Horehound watched most closely. The speaker was the first King’s man he had seen for years and he wondered about his title. Turning his head, he caught the name ‘Sir Hugh’. He was tall and slender, with dark skin and large oval eyes, a sharp nose above full lips and a clean-shaven chin. A peregrine falcon, Horehound reflected, and he felt his stomach curdle. Horehound lived on his wits, and he knew this man was dangerous, just by his calm manner, the authority with which he spoke. He was dressed simply enough, in a dark blood-red cotehardie above pale green leggings pushed into high boots on which glittering spurs jingled. A ring sparkled on his finger, and beneath the cloak he wore some collar of office around his neck. As the King’s Man turned, pushing back the cowl of his cloak, Horehound could see that his black hair was tinged with grey, swept back and tied at the nape of the neck.
Horehound shifted his attention to the others. The nearest to him sat astride a big-girthed horse with gleaming saddle and harness. This second King’s man was dressed like a raven in his black leather, a broad war belt slung diagonally across his chest, whilst the cross hilt of his sword was looped over the saddle horn so it could be drawn swiftly and easily. The black leather garb accentuated the narrow pale face under the fiery red hair. ‘The fighting man’ was how Horehound would describe him later, a clerk but also a killer, just from the way he sat, hands never far from his weapons. The rider on the far side was sandy-haired and looked like a clerk in his sober cloak, his hair shaven close to his ears.
Horehound turned to Milkwort and winked. His companion grinned; his leader was satisfied. The King’s men hadn’t brought soldiers, so they wouldn’t be hunting them.
‘Shall we go?’ Milkwort whispered. As he moved his foot, the bramble bush shook. Horehound, horror-struck, gazed back at the trackway. The King’s men had stopped talking and were staring directly at where they were hiding. Both outlaws stiffened. The red-haired one, the fighting man, following his master’s gaze, swung easily out of the saddle, drawing his sword as he did so. He edged across the path, his left hand going behind his back to find the dagger strapped there, drawing closer to the line of brambles and tangled weed which stretched like a net between the trees. Horehound nudged Milkwort.
‘Now,’ he whispered.
Both men turned and, at a half-crouch, raced back into the darkness of the mist-hung trees.
‘Let it be, Ranulf.’ Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, gathered up the reins of his horse. Ranulf resheathed his sword and returned to his own mount.
‘Are you sure, Master?’
‘As God is in Heaven, I thought someone was there.’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘Perhaps children from the village; their curiosity must be stirred.’
Ranulf of Newgate, Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, wondered how long Sir Hugh had known about the secret lurkers. He was convinced they weren’t children; he had glimpsed broad shoulders and a tangle of hair, and one of them had definitely been carrying a crossbow. But there had been no real danger.
‘Master Longface’, as Ranulf called Sir Hugh whenever he was discussing him with Chanson the groom, was only intent on letting their horses rest before the steep climb to the castle gates, hence the brief pause. Ranulf glared at Chanson, who was now grinning wickedly at him.
‘They may not have been children, Ranulf,’ whispered the groom, ‘but very big rabbits. They grow very large around here.’ Chanson was pleased to have the opportunity to tease Ranulf, whose one fear, as he had openly confessed himself, was the countryside, with its menacing woods, lonely open meadows and stretches of land with no sign of human habitation, the only sound being the screech of birds and the ominous crackling amongst the trees either side of the track. Ranulf was a child of the narrow lanes and runnels of London, and was quick to pine for what he termed ‘the comforting stink and close warmth of a town or city’. Ranulf slipped his boot into the stirrup and remounted.
‘If they had rabbits as big as a house,’ he retorted quickly, ‘you still wouldn’t be able to hit one.’
William Bolingbroke, Clerk of the Secret Seal and recently returned from Paris, heard the remark and joined in the teasing. Amongst the clerks of the Secret Chancery, Chanson’s lack of skill as an archer was notorious. Given any weapon, this Clerk of the Stable, with such a notable cast in his eye, was judged to be more of a danger to himself than any mailed opponent.
‘We must go on. Sir Edmund will be expecting us.’ Corbett leaned over and gripped Bolingbroke’s wrist. ‘William, I am content you are with us.’ He winked. ‘Though I am certain that the Seigneur de Craon will not be so easily pleased.’ Corbett pulled back his hood. ‘You are well, William?’
‘Curious, Sir Hugh.’
‘Of course, but remember, those things done in the dark will soon be brought into the light of day.’ Corbett urged his horse on. ‘Or so Scripture would have us believe.’
They left the shadow of the trees, spurring their horses over the grassy chalkland up towards the castle built on its successive mounds, one above the other, which provided it with its impregnable position. Corbett had visited Corfe years before. His parents had farmed land in Devon and they had taken their favourite son to see the glories of the King’s builders and stonemasons. He had worked in London and Paris, yet even the sights of those cities, not to mention the passing of years, had done little to diminish his awe at this formidable fortress, with its lofty crenellated walls, soaring towers, battlemented turrets and thick-set drum towers. From the keep, on the top of the hill, fluttered the royal banner of England, the golden leopards clear against their scarlet background, and next to it the personal standard of Sir Edmund Launge, the Royal Constable, silver lions couchant against a dark blue field.
At last they reached the castle, clattering across the drawbridge and in under the sharp teeth of the raised portcullis. They crossed the outer ward or bailey, as busy as any market square with its stalls, smithies, stables, cookhouses and ovens being hastily prepared for another day’s business. Somewhere a bell clanged, and a hunting horn brayed, almost drowned by the baying of a pack of hounds, hungry for their first meal of the day. On tables just inside the gateway, where the blood ran like water, the warrener was laying out the skinned corpses of game for the flesher to gut after he had finished hacking at a whole pig, the severed head of which lay forlornly in a tub of brine, frightening the curious hunting dogs with its still, glassy stare. Fires and braziers crackled. Children shrieked and danced around them, pushing aside the mastiffs which drooled at the smell of salted bacon being laid across makeshift grills to sizzle until brown. Washerwomen struggled to carry baskets of stinking clothes to the waiting vats. Verderers hung more game from poles while the whippers-in fought to keep back the dogs as they placed bowls underneath the cut throats of beast and fowl to collect the blood. Further up, a horse suspected of being lame was being led out of the stables for a horse-leech to inspect. Men-at-arms and archers lounged about, their weapons piled before them as they grouped round a fire and broke their fast on coarse rye bread, spiced sausage and a jug of ale. No one challenged Corbett or his retinue; they were allowed to pass through the bailey, across a second drawbridge spanning a dry fosse, and into the inner ward, a more serene place, dominated by its soaring keep and towers. Guards lurked in the shadows beneath the portcullis, more in the bailey beyond, whilst archers on the battlements turned to watch the newcomers arrive. Corbett reined in and dismounted, glancing across at the Great Hall, a manor house in itself. Built of good stone and fronted with ashlar on a red-brick base, it boasted a black-tiled roof and two low, squat chimney stacks. This was the Constable’s personal dwelling, comprising hall, kitchen, solar and buttery, with his private chambers above. Sir Edmund Launge, accompanied by his wife and daughter, was already hastening down the steps to greet them. Ostlers and grooms hurried up to lead away their horses. Sir Edmund strode across, sending chickens and ducks squawking away in protest.