Corbett shivered as he heard the wind lash the heavy rain against the window. He had shaved, dressed and been down to the hall to break his fast after a restless night's sleep which had left him aching and heavy-headed. The excitement of the previous day, fanned by the gossips, had swept through the village. Gilbert had returned to Hunstanton like some hero returning from the wars and, if Catchpole was to be believed, the villagers had already looted the Hermitage. Members of the community had immediately fled, eager to be away and escape untainted from the heavy charges laid against their leaders. Blanche had already left with two of Gurney's retainers. Maltote went with them, grumbling at the prospect of riding through such cruel weather. Ranulf enjoyed the thought of the hapless messenger's discomfort, but Corbett soon wiped the smile off his face.
'You found nothing about Alan of the Marsh at the Hermitage?'
'No, Master.'
'Then take your horse and ride along the coast – not along the cliff top but along the beach. The tide will be out.' 'What am I looking for?' 'You will know when you find it.'
Ranulf stormed off, muttering and cursing about oldMaster Long Face. Corbett returned to his brooding, before going down to the dungeons to question Master Joseph. The Pastoureaux leader, though, knew the strength of his position.
'The more I keep to myself,' he taunted Corbett, 'the more I have to bargain with.'
Corbett smiled to hide his despair. The rogue was right. Corbett knew that the exchequer officials would enter into any negotiations, make any concessions, if they thought they would augment the king's treasure. If a pardon for Master Joseph would make the king richer, that was the price they would cheerfully pay.
'Doesn't it rile you, Corbett,' the rogue jibed, 'to know that somewhere round here lies a great treasure trove?'
'Where is Alan of the Marsh?' Corbett snapped.
'I've told you, look in the Hermitage, if it's still there.'
Corbett got to his feet.
'Oh, clerk!' Master Joseph's bruised face was one long sneer. 'Do give my tenderest love to our plump prioress. Oh, and clerk!'
Corbett refused to look round.
'I wouldn't trust anyone if I were you!'
Corbett slammed the door behind him. He made sure the guard locked and bolted it before trying his luck with Philip Nettler, but he was equally taciturn.
'I'll speak,' he muttered, 'when I have the king's pardon signed and sealed in my hand. Until then, you can piss off!'
Corbett left the two felons and returned to his chamber. Gurney was down in the village and the house was quiet. The rain had begun to lighten, so Corbett pulled on his riding boots, collected his cloak, saddled his horse and rode out across the moor to the Hermitage. The building was now derelict, someone had even removed the gates. Corbett paused inside the yard and looked around. It was a low, grey, overcast day which reflected his mood. He had an uneasy feeling, born of years of experience, that someone was following him. He sat on his horse, the silence broken by the creaking of his saddle and the whinny of his horse. He looked over his shoulder, but the rain-sodden moors were empty. He dismounted, hobbled his horse and began to explore the building. Every single room had been ransacked. Corbett had witnessed similar occurrences in the king's wars along the Scottish borders. He always appreciated, albeit wryly, the plundering skills of local peasants. Doors, hinges, anything which could move had been taken, even rags, pots and bedding. Hardly anything remained, apart from the occasional smashed earthenware bowl, to show this had once been an active community.
Corbett visited the upper chambers and, despite their stark appearance now, realized that Master Joseph and Nettler had occupied the best chambers. The walls were white-washed and, by the marks on the floors, Corbett saw they'd enjoyed good bedding, furniture, even carpets. The windows, glazed with horn or glass, had simply been removed. Some of the tiles from the roof had also been taken, so watery patches were already beginning to form on the floor. Corbett went round, visiting every place. His unease grew, not only because of the wickedness which had been perpetrated here, but because of the empty stillness and the stomach-churning feeling that he was being watched.
He returned to check on his horse and stood looking at the lowering sky.
'Where is Alan of the Marsh?' he muttered, absent-mindedly patting his horse's muzzle. 'Think, Corbett!' he said to himself. 'Alan of the Marsh must have come here as a fugitive hiding from the Gurney of the time. He was looking for a place to hide.'
Corbett stared round the yard. He glimpsed a small, low, brick building, which looked as if it had been standing for an eternity. Corbett went across. It was an old malt house smelling musty and tangy, littered with pieces of wood and shards of pottery. Corbett tapped his boots and shifted the dirt with his foot; the floor was not beaten earth but stone. He began to kick away the piles of rotting straw and sighed as he found the trapdoor. He took the pommel of his dagger, knocked back the bolt and lifted the trapdoor by its rusty, iron ring. He paused to fashion a crude torch, lit it and carefully went down the rotten wooden steps. He held the torch up, away from him, the flames dancing in the light breeze. He was standing in nothing more than a pit, a small cellar. The floor was earthen and the torchlight revealed only the occasional spider's web. He heard the screech of rats as they scurried away.
'No secret passageways,' he muttered. 'Nothing but a dirty cell.'
Then he saw that on one wall someone had scrawled a crude A and an M and a drawing of what seemed to be a skull – two eyes and a nose connected by a triangle. Corbett studied the drawing carefully. He had no doubt that he had found the hiding-place of Alan of the Marsh and that it was he who had scratched the drawing on the wall. In which case the letters and the triangle must convey some secret message. The torch was burning low, so Corbett dropped it and went back up the steps. He was so immersed in his own thoughts that only the sudden awareness of a woman's perfume made him look up. He saw the heavy billet of wood coming down and screamed even as he collapsed unconscious on the steps.
When he came to, he was wet and cold and his head beat like a tambour. He could not understand why people were screaming at him and why his feet and legs were so cold and wet. He dragged himself forward. If only the people would keep quiet. He sat up, trying to calm his nausea. He looked down in stupefaction at the waves swirling around, looked up and saw white gulls circling like angels above him. Something was very wrong. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He had been in that cellar, now he was on a cold, deserted beach. The cliffs were in front of him. From where he sat, he could see the gallows where the baker's wife had been hanged.
He realized he had been knocked on the head, but what was he doing on the beach? And why now? A wave lapped against his waist. Corbett stared out across the swelling sea and realized with horror what was happening. The tide was coming in, not in creeping waves but in one of those surge tides so well known and so treacherous along this coast. The waves were angry, high and swollen, racing in with a fury Corbett had never experienced before. He staggered to his feet and began to stumble across the beach towards the path leading to the cliff top. The sea pursued him. He couldn't run fast – his legs felt heavy and his head was splitting with pain. He choked, retching, missed his footing and fell. The waves swept over him, their icy touch calming his panic.
He ran for his life. He remembered the local gossip and knew that his assailant in the Hermitage had left him there as another casualty of the fickle sea. Corbett staggered on. He could see the waves on either side of him rushing ahead. He could only breath in short gasps and the path seemed as far away as ever. His cloak was heavy with water. Corbett took it off, wrapped it round his arm and ran on. The sea, however, was winning the race, sometimes he was wading through waves thigh deep. The path seemed an eternity away. Then he heard the sound of hoof beats and his name being called. Ranulf was there, screaming down at him from his horse. Corbett tried to mount behind him, but a wave caught him and knocked him back. Ranulf leaned down and dragged him across his saddle, its horn pushing painfully into Corbett's chest and stomach. Then Ranulf rode like the wind, aiming straight as an arrow back towards the cliff-top path. They reached it. Ranulf dismounted and pushed his master into the saddle. He led the horse up the path, slipping and cursing, not stopping until they had reached the windswept gorse on the cliff top. Ranulf threw the reins down and collapsed on to the grass. Corbett leaned over the horse's neck and vomited. Ranulf wordlessly got to his feet and, looping the reins round his wrist, trudged back towards Mortlake Manor.
Gurney was standing in the yard, talking to his retainers, Selditch beside him. Both took one look at the sea-soaked Corbett and Ranulf's angry face and hurried up.
'What has happened?'
'Someone tried to kill my master,' Ranulf snapped. He squared up to Gurney. 'A knock on the head before being tossed on to the beach like a piece of flotsam, to be swept away in a sudden tidal surge. And what would you write to the king then, Sir Simon, eh? Some unfortunate accident?'
Gurney, although he had once been a soldier, paled and stepped back at the fury in Ranulf's green eyes. Selditch hurried to help Corbett out of the saddle.
'Piss off!' Ranulf snarled. He stared around the yard. 'Listen, all of you, and listen well! And you can tittle-tattle about this in the tavern. If my master dies here, I, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, will come back!' His voice sank to a whisper. 'I'll return! With every man I can lay my hands on as well as the king's writ! Believe me, sir, people here will still remember my visit when we are all dead and gone!'
Ranulf then helped Corbett out of the saddle. He put his master's arms round his shoulders, helped him up to their chamber and laid him gently on the bed. Alice came up with a cup of blood-red claret, heavily spiced. She smiled deprecat-ingly when Ranulf made her sip it. He took a drink himself then, closing the door in the lady's face, went back and forced the cup between Corbett's lips. As his master slept, Ranulf stripped him of his clothes, washed him, laid him between the sheets and covered him with blankets. Ranulf then locked the chamber and went down to the kitchen. He ordered the servants to heat small bricks which he placed in Corbett's bed. He demanded chicken gruel and other foods to be prepared.
For the rest of that day and most of that night, Ranulf tended Corbett. He fed his master when he woke and, when he slept, dressed the savage bruise on his head. At last Ranulf was satisfied. Corbett had been beaten unconscious and was badly bruised, but most of his wounds were spiritual: the shock of being left on the beach and that wild murderous race against the oncoming tide. In the morning Corbett woke, pale-faced but rested.
'I'm not dead yet, Ranulf.'
Ranulf grinned. 'You can't bloody well die yet! I am only at the bottom of the greasy pole of preferment.'
Ranulf watched his master anxiously. He owed everything to him. In his more sober moments, Ranulf was as fearful as Maeve of Corbett's sudden death at the hands of an assassin. The manservant went downstairs and brought back a bowl of thick soup and some bread. He let Corbett eat. Sir Simon and Alice also came up and self-consciously asked him how he fared. Corbett was polite but watchful. Maltote returned, eager to tell Ranulf about the brothel and how he was sure he had lost his heart to Rohesia. One look at Ranulf's dark face and Maltote realized how serious the threat had been to his master. The messenger paced up and down, clapping his hands, muttering they should immediately go back to London. Ranulf roared at him to shut up and sit down, or he'd brain him with a stool!
'Who did it, Master?' Maltote asked.
Corbett shook his head and described his visit to the Hermitage.
'All I remember is the smell of perfume and that piece of wood coming down at me. The next moment I was on the beach. How did you find me, Ranulf?'
'You told me to go there, Master.'
Corbett closed his eyes and put his head back on the bolster.
'Tell me about it.'
'I rode further along the beach,' Ranulf answered. 'What a God-forsaken place it is, Master. I have seen enough seagulls to last me all the days of my life.'
'But what did you find?' Corbett asked testily.
'A small skiff or boat pulled high on the beach,' Ranulf answered. 'There's also a path, one of those sandy tracks leading up to the cliff top. I went up this. Something happens there, the place is used. I went back down. I examined the boat, nothing remarkable except one thing. The boat's seaworthy but, I am sure, in the stern, was a dark patch which looked like blood.' Ranulf shrugged. 'Though it could be something else. I then rode further along but I didn't like the look of the sea, angry and swollen. I rode back. I panicked myself because the faster I galloped, the sea seemed to be racing me. I intended to go up the path leading to the Hermitage.' Ranulf pulled a face. 'Then I saw you running.' He paused at a knock on the door and Selditch came in.
'Sir Hugh,' he stammered, his fingers clutching at his large, protuberant belly. 'Is there anything I can do?' He waved his ink-stained fingers in the air like an old woman.
'No, no,' Corbett answered quickly before Ranulf could reply. 'Master Selditch, I feel well and I thank you.'
The physician disappeared.
'I wouldn't trust him!' Ranulf snarled. He sniffed the air. 'He wears some sort of perfume, Master, as does the Lady Alice.'
Corbett stared at the door and grinned at Ranulf. 'Thank God you came!'
His manservant shrugged. 'Looking back, you would have probably reached the path in time. Your thick skull saved you. The murderer, God damn him or her, never counted on your regaining consciousness.'
Corbett plucked at a loose thread in one of the blankets.
'If you hadn't come, Ranulf, whatever you say, I would have drowned. You are not to tell the Lady Maeve.' Corbett stared across the room. 'I studied at Oxford, I became a clerk in the royal service. Sometimes I feel like a busy spider spinning webs or destroying those others weave. Yet, I admit, I don't understand human nature. What would my death have achieved? What would it profit to make Maeve a widow? And my child fatherless? The king himself would come here or send someone else and so it would go on until the matter was resolved.' Corbett rubbed his face. 'Perhaps I should hand over my seals! Say the day is done and go back to my manor house?'
Ranulf hid his alarm and studied his master. In many ways he knew Corbett was right. Old Master Long Face was a chess player and very good at it, but in the hurly-burly of the narrow streets he was an innocent.
'If you went, Master,' Ranulf replied slowly, 'the only difference would be that more murderers would walk away, wiping their lips and proclaiming their innocence.' He half-smiled. 'Leighton Manor may be quiet, Sir Hugh, but so is the graveyard.'
Corbett touched the top of his bruised head gingerly and winced.
'The shrewd voice of the common man,' he murmured.
'When you fall into the gutter, Master, you have to be as cunning and as crafty as those you hunt.'
Corbett looked at him sharply. 'What do you mean, Ranulf?'
'Well, take our fat physician friend. Or Sir Simon Gurney.. What happened when some of King John's treasure was found?'
'They sold it.'
Ranulf sat on the edge of the bed.
'And what do you think would happen, Master, if they found the rest?'
Corbett narrowed his eyes. 'Are you saying they're searching for it?'
'Well, they know about the secret of the treasure. Don't you think they would like to find it?'
'But if they did and failed to inform the king, that would be felony, even treason.'
'Oh, of course, they'd inform the king,' Ranulf replied. 'And, according to the law, demand their portion. What is it, a quarter of any treasure trove? Now Sir Simon, his wife and physician may be innocent and as white as the driven snow. They may have no hand in these murders. Or, there again, they may be as guilty as Cain.' Ranulf laughed drily. 'But I'll never accept that they are not looking for the treasure.' 'Continue,' Corbett murmured.
Ranulf grinned sheepishly over his shoulder at Maltote.
'It was our young messenger here who gave me the idea. Maltote comes from peasant stock. His father was a villein on a manor something like this. Now, you know the manor system, everything is recorded, everything is written down. Surely, our fat physician, with his love of antiquities, has discovered something about Alan of the Marsh?'
Corbett threw the blankets back and gingerly climbed out of the bed.
'I'm going to shave and dress,' he declared. 'Then I want Selditch up here.'
An hour later, when Corbett was ready, Ranulf ushered Selditch into the chamber. The physician's nervousness only increased when he saw Corbett dressed and waiting.
'Master Selditch,' Corbett began, 'I'll come swiftly to the point. I suspect Alan of the Marsh was a tenant of these parts, and perhaps even Holcombe. What have you discovered about both this precious pair?'
The physician was about to refuse to answer. Corbett leaned over and gripped him by the hand.
'I want to know,' he said quietly. 'I want to know everything. Otherwise I will seize all of Sir Simon's records -his list of rents, taxes, dues and imposts. I'll spend days going through them. If I find there is something you haven't told me, as God is my witness, you will rue the day!' Corbett touched the top of his head. 'Yesterday I was nearly murdered. My patience is running out!'
Selditch fluttered his fingers nervously.
'Holcombe was a tenant farmer outside Bishop's Lynn,' he replied slowly. 'Alan was a native of these parts. There's really very little in the records.' He shuffled his feet.
'How did Alan earn his bread?' Ranulf asked.
'He was steward of the manor.'
'And what does that mean?' Corbett asked.
'He would ride round collecting the manor lord's dues and carry messages and orders.'
'So, he would know the countryside?'
'Oh, yes.'
'And all the hideaways and the secret places?' Selditch nodded.
'Is there anything I should know?'
The physician blinked. 'According to one of the rolls of the manorial court,' he answered slowly, 'two years before King John lost his treasure in the Wash, allegations were laid against Alan of being a smuggler.'
Corbett groaned and hid his face in his hands. He looked up.
'Is there anything else?'
Selditch shook his head, so Corbett dismissed him.
'What's the matter?' Ranulf asked anxiously as the physician closed the door behind him.
'Oh, for God's sake, Ranulf! Can't you see for yourself? Alan of the Marsh and Holcombe planned to steal King John's treasure. A hasty plan, probably concocted once Holcombe knew that he had been hired to guide the treasure train across the Wash. The plan is, however, successful. Holcombe steals the treasure and meets his accomplice at some lonely place. Now they hide most of their plunder; some they take, perhaps to raise ready cash.' Corbett paused to marshal his thoughts. 'Holcombe, however, is suspected. He's hunted down by the Gurneys, who question then execute him and bury his corpse ignominiously with the little treasure he was carrying.' Corbett paused and smoothed the table with the top of his hand. 'Now, of course, it's all supposed to be a secret but gossip and rumours spread. Alan of the Marsh decides to flee. He hides the treasure.' Corbett glanced at Ranulf. 'What would he do next?' 'Try and leave the country?'
'Correct. Now, he is a smuggler like many in these parts. He faces, however, a number of difficulties – hiding, securing a passage, then moving the treasure without anyone knowing. Very dangerous, because he knows he's a wanted man.'
Ranulf shrugged. 'Perhaps he just died?'
Corbett shook his head. 'What about the other possibility? What if Alan of the Marsh was successful? What if he fled abroad, taking the treasure with him to live a life of luxury beyond the Rhine or in southern France? Don't you realize, Ranulf, we could be chasing will-o'-the-wisps.'
'So, why all the mystery?' Ranulf exclaimed. 'Why the murders?'
Corbett rubbed the side of his face. 'I can't answer that. All I do believe is that someone else, or a group of people, is also looking for the treasure.' Corbett sighed. 'However, they too may be chasing will-o'-the-wisps.' Corbett picked up a piece of parchment. 'What we must do is establish a pattern. Yet, what do we have? Dead flowers left under a gallows. A poor baker's wife murdered. Cerdic Lickspittle decapitated, his remains tossed on the beach. Graves being pillaged and Monck murdered out on the moors.'
'Well, at least,' Maltote interrupted 'we have arrested the Pastoureaux and discovered the person responsible for Marina's death.'
Corbett chewed the quick of his thumb.
'Yes, we have,' he muttered. 'But those bastards may also have been looking for the treasure.' He went back, lay on the bed and stared up at the timbered ceiling.
'And we mustn't forget the lights, the strange signalling between ship and shore,' Ranulf added.
'No, no,' Corbett murmured. He turned. 'I have an explanation for that, though it's hard both to swallow and digest. Anyway, leave me for a while.'
Ranulf and Maltote went down to the hall, whispering excitedly about their master's strange mood. Corbett chewed his lip and stared at the ceiling. For some reason he kept thinking of the love-message given him by Culpeper the miller: Amor Haesitat, Amor Currit. And was there something else? Something he had seen or thought about, whilst running across that beach? Corbett closed his eyes. And what had Ranulf told him about that boat beached and hidden away? He smiled as he remembered his logic, a common axiom in the schools: 'If you reduce all matters and reach one conclusion, that conclusion must be the only acceptable one. Consequently, you have discovered the truth.'
'Well, let's test it,' Corbett murmured.
He swung his legs off the bed, grabbed his riding boots and cloak and went out, shouting for Ranulf and Maltote.
They collected their horses from the stables and rode out on to the moor to the Hermitage. Maltote tended the horses whilst Corbett and Ranulf went into the old malt house. As soon as they were inside, Ranulf sniffed.
'I can smell the perfume. It's rather strong. Very similar, I am sure, to what Lady Alice wears.'
'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'I smelled it just before I was struck on the head. Come on, I'll show you what I found.'
He gathered some dry straw and led Ranulf down to the cellar. Corbett placed the straw at the base of the wall and struck a tinder but, when it flared into life, Corbett stared in disbelief at the wall. What he had previously seen had now disappeared, scorched off.
'Someone used a torch,' he murmured. 'Someone lit a torch and brushed the wall.' Corbett pointed to the burn marks and described what he had seen.
'Whatever it was,' Ranulf spluttered, 'it must have been important.'
Corbett and he returned to the yard.
'Let's say,' Corbett declared, staring up to where the seagulls circled, raucously screaming at being disturbed, 'Let's say we had stolen the gold. Where would you hide it?'
'Well, not in a place like this,' Ranulf answered.
'Why is that?'
'Any place visited by others is dangerous. Sooner or later, someone may be fortunate, or skilled enough, to discover where you hid the treasure.'
'But to bury it out on the moors,' Corbett said, 'is dangerous too. You might be seen burying it and there's always the possibility that you might forget exactly where you concealed it.' He mounted his horse. 'But now, Ranulf, on to a different sort of digging – let's go and upset the prioress.'
They arrived at the Holy Cross convent, where Dame Cecily kept them waiting for a while in an antechamber. When they were eventually ushered into her room she greeted them with such a false smile that Ranulf felt his stomach lurch.
'Well, how can we help you now, Sir Hugh?' she simpered. 'I was so shocked to hear about the Pastoureaux. Such a dreadful business. What evil men!'
'Yes, they were smugglers,' Corbett said. 'They smuggled out human flesh for sale in all the devil-ridden markets of the world.' He leaned forward. 'Smuggling is a sin, isn't it?'
The prioress blinked, her doughy face paled.
'Yes, it is a sin,' Corbett continued, 'and a crime – in the evasion of taxes and the infringement of royal authority, so that's how you can help me. You can tell me why you are a smuggler?'
Dame Cecily grabbed the desk to steady herself. 'What is this?' she spluttered.
Ranulf wished that Maltote were here instead of guarding the horses in the stable yard. Dame Cecily's mouth opened and closed.
'Are you accusing me of smuggling?'
'Yes, I am,' Corbett replied, hoping he was correct in his deductions.
'And, pray, what do I smuggle? '
'Yes, you should prayl'Corbett snapped. 'You should pray that the king has mercy on you. You should pray for royal clemency and the forgiveness of your bishop.' He leaned forward. 'You are a smuggler. You own sheep, you have shearing-sheds, you load the wool into bales and your carters take it down to the custom house at Bishop's Lynn. Now, let us say you have three hundred bales. Two hundred and fifty go through customs and are loaded on board ship at Bishop's Lynn. The ship leaves harbour, probably on the evening tide. Standing off the coast it heads towards Flanders. But instead of sailing across the Channel it anchors off the Norfolk coast and takes aboard the other fifty bales. Whether it sends a boat to the shore or whether a boat is rowed out to it from here, I don't know. You are paid in cash and pay no duty. The ship's captain makes a healthy profit in Flemish ports.'
'This is ridiculous,' the prioress exclaimed.
'No, it's the truth. So now we come to the death of Dame Agnes. She was the treasurer of this priory and every so often she would go for a walk on the cliff top. She would take a staff and a lantern. Most people viewed her as eccentric. In reality, she was signalling to a ship. I believe you even have a small boat in the cove to help you in your nefarious business arrangements.' Corbett got to his feet and walked over to stare at a painting. 'One night, however, tragedy occurred.' He turned, raising one hand. 'Oh, I agree, no foul play was involved, but Dame Agnes was getting old. Perhaps the cliff was beginning to crumble or the wind was too strong? Anyway, the good sister stumbled and fell to her death.' Corbett looked over his shoulder and smiled. 'She was the treasurer to this house and, in time, will be replaced. Your smuggling activities will undoubtedly continue, once snooping royal clerks disappear.'
'You have no proof,' the prioress snarled.
'But I have,' Corbett lied. 'I have interviewed one of the ships' captains. He has confessed all.' Corbett walked back, playing with the hilt of his dagger. 'Perhaps I should also question some of your retainers, particularly those who are so well paid for rowing that boat out?'
Dame Cecily could take no more. She put her head down and sobbed.
'Madam,' Corbett said quietly.
Dame Cecily raised her tear-stained face. 'We have always done this,' she whispered. 'And, Sir Hugh, can you blame us? The taxes are so heavy. Our profits are cut.'
Corbett glanced around the luxurious chamber.
'You could make economies,' he murmured.
Dame Cecily composed herself. 'What will you do, Sir Hugh? Inform the king?'
'Not necessarily,' Corbett replied. 'Provided two conditions are fulfilled.' He saw the hope flare in the prioress's black-button eyes.
'Which are?'
'First, that the smuggling must cease forthwith. Secondly, that you tell me what you know of Alan of the Marsh.'
Dame Cecily burst into tears, her shoulders shaking so much that even Ranulf felt sorry for her.