Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

He stood for a while. He could understand how Sister Agnes could have slipped, but what was a middle-aged nun doing out at night staring across the sea? Just what were the mysteries of these parts? Why had Monck and Cerdic come here? Corbett was about to turn away when he glimpsed a faint light on the sea. He stared and realized that, in spite of the mist and the loneliness, the sea roads beyond the horizon would be very busy, with cogs and fishing smacks sailing to and from Hull and other eastern ports and the many fishing villages clustered along the coast. Corbett walked further along, away from the convent, noticing how the cliffs turned in a series of little bays and natural harbours. Satisfied, he collected his horse and went back to the convent. He watched the groom unsaddle and stable the horse for the night and slipped the man a coin.

'Take good care of my horse,' he urged. 'Tomorrow I have to travel far and fast.'

'Where to, sir?'

'Walsingham.'

The man scratched his head. 'You'd best go back to the village and find the road from there. If you keep to it and the weather is fair, you should be at Walsingham by the afternoon.'

Corbett thanked him. 'Oh, by the way, Sister Agnes, the nun who fell-'

'God rest her, sir, I knew her well.'

'Did she often go out for walks along the cliff top?'

'Oh no, just occasionally. Always very careful she was, carried her staff and lantern but, there again, she was such a busy woman.' The groom gave a gap-toothed grin. 'A busy hive this convent, what with its farms, its sheep and its wool.'

'But there was no pattern to her leaving?' Corbett asked.

'Why?' The man became more defensive. 'Sister Agnes came and went as she pleased. I tell you this, sir, I was born in these parts and they be treacherous. The cliffs are made of chalk and can crumble. On the moors be marsh which will trap a horse and rider. And above all there's the tides – after heavy rain and in high winds the sea can race in faster than a greyhound.'

Corbett thanked him and went back into the convent. One of the sisters showed him to the small guest house opposite the chapel and brought to him a savoury meat pie and a small jug of the best claret he had drunk in months. After which Corbett retired. However, as he lay dozing on the bed, his mind kept returning to that lonely, windswept headland and the figure of the nun resting on a stick, holding a lantern, staring out across the midnight sea.

'Your Grace, I demand to know why Lavinius Monck is at Mortlake Manor.'

Corbett stood in the royal chamber in the Augustinian priory of Walsingham and glared at the king, who was slouched in a window seat staring moodily out of the window.

On the other side of the room, sprawled in a chair before the fire, the hard-faced John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, shifted his bulk uneasily and slapped mailed gauntlets against his knee.

'Master clerk,' the earl called over his shoulder, 'you do not make demands of your king!'

'Oh, shut up, Surrey, and don't be so bloody pompous!'

Edward of England glared across at his boon companion and faithful friend. He wished the earl would keep quiet. De Warenne was fine leading a charge against the Scots but when it came to intrigue he had all the tact and diplomacy of a battering ram. Edward stared at Corbett and hid a grin. Usually so calm and poised, Corbett now was travel-stained, covered in flecks of dirt from head to foot. He was unshaven and his usually hooded eyes blazed with anger. The king extended his hands.

'Hugh, Hugh. Why all this excitement?' He indicated the chair beside him. 'Sit down, man.' Edward smiled, his craggy, leonine face suffused with charm. 'I've come to the blessed shrine to seek peace and the wisdom of God.'

Corbett walked over and took the seat. You are a liar, he thought. He stared at the king's falcon-like face. The silver-grey beard, shoulder-length hair, open, frank eyes and generous mouth were all a mask. Edward of England was a born plotter who loved intrigue and took to it as easily as a duck to water. Corbett, however, wasn't in the mood to be played with. He had ridden all day from Holy Cross convent, arriving at Walsingham just as darkness fell.

'Why,' the king asked, 'are you so concerned about Lavinius?'

Corbett seized his opportunity and explained in pithy sentences what was happening out at Hunstanton. Edward scratched his beard, becoming more and more embarrassed at the picture of Corbett, his principal clerk, blundering amongst the salt marshes and watery meadows of Norfolk.

'I thought,' he said when Corbett had finished, 'that you might help Lavinius, particularly after the death of Cerdic.' He nodded towards de Warenne, who stared moodily into the fire. 'And Surrey agreed with me.'

'Lavinius is a good clerk!' de Warenne said.

'My lord,' Corbett replied, 'Lavinius is mad.'

The earl swung round in his chair, but Corbett's gaze did not falter.

'You know that, my lord,' he continued quietly. 'The man is driven mad with grief.'

'And the Pastoureaux?' Edward asked quickly.

'Your Grace, I would recommend that, when you next meet your council at Westminster, you issue a decree to all sheriffs, bailiffs and port officials, as well as leading barons and tenants-in-chief, banning the Pastoureaux from your realm.'

'On what grounds?'

'Public order and the maintenance of the king's peace.' 'Why? Do you think these Pastoureaux are responsible for the murders?'

'They might be. But I am uncomfortable at strangers moving into an area and enticing the young people away with dreams of foreign travel.'

Edward nodded.

'But Monck's not there for the Pastoureaux,' Corbett went on. 'Your Grace, are you going to tell me the truth or do I surrender my seals of office and, like Sir Simon Gurney, retire to my manor?'

Edward leaned forward and grasped Corbett's knee in a sudden gesture of affection. His blue eyes brimmed with tears. Oh, God, no! Corbett thought. Not the role of Edward, the ageing monarch, abandoned by his friends. He knew what the king was going to say.

'Hugh.' The king's voice was throaty. 'You are tired.'

'Accept his resignation!' de Warenne jibed.

'Piss off, Surrey!' Edward bellowed. 'Just piss off and shut up!'

He got to his feet, his mood altering violently, and went to stand over de Warenne.

'This is your bloody mess!' he roared. 'I told you that. But oh, no, you had to send Monck!'

De Warenne gazed back. The king winked at him. The earl sighed – ever since they were lads he had been the king's whipping-boy; he would just have to accept this latest pretend tirade. Corbett stared out of the window and schooled his features. He knew the king and de Warenne were play-acting but he relaxed, knowing that now he would be given at least some of the truth.

Edward went across to the table, filled three goblets with white wine and served Corbett and de Warenne. He then sat sideways in the window seat and slurped noisily from his goblet, glaring at Corbett from underneath bushy eyebrows.

'I'll have letters issued this evening,' he said. 'You will take over from Monck.' He smacked his lips. 'Now, my Lord of Surrey, tell my good friend Hugh here what Monck is doing at Mortlake Manor.'

De Warenne got up and dragged his chair over. He patted Corbett on the shoulder.

'No offence, Hugh.'

'As always, none taken, my lord.'

De Warenne stared into his cup. 'The story begins in October 1216, in the last year of the reign of King John, our present lord's most noble and puissant grandfather.'

'Less of the bloody sarcasm!' Edward intervened.

'Well, the story is as follows. John spent most of his reign fighting his barons, moving around the country, trying to bring this earl or that lord into submission. He died at Newark-on-Trent. Some people think he was poisoned, others that he died of a broken heart after losing all his treasure and regalia in the Wash.' He smiled at the change in Corbett's expression. 'Ah, so you have heard the story. Let me refresh your memory. John was travelling north from Bishop's Lynn. He had his whole household with him and a long line of pack horses carrying his treasures. He was trying to cross the estuary of the Nene when, according to the chronicle, he lost all his wagons, carts and pack horses with the treasures, precious vessels and all the other things he cherished.' De Warenne paused and licked his lips. 'According to the chronicler Florence of Worcester, whose writings my clerks have studied, the ground opened up and violent whirlpools engulfed men, horses, everything.'