Corbett and Ranulf dismounted on the corner of an alleyway outside the piscina of the cathedral church of the Holy Trinity. A lay brother allowed them into the monks’ cemetery, though this was no haven of peace as it also served as sanctuary for wolfsheads, outlaws and other fugitives from justice. A gang of wild men in their ragged hoods and animal-skin hats, they were dressed in garish rags, though all were well armed as they squatted around roaring campfires eating, drinking and arguing with the drabs and whores who’d come looking for custom. They glanced greedily at Corbett and his two companions, but the clatter of weapons and Ranulf’s hard stare persuaded them from any mischief.
‘Where are we going?’ Chanson whispered.
‘To Becket’s shrine,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I’ve explained before. His Grace the King, well, you’ve seen his menagerie at the Tower: dromedaries, camels, lions, huge cats, apes and monkeys; he likes his animals but he truly loves his hawks. On one occasion he almost beat to death a falconer who made a mistake and harmed one of them. Anyway, two of the precious birds at the royal mews near Eleanor’s Cross are ill. The King had two golden coins blessed over their heads and has asked Corbett to bring them here as an offering.’ He nudged Chanson playfully. ‘Better than taking a wax image. I heard about one poor nuncius who carried one of those to Walsingham. By the time he arrived, the image had melted.’
‘And?’
‘Made little difference,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘The bird was already dead.’
They hobbled their horses in the monks’ cemetery, leaving Chanson on guard, while Corbett and Ranulf went round through the deep snow under the brooding cathedral, a splendid mass of stone buttresses, soaring walls, elaborate cornices, grinning masks and stone-eyed faces. They slipped through a side door and entered a mystical world of arches, lofty vaults hidden in the darkness with shafts of grey and coloured light pouring through the windows; some of these were stained and painted, others opaque. They passed a glorious pageant of painted walls and squat round pillars, their cornices gilded at top and bottom, across floors tiled and decorated with phoenixes, turtle doves and sprouting lilies. Plumes of warm, sweet candle smoke wafted through the icy air in a vain attempt to fend off the cold and the stench of pilgrims.
The cathedral was fairly empty, only the most ardent visiting the shrine in the depth of winter. Corbett and Ranulf went singly along the choir aisle, turning right at the presbytery and up a long, worn flight of stone steps into Trinity Chapel, which housed the great table tomb of Becket. Above this the glorious shrine, its protective screens pulled up, shimmered like a vision from heaven. Ranulf gasped in amazement. Notwithstanding its great size, the shrine was entirely covered with plates of pure gold, yet that was hardly visible due to the precious stones which studded it: sapphires, diamonds, rubies, balas rubies and emeralds. Corbett and Ranulf walked around to study this magnificence more closely. On all sides the gold was carved and engraved with beautiful designs and studded with agate, jaspers and cornelians, some of these precious stones being as large as pigeon’s eggs. The tomb seemed to glow as if it housed some mysterious fire, and Ranulf easily understood why so many flocked here from all parts of Europe to pray before the blessed bones of Thomas a Becket.
Corbett approached the monkish guardian of the shrine, using his seal and signet ring to gain immediate access to the small cushioned alcoves in the altar tomb. There he knelt, pressing his lips against the cold marble. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, not so much for the King or his blessed falcons, but for himself, Ranulf, Chanson, and above all Maeve and their two children. He paused, crossed himself, then rose and gave the offering of two gold coins to the hovering sacristan. He went down the steps, lit a taper before the lady altar and left.
Ranulf was determined to tell Chanson everything he had seen, but Corbett was insistent. The hour was passing. They must meet Castledene and the rest of them at Sweetmead Manor. They collected their horses and led them out of the cathedral precincts, down narrow, stinking, ice-cold runnels haunted by dark shifting shapes, over a wooden bridge spanning the Stour, past St Thomas’ church and across the wastelands, following the frozen beaten track leading to Sweetmead Manor.
Chapter 8
Desunt sermones, dolor sensum abtulit.
Words fail and sorrow numbs the senses.
Hidden behind a line of trees, Sweetmead proved to be a splendid square three-storey building of shiny black timber and pink plaster which stood on a ragstone base behind its own red-brick curtain wall. The double gate to this had been flung open, and even though all the noonday bells were yet to ring, Castledene, Wendover, Parson Warfeld, Physician Desroches, Lady Adelicia, Berengaria and Lechlade were already gathered on the small pebble-strewn forecourt before the steps to the main door. Corbett noticed how the windows of the house were firmly shuttered. City guards stood everywhere, and had been there for some time judging from the rubbish strewn around the blackened circles in the snow where they’d built their campfires. Hasty introductions and salutations were exchanged. Corbett asked Castledene if Servinus had been seen. The Mayor shrugged.
‘No sign whatsoever, Sir Hugh. The roads are clogged; even so, I’ve sent more couriers to the nearest ports.’ He shook his head. ‘He must still be hiding in the city, though a foreigner would find it difficult to find any sanctuary here. I have given my men his description; sooner or later he’ll be seen.’
Corbett chewed on the corner of his lip and stared around.
‘Lady Adelicia.’ He beckoned her away from the sharp-eyed Berengaria.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Lady Adelicia drew close.
‘Madame, you are enceinte?’
Her cold blue eyes held his.
‘The father?’ Corbett asked. ‘Sir Rauf?’
‘My secret, Sir Hugh. More importantly, I cannot hang or burn, and why should I? I hated him but I did not kill him!’ Adelicia’s voice was quiet but she spat the words out, the curl of her lips turning that beautiful face ugly. Corbett turned away, his patience exhausted; he had decided on his course of action. He strode to the foot of the steps.
‘Open the door.’
He was weary of this Hodman’s bluff, of blundering around, of being poked and pushed like some blindfolded fool. Time was passing. He had questions to ask and they had to be answered. Wendover and the guards hurried to obey. Castledene came over to speak, but Corbett held up a gauntleted hand.
‘Sir Walter, I have decided on what I must do.’ He let his hand drop gently on the Mayor’s shoulder. ‘You must send two of your men back to your clerks in the Guildhall. I want,’ he squeezed Castledene’s shoulder, ‘every record, every scrap of parchment your chancery holds about the pirate Blackstock and his half-brother Hubert. They have to be brought here, now!’ He brushed aside Castledene’s protests and went up the steps. ‘And you.’ He grabbed Wendover by the arm. ‘Light all candles, lamps and lantern horns, refill braziers, every hearth must have a fire. Light the ovens, and then check the stores and the buttery. Send one of your men to the tavern we passed as we crossed the wasteland; it has a red sign.’