Puddlicott had returned to London and embarked upon a life of crime. He swindled certain goldsmiths in Cheapside; he defrauded a Lombard banker and stole valuables from churches. Yet his real skill was as a confidence trickster, being able to pose as whoever he wanted to in order to gain money through fales pretences. On a number of occasions law officers had laid him by the heels but Puddlicott, a master of disguise, had always escaped. Corbett sipped the wine and marvelled at this confidence trickster’s prowess. No one was safe. Shrewd merchants, hardened officials, dewy-eyed widows, cunning soldiers, grasping tenant farmers, all had been victims of Puddlicott’s fraudulent ways.
Corbett tensed as he looked at the list of dates. A government spy had heard of Puddlicott being in England the previous autumn. There were similar reports of fresh sightings in the spring, followed by the English spy’s most recent communication of Puddlicott being seen in Paris. Corbett put the parchment down and lay back on the bed. Was it possible? he wondered. Was the Seigneur whom Judith had described, the master of nightly revels at Westminster Palace, none other than Richard Puddlicott? But why? The rogue might be showing his contempt of authority by debauching monks, consorting with whores? Corbett had a vague idea of the truth and there was only one way of establishing that. He heard a crashing on the stairs and Ranulf hammered on the door.
‘Master! Master! Cade has returned, the barges are ready!’
Corbett rose, drained his wine cup, and made his way downstairs. He settled his bill with the landlord and strode out into the yard where Cade, still looking rather sheepish, waited, his great hands nervously clenching and unclenching.
‘Everything ready, Master Cade?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh. They wait at the Wool Quay.’
‘It’s Westminster isn’t it?’ Ranulf shouted. He clapped his hands. ‘It’s those mischievous monks.’ He nudged Maltote playfully. ‘Now the fun begins,’ he whispered. ‘Wait until old Master “Long Face” exerts his power.’
Master ‘Long Face’, however, as Ranulf secretly described Corbett, was already striding down the alleyway towards the riverside. At the Wool Quay the three great barges were pulled in, waiting. An officer of the Tower garrison came forward to greet them.
‘Sir Hugh, my name is Peter Limmer, sergeant-at-arms.’ He waved at the barges full of archers dressed in leather sallets, steel conical helmets on their heads. Each was armed with sword, dirk and heavy crossbow.
‘Good!’ Corbett murmured. ‘We go to Westminster and you will do exactly as I say.’
The lanky, crop-haired officer nodded. They clambered aboard. Orders rang out and the barges pulled out into mid-stream.
Chapter 10
The journey was a peaceful one, broken only by the sound of splashing oars, the creak of leather and the clink of armour. A heavy mist still hung over the river so Corbett felt cut off from the busy life of the city. Now and again they passed the occasional boat or ship. The silence was shattered when Limmer roared out orders to pull towards the centre of the arches under London Bridge which provided wider space to shoot through. Here the water frothed around the great starlings built to protect the river craft from the massive stone columns of the bridge. Oars were pulled in and the barges shot under the bridge and into calmer waters. The mist still hung heavy as they turned the bend to go down towards Westminster. The oarsmen feverishly pulled to one side when the great gilt-edged prow of a Venetian galley suddenly broke through the mist bearing down on them. Otherwise, the journey was uneventful. They rowed to the northern bank, the mist now thinning, and they glimpsed the tower and turrets of Westminster.
They disembarked at King’s Stairs; orders rang out and the archers, organised in two columns, marched behind Corbett and his companions. They swung through the gardens, surprising the odd, sleepy-eyed servant, and across the palace yard into the abbey grounds. A side door to the abbey was open. Corbett, leaving the military escort outside, walked into the deserted side of the nave. It was dark and cold.
‘Bring benches!’ he ordered Limmer, pointing further down the aisle towards the south transept. ‘I want a bench placed up there against the wall and a chair opposite. I then want the following brought: Master William of Senche, he’ll probably be drunk.’ Corbett sniffed the still fragrant scent of incense. ‘Then go to the abbey refectory. And, whatever they say, arrest Adam of Warfield the sacristan and Brother Richard and bring them here. I want an armed guard left outside and all entrances to the abbey and palace sealed. No one is to leave or enter without my permission.’
‘William of Senche will be easy,’ the officer replied. ‘But the monks may accuse us of blasphemy; trespassing on church property and violation of their clerical orders.’ The soldier grinned sourly. ‘I don’t want some priest shouting Thomas a Becket’s martyrdom is being re-enacted, nor do I want my men being cursed and excommunicated by bell, book and candle!’
‘Nothing will happen,’ Corbett replied. ‘This is no clash between Church and King, but between law officers and proven criminals.’
‘They are monks.’
‘They are still criminals and, Master Limmer, I shall prove that. I assure you, when this business is over and the King knows your part in it, you will be praised and rewarded. As for Holy Mother Church, she will be only too pleased to see justice done and be too busy looking after her own affairs.’
The officer grinned and hurried out, shouting orders at his men.
‘And us, Master?’
‘You, Ranulf, together with Maltote, stay here near the side door. Only approach me if any of those I interrogate use violence, or threaten to, though I don’t suppose they will.’
Corbett walked up the aisle into the south transept where archers had already rearranged the bench and dragged a chair from the Lady Chapel for Corbett. The clerk sat down and breathed a silent prayer that he’d be proven right. Despite his brave words to the soldier, Corbett felt nervous and uneasy. If his allegations were proved false and his theory collapsed, then he would have a great deal of explaining to do, both to the bishops as well as to the King.
Corbett heard shouting and muttered oaths outside the abbey. The door crashed open and a group of archers entered, led by Limmer, with three struggling figures held fast by the arms. Corbett got to his feet. Adam of Warfield seemed on the verge of apoplexy. His sallow face had tinges of anger high in his cheeks, his eyes blazed with fury and Corbett saw traces of white froth at the sides of his mouth.
‘You will answer for this, clerk!’ the monk roared. ‘I will see you excommunicated by our Order! By the hierarchy of England, by the Pope himself!’ He struggled and broke free of the grinning archers on either side of him and turned to face his tormentors. ‘All of you!’ he bellowed. ‘All of you are damned! This is sacred property, the King’s own abbey! And this man,’ he turned, flinging out an accusing finger at Corbett, ‘is a limb of Satan!’
Corbett glanced at Brother Richard and took heart at what he saw. The little, fat monk seemed apprehensive, his eyes constantly shifting, his small, pink tongue popping in and out of his mouth, licking his lips. Next to him, the steward William of Senche had been frightened into sobriety. At last Adam stopped shouting and stood, chest heaving, hands hanging down by his side. Corbett stared at the brown cowl and garb he wore, and the white tasselled cord round his waist. He’d seen the man’s fury, the foaming at the mouth, the demonic anger. Was this the killer stalking poor prostitutes in the alleyways of London? he wondered. The sacristan drew in his breath for a second tirade. Corbett knew that if the monk was allowed to continue he might lose the support of his military escort, some of whom were already worried at the terrible curses uttered by the priest. Corbett stepped closer and, bringing his hand back, gave Adam a stinging slap across the face. The monk yelped and stepped back, holding his cheek.