‘They had fallen sick, my lord.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They had some sickness. That is why Sir Walter had them housed safely here.’
‘But they were supposed to lodge here anyway.’
‘Yes.’ Wendover shrugged. ‘Sir Hugh, you must ask Sir Walter that yourself.’
Corbett stared at the captain as if seeing him for the first time. Wendover shuffled his booted feet, plucked at a loose thread on his woollen legging, then adjusted the battered war belt round his waist. Corbett crouched down by one of the corpses and continued his close scrutiny. Wendover, he believed, was highly nervous. He was youngish-looking, with curly brown hair, fair-faced and bright-eyed, but a man who probably hid behind his livery. The weapons, the leather hauberk, even Wendover’s neatly clipped dark brown moustache and beard, indicated a man in love with the pretence of himself. Corbett glanced sideways. He noticed the cheap rings on the stubby fingers, the leather brace around Wendover’s left wrist, the gleam of oil on his hair and beard. A lady’s man, he concluded, a boaster who revelled in his own calling and status.
‘My lord, what do you think?’ Wendover asked, eager to break the silence.
‘Murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘Heinous murder. And as the old proverb has it, murder will out. There’s also another saying, Master Wendover.’ He watched the captain gulp nervously. ‘Evil shall have what evil deserves.’ Corbett rose to his feet.
Wendover tried to control his fear. As first he’d regarded this royal clerk as a May-day boy, but now, standing there cloaked like a raven, black hair swept back, those sharp eyes staring at him from that sombre, watchful face, Corbett frightened him, as did that other one, similarly dressed, with his red hair and keen green eyes. Wendover heard a sound and glanced over his shoulder. Ranulf was standing close behind him.
‘So, sir,’ Corbett took a step closer, plucking at the cords on Wendover’s leather jerkin, ‘did you see anything untoward here? Anything, sir, on your allegiance to the King. After all,’ Corbett added coldly, ‘you were on guard.’
‘I saw nothing!’ Wendover spluttered, stepping back, but Ranulf pushed him forward again.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘No need for your games here, Sir Hugh, or yours, Master Ranulf.’
‘No games.’ Corbett went over to the merchant prince. ‘Oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘No games, Sir Walter, I assure you. Someone will hang for this!’
A short while later Corbett made himself comfortable in the high-backed chair in one of the upper chambers. Castledene sat facing him across the long, narrow table. Beside either chair was a warming brazier full of sparkling charcoal. A six-branched candelabra, each spigot holding a pure beeswax taper, glowed lucidly, the flames dancing like angels in the cold air of the chamber. On the wall behind Sir Walter was a triptych depicting Simeon and Anna greeting the Divine Child in the Temple of Jerusalem. Corbett studied this as he deliberately allowed the silence to continue. Then he glanced round, taking in the heavily draped cotbed in the corner, the bedside table with its chequered top, the mullioned glass door-window high in the wall, the turkey rugs on the floor, the coffers, and caskets grouped around the iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed.
‘Sir Hugh, you have questions?’
‘I certainly have, Sir Walter. A comfortable chamber,’ Corbett observed. ‘Every luxury for your friend.’
‘The King commanded it.’
‘The King commanded it,’ Corbett echoed. ‘You have checked Paulents’ treasure chests and coffers?’
‘I. .’
‘Sir Walter,’ Corbett leaned forward, ‘you are Mayor of Canterbury. Paulents was your friend and I mourn for him as I do for his wife, son and maid, but you also act for the King in this matter, as do I.’ He held up his left hand, displaying the chancery ring. ‘I am not your friend, Sir Walter. Nevertheless, you and I,’ he gestured across the table, ‘have fought for our lives on the battlefields of Scotland and Wales, so let’s not play the clever man of law, the shrewd merchant. Tell me honestly: after he arrived here, did Paulents show you the secret coffer in his private chamber?’ He let his hand fall with a crash. ‘Please, Sir Walter, the truth.’
‘I am not a plaintiff before King’s Bench.’
‘You could be.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘I could serve writs on you for refusing to answer. Sir Walter,’ he leaned across the table, ‘four of God’s children lie foully murdered downstairs. Servinus their bodyguard has disappeared. They were all the King’s guests, foreigners who entered this kingdom with royal approval and licence. They fell under the Crown’s protection. Edward will want answers. So, are we going to engage in cat’s cradle? Hodman’s bluff? Answer and question? Point and counterpoint? If we are, Sir Walter, I’ll take you back to London and loose Berenger, Staunton and the other royal justices on you. They’ll savage you like mastiffs.’
‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene held his hand up.
‘From the beginning,’ Corbett warned. ‘The truth, simple and stark; no fables, no subtle deceits.’
‘It’s true what you say, Sir Hugh,’ Castledene began slowly. ‘We have fought on the same battlefields. I am the King’s man but I’m also a Canterbury man. My grandfather’s father was born here. I was raised here. I went to school in Christchurch Cloister. I love this city. Being a second son,’ he sighed, ‘gave me little advantage, so I joined the King’s household and, as you know, showed courage — or at least didn’t betray my fear — in Wales and Scotland. I won the King’s favour and a number of valuable ransoms, and I came back to Canterbury, where I married. My poor wife died; she now lies buried in God’s acre at St Dunstan’s. I put all my energy and talent into building up trade and business; you name the item and I sell it, especially wool. Sir Hugh, the markets of France, Brabant, Hainault and Italy are greedy for our wool. I bought land. I raised sheep. I sold wool then I bought ships. Merchants from different countries, Sir Hugh, have a lot in common with chancery clerks. We speak the same language.’ He flailed his hand. ‘We meet and talk to each other. There are no differences when it comes to trade, be it Germany, Brabant, Castile or Aragon. Money always talks, it breaks the barriers; it is almost as powerful,’ he smiled thinly, ‘as God’s grace.
‘In London I met Paulents, a Hanseatic merchant. I liked him, I visited him and he visited me. We entered into trade negotiations, nothing remarkable. Now Paulents was also a scholar very interested in the history of England, particularly its eastern shrines. He was always fascinated by the stories of how his ancestors, the Angles, Saxons and Jutes, invaded this island. Anyway, about four or five years ago Paulents found an entry in a chronicle apparently written by some warrior who’d fled from England to Germany, where he later took vows and entered a monastery. When he was in England this former warrior had attended the funeral of a great Saxon king which was celebrated with fabulous ostentation. He talked about a ship of gold, laden with treasure, buried beneath the fields of eastern England. Now the chronicle he wrote,’ Castledene held his hand up, ‘contained a map in the shape of a monastic cloister: a square with pillars around its garth. According to Paulents, this Cloister Map shows the treasure to be buried beneath wasteland somewhere in south Suffolk near the River Denham. Paulents trusted me fully; he copied this map and sent it to me, but it never arrived. You see, Sir Hugh, the richer I became, the more I attracted the attention of other people. In the year of the Gascon War, 1296, an audacious privateer had appeared on the sea-roads, a man I knew vaguely: Adam Blackstock, a former citizen of Canterbury, half-brother to Hubert the Monk. You know the details of their past. The chancery at Westminster must have informed you. Well, Blackstock proved himself to be a ruthless, indomitable fighter as well as a most skilled mariner. Eventually he owned his own ship, The Waxman. Now here is a problem, Sir Hugh. .’ Castledene paused.