Paul Doherty: Nightshade

Corbett, like Ranulf, kept his hood pushed back to give him a better view of this crowded thoroughfare, guiding his horse prudently along its icy rutted surface. He slouched low in the saddle, blinking away the tears, staring fixedly ahead of him. Ranulf rode just behind him to his right, Chanson to his left. The Clerk of the Stables had now hoisted the lance bearing the stiffened pennant displaying the royal arms emblazoned in glorious scarlet, blue and gold, the rampant leopards proclaiming to all and sundry how these were king’s men, not to be interfered with or impeded in any way. Even a vexillation of royal knight-bannerets pulled aside for these clerks, whom they immediately recognised and saluted. Corbett nodded courteously. Ranulf raised a hand, aware of how these royal bully-boys were studying them closely. Corbett’s departure from Westminster certainly caused a stir. Heads turned, eyes narrowed against the bitter cold. People watched these two important clerks garbed in black leather jerkins, their dark green hose pushed into red boots of Cordova leather, one gauntleted hand grasping the reins, the other beneath their cloaks ready todraw sword or a dagger. Those who did business at Westminster recognised that the Keeper of the Secret Seal was off on the King’s affairs. The presence of Corbett in the royal palace always provoked a sea of murmuring and whispering, speculation about what might be happening. After all, these were dangerous times. The war across the Scottish march was not progressing as well as the old king would have wished, whilst the powerful London merchants, with gangs of rifflers at their beck and call, were growing increasingly resentful at the King’s constant demand for money to finance his struggle against Wallace in Scotland as well as to equip his war cogs patrolling the Narrow Seas against the privateers of Philip of France. Royal business, however, was secret. Corbett was the last man to discuss the reason for his departure with anyone. Instead he settled himself comfortably in his saddle, lost in his own thoughts about Maeve. Christmas and the twelve holy days had certainly passed like a dream, a heart-warming, grace-filling, soul-enriching period. Corbett had never felt so happy in his life. Once again he murmured a prayer of thanks.

‘ Ego tibi Domine gratias et laudem – I give you thanks and praise, oh Lord.’

Oh yes, the turn of the year had proved good. Epiphany had come and gone like a watch in the night, then a royal courier had arrived at Leighton with a scroll sealed by Edward himself, a writ summoning Corbett cum festinacione magna – with great haste – down to the King’s palace at Westminster. Corbett had ignored the great haste, insisting that Maeve and the children also join him at his lodgings in the old palace. Edward, of course, had proved to be a generous, hearty host, praising Maeve’s beauty whilst merrily fussing the children. However, when all the courtesieswere done, the King, iron-grey hair falling down to his shoulders, had grabbed Corbett’s arm and led him out across the frost-laced palace gardens, through the south door of the great abbey and into the cloisters. Corbett sensed where they were going. The King was now silent and morose, no longer the jovial lord but muttering to himself, clawing at his silvery moustache and beard. He pushed his way through the knight-bannerets gathered round the door and started down the steep steps broken off halfway, the gap spanned by a long wooden plank, and into the cavernous circular crypt of the abbey with its eight ground-level windows and huge central pillar. Corbett detached himself from the King and put his hand in the gap, then stared around at the empty coffers, caskets and leather treasury sacks that littered the floor. Edward sat down on a coffer, glaring round, face all fierce as he muttered his favourite oaths, ‘By God’s hand’ and ‘By God’s thigh’, followed by a litany of filthy imprecations against those who’d dared to dig their way through one of those windows to rob the royal treasury of gold, silver, jewels and precious goods. The riflers had even removed the stones from the arca , the stronghold built into the centre of the massive pillar.

‘They’ll all hang, Corbett!’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Listen,’ the King hissed, ‘how silent it is.’

Corbett walked back to the fortified door leading to the crypt steps. He was aware of the cold and the darkness, how the many candles and cresset torches flickered and flared in vain to drive back the gloom.

‘Silent, your grace,’ he agreed. ‘The good brothers are still lodged in the Tower?’

‘Over a hundred of the good brothers will rot there,’ the King snarled, ‘until I discover the truth and get all my treasure back. You know that, Corbett!’

The Keeper of the Secret Seal certainly did. He had been party to the ruthless investigation into the great conspiracy to rob the royal treasury in the crypt of Westminster. The King’s own hoard allegedly safe in this hallowed place, the mausoleum of his family. It should never have happened. The crypt was protected by eighteen-foot-thick walls, narrow windows, fortified doors and stairs with the steps removed halfway down to create a gap that only a specially made plank could span. Yet the outrage had still occurred. The sheer effrontery of it had shocked even the cynical officials of the Chancery and Exchequer, who dealt every day with a legion of rogues and vagabonds. The robbery had been the fruit of an unholy alliance between London’s underworld, led by Richard Puddlicott, a former clerk, and some of the leading monks of the abbey. Puddlicott had seduced the good brothers, supposedly followers of the rule of St Benedict, by bringing into the abbey musicians, courtesans, food and wine for midnight revelry, whilst other conspirators, under the cloak of night, had weakened one window in the crypt, working secretly in the cemetery beyond to create a gap. At last they had forced an entry on the eve of St Mark and the vast treasure hoard had been taken. The leading monks had been fully aware of the conspiracy and cooperated eagerly. So much treasure had been taken that precious items had been found at Tothill, in the fields around the abbey and even fished from the Thames. The rest of the haul had abruptly appeared on the London market, the greedy goldsmiths looking the other way as they bought and sold what was clearly not theirs.Edward had been absent in Scotland, but his fury had known no bounds. He had dispatched commissioners, Corbett included, into London and the entire community of the abbey had been committed to the Tower. Courts of oyer and terminer moved through every ward of the city, names were mentioned, suspects were arrested, even dragged out of sanctuary in clear violation of ecclesiastical law. The King demanded, time and again, that the treasure be recovered whilst anyone involved in its disappearance was to be arrested and taken to the Tower.

‘I’ll grind such arrogance to dust.’ The King bit on the quick of his thumb and spat out a piece of skin. ‘Corbett,’ he gestured at a nearby chair, ‘sit down. I need to talk to you.’

Edward scratched the corner of his mouth as he studied this enigmatic clerk, olive-skinned, cleanly shaven, his long face hard and resolute except for the laughter lines around the firm mouth and deep-set eyes. He glimpsed the grey amongst Corbett’s raven-black hair, now pulled back and tied in a queue to rest on the nape of his neck.

‘We are getting older, Corbett,’ the King grated. He stretched out and gently tapped the clerk on the cheek, ‘but you are still my soul companion, Hugh, my faithful servant.’ His words echoed round that cavernous chamber. ‘I trust you as I do my own sword arm.’ Edward’s right eye drooped, almost closing, a common gesture whenever the King’s humours were disturbed. ‘That is why I have brought you down here to talk in the silence.’