Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

diminish his awe at this formidable fortress, with its lofty crenellated walls, soaring towers, battlemented turrets and thick-set drum towers. From the keep, on the top of the hill, fluttered the royal banner of England, the golden leopards clear against their scarlet background, and next to it the personal standard of Sir Edmund Launge, the Royal Constable, silver lions couchant against a dark blue field.
    At last they reached the castle, clattering across the drawbridge and in under the sharp teeth of the raised portcullis. They crossed the outer ward or bailey, as busy as any market square with its stalls, smithies, stables, cookhouses and ovens being hastily prepared for another day’s business. Somewhere a bell clanged, and a hunting horn brayed, almost drowned by the baying of a pack of hounds, hungry for their first meal of the day. On tables just inside the gateway, where the blood ran like water, the warrener was laying out the skinned corpses of game for the flesher to gut after he had finished hacking at a whole pig, the severed head of which lay forlornly in a tub of brine, frightening the curious hunting dogs with its still, glassy stare. Fires and braziers crackled. Children shrieked and danced around them, pushing aside the mastiffs which drooled at the smell of salted bacon being laid across makeshift grills to sizzle until brown. Washerwomen struggled to carry baskets of stinking clothes to the waiting vats. Verderers hung more game from poles while the whippers-in fought to keep back the dogs as they placed bowls underneath the cut throats of beast and fowl to collect the blood. Further up, a horse suspected of being lame was being led out of the stables for a horse-leech to inspect. Men-at-arms and archers lounged about, their weapons piled before them as they grouped round a fire and broke their fast on coarse rye bread, spiced sausage and a jug of ale. No one challenged Corbett or his retinue; they were allowed to pass through the bailey, across a second drawbridge spanning a dry fosse, and into the inner ward, a more serene place, dominated by its soaring keep and towers. Guards lurked in the shadows beneath the portcullis, more in the bailey beyond, whilst archers on the battlements turned to watch the newcomers arrive. Corbett reined in and dismounted, glancing across at the Great Hall, a manor house in itself. Built of good stone and fronted with ashlar on a red-brick base, it boasted a black-tiled roof and two low, squat chimney stacks. This was the Constable’s personal dwelling, comprising hall, kitchen, solar and buttery, with his private chambers above. Sir Edmund Launge, accompanied by his wife and daughter, was already hastening down the steps to greet them. Ostlers and grooms hurried up to lead away their horses. Sir Edmund strode across, sending chickens and ducks squawking away in protest.
    ‘Sir Hugh!’
    ‘Sir Edmund!’
    They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace. Corbett went to show his commission from the King, but Launge waved it away with his fingers, demanding to be introduced to the rest of his party. Corbett did so. Pleasantries were exchanged. Questions were asked about Corbett’s wife, the Lady Maeve, and his two children, Edward and Eleanor, named after the King and his late lamented Queen. Corbett enjoyed the introductions, eager to view Ranulf’s reaction.
    Sir Edmund was small and thick-set, grey hair straggling down either side of a square face burnt dark by the sun. A sombre-eyed man, his beard and moustache neatly clipped, Sir Edmund was dressed in a green and gold cotehardie with a black leather belt around his waist. Corbett knew the Constable of old as a born soldier, a skilled jouster and one of the old King’s comrades, entrusted with the care of this important fortress. Lady Catherine Launge was buxom and plump, her red-cheeked face and grey hair almost hidden by a voluminous old-fashioned wimple. Dressed in her dark blue gown with a silver girdle,