‘Sir Hugh!’
‘Sir Edmund!’
They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace. Corbett went to show his commission from the King, but Launge waved it away with his fingers, demanding to be introduced to the rest of his party. Corbett did so. Pleasantries were exchanged. Questions were asked about Corbett’s wife, the Lady Maeve, and his two children, Edward and Eleanor, named after the King and his late lamented Queen. Corbett enjoyed the introductions, eager to view Ranulf’s reaction.
Sir Edmund was small and thick-set, grey hair straggling down either side of a square face burnt dark by the sun. A sombre-eyed man, his beard and moustache neatly clipped, Sir Edmund was dressed in a green and gold cotehardie with a black leather belt around his waist. Corbett knew the Constable of old as a born soldier, a skilled jouster and one of the old King’s comrades, entrusted with the care of this important fortress. Lady Catherine Launge was buxom and plump, her red-cheeked face and grey hair almost hidden by a voluminous old-fashioned wimple. Dressed in her dark blue gown with a silver girdle, she stood on tiptoe to greet Corbett before introducing what Corbett knew would be the source of Ranulf’s astonishment, her truly beautiful daughter. Constance was tall and willowy, her glorious auburn hair plaited under a bejewelled net. She wore a pelisse across her shoulders, and her dark tawny dress ringed a swan-like neck. But it was her face which Corbett found so beautiful; oval, with pale ivory skin, perfect features made all the more exquisite by calm sea-grey eyes. Corbett winked at Ranulf, who now realised why his master had told him he would be surprised, and so to be careful to observe all the courtly etiquette at Corfe.
Once protocol had been observed, Sir Edward insisted on taking Corbett and his party on a swift tour of the keep and inner ward, introducing them to officers of the garrison. Ranulf, reluctantly bidding the Lady Constance farewell, had no choice but to follow. Corbett became aware of how truly powerful the castle really was, with its mailed force of knights, men-at-arms and archers, as well as a company of Welsh longbowmen trained to deliver massed volleys of their goose-quilled yard-long shafts. He became breathless as they climbed the keep and the towers of the inner bailey. He and his party were to be lodged in the Salt Tower, which lay to the east of the keep, a collection of rather shabby chambers furnished with the bare necessities. Launge apologised, saying he had done what he could. Corbett’s chamber was on the second floor of the tower, while his three companions would share a chamber above. He brushed aside Sir Edward’s apologies and pronounced himself satisfied; his room was circular, its walls lime-washed, the wooden floor covered in rugs. A four-poster bed stood in the centre of the chamber, warmed and protected by dyed woollen drapes. There was a table, chairs, stools and a chest for his belongings, as well as a sufficiency of candles and lanterns as the window was a simple square, closed by a wooden board. He realised Launge had tried to make it as comfortable as possible; at least the chamber had a hearth built against the outside wall, with small-wheeled braziers either side.
‘I have reserved the best chamber above the long hall for the Seigneur de Craon.’ Sir Edmund raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Though personally I would like to throw him into the moat.’
Corbett laughed and stood aside as Chanson, helped by castle servants, brought in his belongings, along with his precious chancery coffer, which Corbett insisted on immediately placing in the iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed.
‘It’s the stoutest in the castle,’ Launge explained. ‘Your chancery coffer arrived yesterday escorted by a troop of lancers, and spent the night in my strongroom. That chest is just as safe.’
‘It’s just what I want.’ Corbett patted the Constable affectionately on the shoulder and went up the spiral staircase to inspect his companions’ quarters.
Afterwards, Corbett, Ranulf and Bolingbroke met with the constable in the council chamber, a long, low-ceilinged room on the ground floor of the keep. It was so ill lit by the narrow loopholes and arrow slits that the air was thick with the smoke from candles and torches. Sir Edmund ordered the doors to be closed, waving Corbett to one end of the heavy oaken table. He served them some ale, bread and cheese, then sat on Corbett’s right, facing Ranulf and Bolingbroke. He asked about the King, and Corbett replied tactfully. He didn’t think it was appropriate to inform Sir Edmund about the King’s sudden rages at being trapped in a peace treaty with Philip of France.
‘What problems do you have here, Sir Edmund? The fortress is well manned; you have many soldiers.’
‘Drawn in from outlying garrisons,’ the Constable replied.
‘And the reason?’
‘Flemish pirates, a swarm of them, have been seen off the foreland; they are packed in herring ships guarded by cogs of war. According to rumour they have been raiding coastal villages in Cornwall, Devon and Dorset.’
Corbett drank his ale and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. Pirates, sheltering in the ports of the Low Countries, were a constant threat, but why had these appeared now? Did it have anything to do with his meeting de Craon at Corfe Castle? Corbett had many spies in Hainault, Flanders and Brabant, port officials and sailors who provided him with information about these pirates. They were financed by merchants, powerful men in cities like Dordrecht who secured letters patent from their rulers to harass other countries’ shipping in the Narrow Seas. They could also be hired by foreign princes, as Edward of England had often done in his wars against France, Scotland and Wales. Had they been employed now by Philip of France, or was this just the normal pirate activity which plagued the southern coast of England?
‘You are worried, Sir Hugh?’
‘Of course I am. Have they been seen off Corfe?’
Sir Edmund shook his head. ‘This castle is too powerful. Why throw yourself against the rocks when you can gather a richer harvest in the fishing villages to the west?’
‘And what else?’ Corbett insisted. ‘I heard rumours about young maids being brutally murdered.’
Sir Edmund put his face in his hands. ‘If God be known, I wish they were rumours. Five corpses in all, killed at close range by a crossbow bolt.’ He removed his hands and took a deep breath. ‘Three of the corpses were found in midden heaps in the castle wards; two were found outside, one near the moat, the other in the approaches leading to the eastern postern gate.’
‘When did these murders begin?’
‘About two months ago . . . yes, it must be.’ Sir Edmund chewed the corner of his lip. ‘The first was found after Michaelmas, a castle girl who served at the nearby inn, the Tavern in the Forest.’
‘Three corpses found in the castle?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Two outside? The murderer must be someone who lives here.’
Sir Edmund glared at this red-haired clerk. ‘I have reached the same conclusion myself, sir.’
‘No offence.’ Ranulf smiled, eager to placate the father of the beautiful woman he had just met and couldn’t forget.
‘My officers and I have investigated.’ Sir Edmund took a deep breath. ‘All five girls were from the castle. You know how it is. Corfe is a small village in itself; we have a leech, who also acts as an apothecary, we have a small market, a chapel served by old Father Andrew. People come and go: traders, tinkers, pedlars, the moon people and the road folk, the wanderers, the tinkers.’