Paul Doherty: Song of a Dark Angel

They collected their cloaks and went out into the yard, where Maltote and others had their horses ready. A few minutes later they left the manor and took the path towards the convent. The morning was cold and blustery and rain clouds were sweeping in above a sullen sea. On the cliff top they dismounted and left their horses with the retainers. They slipped and slid down the path to the beach. Corbett stared across it and shivered.

It looked so peaceful, with the desolate sand and shingle soaked by the receding tide. Gulls, their cries wafted by the wind, circled above them. Corbett found it difficult to believe that only a few days previously, he had raced along this beach for his very life.

'There's no need to worry,' Sir Simon murmured, putting up his hood against the blustering wind. 'Father Augustine knew what he was doing when he struck you on the head and left you here. Our priest studied Hunstanton. He knew that strong gales and heavy seas would create a sudden surge.' He smiled thinly, narrowing his eyes as they watered in the salt-soaked wind. 'Just as they did when my ancestor and King John tried to cross the Wash.'

'Come on!' Corbett urged. 'The sooner the better. I have brought you here to show you a sketch.'

They walked across the beach. Corbett looked back towards the cliffs, trying to find the exact spot where he had vellum tied with a piece of faded silk. He unrolled it and handed it to Corbett.

'Study it carefully,' he said. 'It's an index of letters written by Sir Simon's ancestor in January 1218.

Corbett studied the faded contents, the headings of letters the Gurneys had written in January 1218. However, one fairly long entry was a complaint to the Bishop of Norwich alleging that, 'since the disappearance of Father James', the diocese had offered no priest to the parish church of Hunstanton.

Corbett looked up. 'Disappearance?' He rubbed his chin with his fingers. 'I doubt it. This is our final murder.' He put the parchment down. 'You see, if Alan of the Marsh hid his portion of the treasure where I think he did, he would have needed an accomplice. Somebody who helped him carry and hide it. Someone above suspicion.' Corbett smiled weakly at Sir Simon. 'In this case, once again, the parish priest – Father James.' Corbett tapped the document. 'This is another reason why Father Augustine came to Hunstanton. He probably knew about Father James. He saw the chalice at the convent and wondered if there were similar treasures hidden away in the village church. I wager he searched that priest's house from top to bottom and, of course, it was another reason for ransacking the graves. He may have been looking for hiding-places or even some document written by Father James.'

'Subtle and devious,' Sir Simon said. 'Secrets hidden in a graveyard are fairly safe.'

'I agree,' Corbett replied. 'Father Augustine must have pondered all the possibilities. He did his own investigation and found out that Father James disappeared at about the same time as Alan absconded and Holcombe was executed. He realized that this was more than mere coincidence. And the devil once again came to Hunstanton. Father Augustine must have prayed that that little parish church or its churchyard held the key to the great mystery.' He stared at his companions. 'You can imagine his fury when he was unable to discover the treasure? This turned to madness when Amelia Fourbour arrived, followed by Monck and, finally, myself. The whole world was turning its hand against him. Ah well, let's finish this story.'

They collected their cloaks and went out into the yard, where Maltote and others had their horses ready. A few minutes later they left the manor and took the path towards the convent. The morning was cold and blustery and rain clouds were sweeping in above a sullen sea. On the cliff top they dismounted and left their horses with the retainers. They slipped and slid down the path to the beach. Corbett stared across it and shivered.

It looked so peaceful, with the desolate sand and shingle soaked by the receding tide. Gulls, their cries wafted by the wind, circled above them. Corbett found it difficult to believe that only a few days previously, he had raced along this beach for his very life.

'There's no need to worry,' Sir Simon murmured, putting up his hood against the blustering wind. 'Father Augustine knew what he was doing when he struck you on the head and left you here. Our priest studied Hunstanton. He knew that strong gales and heavy seas would create a sudden surge.' He smiled thinly, narrowing his eyes as they watered in the salt-soaked wind. 'Just as they did when my ancestor and King John tried to cross the Wash.'

'Come on!' Corbett urged. 'The sooner the better. I have brought you here to show you a sketch.'

They walked across the beach. Corbett looked back towards the cliffs, trying to find the exact spot where he had grinned at Corbett. 'I'll go first. You are coming?' Corbett nodded.

'Then follow me. But slowly and don't look down!' He took off his sword belt and slung it over his shoulder. 'Maltote, you stay here. Watch the strain on the pegs!'

Ranulf grasped the rope ladder and began to walk backwards. He lowered himself over the edge of the cliff and disappeared out of sight. Corbett prayed. He heard Ranulf's shout. Grasping the rope ladder, he too went over the edge of the cliff. He shut his eyes, lowering one foot then another. He gripped the ladder with both hands. Now and again he stopped as a buffet of wind caught him. He thanked God that the wind was coming from the land and not the sea. Even so the rope ladder swayed dangerously, and Corbett grasped the rope tighter as he continued his descent.

'Not far!' Ranulf shouted.

The voice seemed to come out of the rock face beside Corbett.

'Here, Master!'

Corbett turned to his right and saw Ranulf's outstretched hand. He grasped the guide rope more securely, and then Ranulf's hand.

'Let go!' his servant ordered.

Corbett did and, a little bruised where he had brushed the face of the cliff, he was abruptly pulled into an underground cavern. It was dark and wet. Ranulf walked deeper into the darkness. He took two candles out of his jerkin, struck a tinder and lit both. He came back and handed one to Corbett. The clerk stared around and glimpsed the pools of water on the floor.

'Is it safe?' he muttered. 'Can the tide creep in here?' 'We're too high,' Ranulf assured him. 'But the cave catches the spray and the rain, hence the dampness. You've seen the cliff, it's chalk-layered, it must soak up a lot of water.' Ranulf's voice echoed round the cavern.

'Hell's teeth!' Corbett muttered. 'I'm tempted to tell the king to search for his treasure himself!'

Ranulf, however, was eager to continue. 'There's no one else coming?' he asked.

Corbett shook his head. 'I think it's best if we do this by ourselves.'

They walked further down the cave. At one point Corbett stopped to examine strange drawings etched on the walls – men, armed with spears and shields, hunted strange creatures he had never seen before. The paintings were done in black, red and blue dyes.

'Does that have anything to do with the treasure?' Ranulf asked.

Corbett peered closer. 'I doubt it. I've heard of these drawings in caves along the southern coast, painted by peoples long dead.'

Corbett followed Ranulf. His nervousness increased as the tunnel narrowed. Would it end in a rock face, he wondered? Had he misunderstood Alan of the Marsh's drawing? Or was that some subtle ploy to disguise the true hiding-place? Ranulf, also, lost some of his jauntiness. Soon they were forced to walk in single file, the walls closed in, the rock above them seemed to swoop down to trap them. They entered a narrow passage, no more than a foot across. Ranulf squeezed through. Corbett heard his exclamation and followed to find they had entered a spacious underground chamber.