‘Who was it?’ Aelred demanded.
‘I glimpsed a fleeting shadow, a night-tripping demon, but now he has gone.’ Raphael tried to control the sickness in his belly even as his father crouched to face him. ‘I am not strong enough for this,’ he whispered.
‘Nonsense,’ his father retorted. ‘You would have killed him. You attacked him like any good knight. Who was it? Sevigny? What did he say?’
Raphael told him.
‘LeCorbeil!’ Simon retorted. ‘He is spinning his web. God knows what, but your speed surprised him. He will be more careful in the future. Now come.’ He got up. ‘The hour is late. Soon the good brothers will sing Matins, but we have a visitor.’
Raphael followed his father and Prior Aelred back into the maze of friary buildings. They were ushered into a comfortable chamber, where the pilgrim Reginald Bray sat, smiling benevolently as always. Raphael and his father took stools before the table. Prior Aelred gestured at wine, bread and cheese. Raphael filled the goblets and broke up the manchet loaf and hardened cheese. Once finished, he offered these to their visitor, who courteously refused.
‘I understand,’ Bray’s voice was deep and throaty, ‘that you have had quite a stirring evening. An intruder, yes?’
‘So I believe,’ Raphael snapped.
‘LeCorbeil!’ Bray replied. ‘It must have been him. And you, Raphael, truly surprised him. But enough.’ He sipped at his goblet. ‘Master Simon, you are Beaufort’s henchman. I am new to his service, being indentured to the Lady Margaret; she is the thirteen-year-old daughter of your former master, John Beaufort, First Duke of Somerset. Margaret is a young woman with the pale, smooth face of a maid and eyes a thousand years old. So,’ Bray gathered his cloak about him, ‘I am not here to discuss the disappearance of whores, the smuggling of the best wine from Bordeaux or the perjured testimony of Candlemas.’ He smiled. ‘I am confident, one way or the other, that you will meet that challenge. I speak on the logical premise that you will.’
He paused and stretched across to grasp Simon’s arm. ‘Raphael, your father is a survivor; he is also a man whom my mistress and the Beaufort lords trust with their very lives.’ He removed his hand. ‘Indeed, Master Simon Roseblood is more Beaufort than the Beauforts.’ He produced a sealed document from the folds of his robe. ‘This is from the Lady Margaret, so that you know I am to be trusted.’
Simon broke the red blob of wax, moved the candlestick closer, then passed the document to Raphael. The contents were stark and simple. Written undoubtedly by the Lady Margaret herself, the letter introduced Reginald Bray, her ‘trusty and well-beloved clerk’, to Simon Roseblood, ‘close friend and henchman’ of her late beloved father, the good duke. It went on to describe how Bray wore her signet ring on the little finger of his right hand – Raphael glanced quickly at this – whilst around his neck hung a medal of St Maurice, her dead father’s patron saint. Raphael could see that the letter had not been opened and resealed, so the description given was in full accord with what he now saw.
‘Very good.’ He handed the document back. ‘So you are whom you claim to be. A rare enough event in this vale of tears.’
‘Amadeus Sevigny?’ Simon asked.
‘A mailed clerk. York trusts him as my mistress does you, though Sevigny is not liked by the duke’s wife, Dame Cecily, the so-called Rose of Raby.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’ll come to that; I have my suspicions. However, let me assure you, Sevigny is cunning and skilled. He played a hand in Jack Cade’s revolt.’
‘My brother was—’
‘I have heard about that, though Sevigny would not be involved. He is too cunning to start a blood feud. Plotting politics is his skill. The destruction of York’s enemies by process of law, hence Candlemas turning King’s Approver. Our noble sheriff, Malpas, is too ignorant for such a ploy; he lacks both the courage and the wit. Sevigny wants to block you and,’ Bray squinted through the gloom, ‘more dangerous for us, subvert your allegiance.’
‘Never!’
‘War is coming, Raphael. Men will assemble with the commissioners of array, wearing York’s livery with Lancaster’s beneath. The lords, the merchants and even the clergy will change sides as fast as a rat scuttles. Men will be bought, body and soul.’
Simon snorted with laughter and grasped Raphael’s arm. ‘We are as one on this.’
‘Good.’ Bray looked serenely at Raphael.
‘My father speaks for me.’
‘Ever the lawyer,’ Bray grinned. ‘Which is what I am as well. Now, LeCorbeil. He has undoubtedly spied on you. He followed you into this friary to frighten you as well as to create the illusion that he can come and go as he wishes, threaten, menace, but never be held to account. Your ferocious response will give him food for thought. I understand that in the tourney at the Inns Court you won a reputation for such swordplay.’
Raphael shrugged, slightly embarrassed at the praise.
‘Now, LeCorbeil, what do you know of him?’
Simon summarised what he had said in the Camelot Chamber at the Roseblood. When he had finished, Bray nodded in agreement.
‘LeCorbeil’s leader is undoubtedly a man of great wit and sharp mind. He is a mummer, a shape-shifter, appearing here and there.’ Bray held up a warning finger. ‘He leads a group just as skilled and highly organised. They are masters of the crossbow—’
‘But there are many such,’ Raphael interrupted.
‘No, no. Listen,’ his father declared. ‘I have heard of this. Master Reginald, I suspect what you are going to say.’
‘In the last great conflicts in France,’ Bray continued, ‘when the English lords went on chevauchée or laid siege to castles, the number of English captains killed was quite significant. Reports came in of master bowmen who singled out the English commander and, when given the opportunity, loosed a killing bolt.’
Raphael made to interrupt again, but his father seized his wrist. ‘Listen, Raphael, in battle, what are you frightened of?’
‘Why, the enemy!’
‘Of course. You turn, strike, shield and sword moving up and down, but these master bowmen don’t.’
‘It requires great courage,’ Bray declared. ‘They ignore what is happening around them and concentrate solely on their intended victim. Now such a bowman can be protected, but this must be done subtly, otherwise you will attract the attention of your enemy. The master bowman waits. The English lord, either mounted or on foot, is surrounded by his henchmen. He is fully armoured, his visor down. Sooner or later he must raise that visor, even for a short while, to breathe more freely, to cool his face, and that is all the master bowman needs. The bolt is loosed, the commander killed, banners fall, chaos ensues.’ Bray pulled a face. ‘We believe LeCorbeil are responsible, individually or as a group, for such killings. They have snatched the lives of a great number of English commanders in France.’
‘But here in England, both York and Lancaster remain their enemy?’ Raphael asked.
‘Now,’ Bray sighed, ‘we come to LeCorbeil’s other undoubted challenge. They provoke agitation, which is what happened in Kent and Essex during Cade’s uprising. More importantly, when this city decided to resist, its military commander, Matthew Gough, Captain of the Tower, together with John Sutton, a leading alderman, rallied to defend London Bridge. LeCorbeil were undoubtedly there. Gough, Sutton and others were killed by this.’
Bray opened his wallet and took out a squat red-feathered crossbow bolt. Raphael studied it. A lethal shot, the goose flight starched and firm at the end of its elm-wood stem, whilst its jagged steel point could easily crack a man’s skull or shatter the bones of his face to a bloody mess.
‘That’s their weapon of war. So, LeCorbeil are here,’ Bray continued briskly, ‘to stir and agitate as well as wage their own blood feud against the Beauforts. The only solution we have is to kill them all.’
Bray’s doom-like words rang like a funeral bell. Raphael stared across at a crucifix nailed to the wall. A triptych to its right proclaimed scenes from the Passion of Christ. Did Jesus’s sufferings, Raphael wondered, have any relevance to himself, his father, his family? They had no choice but to swim in a filthy sweep of politics, perjury and perdition. Even this chamber, sanctified by decades of prayer, fasting, study and soul-searching, was being used to describe bloody murder, vengeance and treason.
‘Am I… are we,’ Simon asked, ‘responsible for LeCorbeil’s destruction?’
‘Yes and no,’ Bray replied. ‘But first, we must destroy someone else.’ He clasped his hands, fingers laced. ‘Beaufort, York and LeCorbeil share one thing in common: they fish in very troubled waters. Have you ever heard of Giles Argentine?’
‘A doctor,’ Simon murmured, ‘one who used to be much in demand by the great and the good: a royal physician, a member of the King’s household. He studied at Salerno and even amongst the Moors in Spain. Beaufort sometimes talked about Argentine, a man who loves wealth and intrigue.’
‘Too true,’ Bray agreed. ‘But now Argentine has disappeared from court because of his love of mischief.’
Bray poured some more wine, then rose. He opened and closed the door before walking around the parlour ensuring that all the shutters on the outside of the windows were firmly sealed. At last he returned to his chair.
‘Now you know,’ he hunched forward, his voice just above a whisper, ‘how Richard of York alleges that our present King Henry’s son and heir is actually the illegitimate offspring of Queen Margaret of Anjou and the great love of her life, Edmund Beaufort, recently promoted to Duke of Somerset after the death of his brother John, the first duke. God and his angels know the truth,’ Bray added. ‘Queen Margaret certainly shows enough passion for her favourite, being guided by his every word.’
‘And the truth?’ Raphael demanded. Bray just looked away.
‘Argentine,’ he replied, measuring his words, ‘claims to know the truth, having been present at the royal birth as well as being personal physician to our noble King, with all his failings, both physical and mental. Argentine claims to hold certain documents regarding these.’
‘Is he implying,’ Raphael asked, ‘that the King is impotent?’
‘I cannot, shall not answer that.’ Bray refused to meet his eye. ‘The problem is that York wishes to seize this learned physician and all his documents.’
‘Naturally!’ Simon declared.
‘Ah, but there is more. You see, York himself has secrets, and these may be the source of the antipathy between York’s wife and his henchman, Sevigny. Argentine was also hired by York; he was present at the birth of the duke’s eldest son, Edward. Gossipmongers whisper that Edward is not York’s but the result of an infatuation by his duchess for an English archer in the garrison at Rouen. So, you can understand: the Queen and the Beaufort lords need to silence Argentine and use whatever secrets he holds about York against the duke, who in turn also wishes to seize Argentine.’
Bray raised his eyebrows. ‘Finally there is LeCorbeil and their French masters, who have learnt all about this. They are also hunting Argentine, and you can see why. For over a hundred years, English monarchs have claimed the crown of France by descent from Isabella, once Queen of England. You can imagine how the French now watch the pot of bubbling intrigue here in England. When Richard II was deposed in 1399, the crown went to the House of Lancaster, both the royal line and its illegitimate offshoot, namely the Beauforts. York maintains that he has a better claim. Now there is this foolish physician with his scandalous stories about how the heirs of both York and Lancaster have no claim to anything, be it their own dukedoms or the crown of England.’
‘Or of France?’
‘Oh yes, Raphael. How the masters of secrets in the palaces of the Louvre and Fontainebleau would love to proclaim that abroad. They would make a mockery of us all over Europe.’
‘So LeCorbeil has also joined the hunt?’ Raphael laughed abruptly. ‘Little wonder Argentine has disappeared. Whom will he turn to?’
‘Logically the French. He will be safer, more honoured, greatly rewarded and protected. York and Lancaster would probably seize his manuscripts and cut his throat.’
‘Where is he hiding, do you know?’
‘In the house of lepers, St Giles Hospital, near Tyburn stream, close to the great scaffold. We have done our searches. I certainly have; my task whilst lodged at the Roseblood. St Giles is the logical choice for a man like Argentine.’
‘Nonsense!’ Raphael exclaimed.
‘True!’ his father declared. ‘Leprosy is a living death. It can only be contracted by eating the same food, drinking the same water as lepers, and above all by constant and close touch with them.’ He smiled grimly. ‘An excellent place to hide; even if people suspected, they would remain wary. Most people flee at the very thought. I suspect Argentine has bribed the master of the hospital, whoever that is, to be given a private cell, his own clothes and fresh food. He is a physician; he will know exactly what to do to resist the contagion.’ Simon winked at Raphael. ‘I have travelled to Outremer. I have also had many dealings with lepers, usually former soldiers.’
‘Master Simon,’ Bray smiled, ‘you are certainly correct on one thing. The master of the hospital is Joachim Brotherton.’
‘Who?’
‘To many just a name, but I have also learnt he is close kin to Argentine and a great lover of silver.’ Bray held up a hand, up as if taking an oath. ‘I know he’s there. He must be, and we must deal with him.’
‘Ah.’ Simon’s voice faltered at the way Bray was studying him. ‘You want me to enter St Giles?’
Bray nodded his agreement, then, stooping down, picked up a chancery bag. He shook out its contents: a scroll, documents sealed with coloured wax, and a heavy purse.
‘Simon, the Beauforts ask you this as a great boon to themselves and your dead beloved master Duke John. You are a man of great subtlety and subterfuge. You are also deeply acquainted with all aspects of this city. You control many of the counterfeit men, who can replicate the most repellent diseases, infections and other morbid conditions. You have also served in Outremer and know a great deal about leprosy. We want you to enter St Giles, find Argentine, kill him if necessary and seize all his documents.’