Marina's necklace,' Selditch said immediately. He smiled self-consciously. 'I knew the girl well. So it seems that the villagers are right. Gilbert is the murderer.'

'I passed through the village,' Catchpole said. 'The hotheads are still drinking in the Inglenook tavern. There will be violence.'

Gurney shook his head. 'Adam, I thank you. But enough is enough. Change, join us for supper. Tomorrow's another day.'

Corbett took the opportunity to excuse himself. He left Ranulf and Maltote drinking and went back to his own chamber to study the notes he had made. He waited until he heard the others leave the hall, then went out into the passage and found a servant to take him to Monck's chamber. He knocked and, deliberately, opened the door without waiting for an answer. Monck was seated at a table, his back to the door. He whirled round and saw Corbett. Hastily he gathered up the manuscripts spread out on the table in front of him and rose, that strange smile still on his face.

'What is it?' he asked. 'What can I do for you now?'

Corbett went into the room, closed the door behind him and sat down on a stool. Monck carefully kept himself between Corbett and the manuscripts on the table.

'Why are you here?' Corbett asked him.

Monck shrugged. 'Because of the Pastoureaux.'

'And how did Lickspittle die?'

'I have told you. He went out on the moors and never returned. His decapitated corpse and severed head were found on the beach.'

'A strange way to die,' Corbett observed.

'Dying is always strange.'

'You know what I mean, Lavinius. To kill a man is one thing, to mutilate his body another.'

'This is a strange place,' Monck said. 'According to our fat physician, the Iceni who once lived in this area used to take the heads of their enemies and expose them in public – just as our king does now on London Bridge.'

'What was Lickspittle doing on the beach?'

Monck shrugged.

'He went to the convent. There's a path from there down to the beach, though why he should have followed it, if he did, is a mystery. He was certainly taking a risk.'

'Why's that?'

'The tides here are fickle. After a heavy rainfall the waves come swirling in, they could take a man unawares.' 'And you'll tell me nothing else?' 'I cannot tell you anything.'

Again that crooked smile. Corbett got to his feet and went to the door. With his hand on the latch he paused. 'Lavinius!'

'Yes?' Monck half-turned in his chair.

'You should tell me the truth. I assure you of this, more murders will occur.'

Monck just went back to his papers and Corbett left, closing the door quietly behind him. He went along the passage and stood at the top of the stairs. He could hear Maltote and Ranulf laughing below. He hoped that the precious pair had not enticed anyone into a game of dice. He went back to his chamber. Outside the wind was howling, beating on the windows and rattling the shutters. Beneath the wind's sombre song Corbett could hear the waves crashing on the rocks as the sea poured into the Wash. He knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said his favourite prayer: 'Christ be in my head and in my thinking, Christ be in my eyes and in my seeing, Christ be at my left hand and my right.'

His mind drifted. Was Maeve well in London? And baby Eleanor? He shook himself and went back to his prayers, but he found it difficult to concentrate. He gave up, crossed himself and lay, dozing, on the bed. After a little while he undressed, got into bed properly, pulled the blankets about him and went instantly to sleep, dreaming about running across a lonely beacon, pursued by dark, hooded figures.