Roseblood (28 page)

The following day, late in the evening,
The Golden Horn
slipped into the lonely Orwell estuary. Katherine and her companions, legs shaking, faces and clothing coated in salty spray, were bundled ashore and taken to a prepared campsite, where they were given food and left to their own devices. Eleanor was now more alert, full of questions. Dorcas just relaxed and slept, quivering in her dreams, whilst Father Roger, once he was ashore, regained his wits and sat brooding, staring down at the ground. Now and again he would lift his head and gaze around. Katherine flinched at the sly malevolence of his gaze and realised that the priest’s madness had turned into a chilling cunning. She decided to ignore him and instead watch the carrack being unloaded of stores and horses. After dark, a troop of horsemen dressed in LeCorbeil livery, crossbows hanging from their saddle horns, entered the camp. Katherine reckoned the entire force was now about fifty, well armed and amply provisioned.

They stayed in the campsite for two days and nights. Once the carrack had unloaded its cargo, it put back to sea, whilst LeCorbeil organised the transportation of stores to hidden places between Orwell and Walton. Katherine and her companions were largely ignored. She welcomed this, as she was growing more concerned. Father Roger kept to himself, constantly conversing with some invisible presence. Dorcas, her clothes dried and belly now full, whispered about escape, whilst Eleanor became increasingly lost in her prayers.

On the third day after disembarkation, they moved deeper into the Essex countryside, travelling south back towards London. That night, Katherine gathered her companions around the campfire, sharing out a rabbit that had been snared, skinned, gibbeted and roasted. Bertrand had sent them another wineskin; Katherine filled the battered pewter cups to the brim, and they celebrated their return to dry land, away from the dangers of the sea. Eleanor and Dorcas fell quiet as Father Roger began to chatter. His eyes were too bright, his gaunt whiskered face twitching as he blithely described his visit to Colchester to attend his mother’s funeral. He chattered like a squirrel on a branch, clasping his cup close as he explained how he had discovered that his mother had been a courtesan, well known for conferring her favours on all who would buy them. During her life she had maintained the mask and disguise of a seamstress, but once dead, the truth had emerged.

Katherine sat growing more anxious as the priest, now in his shriving time, as he described it, launched into a filthy diatribe about whores, prostitutes and streetwalkers. She could only watch that tormented soul unburden itself of all its guilt and nightmares. A man, she concluded, who had done hideous wrong and now regarded his present troubles as punishment from God. Dorcas could only blink like an owl at the priest’s stream of invective. Eleanor tried to intervene, but he ignored her, chanting out his litany of hate-filled obsessions. Katherine did not know what to do except let him rant. When at last he finished, his face coated with sweat, chest heaving, he sketched a cross in the air.

‘I absolve myself!’ he shouted, eyes gleaming, tongue wetting chapped lips. ‘I absolve myself from all my sins!’ He broke off his manic chant and rose to his knees. ‘And for my penance,’ he slurred, ‘a visit to the latrine.’ He stumbled to his feet, cloak over one arm, and staggered into the darkness.

‘He is mad, moonstruck,’ Dorcas wailed. ‘Mistress, he is a killer, he has become lunatic.’ Katherine tried to comfort her, then squatted, heaping small handfuls of bracken on the fire, attempting to soothe her own panic. Dorcas was correct: their world was fractured. Eleanor seemed lost in her own dark memories. What was frustrating was that they were so close and yet so far from home.

Katherine stared around in the light of the dancing flames. The campfires of LeCorbeil surrounded them; beyond these were picket lines and sentries. There could be no escape, not from here. It would be impossible to steal horses, whilst on foot they would be caught within the hour. Moreover, Bertrand had warned them how the surrounding moorland thickets and copses concealed deep morasses, treacherous marshes that could drag both horse and rider down.

‘No need to warn me,’ Eleanor had retorted. ‘My mother’s people hailed from Walton.’

Katherine studied Eleanor’s peaked face. Her aunt troubled her. This was the first time in years that Katherine had been in close company with her. She had noticed how Eleanor, when relieving or washing herself, made sure that Dorcas and Katherine were never close; at other times she would clutch her stomach, face strained with pain.

‘They are hoarding supplies.’ Eleanor spoke up, gesturing with her head. ‘You know that, don’t you, Katherine? French galleys sailed up the Thames recently. I am sure that one day soon, a similar fleet will appear off Walton to land an invading force.’

‘But they will be resisted.’ Katherine’s voice faltered.

‘This is a wilderness,’ Eleanor replied. ‘The French have chosen well. Villages and hamlets disappeared during the Great Plague; there are derelict farms, houses and cottages where supplies and provisions can be secretly stored.

‘You may not know the story, but many, many years ago, Isabella the She-Wolf, another French queen,’ she laughed drily, ‘landed at Walton with her lover Mortimer and a host of Hainaulters. She came to topple her husband, and so she did.’ Eleanor gestured into the darkness. ‘They say her ghost still haunts this place.’ She threw more bracken on the flames. ‘The French have not forgotten. They will watch and wait. When this kingdom slips into civil war, they will land here.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Then the concealed pits, the secret barbicans and the disguised storage holds will be opened. They will draw out weapons, harness, dried fodder and food. They will have maps of the coastline and the countryside. But you suspect that already, Katherine, don’t you? Our abduction is only a small part of a greater plan.’ She stretched across and gently caressed Katherine’s cheek, then withdrew hastily to rub her own stomach. ‘I saw you watching them.’

‘They think we are stupid women,’ Katherine replied, ‘who do not realise what is happening.’

‘Wrong!’ Eleanor countered fiercely, ‘Oh so wrong! Watch them, Katherine; Bertrand is certainly studying you.’ She paused. ‘By the way, where is our priest? What is he doing?’

Dorcas, full of wine, simply snored. Katherine rose to her feet.

‘Leave him,’ Eleanor warned. ‘Do not pursue him, even here in this armed camp.’

‘Did you suspect?’ Katherine asked, sitting down again.

‘Yes, I did. But suspicion is one thing, belief another. Our curate always had an eye for the ladies. I heard the tale he just told. How he returned to Colchester for his mother’s funeral only to be told that she, like her own son, had a secret life. She acted the courtesan, pandering to the greedy needs of certain burgesses.’

Eleanor blew out her cheeks and paused at the ominous cry of some night bird carrying through the brooding darkness. ‘A harbinger,’ she murmured. ‘It will be cold tonight.’ She pointed to the makeshift bothy LeCorbeil had built out of branches, heavy blankets and armfuls of bracken and gorse. ‘At least we will have some comfort. Anyway, let me finish before our priest returns. Father Roger’s wits were never the strongest. I have watched him and reflected. I believe he used to seek out whores for solace, then turned on them in unresolved fury against his mother. You have heard similar tales from streetwalkers, surely? Men who like to be violent in their swiving, to beat a girl, to mock her body; this gives them great pleasure. A few do not stop at that; murder is in their heart.’

Katherine nodded in agreement.

‘Never mind him,’ Eleanor continued in a hushed whisper. ‘Do not be fooled. LeCorbeil knows you have been watching them, and for that reason alone, they will never let us live.’

Katherine’s heart missed a beat, and she flinched as if an ice-cold wind had brushed her back and neck. She made to protest, but conceded to the steely look in her aunt’s eyes.

‘Katherine.’ Eleanor stroked her hand; Katherine noticed how fine and long her aunt’s fingers had become. ‘Katherine, believe me. Bertrand and his company of devils have no intention of letting us live. Somehow they will use us to entice your father into a trap, as they did me and Edmund some five years ago. Listen well. Edmund’s murder was LeCorbeil’s doing. I do not know the full story, or exactly what was going on in my husband’s mind after he came home from France. The emergence of the maid, Joan of Arc, was the beginning of England’s defeat; however, Edmund, and certainly your father, had profited from the wars.’

She paused as Dorcas pitched dangerously forward, head towards the fire. She and Katherine made the maid comfortable on the ground, covering her with a cloak and a shabby blanket.

‘Your father came home as he always did, a roaring boy, but Edmund had greatly changed. Secretly he told me how he had witnessed bloody slaughter in France, the climax being a savage massacre in the Norman town of LeCorbeil. No, they were not involved or responsible, but your father and Edmund certainly viewed the aftermath. Edmund was full of contrition at his part in the war. We married, planned to raise our own family, but his soul was still deeply stricken by what he had experienced. He took to visiting the Good Brothers, the Franciscans at Greyfriars. He would take your brother Gabriel.’ She blinked away her tears.

‘They became very close, more like father and son than kinsmen. Simon deeply resented all this, as he did my marriage to Edmund. He accepted it, but he has a will of steel. He knew something was wrong, but was frustrated at being unable to help. He and Edmund became estranged, especially when Edmund tried to keep clear of all the nefarious goings-on at the Roseblood. In truth, he dreamt of becoming a merchant, of breaking free of the past. He often wished he could make reparation.

‘Then, about six years ago, Edmund confided in me how he had met young men from LeCorbeil. How he had explained to these emissaries that he was not to blame. He was most secretive about this. He told me how the survivors of the massacre were building a chantry in their parish church to honour the memory of the victims of the massacre; about how the local bishop wished to obtain the names of all those responsible.’

Eleanor paused as one of their captors passed the campfire, leading a sumpter pony.

‘And he believed this nonsense?’ Katherine asked.

‘He was full of guilt, gullible, desperate to make amends. We had no knowledge of the truth, not even a shred. Edmund believed the fairy tale being spun around him because he desperately wanted to. He never discussed it with Simon, only me. And I encouraged him wholeheartedly. I truly loved Edmund. I could see how he wanted to escape the pain, and so did I. God forgive us, we came to fiercely resent your father. We kept LeCorbeil hidden from him. We even ignored his warnings, allusions to LeCorbeil being the arrow point of French attacks on our southern coast.

‘Five years ago, Cade proclaimed himself Captain of Kent and marched to London.’ She paused, hands going out to the flames. ‘It happened so quickly, Katherine. Edmund received an invitation to meet an emissary of LeCorbeil. He and I were so eager to escape the Roseblood. Cade’s rebellion and the riots in London amply demonstrated the violence we had both grown to hate. Edmund went, and he was murdered.’ Eleanor’s voice broke. ‘Decapitated, abused, a dead crow left beside his poled head. Of course we had been tricked. So sudden,’ she murmured, ‘so swift, like a summer swallow skimming over the grass. I could not believe it. We had been seduced, betrayed and shattered.’ She grasped her niece’s hand. Her fingers were as cold as ice. ‘I urged Edmund along that path. My guilt, my sorrow, my mistake: that is why I am an anchorite. More importantly, now you will realise that LeCorbeil will never let us live!’

Eleanor paused as Dorcas struggled awake, moaning quietly and rubbing her stomach. ‘I must go to the latrines.’ The maid staggered to her feet and disappeared into the darkness.

‘How do we escape?’ Katherine urged. ‘And even if we do, I have heard the chatter amongst LeCorbeil. We are journeying south to Cottesloe, a deserted woodland village. They talk about meeting their seigneur. They also gossip about how the armies are on the move. The King has issued his writs, his commissioners of array are moving through the shires trying to raise troops. They are even offering pardons to outlaws.’ She closed her eyes, trying to recall the conversations she had overheard whilst they had been setting up camp. Indeed, that now frightened her, for it proved that Eleanor was correct: their captors had talked freely, confident that their prisoners would never—

Katherine opened her eyes and sprang to her feet at the heart-piercing scream echoing across the camp. ‘Dorcas!’ She grasped a brand from the flames and hurried through the darkness, the night air reeking of leather, burnt meat, horseflesh and human sweat. Others, also alarmed, were hastening towards the screaming; already two of LeCorbeil were flanking her. Katherine stumbled and slithered, her cloak catching briar and gorse. They reached the latrines, an ancient ditch behind a hedge of wild bramble; the stench was offensive. Dorcas stood on the lip of the ditch, gesturing wildly towards a clump of trees close to the picket lines. Peering through the gloom, Katherine could see that LeCorbeil were already there. She gingerly crossed the ditch. Dorcas stood still, pointing into the darkness.

‘I went over there. I did not want the men to see. The priest…’

Katherine ignored her and hurried across the heathland. She threw the firebrand away as she joined the ring of torches. LeCorbeil were staring at Father Roger, hanging from the outstretched branch of an ancient oak. He had apparently ripped his cloak, fashioned a noose, clambered up the gnarled trunk, tied the other end securely and let himself drop. He hung feet down, hands by his sides, head strangely twisted; in the dancing torchlight, his liverish face looked truly grotesque, eyes popping, swollen tongue thrust out.

‘The Judas priest.’ Bertrand was now beside her. ‘He spared the hangman.’

‘Cut him down!’ Katherine begged. ‘Please.’

Bertrand agreed, but despite the tearful pleas of both women, he ordered the corpse to be thrown into the latrine pit. They had to watch it sink beneath the filthy mud before being escorted back to their bothy.