The three newcomers took a table just near the door. One of the villagers turned and gave a chipped-toothed smile, lifting his hand, palm exposed, the customary greeting for peace. Corbett responded. A tap boy came running up with a tray of leather blackjacks full of ale, and without being asked, placed them on the table.
‘Is Master Reginald here?’ Corbett asked him.
‘I’m here.’
The taverner emerged from the shadows around the barrels and vats where he had been working, a dark-haired, sour-faced man, small and thickset but quick and soft-footed. Unlike other taverners, there was none of the hand-wringing or wiping of the hands on the apron, the greasy smile or bowing of the head.
‘You are strangers here? Why should strangers be travelling in such weather?’ Master Reginald glimpsed Corbett’s silver chain; now he did smile, the quickest of bows, and snapping his fingers, he called the tap boy back, gesturing at the blackjacks. ‘Proper tankards,’ he demanded, ‘and the best ale from the barrel.’
He paused as an old woman, resting on a cane, staggered out of the kitchen and came to sit in a chair directly opposite him. She had a scrawny neck and the face of an angry chicken, hair piled high on her head. She beat her cane on the floor as she glared at the newcomers.
‘My mother.’ Master Reginald’s smile was genuine. ‘Sirs, would you like something to eat? I have a fine venison stew, the meat is fresh and cured, newly baked bread and a bowl of onions and leeks fried in butter?’
Corbett nodded. He took his horn spoon from his wallet and waited for the taverner to bring the food from the kitchen.
‘You’re the King’s man, aren’t you?’ Corbett nodded and made the introductions, then pointed at the tankards. ‘There should be four. I would like you to join us, sir.’
‘I’m busy.’
Ranulf grasped his wrist. ‘We are King’s men,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘I want some food,’ the old woman shouted.
‘Ask the cook,’ Master Reginald shouted back. He tried to pull free from Ranulf’s grasp.
‘We are King’s men,’ Ranulf repeated, ‘and carry his seals. We wish to buy you a tankard of ale and share local gossip.’
The taverner agreed reluctantly and sat like a prisoner at the bar. Corbett ate hungrily, while Master Reginald became more nervous and wary. When he had finished his meal, Corbett wiped his bowl with a dollop of bread, cleaned his spoon on a napkin and put it away.
‘Do you know the outlaw Horehound?’
‘I’ve never-’
‘Yes you do.’ Ranulf picked up his dagger, which he had used to share out the bread. ‘You’re a taverner, on the edge of a forest where outlaws lurk. They come to you for food and sustenance, they sell you fresh meat, they tell you who’s on the road.’
‘Tell the outlaw Horehound,’ Corbett continued, ‘that the King’s man wants urgent words with him. It will be to his profit. You won’t forget, will you? Secondly, these young women who have been killed. Some of them served in this tavern. Do you have a crossbow, Master Reginald?’
‘Yes, I’ve got a crossbow, as have many of the villagers and castle folk. I also have a longbow, a quarterstaff, a sword and a dagger. I served in the Earl of Cornwall’s retinue in Gascony. My mother owned this tavern, as her grandfather did before her.’
‘And you have made it splendid with the plunder of war. Did you know any of those dead girls?’
‘Of course I did.’ The taverner kept his voice low. ‘I often need help in the kitchens and tap room. In winter trade is poor, but once spring comes, the roads and trackways are busy with people coming into the castle.’
‘Did you have a grudge against any of them?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Were they surly or impudent?’
‘Some were, some weren’t. Some had light fingers, others were prepared to sell themselves to customers. Some I liked, others I did not.’
‘And you often go to the castle?’
Corbett was now closely watching the group in the corner.
‘Well of course I do. I consider myself Sir Edmund’s friend.’
‘Who are those?’ Corbett asked, nodding toward the group he had been watching.
‘They are Castilians, trapped here by the snow. They are visiting the farmsteads and manors. They wish to buy up this year’s crop of wool. Such visitors are quite common now, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett nodded; English wool was as precious as gold in foreign markets. Many cities and powerful groups of merchants sent their envoys to England to buy the wool direct.
‘I go to the castle, and Mistress Feyner, the laundrywoman, comes here.’ Master Reginald chattered on. ‘Sir Hugh, I know which path you are leading me down, but I am innocent of any crime.’ The taverner finished his tankard. ‘I do not know why these young women were killed, but now, sir . . .’ He scraped back the stool, got to his feet and walked away.
Corbett asked for the tally, and as he paid he studied the wool merchants, heads together, chattering in a tongue of which he caught a few words. He paid the boy and walked over to the foreigners. At his approach one of the Castilians turned, then rose to his feet, hand outstretched.
‘Monsieur,’ he spoke in accented Norman French, ‘you have business with us?’
Corbett gripped the outstretched hand.
‘No, sir, I am only curious.’
He glanced quickly at the man’s companions; black-haired, moustached, swarthy-faced, about the same age, they could have been taken for brothers, although up close Corbett recognised the differences in both dress and manner. Two were apparently merchants, whilst the others, by their ink-stained fingers, were clerks or scribes. The table in front of them was littered with scraps of parchment and a small box of lambswool.
‘You have been in England long?’ Corbett asked.
‘About six weeks.’ The Castilian now spoke English, in a harsh, guttural way; lean-faced and weary-eyed, he glanced over Corbett’s shoulder at Ranulf standing in the doorway. ‘Sir, I understand you are a King’s man?’
‘In which you understand correctly, sir. I wonder if I can see your letters of commission?’
The smile faded from the Castilian’s face.
‘Sir, we are merchants. We have letters of protection.’ He sighed at the way Corbett kept his hand outstretched, then talked quickly to his companions, one of whom handed over a large leather wallet. The Castilian introduced himself as Caratave; he undid the leather pouch and took out a sheaf of documents. Corbett scrutinised them. They were written in Latin and Norman French. The first was from the King of Castile asking that these merchants be given safe passage. The others were letters from the English Chancery. Corbett even recognised the clerk’s hand on licences issued to enter Dover.
‘I thank you, sir.’ He handed the documents back. ‘But now, if you are approached by the sheriff’s men, you can say that Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, has confirmed your documents. May I buy you some wine?’
The offer was curtly refused. Corbett bowed and walked out into the stable yard.
‘What do you make of that?’ Ranulf whispered.
‘Curiosity, Ranulf, curiosity, that’s all.’ Corbett gazed up at the sky and turned his face against the stinging cold wind. ‘Here we are, Ranulf, in the King’s own shire of Dorset, at Corfe Castle. Monsieur de Craon weaves his web and spouts his lies. Offshore Flemish pirates come close to land, and now we have Spanish merchants.’ He shrugged. ‘They seem legitimate enough.’
Chanson brought their horses from the stable and paid the grooms. Corbett grasped the reins and led his horse out on to the trackway. He had hardly mounted when it shied violently at the boy who burst out of the bushes on the side of the path, knocking the snow from his hair and ragged clothes. Corbett steadied his horse and quickly dismounted.
‘You served us.’ He recognised the boy from the tavern.
‘Aye, Master, I did, and my ears are sharp.’