‘Very well, Master Smallbone, the fee is paid. Let me hear your song.’
‘The King wants to break the treaty.’
‘I know that.’
Smallbone sniffed. ‘He believes Gaveston is back in England.’
‘What! But he was exiled on pain of forfeit of life and limb!’
‘Some life, some limb!’ Smallbone scoffed. ‘He’s been seen in London and there’s similar gossip from the port reeves but whether he’s still here is not known.’
‘Continue.’
‘The King is deeply interested in the dead Fitzalan’s physician. You know Lord Henry had, for some time, patronised an Italian, Pancius Cantrone. He hired him during his travels.’
‘And why should the King be interested in him?’
‘Because he once worked with Gilles Malvoisin.’
Corbett lowered his blackjack of ale.
‘Malvoisin? He was formerly physician to the French court. In particular, Johanna of Navarre, Philip IV’s dead wife. I thought Malvoisin died in a boating accident on the Seine?’
‘He did,’ Smallbone replied, gulping the venison, allowing the juices to dribble down his chin.
‘And what else, Master Smallbone?’
‘Well, the King is so interested, Simon Roulles has been despatched to Paris.’
‘Roulles!’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Who is he?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I trained with him,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s a merry rogue, Ranulf, a nimble dancer, a chanteur, a troubadour, a man who loves the ladies. I thought he had been killed in a street brawl in Rome.’
Smallbone shook his head. ‘He’s alive and kicking in Paris and, if the truth be known, paying assiduous court to Mistress Malvoisin. That’s all I have to sell.’
‘The dead physician’s wife?’
‘The same.’
‘My, my, my,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘Do you know why, Master Smallbone?’ Corbett asked.
The little clerk shook his head.
Corbett pushed away his trauncher of venison, gave his thanks and, followed by Ranulf, left the chamber. At the top of the stairs Corbett paused.
‘Mark my words, Ranulf. When we reach Ashdown, you be on your guard: that place will prove to be a pit of treason and murder!’ He paused. ‘There’s something very nasty, very secretive about all we’ve been told.’
Chapter 3
Robert Verlian, chief verderer of the deceased Lord Henry Fitzalan, would have agreed with Corbett. He had not bathed or changed, and his face and hands were stung by the nettles and brambles he had crawled through.
He had returned to Savernake Dell and seen Lord Henry’s corpse, the yard-long arrow embedded deep in his chest. Verlian had crept back to the manor only to realise he was the prime suspect; tongues were soon wagging, fingers pointing. Verlian had killed his master! He was to be captured and tried! Verlian had fled, like the wolfs-head he had become, back into the forest. What justice could he expect at Sir William’s hands? The manor lord had the power of axe and tumbril. Verlian could be hauled before the manor court and hanged before the day was out, his possessions confiscated, and what would happen to Alicia then?
Verlian crouched beside an oak, an ancient tree which, forest lore maintained, had once been used by the pagan priests for their sacrifices. Verlian hadn’t eaten, apart from some bread and rotten meat he had filched from a charcoal-burner’s cottage. Now he listened, like the many animals he had hunted, for any sound of pursuit on the morning breeze.
Verlian folded his arms across his chest. He had slept at night out near Radwell Brook, and his body now ached from head to toe, but what could he do? Ashdown Manor was a hostile place, the local sheriff was many miles away. His tired mind went back to the events of the last few weeks. Lord Henry’s infatuation with his daughter Alicia had grown by the day. He would never leave her alone. There had been presents of sweet meats and wine, costly cloth, gifts, even a snow-white palfrey. Alicia had been obdurate.
‘I am no man’s whore!’ she had snapped. ‘And no lord’s mistress!’
She had sent the gifts back. Lord Henry had only become more importunate, even forcing himself into the cottage they occupied on the Ashdown estate. Alicia, her temper knowing no bounds, had taken a bow and arrow from his war chest and threatened Lord Henry that, if he did not leave, she would kill him and claim it was self-defence. Fitzalan had turned nasty, mouthing threats and warnings. He had reminded them that Verlian and his daughter were his servants; he owned the roof under which they lived and the roads of Sussex were no place for a landless man and his daughter. Verlian had gone to Sir William for help but that secretive younger brother could provide no assistance.
Verlian heard the undergrowth crackling and scanned his surroundings, but it was only a badger coming out of his sett to sniff the morning air. Had Sir William killed his brother? Verlian wondered. To seize his wealth and put the blame on a poor verderer? Verlian was not sure of anything. He was weak from hunger, his mind fitful, his wits wandering. Hadn’t he dreamed of killing Lord Henry? Or, even worse, Alicia, where had she been that morning? Could it have happened? He suddenly started. Was that his imagination? No, the sound of a hunting horn brayed through the forest. Verlian had heard the rumours: how Sir William, now lord of the manor, was determined to hunt down his brother’s killer. Already rewards had been posted, a hundred pounds sterling for his murderer, dead or alive. Verlian, a soldier who had seen experience on the Scottish march, whimpered with fear. Perhaps he had it wrong? Again the blast of a horn, perceptibly nearer, followed by the bellowing of the Fitzalan hunting dogs, mastiffs trained in tracking a man down.
Verlian rose to his feet and ran at a half-crouch as fast as he could from that terrible sound but, the further he went, the closer the hunt grew. Verlian tried to remember where he was. He recalled his own hunting days. If he could get to Radwell Brook, he could use the water to hide his scent, but where would that lead him?
He broke into a clearing and saw a cottage. The door was open, a plume of smoke rose from the middle of the thatched roof. He tried to recall where he was and squatted down for a while taking his bearings. Yes, yes, that was it: Jocasta the witch lived here, she and her fey-witted daughter. Surely they would help? He ran across to the open door. The women inside were seated at the table. Jocasta was a tall, swarthy-faced woman, with coal-black hair tumbling down her strong face. Her eyes never flinched. Her daughter, with mousey-coloured hair and vacant eyes, just lifted a hand and went back to crooning over the little wooden doll in her lap.
‘I need food!’ Verlian gasped.
‘Then you’ll find none here, Robert Verlian!’
‘I am innocent.’
‘No man is innocent.’
‘For the love of God!’ Verlian screamed as the sound of the hounds drew nearer.
Jocasta went to a basket near the door and thrust two apples into his hand.
‘You are a dead man, Verlian. If Sir William doesn’t kill you, his hounds will!’
‘Please!’
‘Use your noddle! Are your wits as wandering as my daughter’s? You have appealed to God, then to God you should go!’
She slammed the door in his face. Verlian bit at the apples. They tasted sour; he found it hard to chew, his mouth was so dry. He was about to run on when he remembered what the witch-woman had said and gasped in relief. Of course, there was only one place which could house him. He fled across the clearing. Gasping and retching, Verlian forced his way through the brambles, desperate to seek the path he needed. The hunt grew closer, the howls of the mastiffs sounding like a death knell. On and on Verlian ran, ignoring the bile at the back of his throat, the tears which stung his eyes, the shooting pains at the back of his legs and the terrible cramp in his left side. He stumbled, falling flat on his face, the hard pebbled tracks scoring his hands, bruising his cheeks. He got up, ran on and, at last, he reached the clearing where before him stood the open doors of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Gasping and stumbling, Verlian threw himself inside, slammed the door shut, pulling the bar down and leaning against it. The little church was dark, with only a glow of light from beneath the crudely carved rood screen. He was aware of benches and stools in the darkening transepts.