Dame Cecily was not pleased to see Ranulf and Maltote the following morning. She made them wait in an antechamber before inviting them into her opulent chamber, where she and Father Augustine sat on high-backed chairs before the fire. Ranulf and Maltote had to squat on stools pushed forward by an old lay sister. Old Master Long Face was right, Ranulf thought. He winked mischievously at Maltote. The prioress preened herself, smiling sourly at them whilst flouncing her pure wool robes.
'What does Sir Hugh Corbett want of me this time?' she asked.
'Simple answers,' Ranulf replied, 'to very simple questions. Master Lavinius Monck was a visitor at your house just before he died?'
'Yes, yes, poor man.' Dame Cecily glanced coyly at Father Augustine. 'Our chaplain' – she emphasized the word – 'has already told us the news. What a tragedy! What terrible events!'
'Why was Monck here?' Ranulf asked.
'Well, far be it for me to read Master Monck's mind, God rest him! But he was still anxious to know why his servant Cerdic had come here.'
'And what answer did you give?'
'The same as I told Master Corbett. I don't really know.'
Father Augustine coughed, clearing his throat.
'Dame Cecily,' he declared, 'can't be held responsible for the people who visit her.'
'And why do you come here, Father?'
'I am chaplain to the priory.' The priest smiled at Ranulf. 'I have known this place many years. When I was a curate in Swaffham I used to come here in the summer as a rest from my pastoral duties.'
Ranulf didn't know whom he disliked the most – the preening prioress with her false, smiling coyness or this long-visaged, sour-faced priest. Ranulf always felt uncomfortable in the presence of clergy – they seemed always to be patronizing him or sharing some private joke at his expense. This time was no different. Deliberately he pushed his muddy boots forward towards the fire and stretched. He smiled as he saw the prioress quiver with annoyance at such boorishness.
'We are going to Bishop's Lynn,' he announced. He yawned, pushed his hands towards the fire, rubbed them, then smacked his thighs. 'You may be assured of one thing, mind you.'
'What's that?' Father Augustine asked sharply.
'Sir Hugh Corbett is a terrible man,' Ranulf declared. 'A digger for the truth, a searcher out of secrets, God's vengeance on murderers.'
'Then it's time he met with more success!' Dame Cecily snapped. 'Believe me, Master…?'
'Ranulf.'
'Ah yes, Ranulf. I intend to write to the king. I object to the peace and harmony of my house being shattered by these peremptory visits!'
Ranulf smiled sweetly. 'With all respect, Dame Cecily, you may write to the Holy Father himself, but Sir Hugh Corbett will come here when he thinks proper.'
The prioress's doughy face flushed with anger. Just a little more provocation, Ranulf thought.
'Of course,' Father Augustine intervened, 'Dame Cecily wishes to be helpful. But this is a nunnery.'
More like a molly-shop, Ranulf thought, peering around the luxurious chamber, with its velvet tasselled tapestries, gold and silver ornaments, shining furniture and beeswax candles.
'Does the name Alan of the Marsh mean anything to you?' he asked abruptly.
He could have hugged himself with pleasure. Dame Cecily started back in her chair and nervously toyed with the crucifix hanging round her neck.
'Well?'
'Alan of the Marsh?' Dame Cecily stammered. 'Who's he?' 'With respect, that wasn't the question. Does the name mean anything to you?'
'Of course not!' she snapped. 'You seem troubled by it.'
'Well, of course.' She forced a smile. 'Why should a man's name mean anything to a prioress in a convent? What are you implying?'
'Nothing,' Ranulf cheekily replied. 'So, I can report back to Sir Hugh that Alan of the Marsh means nothing to you?' 'I have never heard of him.'
Ranulf sniffed and got to his feet. Maltote followed suit. 'In which case, I'll bid you adieu.'
Ranulf stalked out of the chamber, softly chuckling to himself.
The old lay sister would have taken them straight back to the stable yard but Ranulf, nudging Maltote, now had the devil in him. 'Madame?'
The lay sister paused, flattered by this pleasant, charming, red-haired, young man whose green, cat-like eyes danced with merriment.
'Yes?'
'I have never been in a convent before and this is such a beautiful place. Is it possible to be shown around?'
The lay sister's head went back in reproach.
'But this is a convent!' she gasped. 'A house of prayer for ladies!'
Ranulf shook his head. 'No, I don't mean within the house itself, but the grounds?' He dipped his finger into his purse. The lay sister's eyes became greedy.
'I suppose I could take you back to the stables by the long route, perhaps show you the cloisters, the chapel and some of the grounds?'
Ranulf smiled. 'Madame, I am your servant.'
He grasped her cold, vein-streaked hand and raised it to his lips, making sure she gripped the coin in his hand. The lay sister simpered and, despite her age, quickly led them along galleries and passageways. She chattered like a squirrel as she showed them the cloisters and the chapel, guest house and refectory. After that they visited the herb gardens and orchard and walked back round the church towards the stables. Ranulf greedily stared at everything. Dame Cecily had been lying and Ranulf just hoped that he could take some evidence back to old Master Long Face that might be of use. They passed the lychgate of the small cemetery and Ranulf caught a flash of russet-brown. Ignoring the lay sister's pleas, he pushed the gate open and walked into the cemetery. He stared at the Pastoureaux working amongst the graves, gathering up piles of rotting leaves, cutting back the brambles and reeds. One of them turned, resting on his hoe, and pulled back his hood.
'Master Joseph!' Ranulf smiled. 'So, this is how you spend your time?'
The Pastoureaux leader smiled and walked towards him.
'We all do God's work, Master Ranulf. Why are you here?'
'Oh!' Ranulf shrugged. 'Like you, Master Joseph, I'm doing God's work but in a different way.'
Master Joseph's face became serious. 'We heard about Master Monck's death. Please accept our condolences.'
Ranulf nodded.
'Have you discovered anything about his death?'
'No, Master Joseph, we have not. It's as much a mystery as anything around here.'
'Will Sir Hugh continue Monck's work?'
Ranulf smiled and nodded. 'Of course. We are leaving soon for Bishop's Lynn, but Sir Hugh will return.' He stared into the man's face. 'I am sure,' he continued, 'I have met you before but I can't remember where.'
The Pastoureaux leader pulled back his hood and returned to his hoeing.
'Perhaps in another life, Master Ranulf! But I think your guide is becoming anxious.'
Ranulf looked over his shoulder. The old lay sister was comically hopping from one foot to another.
'I have shown you enough! I have shown you enough!' she bleated. 'The prioress would be angry. Please come!'
Ranulf and Maltote followed her. They collected their horses and left the convent. Laughing and joking over Dame Cecily's discomfort, they rode down past the church and into the village. They stopped at the "Inglenook" to sample some ale. Ranulf chattered a little with Robert the reeve and Fulke the tanner but their dark looks and surly replies showed they were not welcome. Ranulf and Maltote left and returned to the manor house, where Corbett was poring over a piece of parchment. Every so often he would scribble a little and, throwing his quill down, he'd sit, head in hands, and stare at what he had written. He listened quietly as Ranulf described what had happened at the convent. Corbett picked up his quill and tapped the table top.
'Bishop's Lynn!' he said. 'Are the bags packed?'
Ranulf nodded.
'Then we should leave. I want to be there by nightfall.'
Ranulf and Maltote went down to the stables. Corbett followed with the saddlebags. He stopped to take leave of Gurney who seemed agitated that they were going so abruptly. He insisted that they should take some refreshment and allow his cooks to prepare food for the journey. Corbett was reluctant to alienate his host any further and so he agreed. The steward laid out a table in the main hall and served a range of meats and cheeses, whilst Catchpole gave them directions on which roads to take.
An hour later they left, Corbett quietly cursing. The sky had become overcast and the cold, wet sea mist was creeping in over the cliffs. By the time they reached the crossroads the mist was swirling about them. Maltote and Ranulf debated on which road to take.
'Follow the directions on the post,' Corbett rudely interrupted. 'That's what Catchpole told us.'
He led them on. Within the hour Corbett had serious misgivings. According to Catchpole, the road ought to be broader and they should have passed through a series of small hamlets. However, because of the lowering sky and thickening mist, Corbett believed they were heading further inland across the moors. At last they stopped, cursing and muttering. The horses caught their unease and pawed the ground, snorting and whinnying against the black stillness of the moors. Corbett moved his horse round.
'How long have we been travelling from Mortlake?'
Ranulf shrugged and blew on his fingers. 'About two hours. Maltote, what's the matter?'
The young messenger was staring back the way they had come.
'Maltote!' Ranulf snapped. 'For God's sake, you are as skittish as a maid!'
Maltote turned back, his face white, eyes anxious.
'I don't know,' he muttered. 'After we left the crossroads I fell back. I am sure we are being followed.'
'Nonsense!' Ranulf scoffed.
'I am certain we were,' Maltote insisted. 'I heard the jingle of harness.'
'Hell's teeth, Master!' Ranulf snapped. 'We are lost and we'll freeze if we stay here.'
Corbett patted his horse's neck. 'There's only one thing for it. Let's return to the crossroads.'
'Look!' Ranulf cried. 'Perhaps all is well!'
He pointed into the mist, which shifted like steam above a cauldron. Corbett glimpsed the flare of light that Ranulf had seen. A farm, perhaps one of the villages. He moved his horse, leaving the path, crossing the rain-soaked moor in the direction of the light. His horse protested but Corbett urged it on. Again the horse whinnied. Corbett tugged at the reins but the horse was stuck fast. Corbett stared down in horror – his horse was really floundering, hoof and fetlock deep in the green mire around them. Corbett cursed and turned round.
'Get back!' he yelled to Ranulf and Maltote.
'Keep still, Master!' Ranulf urged. 'The more you struggle, the faster you'll sink!'
Corbett obeyed, stroking his horse's neck and talking softly. The horse threw its head back, the whites of its eyes rounded in terror. Ranulf dismounted and approached, bringing the rope he always carried to tether his horse or to use as a makeshift bridle. Maltote led the way, leading his own horse, feeling every step carefully before him.
'There's a sort of path,' he said, 'where the earth is firm.':
Corbett fought to control his panic as his mount began to flounder. The mud reached its belly. Ranulf and Maltote made their way gingerly along the firm strip of earth. When they were only feet away from Corbett, Ranulf threw the rope. Corbett managed to tie it around his horse's neck. Maltote tied the other end to the saddle horn of his own mount. Talking softly to it, he urged it back. The rope tautened. At first Corbett's horse did not move. The rope, growing tighter round its neck, only increased its panic. Corbett enlarged the noose, moving part of it over his saddle horn. Ranulf and Maltote tugged and pulled. Suddenly Corbett's horse broke free and scrambled on to the path. Corbett carefully dismounted and, following Maltote's advice, spoke gently to the horse until all of them, soaked in mud, were firmly back on the trackway.
For a while Corbett could do nothing except squat by the side of his horse, trying to calm his own terror. He was covered in mud and his horse was caked to its withers in marsh slime. Ranulf pushed some bread and a wineskin into his master's hand.
'You'd best drink!'
Corbett chewed the bread, but found it difficult to swallow so he spat it out. He then poured some wine into his hand. He sniffed and licked it carefully.
'What's the matter, Master?'
'What in hell's name do you think's the matter?' Corbett snarled. 'I am checking for poison!' He smiled in apology. 'However, it seems untainted.' Corbett took a generous swig and handed the wineskin back to Ranulf. 'Thank you,' he muttered. He stared at Maltote. 'If it hadn't been for you, we could have all died.' He got to his feet and gripped Maltote's hand. 'I'll not forget that. You or Ranulf.'
'And neither will the horses!' Ranulf joked, embarrassed by his usually taciturn master's thanks.
Corbett stretched. His legs were freezing cold and yet he felt strangely sleepy after being trapped in the mire. He stared through the swirling mist.
'We've got to go back to the crossroads,' he muttered.
'But that light?' Maltote asked.
'We were tricked,' Ranulf snapped. 'I have seen smugglers play the same trick on the marshes along the Thames estuary. They show lights and travellers make the mistake of thinking they mean safety. Some cruel bastards even make a living out of wrecking ships that way.'
'But how did they know we were here?' Maltote asked.
'I think the crossroads will tell us,' Corbett breathed. 'Come on!'
They led their horses along the trackway, back to the crossroads, but the gaudily painted wooden post was nowhere to be seen. Ranulf scrabbled around in the dark.
'It's fallen over!' he cried, his fingers feeling the wood.
Corbett threw the reins of his horse at Maltote and walked across.
'I doubt that,' he replied. 'I think it was loosened, turned round and pointed in the wrong direction. It then either fell or was pushed over by the heartless bastard who shone that lantern.'
'So, we were being followed?' Maltote asked.
'Probably,' Corbett said. 'But there was someone ahead of us, too. God knows there are enough who knew about our journey. It's a well-known outlaw trick – single out strangers in the area, lure them in the wrong direction and see what happens. Someone from Hunstanton got to the crossroads before us, changed the sign, waited for us to take the wrong path and tried to entice us into that marsh with a lantern. Don't forget, we delayed longer at Mortlake Manor and the villagers, or who ever it was, know every path and trackway in this area well.'
'But who?' Ranulf demanded. 'Who is the bastard? So we can go back and cut his throat!'
'It could be anyone,' Maltote replied, full of confidence after his master's praise. 'Sir Hugh is right. They went ahead of us and laid their trap.' He preened himself. 'We messengers are used to such stratagems. What do we do now, Master? Go back to Mortlake?'
'No. Maltote, you know which route we followed and the wrong path we took. So, up on your horse and ride like the wind. If you see lights, and it's a hamlet or village, come back!'
Maltote obeyed, the hoof beats of his horse receding into the distance. Corbett and Ranulf stood at the crossroads, and despite their efforts to keep warm, began to freeze.
At last Maltote returned.
'There's a small hamlet. I asked one of the peasants.' The messenger pointed. 'This is the road to Bishop's Lynn. Shall we continue, Master?'
Corbett agreed. Surprisingly, he did not stop at the hamlet but, ignoring the protests of his companions, pressed on to Bishop's Lynn. The mist became denser, colder, more cloying and Corbett wondered if he had made the right decision. For a while Ranulf moaned loudly but eventually the darkness and the freezing cold silenced him. He slumped on his horse, pulling his cloak and hood about him in sullen resignation.
At last they reached Bishop's Lynn. Corbett's legs were numb. He was in no mood to argue with the city watch, who had already declared the curfew and closed the gates, and a display of warrants and Ranulf's angry shouts quickly had a postern gate opened for them. One of the wardsmen led them down St Nicholas Street to the town's most spacious tavern, the Lattice House on the corner of Chapel Street. Once again Corbett used his authority, this time to obtain stables for his horse and a chamber for himself and his companions. They all stripped and washed in bowls of steaming hot water, brought up by sleepy-eyed servants. Once dressed in clean clothes, they went down to the taproom for something to eat. All three were too exhausted to talk and the steaming bowls of meat and thick local ale soon made them heavy-eyed and drowsy. They returned to their chambers and flung themselves down on their beds.
All of them slept late. When Corbett awoke, he felt refreshed, suffering little, apart from a stiffness in his legs, from the previous day's misery. They broke their fast. Maltote went out to make sure the horses were clean and properly stabled and, at Corbett's instructions, took their muddy clothes down to the tavern's wash-house. The landlord, eager to make a profit from such important visitors, had promised that his servants would wash them.
'Maltote can stay here,' Corbett decided. 'Ranulf, we'll go down to the Guildhall.'
'What are we looking for, Master?'
'First, the roll of electors. I want to see if there's a Holcombe still alive in Bishop's Lynn.' 'And what else?'
'A miller known as Culpeper, whose daughter was recently murdered in Hunstanton.'
They left the tavern, leaving instructions for Maltote, and went up St Nicholas Street along to the Guildhall, which stood opposite the soaring towers of St Margaret's church. A beadle tried to stop them. Corbett explained who they were and, within minutes, an officious alderman was offering him every assistance.
'Yes, yes,' the man muttered, his face full of importance. 'We have tax rolls, electors' rolls, subsidy rolls. If there is a Holcombe, these will tell you.'
'And the miller known as Culpeper?'
'Oh, he's well known. But you won't find him at his mill.' The alderman pointed to the great fat hour candle burning on its stand. 'He'll be down at the quayside, near the custom house, supervising the barges taking flour downstream.'
Corbett left Ranulf to scrutinize the tax rolls.
'Don't forget the goldsmith, Edward Orifab,' he added, then walked down Purfleet Street towards the quayside. He found the city very noisy after the silence of Mortlake Manor. Bishop's Lynn was reminiscent of London, with its narrow alleyways, overhanging houses and the shouts of traders from behind their stalls and gaudily painted booths. The cries of children, as they skipped between the crashing carts, vied with the neighing of horses and the shouts of drovers, whilst the rank smells from the open sewer did nothing to dull the haggling and bartering round the busy market stalls. The taverns and alehouses were doing a roaring trade as this was market day. The peasants from the outlying villages were thronging in to sell their produce and buy provisions before the snows fell and the roads closed.
The weather had turned fine. The skies were cloud-free, though the lanes and alleyways were still soaked from the previous day's rain. Corbett had to watch where he stepped as he struggled through the crowd down to Purfleet quayside. At last he reached the riverside. The wharves were packed with a tangle of shipping – small herring boats, fishing smacks, merchant ships and even a great belly-bottomed cog belonging to the Hanse. The air was thick with the smell of salt, fish and spices and the quayside thronged with carters, port officials, merchants and sailors. Traders stood offering a wide range of goods, from ribbons to hot pies – Corbett found their shouting and talking in different dialects and tongues confusing. At last he espied a port official dressed in his brown fustian robe and carrying a white wand of office. After more deliberations, Corbett was eventually directed to the Green Wyvern tavern next to the custom house, where Culpeper and other members of his guild met to do business. In its taproom Corbett found Culpeper, a thick-set, burly man with watery eyes and vein-streaked face. He was already deep in his cups, chattering to his fellows. Corbett had to shout to make himself heard.
'You had a daughter, Amelia?'
Culpeper sobered up. He put his tankard down and pushed his face close to Corbett's. 'What is that to you?'
Corbett explained who he was and Culpeper rose drunkenly to his feet.
'I've drunk enough,' he muttered. 'And this is not the place to talk.'
He led Corbett back out on to the quayside and into the timber custom house. The miller slumped down on a wooden bench just inside the entrance and gestured at Corbett to do the same.
'I know it's early,' he slurred, 'but it's market day and the price of flour has risen.' He gazed bleary-eyed at Corbett. 'A man has to reward himself, as well as forget the past.'
'What have you to forget, Master Culpeper?'
'A daughter named Amelia. She was our only child. I lavished everything upon her – finery, trinkets, clothes – nothing was too good for her. But she was headstrong.' Culpeper turned away to wipe the tears from his cheeks. 'I went to Hunstanton, you know, to bring her body back. Her mother wanted that. Now we have locked away the past and I let it be.'
'Do you know why she was murdered?'
'God knows! Or at least he pretends to. Who would hurt poor Amelia, eh, Master Corbett? What a death, to be strung up like a rat on that lonely, horrible gibbet!'
'Why did you let her go to Hunstanton?'
The man blew out fumes of ale and placed his fat hands on his thighs.
'I had no choice. Amelia was finished here. A laughing stock, a shame to her family! Somebody once called her "used goods". Can you imagine that, eh, Master Corbett? A lovely girl being discarded like a piece of dirty cloth?'
Corbett remained silent. He could guess what was coming. No miller was popular because no miller was poor. Such a tradesman always provoked envy amongst those who had to buy his products.
'Amelia became pregnant,' Culpeper explained. 'What, oh, some ten, twelve years ago.'
'And the father?'
'We never knew. Never once did Amelia talk about him.' 'You honestly never knew?'
'No, it was always a great secret. You know the games young, lovelorn women play? She would say she was visiting friends or relations.' Culpeper blinked. 'Anyway, Amelia became pregnant, but she told no one about the father. The child was born, but died within days. Amelia became listless. She had not only lost her child but the man she loved. All she would say was that something had ended which could never continue.' Culpeper wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. 'The years passed. Amelia never referred to her love and he certainly made no attempt to communicate with her. Now, Master Fourbour was a constant visitor to our mill to buy flour for his bakery in Hunstanton. He knew about Amelia's past but offered his hand in marriage. She, surprisingly, accepted. I don't know why.' He shrugged. 'The rest you know.'
'Was Amelia happy with her husband?'
'Sir, Amelia was never happy. Fourbour loved her and I think she tolerated him. And, before you ask, she never gave any indication of the tragedy which befell her. Only recently, when going through certain belongings she had left behind, I found a piece of parchment in a small, velvet pouch. Here, you can look for yourself.' Culpeper fumbled in his wallet. He took out a small, dark-blue velvet bag and gave it to Corbett. 'I always carry it around with me.' His voice became choked. 'It's the only memento I have.'
Corbett undid the pouch. The parchment was a mere scrap, cut in the shape of a heart. On it was written Amor Haesitat above Amor Currit. The four capital letters were heavily emphasized.
'Love hesitates,' Corbett translated softly. 'Love hastens.'
'Do you know what it means, Sir Hugh?'
Corbett smiled compassionately at the miller.
'It's one of those keepsakes, Master Culpeper, loved by the young and those still in love. But it is also a puzzle.'
'You can keep it,' Culpeper murmured. He grasped Corbett's hand. 'Keep it!' he urged. He paused as two officials entered, chattering noisily as they went up the wooden, spiral staircase.
'Find her killer!' Culpeper pleaded. 'Bring him to justice. Let him hang like my poor Amelia!'
Culpeper put his face in his hands. Corbett patted him gently on the shoulder and sat till he regained his composure.
'Master Culpeper, does the name Alan of the Marsh mean anything to you?'
The miller shook his head.
'Or Holcombe?'
'No, Sir Hugh, why?'
'Nothing. You have heard of the Pastoureaux at Hunstanton?'
'Oh, yes, they come here.' 'Who do?'
'The Pastoureaux or, at least, their leader, Master Joseph. He comes to buy supplies, and sometimes negotiates with captains about his young men and women who wish to travel to the Holy Land. I often see him near the custom house.'
'Who else from Hunstanton comes here?'
'Sometimes Sir Simon Gurney and that surly man-at-arms of his, Catch-'
'Catchpole,' Corbett finished.
'And the people from the convent come to sell their wool. Oh, yes, and Sir Simon's physician, a fat man called Selditch. Why do you ask?'
Corbett got to his feet. 'I just wondered. You are a native of these parts?'
'Yes.'
'Does the name Orifab mean anything to you?'
The miller shook his head.
'Does much smuggling go on?' Corbett asked.
Culpeper's face widened into a grin. 'Sir Hugh, I shouldn't be telling you this, but that is the most lucrative trade around here. Everybody smuggles, but catching them and proving it is another matter!'