Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

'Strange murders,' he murmured. 'People with secrets.' He remembered the physician's ink-stained fingers. I must talk to Selditch,' he muttered. 'He seems to know the secrets of these parts.'

He undressed hurriedly and slipped into his own bed. He pulled the blankets high – despite the merrily spluttering charcoal braziers the room felt cold. Before he drifted into sleep he reflected that it was more than just an investigation into the Pastoureaux that had brought Monck to Hunstanton.

Corbett was awakened early by the tolling of the manor bell. This also roused the servants, the signal for the daily life of the manor to begin again. Corbett rose and threw a blanket around his shoulders as a servant knocked on the door and brought in large, steaming earthenware jars of hot water to fill the basins and laid out fresh napkins and towels. Once he'd left, Corbett shouted at Maltote and Ranulf to rouse themselves and hastily shaved and washed. Then he broke the seals of his chancery bag and set out his writing instruments on the table. His two companions were hard to wake, so Corbett pulled aside the shutters of the window and opened the small casement. The cold morning air seeped in. Ranulf and Maltote staggered out of bed cursing and muttering. Corbett, however, ignored them and stared through the window. The mist still lingered.

Corbett felt more comfortable and relaxed than the night before. He finished dressing; he made sure he wore long, thick, woollen hose and a brown, serge gown over his shirt tied at the neck and cuffs. He pulled on Spanish leather riding boots, took his military coat and a quilted pair of gloves. He recalled the mysteries of the night before and wrapped his sword belt around him, telling Ranulf and Maltote to do the same.

'Hurry up!' he barked. 'We must leave early!'

He ignored Ranulf's mutterings and went out into the gallery, where a servant took him down to the manor chapel – a small, white-washed room, black-timbered with a simple altar under the window. Father Augustine had already begun to say Mass. Gurney was there with his henchman Catchpole. Afterwards they went down to the hall, colder and not so welcoming as the night before. There they were joined by the others, including Ranulf and Maltote still heavy-eyed with sleep and glowering at their master. Alice was still abed but Selditch came down, chattering as merrily as the night before. Servants brought them ale, freshly baked bread and strips of meat heavily coated with malt. Corbett urged Ranulf and Maltote to break their fast quickly.

'I'll take you to the Hermitage,' Gurney offered.

Monck insisted on going with them, although Gurney argued that Catchpole's presence would provide sufficient protection.

The physician and the priest also wanted to go – 'Just in case,' Selditch said, glancing quickly at Gurney.

Corbett studied both men closely. They seemed friendly enough to him, but a little more guarded than on the previous evening and he wondered what they had to hide. Monck remained as taciturn as ever; he tapped his leather gloves against his thigh, impatient to move on. A groom announced that their horses were ready and they swung their cloaks about them and went out into the yard. The sun, surprisingly strong for November, was burning up the mist. Corbett looked back at the old manor with its dressed-stone ground floor and half-timbered upper storeys.

'How old is Mortlake?' he asked.

'It dates from before the Conqueror's time,' Gurney replied, 'but my great-grandfather pulled the Saxon house down and rebuilt it, using the best stone and finest oak.'

Corbett stared appreciatively. Mortlake Manor was a long, rectangular building well defended by a curtain wall within which was a small village of barns, stables and smithies.

'And the land?' he asked.

Gurney grinned. 'It extends as far as you can ride, but some of the soil is salt-soaked, though further inland it yields good crops. However, it's the sheep that make us rich. But come!'

The rest had already mounted their horses. Ranulf and Maltote were trying to hide their smiles at the sight of the fat physician being bundled into the saddle and Father Augustine looked decidedly ill-at-ease on a rather sorry-looking roan. Corbett and Gurney mounted. The gates were thrown open and they followed the trackway out of the manor and across the moors. In the distance, Corbett could hear the thunder of the surf. Now and again rabbits, startled by the hoofbeats, darted across the gorse in a flurry of fur; short, fat-tailed sheep scattered, bleating, before the horses. The mist was still thick and Gurney shouted to them to keep together. At one time they had to rein in as he led them around a small, weed-fringed marsh.

'It's treacherous country,' he said from the depths of his cowl. 'Hugh, be wary where you go. Try and keep to the paths. The same applies to the beach. The tides are fickle. Sometimes they come in slowly like the night, at others they will rush in to catch the unwary.'

'Which is the point of my story last night,' Physician Selditch spoke up. 'The whole coastline of the Wash is treacherous. Sudden tidal surges can make trickling streams into full-grown rivers, as King John found to his cost.'

'Was the gold never recovered?' Ranulf asked, intrigued by the prospect of a royal treasure lying nearby, waiting to be discovered.

'There are many legends,' Selditch replied. 'Some say that beneath Sir Simon's land a royal ransom waits to be collected.'

He broke off as they cleared the marsh and Gurney urged them forward. Corbett realized that Gurney was leading them further inland, along a well-beaten path; they were travelling south, keeping the coast to their left. He pushed his horse alongside Gurney's.

'What is the Hermitage?' he asked.

'It's really an old farmstead, a small outlying manor. The soil around it is rather poor. In my father's time it fell derelict. Sometimes it was used by shepherds and the people of the roads, travelling friars, anyone.'

'And why did you give it to the Pastoureaux?'

Gurney pulled back his cowl and wiped the sweat from his brow.

'Why not? They seem God-fearing and hurt no one.' He smiled. 'No, don't think of me as a saint, Hugh. In return they provide free labour on my farms.' He pointed through the shifting mist. 'See the light, we are almost there.'

Gurney broke into a gallop. The mist, as if expecting them, suddenly cleared and the Hermitage came into full view. However, as Gurney reined in, all Corbett could see was a high wall, a stout oaken gate and, above this, a tiled roof and the thatch of other dwellings.

'Who goes there?' a voice called.

Corbett, squinting his eyes, saw a man standing on one of the gate pillars. A tinder was struck and a torch flared.

'Who goes there?' the voice repeated.

Gurney gestured to his companions to stay still as he edged his own horse forward.

'Sir Simon Gurney!' he shouted, standing up in the stirrups, 'with the king's emissary, Sir Hugh Corbett.'

'Wait there!' the voice called.

The figure put the torch down and disappeared. Corbett urged his own horse forward.

'But, Sir Simon, you said this was your land and property?'

Gurney shrugged. 'Yes, but I gave the Pastoureaux the same rights as any other religious house. You just can't ride in as you please. Don't forget, Hugh, the countryside is plagued with wolfsheads and outlaws who would help themselves to anything – food, drink, not to mention any woman under sixty!'

He stopped speaking as the gates swung open. Two men came through and walked towards them. Corbett watched them curiously.

'The older one,' Gurney whispered, 'is Master Joseph. The other is Philip Nettler, the abbot and prior, you might say, of the house.'

The two men drew near. Master Joseph was about fifty, rather small, with a sun-tanned face and light-blue eyes which crinkled as he smiled at Gurney and bowed towards Corbett. Sharp-eyed, Corbett thought – he looked more like a military commander than a cleric. Philip Nettler, the younger man, had black tousled hair, a thin narrow face, hooded eyes and tight lips. He seemed more wary, and his eyes strayed beyond Corbett to where Monck sat like the figure of death on his horse.