‘I still think he is planning a surprise.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘I wish to God I knew what it was. Sir Edmund, we will get our horses prepared; we must take advantage of the daylight.’
A short while later, Corbett, feeling very self-conscious, led his own retinue and de Craon’s across the drawbridge and out along the trackway leading down into the forest. The sun had grown stronger, the sky was a wispy white-blue, and although it was late afternoon, the countryside seemed bright under its canopy of white snow now melting and breaking up. De Craon chatted, saying he had studied Corfe and the surrounding countryside very closely before he had come to England, how it reminded him so much of Normandy, especially the fields, meadows and woods around Boulogne. Corbett half listened. Despite the break in the weather and the knowledge that his meeting with de Craon was drawing to an end, he felt a deep unease, a tension which stiffened the muscles of his back and thighs, like a jouster getting ready for the tourney, wondering what danger it might bring. He stopped at the edge of the forest, his gaze drawn by the blackened patch of burnt earth, the pile of charred branches and brushwood.
‘That comes from the fire the other night,’ Sir Edmund’s steward, who was accompanying them, remarked. ‘Travelling people. Often from the battlements you can see such fires glowing in the forest.’
As they entered the canopy of trees, de Craon continued his chattering, questioning the steward about hunting rights and the season for deer and did the forest hold wild boar? Corbett found the Frenchman’s constant talking a source of deep irritation, and was only too pleased when de Craon reined in and summoned forward his man-at-arms.
‘Go ahead of us,’ he ordered. ‘Sir Hugh, you talked of outlaws?’
‘They are no danger,’ Corbett reassured him.
‘Never mind, never mind.’ De Craon gestured. ‘It’s better to be safe than to be sorry. Follow the trackway,’ he ordered his man-at-arms, ‘but go no further than the tavern.’
The man answered reluctantly in French. De Craon’s voice became sharp. The man-at-arms turned his horse, dug in his spurs and cantered deeper into the trees. ‘As long as he keeps to the trackway,’ de Craon muttered, ‘he’ll be safe.’
By the time they had reached the tavern in the forest, Bogo de Baiocis was standing in the yard shouting for the taverner and telling one of the stable boys to be careful with his horse. Sir Hugh and Ranulf stayed outside the gate with the rest while de Craon entered the tavern. A short while later he came out smiling to himself, his servant carrying two small tuns of wine.
‘I paid him well.’ De Craon gestured at Bogo de Baiocis to give one of the tuns to the steward. ‘The best Bordeaux, imported four years ago; they say it’s the finest those vineyards ever produced.’
For a while there was confusion as Bogo de Baiocis went back to the tavern to collect rope so that they could tie the tuns to the horns of their saddles. De Craon added that he had ordered certain items for the castle kitchens which Master Reginald would deliver personally to Corfe. Corbett declared that he and Ranulf were journeying on to the church and invited de Craon to accompany them, but the Frenchman politely refused.
‘I passed the church as we entered Corfe,’ he remarked, swinging himself up into the saddle. ‘A lonely, gloomy place, Sir Hugh. You have business with the priest there?’
‘More with certain outlaws,’ Ranulf replied.
Corbett waited until de Craon and the rest were back on the trackway leading to Corfe.
‘What’s the matter, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.
‘I wish I knew, Ranulf.’ Corbett watched the group of horsemen disappear round the bend. ‘I truly do.’ He glanced up between the trees at the blue sky. ‘The weather has improved, the sun is out; you remember the old saying, Ranulf: “Vipers and adders always come out to greet the sun”?’
He urged his horse on, Ranulf following slightly behind. The forest either side of them was noisy with the melting snow slipping off branches and the drip-drip of water. Here and there the trackway was slippery and Corbett had difficulty controlling his horse.
‘Horehound and the rest,’ Ranulf spoke up, ‘will be nervous. I don’t think they truly trust us.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘let’s tell them we are coming. Ranulf, you remember the words of the song ‘Jove cum Mercurio’? I’ll sing the first verse to remind you of the words, then you can come in and repeat each line. If the outlaws hear us they will know that we mean peace.’ And without waiting for a reply Corbett began the lusty student song, distracting Ranulf from his fears about the forest whilst assuring anyone in hiding that they came in peace.
As they reached the cemetery wall, following it round to the lych gate, Corbett’s song died on his lips. The cemetery looked bleak in the sunlight, the crosses and headstones drenched in melted snow, and from the trees beyond came the cawing of rooks. No one was about. Corbett had expected the outlaws at least to build a fire, and even if they were hiding, to have left a scout or guard. They dismounted and hobbled their horses. Ranulf, uneasy, drew his dagger; Corbett followed suit. They walked round the church but could detect no sign of life. Both the main door and the Corpse Door were locked, and no glimmer of candlelight showed through the wooden shutters.
Corbett walked out of the cemetery along the path leading to the priest’s house. He knocked at the door, but the sound rang hollow and the windows on both ground and upper floor were shuttered. He walked round the back, stopping at the water butt. He noticed how the ice had been broken, the water level much fallen. He caught the faint smell of food, of meat and bread and the tang of spices. The rear door was also locked. Corbett stepped back to look up and his foot caught a brass bowl, which clanged like a trumpet. Cursing, he picked it up, and was about to throw it further into the garden when he noticed how the inside was lined with black dust. He examined the bowl more carefully, weighing it in his hands. It was of good quality, heavy, not something a poor priest would likely throw away. He sniffed and caught the smell of saltpetre, the same odour he had detected in the church. He gently placed it down.
‘Father Matthew!’
No answer. Corbett walked around the house again and knocked vigorously on the door.
‘Father Matthew, I wish to have words.’
He heard a sound above him and looked up. The priest was visible through the top window shutters, his face pale and unshaven.
‘Why, Sir Hugh. I’m sorry I can’t come down. The sweating sickness, I believe. I’ve not been well.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ Ranulf shouted back. ‘Do you need anything, any food?’
The priest shook his head. ‘I haven’t eaten for days but I think I’m getting better.’ He forced a smile. ‘Perhaps I will make some gruel or oatmeal. Please give Sir Edmund my regards and tell the castle folk they must use the castle chapel. Father Andrew will look after them.’
‘You know the outlaw Horehound?’ Corbett shouted up.
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I do.’
‘Have you seen him or any of his coven?’
The priest shook his head. ‘I heard the rumours, Sir Hugh, about how they’d entered the King’s peace, and I am pleased, but I have heard no sign of them.’ The priest was now gabbling. ‘Sir Hugh, it is cold. I will see you shortly.’
Father Matthew withdrew his head, closing the shutters behind him. Corbett walked back to the church steps and stood sheltering in the alcove, watching Ranulf go through the cemetery as if the outlaws were hiding there.
‘What are you looking for?’ he called.
‘I thought they might have come and left, but there is no sign of them; no one has been here.’ Ranulf walked back. ‘Though,’ he sighed, ‘the snow is beginning to melt.’
Corbett stared across at the silent, forbidding priest’s house.
‘Why should a priest,’ he asked, ‘use a good bronze bowl to mix saltpetre and other substances then throw it out into the garden? Why does he say he hasn’t eaten when I can smell the odour of cooking?’