‘A mere coincidence,’ Ormesby whispered, ‘meeting you on Harbledown Hill.’ He forced a smile. ‘The minute I heard about three horsemen led by a king’s clerk, I guessed who it was.’ He gestured round. ‘I thank you for our lodgings.’
‘You are well?’ Corbett leaned closer to the fire.
‘I still have dreams, nightmares,’ Ormesby muttered, not meeting Corbett’s eyes.
‘About Stirling?’
The Gleeman looked away, breathing quickly as he strove to clear his mind of that fatal battle six years earlier when the Scottish leader Wallace had trapped the English vanguard at Stirling Bridge.
‘I still see them,’ he muttered, ‘the Scots, a mass of men bristling with steel tips like some huge, malevolent hedgehog advancing towards us, great horns blasting, war cries ringing out. Cressingham, that stupid bastard!’
Corbett just stared into the flames. He’d lost other friends, mailed clerks, at that disaster when Hugh de Cressingham, Knight of the Swan and Edward’s treasurer in Scotland, had insisted on his hasty advance across Stirling Bridge, walking straight into Wallace’s trap. For men like the Gleeman, the only consolation was that Cressingham himself had been dragged from his saddle and killed, his fat corpse skinned to make tokens for the Scots; Wallace had even made a belt out of the piece given to him. King Edward had hurried into Scotland and reversed the defeat by his victory at Falkirk, but Ormesby had seen enough. He left the royal service, moved to a village outside Glastonbury and married a local girl. She had died in childbirth, so Ormesby had used his little wealth to finance Les Hommes Joyeuses and assumed the role of the Gleeman, their leader. Corbett had met him three years earlier during a commission of oyer and terminer in Essex, and promptly recruited him. Ormesby roamed the roads and collected all the gossip and tittle-tattle which Corbett could sift on behalf of his royal master.
‘And your news?’
‘I received your letter before the snows came,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘We moved into Suffolk, following the River Denham, making enquiries amongst the villagers, the wise women, the tavern-hunters, the wandering chapmen. It’s true, Sir Hugh.’ The Gleeman’s eyes glittered greedily. ‘There’s gossip,’ he whispered, ‘about what they call the Haunt of Ghosts.’
‘The Haunt of Ghosts?’
‘A lonely place, Sir Hugh, desolate moorland except for a dozen tumuli or grave-mounds, not far from the Denham. The gossip is that in ancient times a great king, with a treasure hoard beyond all expectation, was buried somewhere close. People have searched for it but nothing’s been found. A local priest talks of maps and charts, but. .’ He shook his head.
‘And recently?’ Corbett asked.
‘A bailiff near Denham said that about three or four years ago strangers came into the area asking about the local lore and legend, but he cannot remember their names or faces. Sir Hugh,’ Ormesby jabbed a finger in the air, ‘a great treasure does exist. There have been enquiries recently, nothing precise, just whispers, like the breeze on a summer’s evening.’
‘But there has been no report of diggings, of anyone searching for the treasure?’
‘As I said, local lore and legend, recent enquiries, strangers coming in and out with heads hooded and faces hidden. You must remember, Sir Hugh, it’s a busy place, people passing to and fro from Ipswich and the other market towns. The legends are so ancient no one really pays much attention.’
‘And Blackstock, The Waxman?’
‘Well known along the Colvasse peninsula. The Waxman often slipped into the coves and inlets around Orwell. Blackstock was respected and liked, regarded as a hero. He and his men never plundered or pillaged. They paid good prices to the local peasant farmers and kept the peace. Blackstock restocked and refurbished his ship, filled water barrels and slipped away like a sea mist.’
‘And his half-brother, Hubert the Monk?’
‘Again, gossip, but no one ever saw him. People said that Blackstock would meet someone, probably Hubert, at a derelict hermitage on the River Orwell.’ He paused. ‘Ah yes, that’s its name: St Simon of the Rocks. The locals also claim Blackstock was probably heading there when he was trapped by two war cogs against the coast in the October of 1300. The villagers still talk of the sea fight which took place. How afterwards Sir Walter Castledene’s ship The Caltrop sailed into Orwell with Blackstock’s corpse dangling by its neck from the poop. To be sure, Sir Hugh, the peasants did not like that.’ The Gleeman thrust a small log and some kindling into the charcoal now glowing strongly in the hearth. He turned, wiping his hands. ‘Do you want something to eat or drink?’
‘No, no thank you.’
The Gleeman got up and went into an adjoining room, probably the buttery, coming back with a tankard of ale and a hunk of bread. He drank and ate noisily.
‘A bloody sea fight!’ he said between mouthfuls.
‘Were there any survivors?’
‘Oh yes. According to the villagers, Castledene did the same as Blackstock had done to his crews. I believe he hanged his prisoners though he may have thrown some of them overboard. They could either drown or make their way to the shore; that’s where Castledene made a mistake. You see, Sir Hugh, along most coastlines shipwrecked sailors are shown very little mercy, but Blackstock and his crew were liked. One man survived and he was helped. No one knew his name. He was sea-soaked, half dead; they gave him some hot oatmeal, dried his clothes and sent him on his way.’
‘And The Waxman, the ship itself?’
‘Taken away, given to the merchants who’d helped Sir Walter.’
‘What happened to Blackstock’s corpse?’
‘Well, Sir Walter Castledene and Paulents were triumphant. They took their ships into Hamford Water, near Walton on the Naze The crews feasted. Blackstock’s corpse was dragged along the cobbles on a hurdle behind a horse before being hung from some gallows out on the mud flats. They put a guard about it, let it dangle there for the sea birds to have their fill, and then,’ the Gleeman shrugged, ‘according to popular rumour, it was flung into the sea, certainly not given honourable burial. I tell you, Sir Hugh, Castledene and Paulents made few friends that day.’
‘And Hubert the Monk?’
‘Ask Sir Walter Castledene. Hubert rarely showed his face, and after his brother’s death he disappeared completely. No one has seen him since.’
Corbett stared into the flames, watching one of the logs crackling in the heat. Outside he could hear the chatter and noise of Les Hommes Joyeuses as they prepared for another day. Somewhere far off tambourines sounded. Corbett realised that the morning was moving on; he had to return to St Augustine’s. He undid the purse on his belt, drew out some silver coins and pressed them into the Gleeman’s hands.
‘Sir Hugh, why do you ask me? Sir Walter will tell you all this.’
‘No, Master Gleeman.’ Corbett patted him on the shoulder. ‘He’ll tell me what he wants me to know, whereas you will tell me what you saw and heard. Do you know what caused such hatred? Why did Blackstock take to the sea and Hubert leave his monastery to become a hunter of men?’