Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

Corbett pointed to Selditch. 'But you sold three pieces in London?'

'Ah!' Gurney knelt and placed the lid back on the coffin. He looked up at Corbett. 'The disaster at the Wash happened in the October of 1216, but it wasn't until the following February that great-grandfather caught up with Holcombe. When he did, out in the wilds of the moors, Holcombe carried a leather bag containing those three plates. According to my great-grandfather's confession, he thought Holcombe was probably heading for one of the ports to take ship to London or even abroad to sell these pieces.' Gurney got to his feet. 'Now, my great-grandfather had caught Holcombe with a very small portion of the treasure. What could he do? If he handed him over to justice Holcombe might, out of sheer malice, insinuate that my great-grandfather had been an accomplice in his terrible crime. And what could Sir Richard do with the plate? Send it to the exchequer in London and say he had found it? No. He buried it in Holcombe's secret grave in this hollowed-out cavern. No Holcombe, no grave, no treasure. Sir Richard dictated his confession but did not tell his heir where either Holcombe or the precious plate was buried.'

As Gurney finished speaking Corbett looked at Selditch. 'And your part in this?'

Selditch blew his cheeks out in a long sigh.

'I became interested, as I have said, in the history of Mortlake Manor and all its mysterious legends. I opened up the passageways, found this cavern and realized that the stones in the far corner had been disturbed. I pulled out Holcombe's coffin. Inside I found both Sir Richard's confession and three pieces of plate. I told Sir Simon. He said I should put the plate back where I found it. I did, because I wished to protect his good name. But then the king's wars interfered with trade. Sir Simon fell into the hands of moneylenders. I remembered the plates. I took them out, went to London on some pretext and raised enough gold and silver to pay off his creditors.' Selditch spread his hands. 'What I did was wrong. Sir Simon was only told after I returned.' The physician smiled. 'He was angry, but what could he do? The plate had been sold, his creditors paid off.' The physician shrugged his shoulders. 'And I'd settled a long outstanding debt.'

Corbett stared at him.

'What will you do, Hugh?' Gurney asked.

Corbett pulled a face. 'What's the use of going back to the king?' he replied slowly. 'After all, he now has the three pieces of plate. What troubles me is who else could be looking for the rest of the treasure? Are all these mysterious deaths connected to it?' Corbett pushed the leather bag into his belt, stretched out his hand and clasped Gurney's. 'Why should I punish you, Sir Simon? The king wouldn't believe it. As for your physician, a foolish but well-meaning mistake.' He held his hand up. 'But these documents are mine and Monck must not be informed.'

Gurney's gratitude, as well as Selditch's, was almost too embarrassing to tolerate. Once they had all sworn that no one other than Alice, Ranulf and Maltote would be told, Corbett was relieved to be out of the tunnels and back in the privacy of his own chamber. He was exhausted after his journey and the rather tense confrontation in the underground passageways. Corbett glanced at his companions snoring blissfully in their beds and settled down to study the manuscript he had taken from Gurney.

At times Corbett found it difficult. The parchment was yellow with age and the writer, Sir Richard's son, had recorded his father's confession in a scrawling, almost illegible hand. Corbett read the opening sentence: 'In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I, Sir Richard Gurney of Mortlake Manor, confess this in secret, but tell the truth. I call on Christ, his blessed Mother and all the saints to be my witnesses.' The confession then rambled on about the crossing of the Wash, Holcombe's treachery, Lord Richard's shame, his secret pursuit of Holcombe and the latter's capture, torture and slow death by strangulation on the gibbet. Most of the details Corbett already knew, but one statement towards the end caught his attention. It was that Holcombe's accomplice, Alan of the Marsh, was thought to have gone into hiding somewhere in the vicinity of Hunstanton.

Corbett studied the manuscript again, rolled it up and hid it in his saddlebag. He then paced up and down the room, trying to probe the mysteries. What had happened to this Alan of the Marsh? Where was the treasure? Was Sir Simon telling the truth? Did Robert the reeve know something? Or Master Joseph of the Pastoureaux? Corbett breathed deeply. He lay down on his bed and wondered where Monck fitted into all of this.

Corbett sat up and stared across at Maltote and Ranulf sleeping soundly on their beds. Had they discovered anything during his absence? He wanted to shake them awake, but that would be harsh. He got off the bed, sat at the table and reflected on his recent meeting with the king. What would have happened if he had tendered his resignation and Edward had accepted it? Where would Ranulf go? Could they all settle down on a manor and become farmers? Ranulf was now a clerk and had achieved his ambition. Corbett idly wondered if he should take Maeve's advice and delegate more of his work to Ranulf-atte-Newgate.

'Such matters can wait,' Corbett murmured.

He put his head on his arms for a few seconds and drifted again into sleep. He was dreaming of Leighton and the green fields behind the manor which stretched out to the river Lea. Other images tangled his dream. He could hear someone shouting his name. He opened his eyes and looked up. Ranulf was standing over him, grinning from ear to ear.

'Master, you returned late last night?' Corbett groaned and stretched his aching limbs. He stared at the window.

'Lord save us, it's morning!' he murmured.

'Aye,' Ranulf agreed. 'Maltote and I have already been to Mass.' He preened himself, full of virtue. 'We thought of moving you to your bed but you seemed so comfortable. We would have waited up for you,' Ranulf continued, 'but I was teaching Maltote a new game of dice. We had a jug of wine. Two of the maids from the kitchen joined us.' Ranulf shrugged. 'You know how things are, Master?'

'Yes, I bloody well do!' Corbett retorted, getting to his feet.

Behind his back Ranulf pulled a face at Maltote sitting on the edge of his bed.

Corbett stripped, shaved and washed whilst Ranulf laid out fresh robes and linen. As he dressed, Corbett tersely told them what he had discovered the previous evening and described his meeting with the king.

Ranulf's eyes danced with merriment. 'The miserable Monck,' he crowed, 'will eat his heart out!' He handed Corbett his sword belt. 'So there's treasure here?'

'Aye, Ranulf, the king's treasure. And, if we find it, every last penny goes back to the exchequer.'

Not if I can help it, Ranulf thought.

'Isn't there a law?' he protested, looking at Maltote for support.

The messenger nodded wisely, though he had no idea what Ranulf was talking about.

'What law?' Corbett snapped.

'That if you find treasure trove, a quarter of it can be kept by the finder? That's what happened when old Leofric, you know the half-mad priest who lives in chambers by the Tower-'

Ranulf paused as they heard shouting from below and the sound of running footsteps. A servant hammered on the door and burst into the room. 'What's the matter, man?'

'Sir Hugh, you'd best come now! Catchpole has returned. He's brought Master Monck!' 'What do you mean?'

'Monck's dead. A crossbow bolt in his chest!'

Corbett and his two companions hurried down into the yard. Sir Simon, Catchpole and other retainers were grouped just inside the entrance to the barn. Corbett pushed his way through. Monck's corpse lay on a pallet of straw, arms and legs flung out, head back. The heavy-lidded eyes were half-closed. The left side of his mouth was stained with dried blood, the crossbow bolt deeply embedded in his chest.