Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online

stammered the usual monastic benediction before hastily adding that Sir Walter Castledene had arrived. The Mayor of Canterbury was deeply agitated, so the lay brother declared, waiting below with his retinue in the refectory. Castledene was insisting that the King’s emissary accompany him immediately to Maubisson.
    Corbett aroused Ranulf and Chanson in the adjoining chamber, going in and out as he hastily dressed, kicking Chanson’s bed, leaning over Ranulf to shout at the heavy-eyed clerk to prepare himself. Corbett pulled on his spurred boots, gathered up his war belt and cloak and hurried down the torchlit staircase. Sir Walter had left the refectory and was waiting impatiently in the hallway; his horsemen milled in the cobbled yard beyond, their mounts snorting and kicking at the cobbles. The torches carried by the riders spluttered sparks through the freezing cold air, making the horses even more skittish. The greetings between mayor and clerk were brief but cordial. Corbett knew Castledene of old. They’d fought in Segrave’s mounted brigade at Falkirk five years earlier. Corbett would never forget that fight. The English longbowmen had broken Wallace’s schiltrons and the heavy mailed cavalry of Lord Segrave had poured in, phalanx after phalanx of armoured knights, to bring the remnants of the Scots to battle, mace against club, sword against stabbing dirk, a frenzy of blood-spilling which still haunted Corbett’s dreams.
    ‘Sir Walter.’ Corbett stepped back. ‘What is the matter?’
    Despite being a wealthy man, a powerful citizen, Castledene looked dishevelled and tired; his wiry frame cloaked in a simple cote-hardie, quilted jerkin and hose above battered riding boots, his lean face drained of all colour.
    ‘You’d best come to Maubisson, Sir Hugh. I have dreadful news.’ Castledene glanced fearfully over his shoulder at his retinue. Mailed men-at-arms clustered in the entrance; others stood outside amongst the horsemen. The mayor hardly gave the guest master, who now came hurrying down, a second glance whilst he curtly nodded at Ranulf and gestured at the door.
    ‘Sir Hugh, come, for God’s sake! We have to go to Maubisson! Paulents and all his family are dead!’
    ‘Dead?’
    ‘Hanged like a coven of felons! Do you understand me, Sir Hugh? Hanged here within the King’s peace and under our protection!’
    ‘How?’
    Castledene didn’t answer; he was already moving towards the door. All thoughts Sir Hugh had had of joining the good brothers in their stalls and participating in the glory of plainchant were quickly forgotten. He muttered his apologies to the guest master and followed Castledene. Horses were hastily trotted out and saddled, the yard noisy with hooves clattering over cobbles. Ranulf shouted at the grooms to check girth and stirrups. Corbett, half asleep and freezing cold, mounted, gathered the reins and then they were away, cantering out of the abbey yard along a narrow icy lane leading down to the Dover road. Corbett was aware of the jingle of harness, the snorts of horses and the quiet curses of men cantering through the freezing grey dawn. They passed carts lumbering into the city. He glimpsed lantern lights, flickering flames, a lonely lamp glowing in an arched window, but then the dark swept in around them. The road was slightly raised; carts and wagons had already shifted the fallen snow but it was still dangerous going. Two horses went down and they and their riders had to be left behind. At last the comitatus reached the trackway stretching down to Maubisson. Here the snow was so deep they had to dismount and walk their horses towards the iron-studded gateway in the curtain wall of the manor. This was ablaze with torchlight from flambeaux fixed in sconces or on poles driven into the ground. More guards clustered here, all wearing the livery of the city beneath their cowled cloaks: three ravens against a blue and gold background.
    The captain of the guard, Wendover, hastily