They gathered in the cold hall just after dawn, tired and haggard from lack of sleep. Gurney said that Alice was now resting. They broke their fast and listened as Catchpole described his visit to the priest's house.
'There's nothing much there,' he said. 'Clothes, a few possessions, nothing remarkable at all.' He dug into a sack and brought out a sheet of parchment and looked sheepishly at Corbett. 'I can read a little. Most of the manuscripts were parish accounts but there was this.'
Corbett took the parchment and smoothed it out. It bore a marked resemblance to what he had seen amongst Monck's possessions – maps of the area, some crude and rough, others finely drawn. Then a cipher, words abbreviated, question marks beside them. Nothing startling except a name, Jacobus, written time and again. In one place it was Pater Jacobus.
'Ah,' Corbett murmured. 'Father James.' He glanced at Ranulf. 'We learnt about him at the convent.' 'I think-!' Selditch exclaimed. 'What?' Corbett asked softly.
'I have heard of him too!' Selditch confessed, and waddled off, shaking his head.
Selditch returned, breathless, carrying a small roll of vellum tied with a piece of faded silk. He unrolled it and handed it to Corbett.
'Study it carefully,' he said. 'It's an index of letters written by Sir Simon's ancestor in January 1218.
Corbett studied the faded contents, the headings of letters the Gurneys had written in January 1218. However, one fairly long entry was a complaint to the Bishop of Norwich alleging that, 'since the disappearance of Father James', the diocese had offered no priest to the parish church of Hunstanton.
Corbett looked up. 'Disappearance?' He rubbed his chin with his fingers. 'I doubt it. This is our final murder.' He put the parchment down. 'You see, if Alan of the Marsh hid his portion of the treasure where I think he did, he would have needed an accomplice. Somebody who helped him carry and hide it. Someone above suspicion.' Corbett smiled weakly at Sir Simon. 'In this case, once again, the parish priest – Father James.' Corbett tapped the document. 'This is another reason why Father Augustine came to Hunstanton. He probably knew about Father James. He saw the chalice at the convent and wondered if there were similar treasures hidden away in the village church. I wager he searched that priest's house from top to bottom and, of course, it was another reason for ransacking the graves. He may have been looking for hiding-places or even some document written by Father James.'
'Subtle and devious,' Sir Simon said. 'Secrets hidden in a graveyard are fairly safe.'
'I agree,' Corbett replied. 'Father Augustine must have pondered all the possibilities. He did his own investigation and found out that Father James disappeared at about the same time as Alan absconded and Holcombe was executed. He realized that this was more than mere coincidence. And the devil once again came to Hunstanton. Father Augustine must have prayed that that little parish church or its churchyard held the key to the great mystery.' He stared at his companions. 'You can imagine his fury when he was unable to discover the treasure? This turned to madness when Amelia Fourbour arrived, followed by Monck and, finally, myself. The whole world was turning its hand against him. Ah well, let's finish this story.'
They collected their cloaks and went out into the yard, where Maltote and others had their horses ready. A few minutes later they left the manor and took the path towards the convent. The morning was cold and blustery and rain clouds were sweeping in above a sullen sea. On the cliff top they dismounted and left their horses with the retainers. They slipped and slid down the path to the beach. Corbett stared across it and shivered.
It looked so peaceful, with the desolate sand and shingle soaked by the receding tide. Gulls, their cries wafted by the wind, circled above them. Corbett found it difficult to believe that only a few days previously, he had raced along this beach for his very life.
'There's no need to worry,' Sir Simon murmured, putting up his hood against the blustering wind. 'Father Augustine knew what he was doing when he struck you on the head and left you here. Our priest studied Hunstanton. He knew that strong gales and heavy seas would create a sudden surge.' He smiled thinly, narrowing his eyes as they watered in the salt-soaked wind. 'Just as they did when my ancestor and King John tried to cross the Wash.'
'Come on!' Corbett urged. 'The sooner the better. I have brought you here to show you a sketch.'
They walked across the beach. Corbett looked back towards the cliffs, trying to find the exact spot where he had vellum tied with a piece of faded silk. He unrolled it and handed it to Corbett.
'Study it carefully,' he said. 'It's an index of letters written by Sir Simon's ancestor in January 1218.
Corbett studied the faded contents, the headings of letters the Gurneys had written in January 1218. However, one fairly long entry was a complaint to the Bishop of Norwich alleging that, 'since the disappearance of Father James', the diocese had offered no priest to the parish church of Hunstanton.
Corbett looked up. 'Disappearance?' He rubbed his chin with his fingers. 'I doubt it. This is our final murder.' He put the parchment down. 'You see, if Alan of the Marsh hid his portion of the treasure where I think he did, he would have needed an accomplice. Somebody who helped him carry and hide it. Someone above suspicion.' Corbett smiled weakly at Sir Simon. 'In this case, once again, the parish priest – Father James.' Corbett tapped the document. 'This is another reason why Father Augustine came to Hunstanton. He probably knew about Father James. He saw the chalice at the convent and wondered if there were similar treasures hidden away in the village church. I wager he searched that priest's house from top to bottom and, of course, it was another reason for ransacking the graves. He may have been looking for hiding-places or even some document written by Father James.'
'Subtle and devious,' Sir Simon said. 'Secrets hidden in a graveyard are fairly safe.'
'I agree,' Corbett replied. 'Father Augustine must have pondered all the possibilities. He did his own investigation and found out that Father James disappeared at about the same time as Alan absconded and Holcombe was executed. He realized that this was more than mere coincidence. And the devil once again came to Hunstanton. Father Augustine must have prayed that that little parish church or its churchyard held the key to the great mystery.' He stared at his companions. 'You can imagine his fury when he was unable to discover the treasure? This turned to madness when Amelia Fourbour arrived, followed by Monck and, finally, myself. The whole world was turning its hand against him. Ah well, let's finish this story.'
They collected their cloaks and went out into the yard, where Maltote and others had their horses ready. A few minutes later they left the manor and took the path towards the convent. The morning was cold and blustery and rain clouds were sweeping in above a sullen sea. On the cliff top they dismounted and left their horses with the retainers. They slipped and slid down the path to the beach. Corbett stared across it and shivered.
It looked so peaceful, with the desolate sand and shingle soaked by the receding tide. Gulls, their cries wafted by the wind, circled above them. Corbett found it difficult to believe that only a few days previously, he had raced along this beach for his very life.
'There's no need to worry,' Sir Simon murmured, putting up his hood against the blustering wind. 'Father Augustine knew what he was doing when he struck you on the head and left you here. Our priest studied Hunstanton. He knew that strong gales and heavy seas would create a sudden surge.' He smiled thinly, narrowing his eyes as they watered in the salt-soaked wind. 'Just as they did when my ancestor and King John tried to cross the Wash.'
'Come on!' Corbett urged. 'The sooner the better. I have brought you here to show you a sketch.'
They walked across the beach. Corbett looked back towards the cliffs, trying to find the exact spot where he had grinned at Corbett. 'I'll go first. You are coming?' Corbett nodded.
'Then follow me. But slowly and don't look down!' He took off his sword belt and slung it over his shoulder. 'Maltote, you stay here. Watch the strain on the pegs!'
Ranulf grasped the rope ladder and began to walk backwards. He lowered himself over the edge of the cliff and disappeared out of sight. Corbett prayed. He heard Ranulf's shout. Grasping the rope ladder, he too went over the edge of the cliff. He shut his eyes, lowering one foot then another. He gripped the ladder with both hands. Now and again he stopped as a buffet of wind caught him. He thanked God that the wind was coming from the land and not the sea. Even so the rope ladder swayed dangerously, and Corbett grasped the rope tighter as he continued his descent.
'Not far!' Ranulf shouted.
The voice seemed to come out of the rock face beside Corbett.
'Here, Master!'
Corbett turned to his right and saw Ranulf's outstretched hand. He grasped the guide rope more securely, and then Ranulf's hand.
'Let go!' his servant ordered.
Corbett did and, a little bruised where he had brushed the face of the cliff, he was abruptly pulled into an underground cavern. It was dark and wet. Ranulf walked deeper into the darkness. He took two candles out of his jerkin, struck a tinder and lit both. He came back and handed one to Corbett. The clerk stared around and glimpsed the pools of water on the floor.
'Is it safe?' he muttered. 'Can the tide creep in here?' 'We're too high,' Ranulf assured him. 'But the cave catches the spray and the rain, hence the dampness. You've seen the cliff, it's chalk-layered, it must soak up a lot of water.' Ranulf's voice echoed round the cavern.
'Hell's teeth!' Corbett muttered. 'I'm tempted to tell the king to search for his treasure himself!'
Ranulf, however, was eager to continue. 'There's no one else coming?' he asked.
Corbett shook his head. 'I think it's best if we do this by ourselves.'
They walked further down the cave. At one point Corbett stopped to examine strange drawings etched on the walls – men, armed with spears and shields, hunted strange creatures he had never seen before. The paintings were done in black, red and blue dyes.
'Does that have anything to do with the treasure?' Ranulf asked.
Corbett peered closer. 'I doubt it. I've heard of these drawings in caves along the southern coast, painted by peoples long dead.'
Corbett followed Ranulf. His nervousness increased as the tunnel narrowed. Would it end in a rock face, he wondered? Had he misunderstood Alan of the Marsh's drawing? Or was that some subtle ploy to disguise the true hiding-place? Ranulf, also, lost some of his jauntiness. Soon they were forced to walk in single file, the walls closed in, the rock above them seemed to swoop down to trap them. They entered a narrow passage, no more than a foot across. Ranulf squeezed through. Corbett heard his exclamation and followed to find they had entered a spacious underground chamber.
'This must be it,' Ranulf murmured.
They walked forward, the pool of light from the tallow candles going before them. They separated, Corbett going to the right, Ranulf moving over to the far corner. Corbett's heart sank. Would there be anything here? Ranulf's shouts answered his question. 'Master, it's here!'
Corbett went over to where his manservant stood. At first he could see nothing but a pool of candlelight but Ranulf crouched, pushing the candle before him. Against the rock face were four or five large sacks. The cloth was beginning to crumble and Corbett glimpsed the precious objects they contained.
'The royal treasure!' Ranulf exclaimed. He moved his candle and Corbett saw the outstretched arm of a skeleton, head drunkenly flung to one side. 'And its guardian, Father James!'
Corbett went across and studied the skeleton carefully. The flesh had long decayed, the bones were yellow and brittle. The man's leather boots and belt and a few scattered scraps of cloth were all that remained. He pointed to the back of the skull, where the bone had been shattered.
'I think,' he said, 'that Alan of the Marsh and Holcombe divided the treasure. This is Alan's portion. A smuggler, he would know about this cave. He needed another person to help him so he called on his parish priest. They brought the treasure here, climbing down to it in the same way as we did. After which Alan killed the priest, striking him on the back of the head with a rock.'
Ranulf listened impatiently. He pulled one of the weather-beaten sacks over. The fabric, thin with age, ripped and the precious contents – silver plate, golden ewers, jewelled hanapers, diamond-studded goblets – cascaded out, clattering and clanging on the cavern floor.
'Hell's teeth!' Ranulf knelt down. He picked up a silver plate and glanced up at his master, his eyes shining. 'Must we take it all back?'
Corbett prised the silver plate from his hand and tossed it to the ground.
'What else can we do? Steal a portion? Sell it on the market in London?'
Ranulf stared back.
'Can't you see?' Corbett explained. 'We would be drawn into the same circle of deceit and murder as all those who've died for this. No, all the treasure will be brought out. Ranulf, I'll leave you here. Fresh bags will be sent down. You will fill them with every item. They will be sealed and placed in some chamber at Mortlake Manor until the exchequer sends officials north.'
With Ranulf's help, Corbett climbed back to the cliff top, where he spent the rest of the day, freezing and cursing in the icy, bitter wind. One by one, Ranulf filled new bags with the treasure. They were pulled up and placed in the waiting cart. At last the task was finished. Corbett bound and sealed each bag. He was uneasy as he glimpsed the greedy look of some of his companions, recognizing in the wetting of the lips, the narrowing of the eyes, an itchiness to grasp something precious and keep it for oneself. At Mortlake Manor the treasure was transported to an upper room. The door was locked and Corbett took the key. Two of Gurney's retainers were placed on guard. Maltote was ordered to take a change of horses and ride as swiftly as possible to Walsingham with the news.
'The sooner the king has his hands on this,' Corbett muttered, 'the better!'
Later the same day, Corbett and Ranulf attended the burial of Monck's corpse in the village churchyard. Then Father Augustine's sheeted corpse was placed into an elm-wood coffin and swiftly interred. Gurney promised that, as soon as a new priest arrived, Masses would be offered for the repose of both men's souls. After the burials, Corbett walked through the priest's deserted house. Rumours about Father Augustine had swept through the village and, as was customary, the peasants had swarmed into the house to take anything precious which caught their eye – mattresses, bolsters and candlesticks. Gurney followed Corbett and stared grimly around.
'The place should be purged, cleansed!' he said. 'Thank God the treasure's found and the chaos of the last few months will disappear!'
Corbett made his farewells and left the churchyard. He rode back to Mortlake Manor, leaving Gurney to confer with the verger about how the church should be administered until a replacement priest was found. Whilst Ranulf packed their belongings, Corbett paid a courtesy visit to a white-faced and rather nervous Alice, still resting in her own chambers. Gurney returned in the evening, insisting that Corbett and Ranulf be his guests at a small informal banquet. The meal turned out to be a desultory affair. A taciturn Gurney and his household tried to hide their relief at Corbett's impending departure. Ranulf, though, had no inhibitions – he drank deeply and declared loudly that, no offence to present company, it would be a long time before he returned to Norfolk.
'The exchequer officials will be here soon?' Gurney asked, yet again.
'If I know the king,' Corbett told him, 'he'll probably come here himself. They'll take the treasure as well as your two prisoners in the dungeons, the Pastoureaux. Both will probably be sent to London to stand trial. I'll pay for the cross above Monck's grave,' he added. Gurney demurred. 'No, no.'
Corbett, however, insisted and took several coins out of his purse. 'A stone for Monck, a cross for the priest and Masses for their souls.'
The meal ended shortly afterwards. Corbett and Ranulf went back to their own chamber, the latter chattering like a squirrel about what he would do once they were back in London.
Corbett listened with half an ear. He lay down on his bed and pulled the blankets over him. For some reason he couldn't forget Amelia Culpeper. He recalled that lonely scaffold on the cliff top, and pictured Amelia Culpeper, with her arms around her lover, failing to notice the noose being slipped over her head. Or had she, he wondered, in the last few seconds of her life, realized – and submitted.
The next morning Corbett hurriedly dressed. He broke his fast and took his farewell of Gurney and of Alice. Followed by a rather silent Ranulf, who was still suffering from the effects of last night's drinking, he rode along the cliff top. The morning was calm, the clouds had broken and pale sunlight glinted on the sea. At the scaffold Corbett reined in. He stared up at the jutting beams with their ugly, rusting hooks.
'What's the matter, Master?' Ranulf asked crossly. 'And why are we going to Bishop's Lynn?'
'Just think, Ranulf, all those deaths, all that violent intrigue. Do you know whom I pity most? The baker's wife, Amelia. She didn't care for any of this. She loved that evil bastard Augustine to distraction.' Corbett stared over his shoulder at Ranulf. 'He had a treasure few of us will ever have but he rejected it for bags, coffers of plate and sacks of coins.'
The wind agitated his horse and Corbett patted his mount gently, though his eyes never left the scaffold.
'I have asked Sir Simon to burn the scaffold,' he said quietly. 'He's agreed. He'll put a cross up in its place, asking travellers to pray for the repose of the soul of Amelia Culpeper.'
'I wager he's sad about losing the treasure,' Ranulf said, pushing his horse alongside. 'That fat physician looked as if he had lost a groat and found a farthing!'
'Oh, they'll get their just reward,' Corbett replied. 'Sir Simon knows the law. The treasure was found on his land. He's also promised to keep quiet about the chalice at the convent.'
'And that's the end of it,' Ranulf announced.
'Is it?' Corbett asked. 'Do you really think that, Ranulf? No, no, we are just like judges who have risen from the bench after delivering sentence. Alice will never be the same, nor will the villagers. They won't forget the priest. Fulke the tanner will never forget Marina, his daughter. Poor Fourbour will never forget his wife. Poor, simple Gilbert will spend the rest of his life wondering why the people who drowned his mother now pat him on the back and buy him stoups of ale. Dame Cecily will count the cost of all this as will Sir Simon. Finally, of course, they have all smelt the lure of gold.'
'But we have found the treasure,' Ranulf interrupted.
'No! We only found Alan of the Marsh's share. Where did Holcombe hide the rest, eh?' Corbett stared out over the moors, where the morning mist still hung in thin grey wisps. 'Some of the treasure's still here. As long as the stories persist, so will the searching.' Corbett stared once more at the scaffold and crossed himself. 'Ah well, and now for Bishop's Lynn!'
'Why there?' Ranulf asked.
'I want to talk to the miller about his daughter. I want to tell him that he, too, owned a treasure of great price.'
Corbett dug his spurs into his horse. Behind them the scaffold creaked as the wind rose and the dark angel swept in from the sea to sing its eternal song above the desolate moors. Author's Note
There are several strands to this story, all based on fact rather than fiction. The Pastoureaux or Shepherd's Movement in France, and the rest of Europe, is well documented in the 13th and 14th centuries. A lay visionary movement which went terribly wrong, the Pastoureaux acquired the reputation for being nothing better than gangs of criminals. For a brief time, they even enjoyed royal patronage until their true nature was revealed. They became involved in robbery, rape, rapine, pillage and extortion. In England their presence led to violent affrays at Shoreham in Sussex. Eventually, condemned by Church and state, the Pastoureaux were hunted down and their leaders hanged. Their followers dispersed until the next new cults appeared, as they did with alarming regularity during the medieval period.
The church had always condemned slavery. However, the kidnapping of young men and women from Western Europe for sale in the markets along the Mediterranean and Middle East was a well-known medieval scandal. It was much more sinister and wicked than the white-slave trade of Victorian imperialism. Time and again, popes thundered their condemnation and kings issued orders, but the trade continued to thrive. The most flagrant example of this is mentioned in the novel, the Children's Crusade, a visionary crusading movement which led to death and abuse for thousands of the children involved. They never reached Palestine, but became the prey of mercenary ships' captains and greedy slave-masters.
King John's debacle at the Wash in the autumn of 1216 is, of course, well documented, though historians heatedly debate the exact location of the disaster and the causes behind it. Treason and treachery have never been ruled out. After all, here was an autocratic king with his army and household who decided to cross one of the most treacherous coastal areas of Britain without any proper reconnaissance or guide. There was no need for such haste. King John was not being pursued and the march should have been more properly organized. The loss of his treasure in the Wash probably resulted in John's demise a few weeks later.
The lost treasure constantly attracted fortune-hunters to the area. The imperial regalia were never recovered but, during the 13th century, items of this treasure do reappear on treasury lists and we know that both Henry III and his son Edward I regularly organized official searches for this treasure. The Wash, Hunstanton, the moors and the coastline can still be visited, though there have been marked geographical changes since the 14th century. Nevertheless, the main features are as described in this novel. The Hermitage is based on the ruins of what used to be called St Dunstan's Hostelry for travellers wishing to cross the Wash. The cliffs are there, as is the village of Hunstanton. So, of course, is the lovely, bustling town of King's Lynn. Before anyone writes in to me to point out my mistake, King's Lynn was actually Bishop's Lynn and only renamed during the reign of Henry VIII.
And the treasure? Local stories and legends say that most of it is still hidden away. The museum at King's Lynn is supposed to have one or two items but the rest could still be hidden in those lonely marshes where the SONG OF A DARK ANGEL can still be heard!