'Your Grace, I demand to know why Lavinius Monck is at Mortlake Manor.'
Corbett stood in the royal chamber in the Augustinian priory of Walsingham and glared at the king, who was slouched in a window seat staring moodily out of the window.
On the other side of the room, sprawled in a chair before the fire, the hard-faced John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, shifted his bulk uneasily and slapped mailed gauntlets against his knee.
'Master clerk,' the earl called over his shoulder, 'you do not make demands of your king!'
'Oh, shut up, Surrey, and don't be so bloody pompous!'
Edward of England glared across at his boon companion and faithful friend. He wished the earl would keep quiet. De Warenne was fine leading a charge against the Scots but when it came to intrigue he had all the tact and diplomacy of a battering ram. Edward stared at Corbett and hid a grin. Usually so calm and poised, Corbett now was travel-stained, covered in flecks of dirt from head to foot. He was unshaven and his usually hooded eyes blazed with anger. The king extended his hands.
'Hugh, Hugh. Why all this excitement?' He indicated the chair beside him. 'Sit down, man.' Edward smiled, his craggy, leonine face suffused with charm. 'I've come to the blessed shrine to seek peace and the wisdom of God.'
Corbett walked over and took the seat. You are a liar, he thought. He stared at the king's falcon-like face. The silver-grey beard, shoulder-length hair, open, frank eyes and generous mouth were all a mask. Edward of England was a born plotter who loved intrigue and took to it as easily as a duck to water. Corbett, however, wasn't in the mood to be played with. He had ridden all day from Holy Cross convent, arriving at Walsingham just as darkness fell.
'Why,' the king asked, 'are you so concerned about Lavinius?'
Corbett seized his opportunity and explained in pithy sentences what was happening out at Hunstanton. Edward scratched his beard, becoming more and more embarrassed at the picture of Corbett, his principal clerk, blundering amongst the salt marshes and watery meadows of Norfolk.
'I thought,' he said when Corbett had finished, 'that you might help Lavinius, particularly after the death of Cerdic.' He nodded towards de Warenne, who stared moodily into the fire. 'And Surrey agreed with me.'
'Lavinius is a good clerk!' de Warenne said.
'My lord,' Corbett replied, 'Lavinius is mad.'
The earl swung round in his chair, but Corbett's gaze did not falter.
'You know that, my lord,' he continued quietly. 'The man is driven mad with grief.'
'And the Pastoureaux?' Edward asked quickly.
'Your Grace, I would recommend that, when you next meet your council at Westminster, you issue a decree to all sheriffs, bailiffs and port officials, as well as leading barons and tenants-in-chief, banning the Pastoureaux from your realm.'
'On what grounds?'
'Public order and the maintenance of the king's peace.' 'Why? Do you think these Pastoureaux are responsible for the murders?'
'They might be. But I am uncomfortable at strangers moving into an area and enticing the young people away with dreams of foreign travel.'
Edward nodded.
'But Monck's not there for the Pastoureaux,' Corbett went on. 'Your Grace, are you going to tell me the truth or do I surrender my seals of office and, like Sir Simon Gurney, retire to my manor?'
Edward leaned forward and grasped Corbett's knee in a sudden gesture of affection. His blue eyes brimmed with tears. Oh, God, no! Corbett thought. Not the role of Edward, the ageing monarch, abandoned by his friends. He knew what the king was going to say.
'Hugh.' The king's voice was throaty. 'You are tired.'
'Accept his resignation!' de Warenne jibed.
'Piss off, Surrey!' Edward bellowed. 'Just piss off and shut up!'
He got to his feet, his mood altering violently, and went to stand over de Warenne.
'This is your bloody mess!' he roared. 'I told you that. But oh, no, you had to send Monck!'
De Warenne gazed back. The king winked at him. The earl sighed – ever since they were lads he had been the king's whipping-boy; he would just have to accept this latest pretend tirade. Corbett stared out of the window and schooled his features. He knew the king and de Warenne were play-acting but he relaxed, knowing that now he would be given at least some of the truth.
Edward went across to the table, filled three goblets with white wine and served Corbett and de Warenne. He then sat sideways in the window seat and slurped noisily from his goblet, glaring at Corbett from underneath bushy eyebrows.
'I'll have letters issued this evening,' he said. 'You will take over from Monck.' He smacked his lips. 'Now, my Lord of Surrey, tell my good friend Hugh here what Monck is doing at Mortlake Manor.'
De Warenne got up and dragged his chair over. He patted Corbett on the shoulder.
'No offence, Hugh.'
'As always, none taken, my lord.'
De Warenne stared into his cup. 'The story begins in October 1216, in the last year of the reign of King John, our present lord's most noble and puissant grandfather.'
'Less of the bloody sarcasm!' Edward intervened.
'Well, the story is as follows. John spent most of his reign fighting his barons, moving around the country, trying to bring this earl or that lord into submission. He died at Newark-on-Trent. Some people think he was poisoned, others that he died of a broken heart after losing all his treasure and regalia in the Wash.' He smiled at the change in Corbett's expression. 'Ah, so you have heard the story. Let me refresh your memory. John was travelling north from Bishop's Lynn. He had his whole household with him and a long line of pack horses carrying his treasures. He was trying to cross the estuary of the Nene when, according to the chronicle, he lost all his wagons, carts and pack horses with the treasures, precious vessels and all the other things he cherished.' De Warenne paused and licked his lips. 'According to the chronicler Florence of Worcester, whose writings my clerks have studied, the ground opened up and violent whirlpools engulfed men, horses, everything.'
'What happened,' Edward explained, 'is that dear grandfather tried to cross the estuary too late in the day. You know the area? There was a sudden tidal surge, the waves rushed in and the treasure train was lost.' Edward shrugged. 'Dear grandfather went to Swynesford Abbey to console himself with fresh cider and rotten peaches and then on to Newark, where he gave up the ghost in something akin to the odour of sanctity.' Corbett smiled – 'Dear grandfather' had been the black sheep of the Plantagenet family; he had neither lived nor died in anything akin to sanctity.
'What was the treasure?' Corbett asked.
'A king's ransom,' Edward replied slowly. 'Dozens of gold and silver goblets, flagons, basins, candelabra, pendants and jewel-encrusted belts. The coronation regalia-' Edward sighed. 'And, what is worse, the coronation regalia of dear great-great-grandmother Matilda when she was Empress of Germany: a large jewel-encrusted crown, purple robes, a gold wand and the sword of Tristram.' Edward rubbed his stomach and groaned. 'A fortune,' he murmured. 'A bloody fortune lost in the sea!'
'Was there any attempt to search for it?'
'Well, you can imagine the confusion that broke out after grandfather's death. It was every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. Father was only a child. He had difficulty keeping the crown, never mind looking for lost treasure!'
'And how does Monck come into this?' 'Well,' de Warenne replied. 'My family have always felt deeply ashamed about King John's disaster at the Wash. You see, my grandfather was in charge of the pack train.'
He glared at Corbett, daring him to smile – planning and other intellectual skills had always been a rarety in the Surrey family. Corbett refrained from comment.
'Good!' de Warenne breathed. 'Now, the treasure's lost. John dies. Everyone more or less forgets about it until a year ago, when Walter Denuglis, a leading goldsmith in London, purchased from a pawnbroker an ancient gold plate with John's arms on it.' De Warenne rolled his goblet in his fingers. 'Denuglis brought it to the exchequer. Then two other, very similar, pieces of plate were found. The clerks of the exchequer scrutinized the records from John's time. Sure enough, all three pieces had been part of John's treasure.'
'But,' Corbett interrupted, 'I thought everything was lost. Is it possible that these pieces were thrown up on some marsh, found by a pedlar and brought to London to be sold?'
'That isn't likely,' the king said. 'If it was a mere pedlar he hid his tracks very artfully. More importantly, Corbett, there's a legend in court circles that King John's disaster at the Wash was planned. Not even dear grandfather – who, admittedly, could be as dense as a forest – would try and cross the Wash without guides. Now a local man was hired, we know this from the records, called John Holcombe. He knew the estuary well. The accepted account says that he died in the tragedy.' Edward pursed his lips. 'But local legend has it that he escaped with a string of pack horses.' 'And if so, what happened to him?'
'We don't know,' de Warenne answered. 'Our clerks have searched the records of both central and local courts. There's no record of any John Holcombe surviving.'
'Are you sure?' Corbett insisted. 'Surely, after John's death the exchequer would have investigated such rumours thoroughly?'
'They did,' de Warenne replied. 'And could report nothing except for a very garbled story that Holcombe had been seen somewhere to the north of Walpole St Andrew, between that village and Bishop's Lynn. After that, he disappears from history.'
De Warenne paused as the bell of the priory began to ring for Vespers. Corbett reflected on the scraps of history he had been told.
'Did anyone survive the disaster of the Wash?' he asked.
'Oh, yes,' de Warenne said. 'Only the treasure train was lost. The king, the court and the escort escaped.'
'Was there a Gurney amongst them?'
Edward grinned. 'I wondered when you'd ask that! The answer is yes. Sir Richard Gurney, Sir Simon's greatgrandfather, followed the king to Swynesford Abbey where he witnessed a charter. After the royal army dispersed, Gurney went home.'
Corbett chewed at the quick of his thumbnail.
'And so,' he concluded, 'Monck was sent to Mortlake Manor, not to investigate the Pastoureaux but to look into the possibility that this treasure, or part of it, is hidden in the area?'
The king nodded.
'But why Mortlake Manor?' Corbett asked. 'Why not the countryside around Bishop's Lynn?'
'It's a wild guess,' de Warenne said, 'based upon a scrap of information about the guide John Holcombe. He was seen riding north away from Bishop's Lynn. The only possible port could be Hunstanton, if he intended to flee abroad.'
'There's another reason Monck was sent,' the king interrupted. 'Whoever sold the plate in London knew where to go. They didn't blunder into just any goldsmith's shop. No, the three pieces were sold in different parts of the city. One near the Tower, another in Southwark and the last to some grubby pawnbroker near Whitefriars. Now that requires planning. It also means someone who knows the city well.'
'You mean Sir Simon Gurney?'
'It's possible, but we suspect the Pastoureaux. Their leader is a man called…' Edward closed his eyes.
'Master, Joseph,' Corbett reminded him.
'Yes, Master Joseph. And he regularly visits London. He may have been born there. Now, when we looked at Hunstanton, we asked ourselves what of significance had happened in the area about the same time as the gold appeared.' Edward smiled. 'The arrival of the Pastoureaux could not be ignored.'
'But how would Master Joseph know?'
'That, my dear clerk,' de Warenne answered, 'is a matter of conjecture. However, what a marvellous way of searching for the gold and silver, posing as a leader of a religious community!'
'And what has Monck discovered?' Corbett asked.
'Very little,' the king replied sourly. 'That's why we sent you. Monck was furious.' The king grasped Corbett's wrist. 'Will you do this for me, Hugh? Will you go back and find grandfather's treasure?'
Corbett nodded. The king heaved a sigh of relief. He got to his feet and clapped Corbett on the shoulder.
'In which case, we will leave you to your thoughts. It's Vespers and I must have a few words with God.'
The king beckoned to de Warenne to follow him. Corbett heard the door close behind them. He went over and absent-mindedly refilled his cup. Thank God, he thought, that Edward had not asked him about his suspicions, which were many and included more than just the Pastoureaux. Corbett sipped at his wine. Is that why the graves have been dug up? he wondered. Could the treasure be buried in the churchyard? Did it explain the ostentatious wealth of the Holy Cross convent? What about Robert the reeve? Had he stumbled upon something? And what of the Gurneys? Sir Simon was a rich man. Finally, the Pastoureaux – were they really searching for gold? Was that why Marina had died? And did Ranulf remember Master Joseph because he had come across him in London? Corbett sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.
He returned to Mortlake late the following evening to discover Gurney fretting because Monck had not returned from the moors.
'When did he leave?' Corbett asked, doffing his cloak and easing off his boots in front of the fire.
'Yesterday afternoon. I have made enquiries. He was seen last night galloping through the village. I told Catchpole and some of my servants to go out and search the moors, but they can't find him.'
'And Ranulf?' Corbett asked.
'He and Maltote have retired. They said they were exhausted.'
Corbett nodded and stretched his aching feet towards the fire. He glanced across the hearth to where Alice and Selditch sat drinking mulled wine.
'Did Monck ever tell you,' Corbett quietly began, 'why he was really here?'
'He said it was because of the Pastoureaux.'
Corbett rose, went across and closed the hall doors. He came back but this time he did not sit down but stared at Gurney, his wife and the sly, secretive face of the physician.
'Lavinius Monck came to Mortlake Manor,' Corbett explained, 'not because of the Pastoureaux but because of more ancient history, the lost treasure of King John.'
Corbett hit his mark. Alice looked up startled. The physician's head went down to conceal his features. Gurney's hand immediately went to his face as if he wished to smooth away his anxious frown. Corbett sat down.
'You knew, didn't you? You knew, or at least you suspected?'
'Aye.' Gurney shrugged. 'Of course I did. As soon as they arrived here, Monck and Lickspittle demanded to search the manorial rolls and court records.'
'Why?' Corbett asked. 'Is there anything there about the lost treasure?'
Gurney shook his head.
'Sir Simon,' Corbett persisted. 'You know the story. Your great-grandfather accompanied King John when he crossed the Wash. He journeyed with the king as far as Swynesford Abbey before returning here. You must have heard the legends about John Holcombe, the guide who may have escaped with some of the treasure. The king is determined to find this treasure. Did Monck tell you why?'
Again Gurney shook his head, but his eyes never left those of Corbett.
'Because some of the plate, which is supposed to lie under the sands of the Wash, has recently surfaced on the London markets. Somebody knows where that treasure is hidden and is already selling it.'
His three listeners sat frozen in their chairs.
'I believe,' Corbett continued, 'that someone in this manor is selling the treasure. I want the truth. Terrible deaths are occurring, horrible murders. Now, Sir Simon, on your allegiance to the king, do you know anything about the treasure?'
'No, he doesn't. But yes, I do!' Selditch sprang to his feet. 'Giles, there's no need!' Gurney said.
The physician rubbed his face with his hands. 'I'd rather tell Corbett than Monck. It's best if charges were not laid against you.'
'Master Selditch!' Gurney ordered. 'Sit down and keep quiet!'
The physician looked at Corbett.
'You'd have found out sooner or later,' he said. 'You, with your sharp eyes and silent ways. I sold the plate in London.' He laughed sourly. 'After all, I am a physician; I go to London regularly to meet friends as well as to purchase goods, those potions and powders that can only be bought there. I was also born in London, a fact you would have soon discovered, so I know the city well.' Selditch's voice was edged with bitterness. 'Especially the pawnbrokers. I was born poor. My parents could ill afford my education, so those tawdry little merchants knew me well.'
'There's no need for this,' Gurney interrupted quietly.
'I am sorry, Sir Simon, there is. Every need.' Selditch took a deep breath. 'Sir Hugh, I entered Sir Simon's household. He proved to be a generous lord. When we left the king's service his home became mine.' The physician paused and stared around the richly furnished hall. 'I became fascinated with the place. I searched every nook and cranny. I read every document in the manorial archives until I discovered Mortlake's great secret.' Selditch looked at Gurney. 'It's best if Corbett sees what we know.'
Gurney quickly agreed. He told his wife to stay in the hall whilst he and Selditch led a bemused Corbett down into the underground passageways. Torches were lit. They continued along the hollow, cavernous passage past Gilbert's cell. Corbett peered through the door's spyhole, but the young man was fast asleep on what appeared to be a most comfortable bed. At the end of the passage, the physician pulled away a large beer barrel revealing a narrow doorway. He took a key from his belt and unlocked the door and they entered a long tunnel. The air was much colder and Corbett was sure he could hear the rumble of the sea. With the physician in front and Gurney behind, Corbett realized how vulnerable he was and wished Ranulf was with him. He put his hand on his dagger and, as the ground underfoot became slippery, wished he had not changed his boots for soft leather buskins. His heart began to pound and the sweat broke out on his brow, for the passageway was narrow, so tight it almost felt as if the walls were closing in on him. Corbett breathed deeply. He fixed his gaze on the spluttering torch Selditch carried and quietly prayed for a speedy end to their journey. Suddenly, Gurney and the physician turned a corner. The passageway became broader and led into an underground chamber. Corbett breathed more easily as Selditch lit the torches fixed in the walls of the cavern. The place flared into light. Selditch began to claw at a pile of boulders and stones in the far corner. Gurney went over to help him and Corbett watched fascinated as they pulled out a long pinewood coffin. Gurney undid the clasps and pushed the coffin forward. Corbett gazed at the yellowing skeleton that lay there. He looked up in surprise.
'Who is this? And what is this?'
He glimpsed a leather pouch at the foot of the coffin. He bent down to pick it up, but Gurney was faster. He plucked it out and held it tightly against his chest.
'Who is this?' Corbett repeated.
The hair on the nape of his neck began to prickle. His hand fell to his dagger.
'Oh, Hugh, Hugh,' Gurney murmured. 'We are not your enemies. We are only frightened of what you might do.' Gurney pointed to the skeleton. 'This is John Holcombe, once a native of Bishop's Lynn. My great-grandfather, Sir Richard Gurney, hired him to lead King John's convoy across the Wash.' Gurney tapped the decaying coffin with the toe of his boot. 'Instead Holcombe took it to its destruction – or at least part of it, the royal treasure train. Apparently, before King John left Wisbech, Holcombe had seen the treasure piled high on sumpter ponies and mules. In the blackness of his soul he devised a murderous plan. The king's convoy was in three parts – the king and the court first, the treasure train and then the foot soldiers. Holcombe was to go in front but on that day he held back. He also, using a heavy mist as his excuse, deliberately delayed the crossing.'
'The rest you know,' Selditch interposed. 'The tides began to sweep in. The treasure's escort panicked. Holcombe rode back. He seized a string of mules and, using his knowledge of the secret paths and routes, escaped with some of the treasure, leaving the rest to be washed away and its guardians drowned.'
Gurney took up the story again. 'Now, when my greatgrandfather reached Swynesford, he began to think about what had happened. He was no fool and, in the last confusing days of King John's reign, he decided to leave the court and hunt Holcombe down. It's a long story.' Gurney played with the leather pouch he held. 'It's all contained in here.'
Corbett held his hand out and Gurney gave him the pouch.
'For you only, Hugh. I don't want that bastard Monck seizing these documents!'
Corbett nodded. 'We'll see,' he murmured. He gestured down at the coffin. 'How did Holcombe end up here?'
'Well, to cut a long story short, my great-grandfather caught him and hanged him on the gallows, the ones you passed on Hunstanton cliffs. Once the flesh was decomposed, he had his corpse placed in a special casket and buried it here.'
'But he told no one?' Corbett asked.
'No, he was ashamed. After all, it was he who had hired Holcombe and he had his enemies. The malicious would whisper that he and Holcombe were accomplices.'
'And what about the treasure?' Corbett asked.
'Ah, that's where the mystery begins. You see, Sir Richard had few sensibilities in the matter. Before he was hanged, Holcombe was tortured in the dungeon you have just passed. He refused to disclose his hiding-place but did admit he'd had an accomplice, a second guide named Alan of the Marsh, the steward here at the manor. According to Holcombe, Alan knew where the treasure was hidden. However, according to my great-grandfather's confession, dictated to his son, this Alan was never found nor the whereabouts of the treasure.'
Corbett pointed to Selditch. 'But you sold three pieces in London?'
'Ah!' Gurney knelt and placed the lid back on the coffin. He looked up at Corbett. 'The disaster at the Wash happened in the October of 1216, but it wasn't until the following February that great-grandfather caught up with Holcombe. When he did, out in the wilds of the moors, Holcombe carried a leather bag containing those three plates. According to my great-grandfather's confession, he thought Holcombe was probably heading for one of the ports to take ship to London or even abroad to sell these pieces.' Gurney got to his feet. 'Now, my great-grandfather had caught Holcombe with a very small portion of the treasure. What could he do? If he handed him over to justice Holcombe might, out of sheer malice, insinuate that my great-grandfather had been an accomplice in his terrible crime. And what could Sir Richard do with the plate? Send it to the exchequer in London and say he had found it? No. He buried it in Holcombe's secret grave in this hollowed-out cavern. No Holcombe, no grave, no treasure. Sir Richard dictated his confession but did not tell his heir where either Holcombe or the precious plate was buried.'
As Gurney finished speaking Corbett looked at Selditch. 'And your part in this?'
Selditch blew his cheeks out in a long sigh.
'I became interested, as I have said, in the history of Mortlake Manor and all its mysterious legends. I opened up the passageways, found this cavern and realized that the stones in the far corner had been disturbed. I pulled out Holcombe's coffin. Inside I found both Sir Richard's confession and three pieces of plate. I told Sir Simon. He said I should put the plate back where I found it. I did, because I wished to protect his good name. But then the king's wars interfered with trade. Sir Simon fell into the hands of moneylenders. I remembered the plates. I took them out, went to London on some pretext and raised enough gold and silver to pay off his creditors.' Selditch spread his hands. 'What I did was wrong. Sir Simon was only told after I returned.' The physician smiled. 'He was angry, but what could he do? The plate had been sold, his creditors paid off.' The physician shrugged his shoulders. 'And I'd settled a long outstanding debt.'
Corbett stared at him.
'What will you do, Hugh?' Gurney asked.
Corbett pulled a face. 'What's the use of going back to the king?' he replied slowly. 'After all, he now has the three pieces of plate. What troubles me is who else could be looking for the rest of the treasure? Are all these mysterious deaths connected to it?' Corbett pushed the leather bag into his belt, stretched out his hand and clasped Gurney's. 'Why should I punish you, Sir Simon? The king wouldn't believe it. As for your physician, a foolish but well-meaning mistake.' He held his hand up. 'But these documents are mine and Monck must not be informed.'
Gurney's gratitude, as well as Selditch's, was almost too embarrassing to tolerate. Once they had all sworn that no one other than Alice, Ranulf and Maltote would be told, Corbett was relieved to be out of the tunnels and back in the privacy of his own chamber. He was exhausted after his journey and the rather tense confrontation in the underground passageways. Corbett glanced at his companions snoring blissfully in their beds and settled down to study the manuscript he had taken from Gurney.
At times Corbett found it difficult. The parchment was yellow with age and the writer, Sir Richard's son, had recorded his father's confession in a scrawling, almost illegible hand. Corbett read the opening sentence: 'In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I, Sir Richard Gurney of Mortlake Manor, confess this in secret, but tell the truth. I call on Christ, his blessed Mother and all the saints to be my witnesses.' The confession then rambled on about the crossing of the Wash, Holcombe's treachery, Lord Richard's shame, his secret pursuit of Holcombe and the latter's capture, torture and slow death by strangulation on the gibbet. Most of the details Corbett already knew, but one statement towards the end caught his attention. It was that Holcombe's accomplice, Alan of the Marsh, was thought to have gone into hiding somewhere in the vicinity of Hunstanton.
Corbett studied the manuscript again, rolled it up and hid it in his saddlebag. He then paced up and down the room, trying to probe the mysteries. What had happened to this Alan of the Marsh? Where was the treasure? Was Sir Simon telling the truth? Did Robert the reeve know something? Or Master Joseph of the Pastoureaux? Corbett breathed deeply. He lay down on his bed and wondered where Monck fitted into all of this.