The rain was still falling as Corbett and his party reached London's Aldgate and made their way down through Poor Jewry, Mark Lane, and into Petty Wales near the Tower. They stabled their horses and hired a wherry at the Wool Quay. Maltote of course protested, but the two wizened boatmen only mocked his fears at having to go downriver.
'You only drown once!' they cried in unison. 'And it doesn't take long. If you fall in the water, just open your mouth and let the water gush in. You'll be amongst the angels within a few seconds!'
'Which is more than we could say for you!' Ranulf hotly declared, coming to the aid of the newfound victim of his dice games.
Corbett told them all to shut up. The boatmen cast off and rowed downriver past Billingsgate and Botolph's Wharf. The wherry shot under London Bridge where the water boiled between the closely built arches, the boatmen dipping their oars so the boats could squeeze by the starlings which protected them against the thick stone arches. Once they were through they all relaxed; the Thames was a cruel river but no more dangerous than in the seething cauldron under London Bridge.
The wherryman now took their boat midstream, past Dowgate, Queenshithe and the Fleet. The stench there was dreadful. The city refuse, the corpses of dogs, cats, beggars, lepers and even unwanted babies, were dumped in the Fleet ditch and, when the rains came, were washed down to the Thames. As they rounded the bend towards Westminster, Ranulf nudged Corbett and pointed to the near bank. Despite the thick refuse which bobbed and dipped on the river surface, water carriers were now filling their barrels full of Thames water to sell on the streets and alleyways of London. Corbett grinned wanly and nodded.
'Always drink wine or beer, Ranulf,' he murmured, then turned to the waterman. 'Is it true?' he asked.
'What?'
'That a sudden inrush of water will suffocate the breath immediately?'
'Oh, yes.' One of the boatmen grinned at a green-faced Maltote. 'Best way to die.'
Ranulf took up the argument as Corbett looked away and thought of old Dame Martha drowning in her bathwater.
At Westminster they disembarked at King's Steps, Corbett pulling the hood of his cloak over his head to avoid recognition by any of his colleagues in the Chancery or the Exchequer for he did not want to waste valuable time in idle chatter. He left Ranulf and Maltote to feed their faces in one of the many pie shops which stood just within the walls of the palace and pushed his way through the crowds, taking the path around the Great Hall to the buildings beyond. Here he crossed to one of the small outbuildings and, making his voice sound pompous, loudly demanded entrance in the King's name. A querulous voice told him to go and jump in the Thames so he knocked again and eventually the door swung open to reveal a tall, gaunt figure, dressed in a long robe of dyed brown fur. The man's face was pale, long and lined, his blue watery eyes squinted in the daylight. Corbett kept his hood up.
'Who are you?' the man demanded sharply.
Corbett pulled the hood back.
'Master Nigel Couville. I am a messenger from the King. He has decreed you are too old and senile for your post and I have been sent to replace you!'
The old man's gaunt face broke into a smile and his thin blue-veined hands clasped Corbett by the arms.
'You are as insulting as ever, Hugh,' he murmured. 'And as stupid! Come in. Unless you want us both soaked to the skin.'
Corbett entered the room. The light inside was dim and the air musty with the smell of candle grease, burnt charcoal, and the lingering odours of leather and parchment There was a trestle table and a huge stool, the rest of the room being taken up with leather and wooden caskets of all sizes. Some were open to reveal rolls of parchment spilling out on to the floor. Around the walls were shelves which stretched up to the blackened ceiling, bearing more rolls of vellum. It all looked very disorganised but Corbett knew that Couville could select any document he wanted in an instant This chamber was the muniment room of the Chancery and the Exchequer with records dating back centuries. If a document was issued or received it would be filed in the appropriate place in Nigel Couville's kingdom. Once the senior clerk in the Chancery, Nigel had been given this assignment as a benefice, a reward for long and faithful service to the Crown. Couville had been Corbett's master and mentor when Hugh first became a clerk and, despite the gap in years and experience, they had become and remained firm friends.
Couville searched around the room and brought a small stool forward.
I can see you are going to be a nuisance,' he observed drily. 'Old habits never change.' He waited until Corbett sat down. 'Some wine?'
Corbett shook his head.
'Not if it's that watered vinegar you always serve!'
Couville went into a small recess and brought out an unstoppered jar and two pewter goblets.
'The best Bordeaux.' He filled a cup to the brim and handed it to Corbett 'Now I know what Scripture means when it says: "Don't cast your pearls before swine".'
Corbett grinned as he sipped the rich red wine.
'Beautiful!' he murmured.
'Of course it is.' Couville sat opposite him, elbows on his knees, cradling the cup as if it was the Holy Grail. 'St Thomas a Becket drank the same wine. Do you know, even when he became an ascetic and gave up the pomp of court, even when he fasted, the Blessed Thomas could not abstain from his cups of claret.' Couville smiled at the clerk. 'And you, Hugh, you are wed? Maeve too?'
They exchanged banter and gossip about old friends, new acquaintances, and fresh scandals. At last Couville put his goblet down on the floor beside him.
'What is it you want, Hugh?'
Corbett took the faded leather dog's collar out of his wallet
'There's a motto written on this – "Noli me tangere". I think it's from a family crest. Do you recognise it?'
Couville tapped his fingers together and narrowed his eyes.
'Somewhere,' he mused, I have heard that phrase.' He rose, scratching his head. 'But the question is, where?'
Corbett rested for an hour whilst his old friend, arms full of sheaves and rolls of parchment, searched the records of armorial bearings and heraldic designs. At first Couville confidently announced, 'It will not take long, Hugh, believe me!'
But after an hour had elapsed, he stood in the centre of the room, shaking his head.
'Tell me, Hugh, why you want this?' He raised a hand. I know your secret business, Master Corbett. I know you despatch letters of which no copy is sent to me.' He sat down again on the stool opposite his former student. 'But why is this motto so important?'
Corbett closed his eyes and described the events at Godstowe: the death of Lady Eleanor Belmont, the subtle treachery of the French and Philip IV's evil intentions. He had almost finished when, as an afterthought, he mentioned the possibility of an assassin from the attainted de Montfort family being present in England. Couville's eyes lit up.
'I have been looking,' he said, 'through the noble families of England and Gascony as they are today. But what happens to a noble family when it is found guilty of high treason?'
'Of course!' Corbett cried. 'The insignia of such a house is destroyed, its titles removed and its lands seized by the Crown!'
Couville rose and went across to a long leaden tube. He undid the top and drew out a thick, yellowing roll of parchment He laid it carefully out on the long table whilst waving Corbett over. The clerks studied the parchment curiously. It was divided into two; on one side were drawings of Coats of Arms. Corbett recognised a few: Percy de Bohun, Bigod, Mowbray. On the other side of the broad sheet of parchment were Coats of Arms with great black gashes through them.
'What are these?' he murmured.
'This is the Roll of Kenilworth,' Couville replied. 'Simen de Montfort rose in rebellion in 1258. As you know, Edward destroyed his forces amongst the apple orchards of Evesham in 1264. De Montfort was killed, his body hacked to bits and fed to the royal dogs. Some of his companions died with him, a few ded abroad, but most took refuge in Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire. After a long siege the casde surrendered and de Montfort's rebellion was over.' Couville pointed to the parchment 'On one side are the armorial bearings of those nobles who supported the King. These others with the black line drawn across their escutcheons belong to the leading supporters of de Montfort. Perhaps we can find your motto amongst them.'
Corbett walked away whilst Couville, muttering to himself, pored over the Rod of Kenilworth.
'Ah!' Couville looked up, face beaming with pleasure. 'Noli me tangere belonged to the Deveril family.'
'What happened to them?'
Again Couville muttered to himself and wandered round his room checking other rods and parchments and quarto-sized journals which contained an index of royal warrants and proclamations. He beckoned Corbett back to the table.
'The Deveril who fought with de Montfort died at Evesham.'
'And were there any heirs?'
Couville shook his head and pointed to the Deveril insignia.
'The clerk who drew this up added a note. Look!' Corbett squinted down at the faded blue-green ink. 'Nulli legitimiti haeredes.'
'No legal issue,' Couville translated. 'According to this, the last of the Deverils died at Evesham.'
Corbett shook his head and picked up the faded leather dog collar.
'So why was this found round the neck of a little lap dog in the forest outside Godstowe?'
'I don't know,' Couville retorted. 'Be logical, Hugh. Just because it was found there doesn't mean it has anything to do with the crimes you are investigating.'
'But surely it must?' Corbett whispered.
Couville put a hand on his shoulder. 'Hugh, only God knows where that collar came from. After the defeat of de Montfort, the market stalls were swamped with the forfeited goods of rebels.'
Corbett wearily rubbed his face in his hands.
'Tell me, Nigel,' he began, 'a young woman and her male companion are found barbarously murdered in the glade of an Oxfordshire forest Their corpses provide no clue as to their identity. No one comes forward to claim the bodies. No one makes petitions or starts a search for their whereabouts. They are brutally murdered yet their deaths provoke nothing but silence.'
Couville shrugged. 'Go out into the alleyways of London, Hugh. You will find the corpses of the poor, but no one gives a fig!'
'Ah!' Corbett replied. 'But these were well-fed, pampered people, used to luxury. Where did they come from?'
Couville grinned. 'They must have come from abroad.'
Corbett stared hard at his old mentor. Of course he thought. Father Reynard had described both of them as olive-skinned. So were they foreigners?
'If they were foreigners,' he said slowly, 'they must have obtained a royal licence to enter England. Would such a document be difficult to trace?' Couville nodded.
'Of course. Hundreds enter England every month. Even if such a licence were issued, a copy may not be sent to me.'
Corbett scratched his head and grinned sheepishly.
I have discovered something,' he said slowly, 'and yet it sheds no light.' Corbett picked up his cloak from the door where he had tossed it. 'No jests, you know I am the keeper of the King's secrets. I admit you do not see the copies of the letters I send or the reports spies send me.' He fastened his cloak round his shoulders. 'Sometimes I am proud because I have the King's ear, but our royal master is a devious, sly man. He once told me that if his right hand knew what his left was doing, he would cut it off.'
'What is your question, Hugh?'
I know all the King's spies and agents, whether they be working in the court of Castille or in the Papal Chambers in Rome. But is there anyone else?'
Couvtile spread his hands.
'You are proud, Hugh, and pride interferes with logic. You know there must be men who work directly for the King. The Earl of Surrey is one. There must be others.'
'Nigel, all royal accounts come to you. Have you ever discovered another name?'
Couville rounded his eyes in mock wonderment
'Another Corbett? Of course not!' His face grew serious. I have seen one name. Payments made to a de Courcy.'
'Who is he?'
I don't know. Ad I have seen is the occasional references, monies given "pro secretis expensis in negotio regis".'
'For secret expenses on the business of the King,' Corbett translated, and felt a flash of anger at his royal master's deviousness. He took his old friend's hand.
'Nigel, I thank you. One day you will come to Leighton?'
Couville grinned.
'To see Maeve, of course.'
Corbett found Ranulf and Maltote had moved from the pie shop to the nearest tavern. Both looked well pleased after hours of hard drinking and glowered at their sober master's harsh strictures to leave their ale and go back through the pouring rain to King's Steps and another unpleasant journey along the Thames. By the time they reached London Bridge Maltote and Ranulf had vomited every drop they had drunk and had to spend the rest of the journey listening to the harsh witticisms of the grinning oarsmen.
They disembarked and stayed in a tavern near the Tower for the rest of the day. The next morning they began their gruelling journey up the ancient Roman road which ran from London's city wall into Oxfordshire. Ranulf and Maltote objected vociferously.
'Why this?' Ranulf shouted.
Maltote looked away, not daring to confront this dour but very important royal clerk.
'The reason, Ranulf,' Corbett announced softly, his face only a few inches from his servant's, 'is that I am trying to find out if, from some eighteen months ago, the ale-masters and tavern-keepers along this highway remember two foreigners, a young woman and her male companion. So,' he added sweetly, 'we shall stop at every tavern and ale house along the road. You will not drink anything but watered wine. You will not get drunk and you will help me in this business.'
'But I have told you,' Ranulf replied. 'The landlord at The Bull in Godstowe saw a young man and woman as well as a well-dressed stranger. What more do you want?'
Corbett gathered the reins in his hands.
'Ranulf, everything depends on this. I am searching for a pattern. First, did these two strangers suddenly appear in Oxfordshire or had they travelled from London? If the latter, they probably came from across the seas. Secondly, the young stranger who also passed through Godstowe at the same time – was it just a coincidence, or was he connected with the murder victims?'
Ranulf saw the seriousness in his master's face.
'In which case, Master, the sooner we begin, the sooner we finish!'
Ranulf was correct in his forebodings, the journey proved to be a nightmare. The rain fell incessantly until it seemed they travelled through sheets of water, the old cobbled road turned into a muddy mire, sometimes dangerous with potholes, where a man could plunge waist deep in water. Most of the time they led their horses as they moved from small ale-houses and comfortable inns to huge spacious taverns. At first they had no joy and, on the evening of their first day out of London, went to bed so weary they could scarce speak to each other. On the following day, however, at a thatch-roofed tavern which stood on the outskirts of Stokenchurch village, the landlord listened to Corbett's questions and pursed his lips in self-importance.
'Oh, yes,' he declared. 'I remember the pair.'
'Describe them!'
The fellow made a face.
'It's a long time, Master Clerk.'
Corbett raised the silver piece between his fingers.
'But I remember them well,' the landlord continued hastily. 'Well-dressed and fed they were. She was comely, though dressed like a nun with rosary beads in her hand. Her companion,' the landlord shrugged, 'really nothing more than a boy. I thought he was her page.' 'Did they speak English?'
'Oh, no! The noble tongue – French. I asked them where they were going. She just shook her head and smiled but the boy said she was dedicated to God. I could scarcely understand him. They paid their silver and off they went!'
'Did anyone,' Corbett asked, keeping his excitement hidden, 'travel with them?'
The landlord shook his head.
'Did another stranger come here about the same time?'
'Oh, yes,' the tavern-keeper replied. 'A young, well-dressed fop, though armed. He carried a sword and dagger.'
'Did you see his face?'
'No. He arrived early in the morning to break his fast just as the young woman I mentioned earlier was leaving. He was cloaked and hooded. I thought that strange because the weather was fair.'
'So, how do you know he was well-dressed?'
'There were rings on his fingers. His jerkin was of red satin. As I said, he broke his fast and left within the hour.'
Corbett rose as if about to leave.
'The woman,' Ranulf broke in, 'did she have a lap dog?'
The fellow's rubicund face broke into a gap-toothed grin,
'Yes, she did, a little yappy thing wrapped up in her cloak. She fed it tidbits, morsels of bread soaked in milk. I remember it well It whined every second it was here.'
Corbett left the tavern elated with what he had found out and they continued their journey to the outskirts of Oxford. Sometimes his questions only provoked blank glances, muttered oaths and shaken heads. But at two other taverns he elicited the same responses he had at Stokenchurch: a young woman and her male companion, both olive-skinned and quiet, with a less than perfect command of English. The boy, apparently a page, always did the talking. The woman seemed pious and withdrawn: indeed, one of the innkeepers actually described her as a nun. More ominously, the well-dressed young stranger always appeared at the tavern around the same time the mysterious woman and her page were about to leave. At last, to his own satisfaction and Ranulf's apparent pleasure, Corbett decided they had found what they wanted and ordered them to turn back and travel south.
They reached Leighton Manor soaked and saddle-sore. Ranulf and Maltote disappeared like will-o'-the-wisps whilst Corbett received one of Maeve's lectures about the need to rest, as wed as the dangers of charging about on the King's business in weather not fit for the worst of sinners. Corbett heard her out, torn between his desire to sleep and excitement at what he had discovered.
Once night had fallen and the manor was quiet, he rose, took out his parchment and again began to fit the puzzle together. He had the events at Godstowe in some semblance of order. Now he concentrated on the mysterious murders in the forest. He believed the woman to have been connected to the attainted Deveril family; the motto on the dog collar could not be dismissed as a coincidence. She was also a foreigner. The Roll of Kenilworth had indicated that there was no legitimate Deveril issue so was she of some bastard line? If so, the Deverils were still proscribed so why had she been allowed to enter England and, undoubtedly, to travel to Godstowe, a sensitive place where a former royal mistress had been incarcerated. Who was the young page, and the mysterious young fop who had trailed them? And what happened in the forest outside Godstowe? Who had murdered whom? It was logical to conclude the young fop was the assassin but it could have been the young page or, indeed, a complete stranger. And was the mysterious woman the murder victim or was it someone else? She had apparently been travelling to Godstowe and must therefore have been expected. So she must have arrived…
Corbett threw the quill down in disgust The priory contained many nationalities and all the nuns, even Lady Amelia and Dame Agatha, spoke in the Frenchified manner after the fashion of the court That young fop… Perhaps it had been the Prince or Gaveston? Corbett went back to his notes about Lady Eleanor's death, twisting and turning them. Daylight had long broken when he reached the inevitable conclusion: he was ready to confront the murderer. One final piece of the puzzle remained. A protesting Maltote was roused and ordered to ride as fast as he could to the royal camp outside Bedford. Corbett entrusted Mm with a short letter in which he asked the King to supply simple answers to what Corbett considered simple questions. Nevertheless, the clerk was still uneasy: his theory was well argued but there was little evidence and he wondered if the royal answer would come in time to prevent another murder at Godstowe Priory.