Devil's Wolf

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Paul Doherty's most popular series character returns. Hugh Corbett is about to take up a life of danger once again in the nineteenth novel in his series and the follow up to Dark Serpent. If you love historical mysteries from Robin Hobb, Susanna Gregory, Michael Jecks, Peter Tremayne and Bernard Knight, you will love this.

1296: King Edward I has led his army to Scotland, determined to take the country under his crown. But the fierce Scots have no intention of submitting to their oppressor and violent and bloody war breaks out.

1311: Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, finds himself back in Scotland and is revisited by the horrors he witnessed there fifteen years ago.

An anonymous letter was delivered to the new king. It promised information about a fatal incident that could allow England to finally bow out of the war with the Scots. Tasked with finding out the truth about the murder, Corbett is forced to take risks he would rather avoid and put his faith in the words of strangers.

But with an unknown traitor lurking in the shadows and danger around every corner, will Corbett be able to unravel the complex web of plots in time?

Release date: November 30, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 254

Sample

The Rogation Days, March 1296

Berwick was burning! The most valuable port on Scotland’s east coast, just across the border from England, was no longer the Jewel of the North. The Scots had risen once more against their oppressor, the devastator of their lands, Edward I of England, whose influence now swirled like a black cloud over the northern kingdom. A mist of murder had engulfed its valleys, glens, towns and churches from Coldstream to the Northern Isles. The Scots, provoked beyond measure, had risen against the English tyrant; a sudden, savage eruption of popular discontent and resentment at Edward’s constant interference in Scottish affairs. They knew he would not rest until he made himself king and master of their realm.

Berwick had protested and paid the price. The once bustling port now reeked of death, stinking and smouldering, with blood snaking down its narrow wynds like wine from cracked vats. The English had unleashed horror upon horror against its citizens. Edward was determined to make an example of the town and so terrify into subjection anyone foolish enough to rebel against him. On land he had brought up his great war machines: trebuchets, catapults and battering rams with names that reflected the devastating damage they inflicted. Most terrible of them all was the Wolf, a massive catapult that hurled faggots of flaming wood and straw bound by chains, followed by smouldering beams soaked in pitch and tar, to smash against Berwick’s makeshift defences. At sea Edward’s ships had suffered badly, which only provoked the English king to greater fury. Even worse, just before the final assault on the port, one of the king’s kinsmen had lifted his visor to cool his face and a Scottish defender had loosed a crossbow bolt to shatter the Englishman’s skull. Edward, enraged beyond measure, had unfurled his standard and issued the order: ‘No quarter, no mercy, no prisoners.’ There were to be no exceptions.

Berwick became nothing more than a slaughterhouse; its citizens, penned like hogs in the narrow streets and lanes, were cut down by hack and thrust so that the very air crimsoned with a bloody mist. Armed knights moved like black storm clouds through the town, slashing with axe, mace and sword until the cobbles ran red, whilst the knights’ horses, frantic with fear or fury, slipped on the hot wet stones and greasy slivers of human flesh. Horrible cries and screams echoed like a constant hymn as skulls were smashed and bellies ripped open. Men, women and children were sacrificed to Edward of England’s blood-fed vision of taking Scotland under the English Crown. No one was spared; even the Flemish merchants who sheltered in their own enclave, the Red Hall, were shown no quarter when they resisted. Edward’s troops, beaten off in their frantic assault, simply brought up catapults and sacks of oil. They drenched the hall and a volley of fire arrows turned it into a raging inferno in which all thirty of its defenders gruesomely perished.

By the second day of the sack the pillaging was completely out of control. Edward set up his standards outside Berwick’s stately Guildhall: this would become his throne room, ringed by hobelars, archers and Knights of the Body. The royal banners, glorious and gorgeous, billowed and snapped in the smoke-drenched wind, proclaiming the snarling golden leopards of England; the red lion rampant of Scotland and the dragon displayed as a blood-red nightmare against a snow-white background. In Edward’s own words, ‘The dragon had been unfurled and the dragon displayed’ to herald a season of bloodshed in which no compassion would be shown or mercy given.

The destroyer of Berwick had commandeered the once comfortable solar at the Guildhall. All of its treasures – the resplendent tapestries with their precious brilliantly coloured thread; the triptychs painted so skilfully in an array of eye-catching hues by artists of Hainault and Flanders; the richly carved furnishings, the ornate crucifixes and soft Turkey rugs – had been seized and piled into the war carts drawn up in the cobbled bailey outside. The English were determined to strip Scotland of its treasures, sacred relics and royal regalia.

On that particular Rogation Day Edward, the self-styled ‘Hammer of the Scots’, slouched in the solar’s high chair, the table before him strewn with manuscripts: muster rolls; lists of supplies as well as goods seized; above all, the names of those rebels killed, captured or in flight. He scratched his grizzled cheek, then one spotted, vein-streaked hand clawed at his iron-grey hair, tugging at the sweaty knots, whilst the other combed his tangled beard and moustache. Perspiring and wearied, he stared down at the royal armour on the floor beside him, his gaze caught by the richly woven royal tabard stained with gore. Outside, the hellish hymn of conflict, screams, yells, cries and battle chants, echoed constantly. Edward, his throat bone dry, gulped from a goblet and glared at Anthony Bek, Bishop of Durham, who had led the second column of the English army across the Tweed. The king beat a hand against the arm of his chair.

‘They burnt my ships,’ he roared, ‘they slaughtered my crews. They have renounced their allegiance. They are deserving of death. I will break these rebels. I will burn this land and sack its cities. I will turn it into a wilderness until I have my way.’ His furrowed face suffused with rage. ‘I do not trust any of them,’ he spat out. ‘Not even those like Bruce who plant their banners next to mine.’ He clenched and unclenched his fist. ‘I will take his head, I’ll gut his insides. Has he forgotten Wallace being cut up at Smithfield? His belly opened, his genitals hacked off . . .’

Edward paused as the door opened and a girl of no more than twelve summers slipped like a ghost into the solar and walked slowly towards him. She was dressed in a dark-green smock, drenched in blood, which also stained her hands and wrists. She paused before the king, her eyes dark rings in a face as white as snow, mouth opening and shutting like that of someone being strangled, fighting for breath. ‘St Oswine,’ she murmured. ‘St Oswine, pray for me!’

‘What is it, child?’ The king recognised the daughter of the Guildhall bailiff, whose life, along with those of his family, had been spared provided he disclosed the whereabouts of the Guildhall treasures. For a brief moment the girl reminded Edward of his own beloved daughter Eleanor.

She shook her head and held up her badly scorched wrist for the king to see. Edward was about to speak again when a knock on the door made him look up. He smiled as Hugh Corbett, the youngest yet most able clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal, came into the chamber with his escort, the Welsh master bowman Ap Ythel.

‘Hugh.’ The king forgot the girl. He rose, walked across the solar and threw his arms around the clerk to exchange the kiss of peace before holding him at arm’s length. ‘It is so good to see you. You’ve brought messages from the Chancellor?’ He turned to Ap Ythel and winked. ‘A good, safe journey, there and back?’

‘We came by sea. The roads north are dangerous.’

Edward broke free of Corbett and clasped hands with the Welshman, who had proved to be the most loyal and skilled of bodyguards. Then the king stepped back. He’d caught a look in Ap Ythel’s eyes. The archer seemed agitated, dark eyes questioning, bearded face pale, mouth slightly open as if surprised. Edward noticed the stains of vomit on his jerkin. The king glanced at Corbett. The clerk seemed equally tense. His raven-black hair was tied in a queue at the back, his olive-hued face taut, the skin stretched tight over the high cheekbones, whilst his deep-set eyes brimmed with tears. Corbett clawed at the neck of his dark-russet leather jerkin. He undid the cord, rubbing a finger beneath the collar of his cambric shirt, scratching at his sweat-soaked skin.

A hideous scream echoed from outside, followed by the neigh of a horse and the clatter of hooves. Someone, somewhere was sharpening a sword, a harsh jarring sound to set the teeth on edge. Edward breathed in. He caught the stench of smoke and the salty iron tang of blood. He studied these two men whom he trusted with his life.

‘Hugh? Ap Ythel? What is the matter? Have you been attacked?’

‘Your Grace.’ Anthony Bek had been standing in one of the window embrasures. He now came forward and pointed at the young girl, who had crumpled to the floor. Ap Ythel and Corbett hastened to assist her. The king crouched down to face Corbett, who stroked the girl’s face, brushing her hair back. She was still praying to St Oswine and nursing her blackened wrist. Corbett took a goblet of wine from the bishop and tried to force it between her lips.

‘Hugh?’ the king demanded. ‘In heaven’s name what is the matter?’

‘Sire, she saw what we did as we entered the Guildhall bailey. Berwick has become a flesher’s yard. There’s more blood outside than in the slaughterhouses of Newgate and the Shambles on Lammas Day. As we came in through the gates, so much blood was swilling about it wetted the fetlocks of our horses. Body parts litter the ground, great hunks of steaming flesh. Corpses being nosed and gnawed by dogs. The broken bodies of children, girls and boys with sightless eyes . . .’

‘They are rebels, Hugh. They are all rebels.’

Corbett gazed coolly back and pointed at the girl. ‘Is she a rebel, sire? Is her little brother who is crouching outside a traitor?’

‘Hugh, you have been in battle.’

‘God forgive me, sire, I have, but not like this, not like what I have just seen.’

‘What did you see?’

‘Your Grace, we came upon it too late. There was nothing we could do.’

‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘A pregnant woman giving birth, and as she did, one of your mercenaries stabbed both her and the child.’

Edward groaned and turned away, putting his face in his hands.

‘In the name of God, sire,’ Corbett whispered, ‘this is not war but mortal sin. I understand it’s been going on for two days. I have spoken before and I will speak again. You are sowing a dreadful seed; what is being done here is truly evil. I beg you . . .’

Edward dropped his hands, rose and gestured at Bek. ‘Bishop, issue the order. All the hostilities, the killing must end.’

Northumberland, September 1311

Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal and personal envoy of King Edward II of England, quietly conceded to himself that he was in a land of deep shadow. He had journeyed north into Northumbria, his mind crammed with the secret instructions of his king and a whole sea of problems to resolve. He and his cohort had now entered the upper moorlands of the kingdom’s most northern shire; they were following the ancient route to Lord Henry Percy’s stronghold of Alnwick, a rugged castle built on the south side of the River Aln only thirty miles south of Coldstream and the city of Berwick.

Corbett paused in the fringe of trees and closed his eyes. Berwick! The very name brought back those dire, dreadful memories: nightmare images of hacked flesh, snouting dogs, blood swilling in the streets, black clouds of smoke drifting from the houses, lamentable cries and heart-rending screams. He recalled that when the slaughter had finished and the corpses were gathered, the mounds of dead reached at least two yards high: men, women and children, even babies at the breast. Corbett had issued a prophecy that day, how the old king had sowed a dreadful seed, and now the harvest was no better. Scotland was in full revolt and their leader, Robert the Bruce, was on the verge of a great victory.

Corbett opened his eyes and went deeper into the copse of ancient trees, which formed an almost perfect ring around his encampment. He was glad they had found it. He stared up at the sky. The September sun was setting; a glorious evening, even though the breeze had turned sharp and cool. In a while, darkness would fall, cloaking off everything, shrouding the land, the bustle of the day giving way to the eerie sounds of the deepest night. His gaze was caught by a sight that had been fairly constant over the last few days. Across the wild sea of gorse, the land rose to the brow of a low hill, where three trees stood black against the fading light. From each of these dangled a corpse, a macabre black shape, a chilling message to all who travelled across this desolate landscape. Brother Adrian Ogilvie, the Benedictine monk who’d accompanied them north from London, had explained how they were now in the devil’s domain. They were crossing the estates of the robber baron Edmund Darel, a northern knight who had exploited the chaos in the kingdom to carve out and defend an enclave, a fief in the north where the king’s peace and the royal writ were largely ignored. Corbett crossed himself. He knew Darel of old, and what he had recently learnt about that warrior warlock was not very pleasant.

He narrowed his eyes as he recalled today’s date: Lady’s Day, 8 September, the Year of Our Lord 1311. It had been some fifteen years ago, at the end of March 1296, that he had entered the sacked, pillaged town of Berwick and witnessed the birth of a lasting horror. The old king’s poisonous legacy to his own son, which over the years had turned into a real and living nightmare. Edward I had truly sown a tempest, and his son and heir, Edward of Caernarvon, Edward II as he was regally styled, was reaping the most savage whirlwind. England’s war in Scotland had slipped from bad to worse. Horror piled upon horror had not prevented the emergence and rise of a new Scottish war leader, Robert the Bruce.

Worse, at home Edward II was fighting his great barons, led by his own cousin Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. King and noble had clashed bitterly over the question of Edward’s darling favourite, his ‘true sworn brother’, the Gascon Peter Gaveston. In the eyes of the great English seigneurs, Gaveston was a mere commoner, yet Edward had created the parvenu Earl of Cornwall and given him in marriage his royal kinswoman Margaret de Clare. Honour after honour had been heaped on the king’s favourite until Lancaster and the other great lords rebelled. Calling themselves ‘the Lords Ordainers’, they had seized control of the Royal Council and issued the most dire threats against Gaveston if he did not leave the kingdom immediately.

Corbett loosened his war belt. His stomach was upset and he blamed what he’d eaten earlier in the day. Ranulf and Chanson, his two henchmen, had complained of similar discomfort. He gave a deep sigh. The day was dying fast and the midnight mist was creeping over the moonlit moors. Somewhere a dog howled at the darkening sky, and Corbett felt an immediate chill. The howling was abruptly cut short, yet his suspicions were pricked. Were they near a village or a farm? His scouts hadn’t reported that; they’d talked of a sea of grass as far as they could ride. The howling was not the raucous yapping of some farm dog; more like the baying of a war mastiff. But why should some peasant keep such a great hound? Or was it just his imagination, now prey to all forms of sinister thoughts at the end of a day when he felt tired and agitated, not to mention the effect of crossing this bleakly beautiful landscape?

The party had followed the ‘eagle roads’ laid out, according to local legend, by the ancient Romans. They had crossed Caesar’s great wall to the south and entered this haunted home of the badger and the curlew, trundling along trackways that were really nothing more than drovers’ paths or sheepwalks. Their guide, Brother Adrian, had proved most useful. A student of nature, he was quick to point out a shrike, or the difference between the osprey and the fork-tailed kite, and had thoroughly enjoyed teasing Corbett as he described the different types of crow, be it the hooded or the common. Corbett accepted the play on his own name, which originated from le corbeil, a derivative of the Norman French for ‘crow’, as well as the name of a town in Normandy. The crow, its black wings extended, was his main heraldic device, displayed on both banner and pennant.

As they rode deeper into this wild countryside, Corbett, his unease growing by the day, had decided to let everyone know who he was and where he came from. He had unfurled both his war banner and the royal pennant displaying the king’s coat of arms in the rich Plantagenet colours of red, blue and gold. Such a display should warn off any threat, yet Corbett was not convinced. The austere beauty of these moorlands was deceptive, the very ground treacherous. Brother Adrian had pointed out the deep-brown peat banks as well as the dangerous mosses, puddled soft ground spiked with clumps of marsh grass and dotted with willow scrum, which concealed a cloying black mud, a truly deadly trap for both man and beast. Corbett just thanked God the weather had held and they could negotiate such marshes and manage the steep, slithering hillsides. Yet these were not the only dangers . . .

He turned at a sound behind him. Ranulf-atte-Newgate, principal clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, together with Chanson, Corbett’s clerk of the stables, came out of the gathering dark, forcing their way through the gorse, bramble and briar that formed a natural wall, a line of defence between the ancient stunted trees of the copse. Both men were dressed like their master in dark quilted jerkins over linen shirts, hose of the same colour pushed into riding boots.

Corbett pointed over their shoulders back at the camp. ‘All well?’ he asked.

‘Horses settled,’ Chanson replied. ‘Pottage pot bubbling merrily. You can smell it, master.’

Corbett sniffed the air, catching the reek of woodsmoke and simmering oatmeal. He patted his stomach. ‘A fast will do me more good.’ He clapped Chanson on the shoulder. ‘I know what you want to do; go back to your beloved horses, my friend.’

‘And don’t sing,’ Ranulf added, stepping back to avoid Chanson’s playful blow. ‘Or touch any weaponry.’ Not only did the clerk of the stables have no ear for music, but when he wielded a weapon of any sort, it posed more danger to himself than to anyone else.

Chanson, muttering under his breath, stamped off. Ranulf’s smile faded.

‘He’s worried,’ he told Corbett. ‘He may know nothing about singing or armour, but he knows everything about horses. He’s picked up tracks, the hoof marks of those garrons the reivers of this desolate place ride, small but sure-footed mounts. Chanson believes there is a screed of enemy scouts around us.’

‘I agree.’ Corbett answered tersely, staring into the dark, his gaze caught by the corpses swinging from their twisted trees, so stark against the fading light. ‘See those, Ranulf? God knows what the poor souls did, but their cadavers are being used to threaten, warn and frighten us. But by whom, why and against what?’

‘Whoever it is, are they out there?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Oh yes!’

Corbett stared at his henchman. Ranulf’s pale face had grown ascetic, like that of a fasting monk. Before they had left London, the Clerk of the Green Wax had cropped his fiery red hair to a mere stubble and shaved his face close so he could wear his chain-mail coif and helmet more comfortably.

‘The monsters are out there,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Whoever those monsters are. I hate these places! Brooding, silent grasslands with concealed marsh and bog, treacherous paths that lead nowhere. Dark copses of trees that are nothing more than lurk-holes where a legion of wolfsheads could gather.’

Corbett laughed, but Ranulf’s slanted green eyes did not crinkle in merriment nor his bloodless lips part in a mischievous grin.

‘Sir Hugh, I am a city riffler, a street fighter. I prefer the sewers, alleys and runnels of London to this great yawning expanse, so beautiful at first glance yet it can hide all kinds of horror. I remember when I was a boy, my mother took me to Epping Forest to the north of the city. I have been in battle, the most bloody street fights. I have trapped professional assassins and been hunted by the same, but I will never forget that vision of twisted, tangled trees, the trackways nothing more than holes through the forest, with branches blocking out the sun and the sky. Dark wings floating. Mysterious sounds echoing from the undergrowth.’

Corbett clapped his companion on the shoulder. ‘Ranulf, what has brought this on? You have grown worse since we left Pontefract. You sit on your horse all wary, vigilant like some hard-bitten moss-trooper.’

‘That’s because I am one, Sir Hugh. I have fought here like you have. When you retired for a while to Leighton Manor, to the Lady Maeve, your children, your beehives and your manor choir.’

Corbett caught the strong tinge of envy in his companion’s voice and wondered what bitterness had seeped into Ranulf’s soul.

‘I envy you, Sir Hugh.’ Ranulf’s face relaxed now, almost into a smile. ‘I really do. Anyway, I fought here with the old king. His soul had turned to iron; he didn’t know the meaning of the word compassion, and showed no mercy to friend or foe alike. So yes, this journey north has summoned up all kinds of ghosts, opened the door to demons and foul memories. You know, Sir Hugh, there were days when I was in the king’s army when I prayed for a day without killing. I believe those times have returned. We have entered a land of deep shadow and its monsters cluster all around us.’ He pointed across the grassland now swaying under the strengthening evening breeze. ‘And before you say it, I am not imagining things. Listen.’ He paused.

Corbett strained his hearing. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered, ‘and yet . . .’

‘Precisely.’ Ranulf walked forward, staring out into the gathering murk. ‘No bird call, no rustling or scrabbling in the undergrowth.’

Corbett followed the clerk’s gaze. A spasm of fear, a sudden chilling of stomach and heart, swept through him. Ranulf was right. The silence was unnatural. Out there on the heathland, some malignant mischief was gathering.

‘Why?’ Ranulf demanded, turning back. ‘Master, why are we really here?’

Corbett was making to reply when a roar of laughter rose from the encampment.

‘The food is being served,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘and the wine casks broached. Master, my question: why are we here?’

Corbett steadied his nerve. He tried to ignore the brooding, gathering dark, the imminence of nightfall, the threats that might lurk deep in the shadows, ready to lunge out of the murk. He gestured at his henchman to follow him back into the trees. He suspected Ranulf’s unease sprang from uncertainty. Corbett would have to resolve that, but he couldn’t do so right now. He would not divulge the secrets the king had sworn him to before he left Westminster, information that others would pay a royal ransom to obtain.

He squatted on a fallen log, indicating that Ranulf sit next to him, and smiled at his companion through the darkness. ‘We are here because we are royal clerks, Ranulf. We do the bidding of our masters as far as conscience will allow. So first, Edward, the present king’s father, plunged his kingdom into total war against the Scots. He stole their coronation stone as well as their royal regalia and he tried to impose rule from Westminster. The Scots, under their self-proclaimed king Robert the Bruce, have resisted with all their force and might. Second, the old king is now four years dead and his heir, God bless him, has inherited this bloody war, which he is going to lose. Bruce has the upper hand; he will never give up.

‘Third, Edward, our present king, has failed disastrously at home. The Royal Council has been taken over by the Ordainers, a coven of great lords who now control both the Exchequer and Chancery, the very reins of power. Thomas of Lancaster leads them and he now dictates terms to both Crown and Council. He has insisted that the king release Scottish prisoners: two hostages, Alexander Seton and John Sterling, together with their squires Richard Mallet and Malachy Roskell, who were imprisoned in the Tower. Lancaster demanded their release so they can be exchanged for English prisoners held by Bruce. Fourth, Lancaster has insisted that I, the Chancery’s most senior clerk, personally escort these hostages to Alnwick, where an exchange of prisoners might take place. I suppose my presence lends some importance to the occasion.’

Corbett paused. Ranulf was correct. Night had fallen. Noises echoed from the camp, yet the silence around them remained unbroken. The very stillness was eerie and threatening. No night bird soared or chattered. No yip or shriek from the hunter or the hunted. Corbett stared up at the sky: clouds were gathering and the stars did not hang so low, whilst the sliver of moon seemed wan and weakly.

‘But there are other matters, aren’t there, Sir Hugh? Secret business?’

‘Secret business,’ Corbett agreed. ‘I wish I could share it all with you, but I am under oath not to speak or to reveal anything until the appropriate time. My friend, you mustn’t think our king is just jumping because Lancaster has kicked him. He is using my presence in the north for his own secret purposes. Some of these matters are of the present; others have been lurking in the past.’ He pointed out over the heathland. ‘Even now, here I am waiting for someone: Geoffrey Cacoignes.’

‘Cacoignes!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘The court fop? He was a member of Edward’s household before the young king was crowned. I thought he had been killed in Scotland, spliced by the rebels and dangled from a peel tower some five years ago.’

‘Well, Ranulf, he is either a new Lazarus or he didn’t hang. According to the evidence, he was captured, imprisoned and then escaped. He hoped to cross the marshes, reach Alnwick and await further instructions; that was four months ago. He never appeared. We then heard he had joined the retinue of one of the north’s great robber barons, Edmund Darel. Just before we left Pontefract, a chapman brought me a cryptic message telling me how Cacoignes promised to join us when we least expected it. I would say a place and time like this would fit such a description. Moreover,’ Corbett added, ‘according to Brother Adrian, ou. . .