"It concerns me because it concerns the King. We are not talking about a stupid feud or paltry brawl but treason against the Crown, against the very person of the King!" The Chancellor fiddled with a ring on one of his stubby fingers and then stared hard at Corbett. "You do know the law of treason covers those who do nothing to prevent treason being carried out? You, Master Clerk, fall into this category and you do know what happens to traitors?"
Impervious to many threats, Corbett could only shudder at the menace in the Chancellor's words. Edward I had devised a new punishment for those guilty of treason. A defeated Prince David of Wales had been the first to experience it only a few years before. The Prince had been captured and brought to London. He had claimed he had fought against a foreign invader but the Royal Justices had ruled that Edward I was King of Wales, so David had been guilty of rebellion against his liegelord. He had been sentenced to be dragged by the heels through the mire and mud of the London streets to the scaffold at The Elms. There he had been hanged by the neck until half dead, his body then being cut down and cut open. The heart being plucked out before his head was struck off and his corpse quartered as a warning to all others who might think of plotting against the Crown.
Corbett, bravely concealing the panic and terror he felt, looked directly into the podgy face of the Chancellor. "I am no traitor, " he replied. "You cannot accuse me of a crime I know nothing of. " He dug into his wallet and pulled out the warrant he had been given. "Your commission says that I am to investigate the suicide of a London merchant in a London church. It says nothing of treason. Nor have I, in all my investigations, discovered anything faintly tinged with disloyalty to the King, never mind outright treason!"
The Chancellor smiled at Corbett's cold and clever reply, heaved his bulk off the table and went back to sit in his chair. "Of course, you are right, Hugh, " he replied, for the first time ever using Corbett's Christian name. "You were sent into this task blind but you were chosen deliberately because of the very qualities that you have so far failed to display. A sharp mind. A tenacity of purpose. A person loyal to the King with a heart and mind which cannot be seduced. I hoped, the King himself hoped, that you too would come to the same conclusions we have reached, the only difference being that you would find treason, the traitors responsible for it and the evidence which would hang them. We still hope that you will achieve this, though time is no longer on our side. "
Corbett breathed deeply and relaxed, aware that he was still important to this ruthless man and the even more ruthless master he served. "What can I say?" he asked. "What do you want to know? More importantly, what should I know?" He suddenly felt the anger rise in him at being assigned a task, the true nature of which had been concealed from him. "You, my Lord, sent me to investigate a suicide but did not tell me I was looking for traitors. What was I supposed to do? Blunder about in the dark until I hit something? Or worse still, become entrapped myself in something I had no knowledge of? Who are these traitors? What is this treason?"
The Chancellor pursed his lips, a born lawyer, he carefully measured out his words like a thrifty moneylender counting out coins. "We do not know the traitors, " he replied; "or even the treason they are plotting. All we do know is that the Populares or radical movement which supported de Montfort has revived its strength and is plotting fresh revolution in the country and in this city, and that their first task is the destruction of the King by whatever means they can employ. "
The Chancellor dug deep into the pockets of his voluminous robes and pulled out a small leather pouch, the kind Chancery clerks use to keep tags or small pieces of parchment in. He undid the mouth of the pouch, shook a small piece of manuscript free and handed it to Corbett. "Read this, Master Clerk. Study it well. We received this from one of our spies whose body was later found bobbing in the Thames. It is all he sent us before he died. " Corbett undid the dirty, greasy bit of parchment. Its message was short and abrupt, 'de Montfort is not dead. Fitz-Osbert is not dead. They are both in the city and will bring down our Sovereign Lord the King. ' Corbett handed the message back to the Chancellor.
"Of course, everyone realizes who de Montfort was, " the Chancellor's voice hardened, "but what is more worrying is that many in this city still see de Montfort as a saviour. De Montfort was an aristocrat, but he appealed to the people, not the merchants but the small traders and journeymen who mouthed phrases like "What touches all should be discussed by all', de Montfort insisted on calling 'Parliaments', talking sessions where the community of the realm could discuss matters. Our Lord, the King, has taken over such an idea but not in the way that de Montfort intended; he wanted the cowl-makers, the cobblers, the carpenters and the masons to take over in government not just be involved in it. "
"But de Montfort died, smashed to pulp like some rotten apple at Evesham!" Corbett exclaimed. "He, his family and his followers were destroyed by the King!"
"No, " Burnell replied. "Many survived, spread their radical theories and still do here in London, exploiting the city's dreams and aspirations. " He stopped and picked up a piece of parchment. "This was pinned to Saint Paul's Cross yesterday. Listen!" Burnell jibed, opening the crumpled greasy vellum. "Know you, Citizens of London, how you are despised and ill-treated by the endless greed of the Lords and the King They would take from you, if they could, your share of the daylight and tax the very air you breathe. These men, the King, and his Spanish Queen to whom we render forced homage, feed on our substance, have no thought but to glitter with gold and jewels, build superb palaces and invent new taxes to oppress this city. Their priests are no better, shepherds more interested in fleecing their flocks than caring for them. But the Day of Liberation is at hand when the worms of the earth will most cruelly devour the princely lions, leopards and wolves, for the common folk will destroy all tyrants and traitors!" The Chancellor finished speaking, his face slightly purple, his chest heaving.
"The writer?" Corbett interjected.
"We do not know, " the Bishop angrily replied, "but this is treason! Something is beginning to rise from the dark and murky depths of this city!"
"Is that the reference to the Day of Liberation?" Corbett interrupted.
Burnell snorted. "Day of Liberation! From what, I ask you?"
Corbett thought of what he had seen while touring the shires and walking through the midden heaps of London. The common people, in one-storey, timber-framed houses, with thatched roofs and plaster walls, taxed by sheriffs, haunted by bailiffs and royal purveyors. Their lives were pitiless, he had seen a line of peasants once at the bar of an assize court at Kenilworth, standing like roosters soaked in the rain, heads hanging, bedraggled and dirty. A fellow clerk had joked that a peasant's soul could not go to either heaven or hell, for both angel and demon would refuse to carry it because of the smell. Corbett reflected but wisely forbore to answer the Chancellor and turned to another matter.
"I know about Fitz-Osbert, " Corbett said. "A devil worshipper from over a hundred years ago, but what has he to do with this?"
"Fitz-Osbert was a rebel as well as a devil worshipper!" Burnell replied. The Chancellor picked up a small carved crucifix from his desk. "There are thousands of these, " he began, "in castles, homes, hovels throughout this realm. There are monasteries, nunneries and abbeys the length and breadth of the country. There are cathedrals in every city, and a church in every village. Yet Christianity is only skin deep.
There is still the old religion; we met it in Wales, the worship of dark forces and the constant harking back to ancient ways!"
Burnell nodded towards the narrow slit windows. "Even the Abbey itself is built on an ancient place of worship. Go through the records of its church courts and you'll find superstition there: the man who placed the sacred host in his garden in the hope it would ward off marauding insects: the woman who made wax images of her husband in order to cause him pain, or the countless references to people consulting witches, wizards, warlocks and the like. Fitz-Osbert lives on in such practices, he was a rebel because the Church condemned him and the Church is protected by the State. So, attack and destroy the State and the Church is vulnerable. What worries and puzzles me, " concluded the Bishop, "is why the spy mentioned both de Montfort and Fitz-Osbert in the same breath? What did he know? If only he could have told us more!''
"Who was he?" jibed Corbett. "Some poor clerk who was sent in blind, knowing nothing of the facts or the danger?''
"No, " Burnell smiled. "A yeoman, a squire, Robert Savel. These rebels, whoever they may be, are bringing arms into the city. A cartload was taken by stealth from Leeds Castle in Kent, others from castles round London. "
"So, Savel was assigned to find out if these arms were brought to London?" Corbett stated.
"Exactly, " Burnell replied. "Savel began his investigation in Southwark, working in a hostel called 'The Scuilion' in the middle of that jakes-infested quarter. He was there ten days, he sent me nothing except that scrap of paper, then he was found with his throat cut, floating face down in the weeds off Southwark bank. I only knew of his death because I had my clerks search the coroner rolls. "
"He left nothing?" Corbett asked.
"Nothing except the note. "
"Friends or relatives?" enquired Corbett.
"None, " Burnell smiled sourly. "Savel was chosen because, like you, he was alone with no family or close friends. We felt he could be trusted to hunt down traitors. He was killed, so were Crepyn and Duket. I believe that all three deaths are linked, though I do not know how. But, if the mystery of Duket's death is solved, then we may be able to proceed and discover those who resent the royal control over the city and would like to throw off royal authority, turning London into a commune independent of the sovereign, like many of the cities of northern Italy. They can do this through outright revolution or, more simply, by destroying the King. Such an act would achieve their ends for her Grace, the Queen, has still not produced a living male heir. "
Corbett could only agree with Burnell. Twelve years into his reign, even longer in his marriage, the King was still without a son to succeed him. Time and again Queen Eleanor had given birth to male children but within months they were dead. Small, pathetic bundles given a hasty burial here in Westminster. The Queen was pregnant again, but would the child be a male and survive? If the King died suddenly without an heir then civil war would ensue. London could rise in revolt and dictate its own terms to anyone who wished to win its support.
"Consequently, after Savel's death, " the Chancellor said abruptly breaking into Corbett's thoughts, "we assigned you to this task. We believe that Crepyn was a leading member of the Populares and a member of a secret coven pledged to the teaching of Fitz-Osbert. We also know that Duket in some tenuous way was also linked to the revolutionary elements in the city. We hope, or rather hoped, that by giving you this task we might stumble upon the truth and bring any treason plotted against the King to nothing. "
Burnell jabbed his finger at Corbett. "We still believe you can do that and order you on your loyalty to the King to continue the task assigned to you. Do you accept?"
Corbett nodded. "I accept, and I apologize for the time I have lost, though I must inform you that I have made some progress. There is no doubt that Duket did not commit suicide. He was murdered. "
The Chancellor's face beamed with satisfaction and he rubbed his hands together. "Good, " he murmured. "Then it is surely time we caught his murderers!"
Nine
Corbett was pleased to get out of the palace, free from Burnell's strictures, warnings and secret threats. He had been investigating a suicide which was really murder which, in turn, masked treason, sorcery and rebellion. As he walked towards the river, he mentally scrutinized what he had learnt. Burnell had reached the conclusion that Duket was murdered by a secret, treasonous coven. If the reason, the method and the perpetrators were discovered then, Burnell had decided, he would also seize a nest of traitors.
He looked up at the rain-swept sky and wished he was elsewhere; on the one hand, he wanted to solve the mystery but, on the other, at what cost? A throat cut at dead of night, a violent death and a solitary funeral? Gone into the darkness without anyone really caring? He thought of Alice but, with an effort, dismissed her from his mind. Burnell had made himself clear, Corbett must act with haste to prove or disprove the Chancellor's conclusions about Duket's death. But where could he begin? He remembered Savel and 'The Scullion' tavern and decided a visit there might unveil some of the mystery.
He hired a boat at the bottom of the Westminster river steps to take him across the river to Southwark. The boatman agreed, openly smirking at Corbett who realized that the fellow thought he was just a clerk out on a pleasure jaunt, intent on drink and the soft body of some whore. He glared at the man, who simply pulled faster at the oars, a knowing grin on his face. Soon, Corbett was in Southwark, a maze of winding streets and overhanging houses. A funeral procession forced him aside, the cross bearer leading the group, chanting prayers, followed by a crier who shouted "Wake you sleepers, pray God to forgive your trespasses: the dead cannot cry; pray for their souls as the bell sounds in these streets!" The grieving mourners swept by muttering, their prayers almost drowned by the raucous howl of stray dogs.
Corbett let the procession pass and looked around. Southwark was still busy with a few hours of daylight left before those many, shadowy figures who haunted the place, came to life to pursue their secret trades and illegal businesses. In the open-fronted shops, bakers, potters, furriers and other minor traders did brisk business. The whores were there but, given the hour of the day, acted as discreetly as they could with their painted faces, braided hair and scarlet gowns. Corbett turned down one street and found himself amongst scriveners, illuminators of parchment and ink-sellers. He asked one of these for directions to 'The Scullion' but was so bemused by the complicated directions that he slipped the man some pennies and paid for a rough map to be sketched on a piece of dirty, disused vellum. Using that, Corbett arrived at a modest, two-storeyed building with an ale-stake and a crude sign above the narrow wooden entrance, proclaiming it was 'The Scullion'. He tried the door but it was locked, so he continued down the street and into a small square where a crowd surged around two large carts with boards thrown over them. It was surrounded by rough scaffolding over which were draped thick cloths adorned with religious and not so religious themes. Jesters and devils curled and twirled through enormous vines: rabbits fought knights; sacred texts trailed off into long-headed fantastical creatures; bare-bottomed monks climbed towers bearing dragons with tonsured heads; goat-faced priests chased nuns with monkey faces and slim bodies; devils and angels fought over small white souls.
Corbett leaned against a doorpost and watched the crowd mill around the makeshift stage, yelling abuse at the black-bearded Herod, laughing at the "donkey" carrying Jesus into Jerusalem as the actor inside the skin 'hee-hawed', lifted the tail and dropped huge turds on the stage. Corbett smiled and watched the devils led by a huge black Satan with a grisly mask, horns, tail and a black horse-hair suit. The creature reminded Corbett of Burnell's words about the satanic coven pledged to Fitz-Osbert and he wondered if the murderers of Duket had used black arts to get in and out of Saint Mary Le Bow Church.
He quickly cleared such a fantasy from his mind, recalling the words of one of his lecturers in philosophy: "There is nothing new under the sun, there is a cause for everything be it good or bad and these causes are, or will be, within human understanding. " No, Corbett thought, Duket was killed by human cunning. If it was some secret coven, espousing the beliefs of de Montfort and Fitz-Osbert, he would find them. But what if it wasn't? If Burnell was mistaken? Or if Crepyn had been the leader and Duket's death was just an act of vengeance and now the perpetrators would simply slide back into the dark pools of intrigue which seemed to ring this city?
Corbett shook his head and looked up through the gap between the jutting gables of the houses. The sky was darkening. He did not want to be in Southwark when night fell, so he left the small square and went back to 'The Scullion'. The doors were now open, rushlights had been lit and the large, stuffy room was beginning to fill up with a strange array of customers seated around the stout wooden tables. There was a tooth-puller with pincers, bucket and pack of needles still touting for custom: a seller of squirrel skins, the dried pelts draped around his shoulders; an apothecary with skull cap and herb-bag. A forger, the 'F' brand still a resplendent scar on his left cheek.
They were joined by students and clerks from across the river, openly mocking a pedlar, a crafty-eyed, sharp-nosed man who had a tray slung around his chest which, he proudly claimed, bore the wonders of the world; one of Charlemagne's teeth, a feather from the wing of the Angel Gabriel, a phial of the Virgin Mary's milk, straw from the manger at Bethlehem, porcupine quills and the molar tooth of a giant. Corbett, grinning at the man's patter, pushed his way through the crowd towards the far end of the room where a red-haired, white-faced man in a leather jerkin and apron stood guard over the huge barrels used by the servants who rushed back and forth with dirty pots brimming with the rich brown London ale.
Corbett introduced himself and the man stared back with watery-blue eyes. "Yes, Master Clerk, what can I do for you?"
"Robert Savel?" Corbett replied. "He worked here?"
The man's eyes slipped away before he answered. "Yes, he worked here. Why? What is it to you?"
"I am, was related to him, " lied Corbett. "I want to know how, even why he died?"
The man nodded to a small table in the corner. "You want my custom? Then sit down, drink, and pay for it. "
Corbett shrugged, moved over and sat down, the owner later joined him with a dish of beef sprinkled with pepper, garlic, leeks and onions. A large pot of ale in his other hand. "Eat, " he commanded, "and I will talk. "
Corbett did as he was told; the ale was strong and tangy but the food was hot and well spiced. The landlord sat opposite and watched him. "Who Robert Savel really was, " he began, "I do not actually know. He seemed well bred. I know people. I watch them and I saw through his disguise. But, he was a good stableman, he knew horses, so I gave him a job here. "
"What did he do? I mean, apart from his job?" Corbett asked.