Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (19 page)

‘You’ll try the ale, sir? Home brewed with a dish of eels, salted and roasted? A nice vegetable sauce with chopped parsley and cream?’

‘That will do nicely.’ Ranulf eased himself down. ‘And bring a tankard for yourself.’

The smile disappeared from the taverner’s oily face.

‘But, sir, I run a tavern. I . . .’

‘Sir, you run a tavern,’ Ranulf agreed, ‘and that’s why I want to talk to you. You don’t object to talking to a King’s man, do you?’ His voice rose slightly.

‘I’ll send Blanche across,’ Talbot muttered.

He finished cleaning the table and hurried away. Ranulf took off his war belt and slammed it down on the table. The rest of the customers decided not to continue staring. A young, spotty-faced man picked up his pet weasel and clutched it in his lap, turning his back as if fearful that the King’s man would come over and arrest it.

‘You enjoy this, don’t you?’ Chanson muttered. ‘You like the power?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Ranulf stared round the tavern. ‘If we become unpopular here, Chanson, I am afraid it’s through that window, round to the stables and away we go.’

‘You expect trouble?’

‘Well, as we came in,’ Ranulf indicated with his thumb to the door at the rear, ‘a small, greasy-haired, rat-faced man disappeared through there like a rabbit down a hole. Now, he’s either fearful or gone to warn someone. Ah well, we’ll see.’ Ranulf peered out through the mullioned glass to stare up at the sky. ‘I am not a country man, Chanson. Give me a London tavern and a smelly street in Southwark any day. However, even I know it’s going to snow: the clouds are low and grey.’

Chanson recalled their freezing journey along those lonely trackways and shivered.

‘We’ll be back in the abbey before dark, won’t we?’

‘We’ll be back when we’ve finished,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Ah, who is this?’

A tavern wench came trotting across; she had red, curly hair under a white mobcap, slanted eyes with high cheekbones, and her face was slightly flushed. Ranulf admired her fine lips and the green smock, slightly too tight, which emphasized her generous bosom and broad hips. He looked down at her small buckled boots peeping out from beneath the flounced petticoats. She paused and grinned at Ranulf, allowing him a full view of her. She slowly put the tankards down, brushing Ranulf’s hand, almost thrusting her breasts into his face.

‘King’s men are we?’ she grinned. ‘With fine leather boots and broad war belts?’ She raised an eyebrow archly. ‘We don’t get your sorts often in these parts.’

‘What sorts do you get?’ Ranulf demanded.

The girl, hands on hips, shrugged. Ranulf noticed the beautiful gold cross on a silver chain round her neck, the fine rings on both hands and the silver chased bracelet clasping her left wrist.

‘You are Blanche, Talbot’s daughter?’

Her smile faded. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Oh, just by the way you act. A potboy was going to bring the tankards across but you took them off him.’

‘Why sir,’ Blanche cooed, ‘you are sharper than I am.’

And, turning on her heel, she flounced off.

‘The girls always like you, Ranulf.’

‘And I like them, Chanson.’ Ranulf leaned across and tapped the groom’s face with his gauntlets. ‘You are a good-looking lad. If you had your hair cut and washed more often, the girls would like you too.’

Chanson coloured and hid his face in the tankard to hide his embarrassment.

‘Would you ever marry, Master Ranulf?’

‘Better to marry than to burn, as St Paul says. Sometimes I wonder. Do you think, Chanson,’ Ranulf took another sip from the tankard, ‘that I should enter the church, become a priest?’

Chanson raised his tankard to hide his face. Ranulf often discussed this, and it was the only time Chanson ever felt like laughing out loud at his companion. Ranulf, however, didn’t think it was funny. He sat steely faced.

‘But you like the ladies, Master Ranulf?’

‘So do many priests.’

‘And you have never been in love?’

‘You know the answer to that.’ Ranulf mockingly toasted him with his tankard.

‘Ah sirs, how can I help you?’

The taverner came up, scooped up a stool and sat down between them.

‘You promised us some eels?’

‘They are coming.’

‘How old are you, Master Talbot?’

‘According to my accounts, I’ll be fifty-six summers on the eve of the Beheading of John the Baptist.’

‘And you have always lived here?’

‘Oh yes, and my father before me.’

‘So, you know about the Harcourts?’

‘Ah now, there’s a mystery.’ The landlord put his tankard down on the table. ‘Lady Margaret comes here once or twice a year. She’s always kindly and gracious, very much the high-born lady.’

‘And her husband?’

‘That’s a strange thing. Their marriage was arranged but the service was performed at the door to the abbey church. I was there as a young man. Oh, it was very splendid, with banners and pennants, lords and ladies in their velvets and silks. Lady Margaret rode a milk-white palfrey, Sir Reginald a great war horse. Sir Stephen Daubigny, who later became Abbot, looked a true warrior in his royal surcoat. There was feasting and revelry. Daubigny and Harcourt.’ The landlord held up his hand, two fingers locked together. ‘Sworn brothers they were, in peace and war, boon companions.’

‘And Lady Margaret? Did she like the man who later became the Abbot?’

‘I don’t know. I remember watching her, both on that day and afterwards. All three of them came here once to feast,’ Talbot pointed towards the doorway, ‘One bright summer’s day. Sir Reginald came in, one arm linked through Lady Margaret’s, the other through Sir Stephen’s. Some other guests were present. I laid out a special table and we served them with the best dishes. Roast venison . . .’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘But what of Lady Margaret and Sir Stephen?’

‘They didn’t seem to like each other. Sir Reginald arranged the seating, so that Sir Stephen was supposed to sit on Lady Margaret’s left, but she objected. I remember Daubigny just shrugged. He went and sat beside his friend. During the meal, Daubigny and Lady Margaret hardly looked at each other or exchanged a word.’

‘And then Sir Reginald disappeared?’

‘Yes, one day in autumn. Why, it must be some thirty years ago! A potboy, who has now gone, said he saw Sir Reginald ride by with his pack pony. He recognised him by the livery and escutcheon. According to common report, he went to one of the Eastern ports, took ship and that’s the last anyone ever heard or saw of him again. And, before you ask, sir clerk, I don’t know why, though everyone has a theory.’

‘And what’s yours?’

‘Sir Reginald was a true fighting man, a knight errant. Perhaps he wanted to go on a pilgrimage?’

‘But why didn’t he tell his wife? People say she was as perplexed as anyone.’

‘I don’t know.’

Ranulf turned slightly. Rat Face had reappeared and Ranulf didn’t like his companions: men in boots and brown leggings armed with swords and daggers through the rings on their belts, faces almost hidden by cavernous cowls, the front part of their jerkins stretching up to their lower lip. Two carried bows with a quiver of arrows slung on their backs. Talbot followed Ranulf’s gaze. He became distinctly nervous whilst the rest of the customers didn’t look too happy either. The new arrivals went across and sat in a far corner where the shadows gave them some protection, so they could observe the rest of the taproom as closely as they wanted. Ranulf stared out of the window across the garden: the shrubs, herb plots and flowerbeds were still in the grip of a frost which had not thawed during the day. He glimpsed the first snowflakes fall. He knew what had happened. Taverner Talbot may act nervously but the new arrivals were as much a part of this tavern as the tables and chairs. Outlaws, wolf’s-heads, men like Ranulf himself in his early days, who lived in the twilight. They prowled taverns such as this, hunting for easy prey or rich pickings. The taverner always welcomed them, either because he shared their loot or, more importantly, because they provided a constant supply of fresh meat poached from the King’s forest – wild boar and venison. Ranulf wondered if they’d attack two officers of the Crown? He gently kicked Chanson under the table. The groom was staring across at the strangers. Chanson got the message and looked away.

‘I’ll get you those eels,’ Talbot blustered.

‘And some more ale!’ Ranulf insisted. ‘And do come back!’

‘Do you think those strangers will make trouble for us, Ranulf?’ Chanson whispered. ‘Would they harm us?’

‘Yes, they would.’ Ranulf’s hand went beneath the table and he tapped his purse. ‘I wager a shilling to a shilling, they have already inspected our horses and harness.’

Chanson gulped nervously. Of course the horses were some of the finest from the royal stables, whilst the saddles and harness would fetch high prices in any market.

‘Then there’s our weapons,’ Ranulf continued, ‘and our clothes, not to mention the purses we carry. And perhaps,’ he sighed, ‘just as importantly, there’s their reputations.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘They are wolf’s-heads,’ Ranulf declared, keeping his voice at a whisper. ‘They regard these parts as the King does his crown. They decide who comes and goes. Most of these merchants and tinkers probably pay them to travel unscathed.’

Chanson thought of that cold journey back to the abbey, the silent trees, the deserted, frozen trackway.

‘Shouldn’t we go?’

Ranulf pulled his war belt nearer. ‘I’ve never run from a fight in my life, Chanson. Do you know why? It’s the best way not to get an arrow in your back.’

Talbot, aided by his now surly-faced daughter, served the eels and ale. Chanson took out his horn spoon and small dagger and began to cut, scooping the food into his mouth. Ranulf ate more slowly, now and again glancing across at the men watching him.

‘It’s good food,’ Chanson murmured between mouthfuls. ‘Hot and spicy.’

Talbot waited until they had finished and re-took his seat.

‘And what do you know about Lady Margaret?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘After her husband’s disappearance?’

‘She was distraught, according to common report. It became well known that she wanted to follow her husband. Sir Stephen Daubigny agreed to help. They both stopped here on their way to the coast. A few months later, Sir Stephen returned, travel-stained, face all haggard. As for Lady Margaret,’ Talbot lowered his eyes, ‘she was gone over a year and when she came back she was a shadow of her former self: thin, pale-faced. She passed by the tavern with an escort, clothed like the figure of death, in black from head to toe. From that day to this, she has lived as a recluse. I go up to the manor to take supplies and to buy from her. As I said, she comes here very rarely. Our conversations over the years wouldn’t fill half a page of a psalter.’

‘And Sir Stephen?’

The taverner shrugged his shoulders.

‘He went straight back to St Martin’s, gave up his arms and took the vows of a monk. The rest you know and, before you ask, clerk, he was a good Father Abbot. Honest and fair in his dealings. Blanche and I were always welcome in the abbey.’

‘And the others at St Martin’s?’ Ranulf insisted.

‘Oh, they are monks, priests, slightly pompous. We deal with two of them: Cuthbert the Prior, a man of great ambition, and Dunstan the treasurer. We go to them, sometimes they come to us. Now and again we have wine which they would like or,’ he gave a lop-sided smile, ‘meat, fresh from the forest. Well, sirs,’ Talbot drained his tankard and pushed back his stool, ‘more than that I cannot say.’

‘Oh, Master Talbot,’ Ranulf beckoned him closer. ‘I’m going to leave now.’

He was sure the taverner was almost going to thank him but Talbot held his tongue. ‘And when we do,’ Ranulf warned, ‘I don’t want our new arrivals to follow us out.’

The taverner leaned over. ‘I can only warn you and give some advice.’

‘Where will they come?’ Ranulf replied.

‘Out on the trackway,’ the taverner replied. ‘You are well mounted. They will try to force you down. You know what will happen then?’

Ranulf nodded.

‘And you can’t prevent them from leaving?’

Talbot shook his head. ‘They’re Scaribrick’s men. If I interfered, by tomorrow morning this tavern would be gutted.’

‘How many?’ Ranulf murmured.

‘There are five,’ Talbot whispered, grasping his empty tankard. ‘Thank God for the cold and that they didn’t know you were coming, otherwise it would have been a good score.’

He hurried away. Ranulf rose and strapped his sword belt on. They left by the rear entrance and walked round to the stables. Chanson checked the horses, their girths and saddles – nothing had been tampered with. They both swung themselves up.

‘Get up close!’ Ranulf urged. ‘Come on, Chanson, you’ve got two gifts. One is with horses and the other is with knives.’

‘But we are leaving first. They’ll never catch up.’

‘I wager they’ve already gone,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Do you remember how that trackway snakes and curves – they’ll be waiting there.’

They left the tavern. Chanson looked longingly over his shoulder at its warmth and light. The day was dying. Mist curled out from the trees. The trackway stretched before them like some haunted path.

‘Couldn’t we gallop?’ Chanson whispered.

‘And risk an accident? Haven’t you heard of tricks such as a rope tied across the path? Say your prayers, Chanson.’

Ranulf loosed the sword in its scabbard and, for the first time that day, Ranulf-atte-Newgate truly prayed.

‘Oh Lord, look after Ranulf-atte-Newgate, as Ranulf-atte-Newgate would look after you, if he was God and you were Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’

He urged his horse slightly forward of Chanson’s. The groom was now truly frightened. The trees on either side of the trackway stood like ghostly sentinels wrapped in a mist which shifted to show the darkness beyond. Now and again faint rustling echoed from the undergrowth or the lonely call of a bird shattered the silence. Chanson drew a throwing dagger from his belt and pushed it into the leather strap round his right wrist. They turned a bend. Ranulf almost sighed with relief. Five shadows stood across the path, arrows notched to their bows. He’d expected some sudden rush but the attackers were waiting.