‘Listen now!’ The strong voice echoed from the mist directly to his right. ‘Listen now, king’s man, to the oracle of Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Meddle not in what is not yours.’
‘God’s teeth,’ Corbett shouted, ‘show yourself!’
‘I have and I will, king’s man.’
Ranulf made to leave the trackway, sword drawn, ready to flounder through the snow towards the sound of that voice.
‘Stay!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Stay, for the love of God.’
Corbett’s horse moved restlessly as the clerk, sword drawn, peered through the misty whiteness. He knew it was futile. A rook cawed mockingly, then all was still.
‘Whoever he was,’ Corbett declared, ‘he’s gone. If he meant further mischief, we’d have known.’
They continued their journey. Corbett was relieved to glimpse the soaring walls of the abbey. Its great gates swung open at their approach, and as they clattered into the great yard, lay brothers hastened across to take their horses. Corbett slid from his mount and eased the tension in his back and legs. He told Ranulf to take Desroches and Chanson to the guesthouse.
‘Where are you going, master?’
‘Why, Ranulf,’ Corbett pulled off his thick leather gauntlets and beat them against his thigh, ‘I am going to kiss my Lord Abbot’s ring, present my credentials, flatter him, praise him, his abbey and his guesthouse, and thank him profusely.’ He walked off towards the arched porchway leading to the cloister and the main abbey buildings.
Ranulf helped Chanson stable the horses and then took Desroches into the guesthouse. Once they’d settled into their chambers, Ranulf brought up the physician’s panniers and coffers and Desroches tended to the ulcer on Chanson’s leg. He cleaned the wound with wine and a herbal poultice, smearing on an ointment and lightly bandaging the open sore, whilst giving clear instructions on how and when the dressing was to be changed. To distract Chanson he chattered about other ailments he was treating, particularly a case of St Anthony’s disease where the skin reddened, dried and cracked.
‘Strange,’ Desroches murmured. ‘I believe it’s the food my patient eats: oats and maize which are no longer wholesome.’
‘Did you treat Paulents?’ Ranulf asked.
‘No,’ the physician replied over his shoulder, ‘I did not. Castledene and I went out to meet them at Maubisson. They simply felt unwell. I personally thought it was due to the rough sea crossing, which would have disturbed the humours of an ox, though by the time they’d reached Maubisson, they were sweating and feeling nauseous. I simply counselled them to keep within doors.’ He shrugged. ‘The guards and their close watch were Castledene’s idea.’
‘Were they frightened?’ Corbett came through the doorway. ‘I mean Castledene and Paulents?’
‘Oh yes.’ Desroches patted Chanson on the knee, rose and went across to the lavarium to wash his hands. ‘They were often closeted together, whispering to each other. Paulents’ son, the maid and his lady wife were pleasant enough, quiet, rather fearful at being in a strange country. They said nothing untoward. I suspect they knew that Paulents was concerned and, of course, why not? Both he and Castledene had been threatened.’
‘But that only began when Paulents arrived in this country.’
‘Yes,’ Desroches conceded. ‘By then I suppose it was too late to return home.’
‘And the first warning was delivered in Dover?’
‘From what I can gather.’ Desroches screwed up his eyes and peered at the ceiling. ‘Yes, Paulents arrived on Monday. He received the warning as he entered the tavern where he would stay overnight before his journey to Canterbury. We met him yesterday afternoon, Tuesday. I believe that Sir Walter also received a warning, at the Guildhall. In both cases a scrap of parchment. Paulents’ was pushed into his hands. Castledene’s was found amongst a number of petitions presented to the Mayor by various citizens. Of course, there was no indication of who wrote them or where they came from. Ah well,’ he gestured at his panniers, ‘Master Ranulf, if you could help me with these, I’d be grateful.’
‘Monsieur Desroches?’
The physician turned.
‘Can I pay you?’ Corbett repeated his offer, gesturing at Chanson.
Desroches simply waved his hand. ‘A pleasure,’ he smiled, ‘and don’t forget to mention my name at court. The ulcer is not serious, a little infected but I have cleaned it. Chanson can now take care of it himself. I’m sure the good brothers in the infirmary would also help. Sir Hugh, perhaps I will see you later in the day?’
The physician left. Corbett heard him patter down the stone steps. Ranulf, cursing quietly under his breath, followed laden with panniers and coffers. Corbett went across to where Chanson was already acting the invalid, stretched out on the bed nursing his leg. Corbett smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
‘You will be well enough, Chanson. Try not to tease Ranulf about those woods.’
Corbett returned to his own chamber. Once inside, he locked and bolted the door and stared around. He was glad he’d come here, though he was fearful about what he had to do. He always stayed at abbeys or priories, and this chamber showed why, being clean, sweet-smelling and well swept. The furnishings were simple but pleasant, the walls decorated with coloured cloths bearing the symbols of Christ’s Passion, a wooden crucifix and a gold-edged diptych. The sheets on the bed looked clean and crisp. There was a table pushed under the mullioned glass window and the chamber boasted a stool, coffer and aumbry. Corbett looked at his own coffers, caskets and leather chancery bags piled in a heap in the far corner. They would have to wait. He pulled back the hangings on the bed and sat down on the edge, easing off his boots. He wondered what Maeve would be doing at Leighton Manor. She’d be up early as always, busy about this or that, going into the chancery room or out into the yard. He closed his eyes, swept by a deep sense of homesickness, even though he was here in the comfortable chamber of an opulent abbey.
Corbett sat for a while trying to collect his thoughts. From below he could hear Ranulf coming back into the guesthouse, Desroches shouting cheerful farewells. He was about to rise and undo the clasps of one of the chancery coffers when he heard a thud on the shutter against one of the far windows. He hastened across and carefully pulled back the thick wooden slats. A blast of cold air blew in. This window was empty of glass or stiffened parchment. He was wondering what could have caused the noise when he glimpsed the crossbow bolt embedded deep in the wood. He immediately stepped to one side and stared out. Below stretched a courtyard, and some distance away thick vegetation and bushes draped in heavy snow. The mysterious archer must lurk there, though Corbett could glimpse no movement or tracks. The attacker must have come over the curtain wall of the abbey or slipped through a side gate. He must also know where Corbett lodged. The clerk glanced at the crossbow bolt and noticed the piece of parchment fastened to it. Crouching down, turning his head slightly against the cold, he undid the twine and pulled the parchment off. He quickly pushed the wooden shutters closed, went across to the glass-filled window and undid the parchment. It contained a further warning:
Thus says Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. I have warned you once, King’s man! I now warn you a second time. Do not meddle in affairs which are not your concern. Tell Edward of England that he is not, as yet, on my reckoning.