Paul Doherty: The Peacock's Cry

‘Why did you hang those men?’ Edward turned, cocking his head at the sound of two of his jesters, Maud Make-joy and Magote the Ape, shrieking with laughter as they entertained Lady Maeve, Corbett’s wife, and their two children, Edward and Eleanor.

‘Griscote,’ Corbett replied. ‘A charcoal burner. He had a cottage with workings deep in Leighton woods. A good man, married to Dulcia, a pretty-faced girl who had great skill in the gathering and distilling of herbs. Griscote and Dulcia were at home when the outlaws struck. They savagely cut Griscote, opening another mouth in his throat. They then raped Dulcia repeatedly before smashing her skull with a mallet. A woodcutter chanced to be passing and hid in the bushes. He witnessed the murders and fled here, shouting, “Harrow! Harrow!” and raising the hue and cry.’ Corbett walked across to his sword belt and tapped the scabbard. ‘I am the lord of the manor, with the power of axe, tumbril and gallows.’

‘And a justice of oyer and terminer,’ added the king.

‘True. So I summoned up the posse, my comitatus, and hunted those malefactors down. One resisted, so I killed him. The rest surrendered. I set up summary court in a forest glade. They confessed, so I hanged them at the Sycamores.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘But my lords, that’s not why you are here, is it? I hanged those malefactors and you passed their rotting corpses. There is more, isn’t there? You want me to return to royal service, yes? I will not play the reluctant maiden. I am sympathetic to any logical plea, but,’ he jabbed the air with his hand, ‘this is my manor, my house, my life, my family. Don’t threaten me or hint at threat, but speak plainly. Your Grace, my lord, what is it you want?’

So it was that Hugh Corbett, recently appointed Keeper of the Secret Seal and Master of the Royal Chancery, found himself staring down at the pallid face of the murdered maiden Elizabeth Buchan. Eighteen summers old and a novice of the order of Benedictine nuns at their convent at Godstow in Oxfordshire, Elizabeth had been in life a great beauty, with her fiery red hair and snow-white skin. Now, in death, placed in her coffin casket packed with melting ice, she still showed vestiges of her former beauty. Dame Imelda, the infirmarian, had undoubtedly done her best to repair the young woman’s face, ravaged by the small crossbow bolt that had smashed into her lily-white forehead. Now washed, embalmed and garbed, her soul gone to judgement, she was ready to be sealed into her corpse casket before being returned to the Buchan demesne in Gloucestershire.

Corbett glanced at Ranulf Atte-Newgate, principal clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. Ranulf sat morosely on a bench against the far wall in the corpse chamber. Corbett crossed himself and went to stand over his former comrade. ‘Ranulf,’ he pleaded softly, ‘in God’s name, what happened here? Do you realise the danger you are in? You wish, you pray, you plead to be admitted into the service of the Chancery of the Secret Seal, yet when given a task like this, you fail miserably. Not only that, you stand accused of having an improper relationship with a novice nun, the daughter of a powerful lord with even more powerful kinsmen. Now that young woman has been found foully raped and barbarously slain at the centre of a maze, her face smashed by a crossbow quarrel very similar to the ones you carry. That is not all.’ Corbett decided to be both remorseless and ruthless. ‘You were sent here in the first place to investigate the disappearance of Margaret Beaumont, another royal ward. You failed to resolve that and are now involved in this.’

‘Master.’ Ranulf beat the gauntlets clenched in his right hand against the mortuary wall. He glanced up. ‘Old Master Long Face’, as he secretly called Corbett, was almost beside himself with rage.

‘Master what?’ Corbett mimicked back.

‘You are like a master in the schools and I some errant scholar.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t whine.’ Corbett drew a deep breath and sat down beside Ranulf. The clerk slouched with his head tilted back. His face was smooth-shaven and pale as moonlight, which only emphasised his fiery red hair, pulled back and tied in a queue behind his head. He blinked his cat-like green eyes, trying to hide the tears of sheer fury at the trap he had so stupidly blundered into. He undid his black leather jerkin, eased off his war belt and placed this between his booted feet, along with the metal-studded gauntlets, then leaned forward.

‘Last time we met – when was it, Twelfth Night? I visited Leighton – you mentioned over a cup of posset that you might return to royal service, and so you have, but why now?’

Corbett narrowed his eyes as he stared across at Elizabeth’s Buchan’s coffin casket.

‘You are still engrossed with your beekeeping?’ Ranulf tried to lighten the mood.

‘Absorbed as ever, Ranulf. Bees are God’s great creation; they teach you so much and have an order and harmony which is fascinating. Strange, you can even get murder amongst bees. Anyway, the king brought me a gift, a copy of a rare manuscript on beekeeping. He had other inducements too. Lady Maeve’s kinsfolk in Wales have become involved in costly and rather nasty litigation with Neath Abbey. The king offered to help, saying he would do all he could to assist.’

‘In other words, if you didn’t return to royal service, he would help Neath Abbey?’

‘Possibly, but Lady Maeve was very worried. She had been asking me for some time to intervene, as these kinsmen are hot-headed. They don’t like the monks of Neath and they could take the law into their own hands, which would lead to their excommunication with bell, book and candle.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Of course, there are other reasons. I miss the intrigue at court, and above all, the relentless hunt for a murderer, the pursuit of the secret assassin.’ He paused and pointed across to the coffin casket. ‘The trapping and bringing to justice of the brood of Cain, men and women who believe they can murder, wipe out a life, dispatch a soul unprepared for judgement and not be brought to account.’

‘But there is more to it than that?’

‘There certainly is.’ Corbett edged a little closer. ‘Ranulf, our present king is not like his father. He is totally dominated by Gaveston, now Earl of Cornwall, the Gascon parvenu who mocks the great earls with nicknames. Henry of Lincoln is “Burst Belly”; Lancaster “the Churl”; Pembroke “the Jew”. However, the barons who oppose Edward and Gaveston are no better, especially Lancaster, their leader. He is haughty, treacherous and as vicious as a viper, more lecherous than a sparrow on heat. He has defiled a great multitude of high-born ladies and gentle wenches. Little wonder that his own wife hates him with a passion beyond all understanding. She is now living with the Earl of Surrey whilst petitioning the Pope for an annulment. But,’ Corbett lowered his voice, ‘Lancaster is also asking Pope Clement to annul the marriage. Hot-eyed and greedy, our noble earl is already casting about for a new wife.’

‘Ah yes,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘I have heard of this.’

‘I am sure you have. Now, two young noble ladies caught Lancaster’s eye. Margaret Beaumont, kinswoman of Lord Henry Beaumont, who is first cousin to Queen Isabella; and Elizabeth Buchan, related very closely to Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Both families were flattered but apprehensive. If Lancaster were to marry one of them, being free to do so, all would be well. However, both families became alarmed at the constant rumours that the earl was, in his own words, thirsty enough to broach both casks and sample the wine for himself.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Ranulf half smiled. ‘Elizabeth Buchan told me the same: how both she and Margaret Beaumont had been cloistered here as novices at the behest of the king.’