‘Just rumours, Sir Hugh, legends about their childhood.’
Corbett stared up at the rough carving above the hearth, then glanced around. A strange place, he mused; so comfortable just staring into the fire, yet he could also feel the cold, seeping draughts, and the Gleeman’s impatience: there was a day’s work ahead and he wished Corbett to be gone.
‘And so we come to Griskin,’ Corbett said. ‘You knew who he really was? You referred to him at Harbledown.’
‘He spoke to me about his golden days, being a scholar in the schools. I recognised he was your man, Sir Hugh. He would come and go like the breeze. He rejoiced in acting the leper. He used to laugh at that, the way he could move so easily; not even outlaws or wolfsheads would approach him. He came into our camp and introduced himself. He carried a medallion like I do, the one you gave us to recognise each other, and introduced himself. I’ll be honest, I’d met Master Griskin before, though in different disguises. In fact,’ the Gleeman smiled, ‘if he’d wanted to, he could have joined our troupe. He was a true troubadour, a mime who rejoiced in his various roles. He reeked like a midden heap, and his face and hands were painted and roughened as if he’d suffered some grisly affliction. I met him outside the camp and asked him what he wanted. He replied that he’d come looking for Hubert the Monk. I couldn’t help him but I told him what I told you. We met just after we’d crossed into Essex. We were staying near Thorpe-le-Soken, for we tend to lodge near the coast. Fishing communities are friendlier than villages deep in the countryside, especially in winter. I asked Griskin if fortune had favoured him. Now he’d drunk quite deeply on ale; you know he liked that?’
Corbett nodded.
‘One of his great weaknesses,’ the Gleeman continued. ‘If he didn’t drink, he didn’t drink, but once he did, he rarely stopped. Anyway, Griskin said that he knew someone called Simon of the Rocks. I didn’t know what he meant.’
Corbett recalled how the Merchant of Souls had mentioned the same name.
‘Have you ever heard of St Simon of the Rocks?’ Corbett asked.
‘Vaguely. Griskin talked about the hermitage on the Orwell. How Hubert the Monk may have disappeared, though he suspected where he was hiding. Then he mentioned Simon of the Rocks, I think that’s the name of the hermitage chapel along the Orwell. Anyway, Griskin seemed keen to press on, so I let him go. He said that if he discovered anything of interest he would return. We stayed at Thorpe-le-Soken seven days. The following week, a chapman, a wandering tinker, came into our camp to warm himself by the fire. He talked about the gallows outside Thorpe-le-Soken; of a man hanging there completely naked. Those who’d seen the corpse thought it was a leper. Of course I became alarmed. Griskin hadn’t returned, so I and some of the men went out. The gibbet is high and stark, overlooking ice-blasted wastelands. A harsh, dark place, Sir Hugh, where the clouds hang down like the wrath of God. The biting wind tugs at your clothes as if it was a fiend sent to plague you. We saw the gibbet from afar, the corpse swinging like a rag. I tell you this.’ The Gleeman leaned closer in a gust of ale and sweat-soaked clothes. ‘I knew something was wrong. That gibbet was rarely used except for the occasional cattle thief or a felon caught red-handed by the sheriff’s comitatus. I drew closer. One glance told me it was Griskin. He’d been stripped completely naked. The noose, tight around his neck, was looped through the hook on the arm of the scaffold: a monstrosity out of a nightmare. His belly was puffed out like a pig’s bladder, tongue fastened between his teeth, eyes popping out. The crows and ravens had already been busy.’
Corbett closed his eyes and muttered the Requiem.
‘I knew Griskin. I couldn’t leave him, so I cut him down. We buried him there and erected a makeshift cross. I looked at the corpse.’ The Gleeman tapped the side of his head. ‘There was a blow here. I believe Griskin was enticed out on to that lonely wasteland of hell, his head staved in, then he was hanged, half alive, his breath choked out.’
‘You think Hubert the Monk was responsible?’
‘Who else, Sir Hugh? What would a leper have worth stealing? How could a leper threaten anyone? Even outlaws stay away from them. No, someone had discovered Griskin was not what he claimed to be, that he was searching for something or somebody. Of course it must be Hubert the Monk.’
‘You’ve heard what happened at Maubisson?’
‘The news is all over the city,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘An entire family hanging by their necks in that lonely manor with no sign of violence: they are talking of ghosts and demons. .’
‘They can talk about that to their hearts’ content,’ Corbett snapped, ‘as long as they call them Hubert. Ah well, Master Gleeman, so what have we discovered? That a treasure lies somewhere out in the wastelands of Suffolk near the River Denham. That there are legends about it, and always have been; that people have searched for it but no one has found it. There has been a quickening of interest, and then what? We have Blackstock and his half-brother; did they know where the treasure was? Adam Blackstock was certainly sailing to meet his brother so they could unite and discover this king’s ransom. However, Blackstock’s ship was attacked, and Blackstock was killed and gibbeted. Only one of his crew apparently survived. I sent messages to you and Griskin to learn all you could about Hubert the Monk and the lost treasure. Nothing is truly discovered except rumours and stories, but then Griskin is murdered.’
Corbett patted his thigh, got to his feet, opened his purse and slipped another coin into the Gleeman’s hand. He stared around the old priest’s house, the crumbling plaster, the cracked floor, the gaps in the windows, the sagging roof, the dirt and filth brushed into a corner. On reflection he didn’t like this place, he wanted to be gone. The story the Gleeman had told him about poor Griskin’s death was equally filthy, horrid and menacing. He thought of his walk back through the lonely woods to St Augustine’s. He turned at the door.
‘Master Gleeman, I would like an escort, maybe two of your men?’
‘Sir Hugh, I can’t spare any. I’ve sent some out to snare rabbits in the wasteland, but I can ask two of our boys.’ The Gleeman stood up, and went outside shouting. A short while later two lads, merry-faced, bright-eyed and clothed in rags, came leaping up. They introduced themselves as Jack o’ the Lantern and David of the Mist. They danced around Corbett like sprites, asking him questions, chattering away in a patois he couldn’t understand. He bade adieu to the Gleeman and moved away, the boys dancing in front of him, shoving and pushing, kicking up the snow, scaring the birds, flinging their arms out. Corbett smiled at the sheer exuberance of youth, a welcome relief from that dank cottage and the sombre news he’d received.
‘Come here, lads,’ he called. ‘Come here.’
Both boys fell silent and came running up. Corbett noticed they were barefoot.
‘You have no shoes.’
‘It’s not our turn to wear them, sir; it’s our turn to collect sticks, so we are pleased to act as your guides.’
‘And very good guides you are. Where are you from?’
‘We live in Birch Hall or Birch Manor,’ Jack o’ the Lantern replied.
‘We have lived there for years,’ David of the Mist teased as he chased his brother off.
Again Corbett called them back. ‘Birch Hall, Birch Manor, what do you mean?’
The two lads started laughing, pushing and shoving each other, and pointed to the trees on either side of the trackway.
‘This is Birch Manor; this is Birch Halclass="underline" the trees, that’s where we live.’ And chattering like squirrels on a branch, they ran ahead of Corbett, leading him back into the grounds of St Augustine’s Abbey.
Corbett was well down the lane when he heard his name being called. He turned and watched the figure emerge from the mist. The Gleeman hurried limping towards him.
‘Sir Hugh! Sir Hugh!’