‘Now, in my travel along the Street of Swords, I had encountered strange tales about former comrades who had served under the black banner. I learnt about Gaultier’s fate and that of others: Vecheron of Hainault, Blaisgale of York and Simon the Fleming.’ Holand waved a bandaged hand. ‘All barbarously slaughtered, the corpse of a crow left beside their butchered remains. I thought that was merely the fortunes of war.’ He paused in a fit of coughing. ‘Until Constantinople fell. I had served as an archer,’ he shrugged, ‘as did others from every nation under the sun. I was befriended by three Frenchmen who had slipped into the city. They claimed to be Gascons who had fought in the retinue of the Duke of Suffolk.’
‘LeCorbeil?’ Simon queried, rubbing his arms against the chill that had gripped him. Was it the cold of the evening or the presence of some ghost or demon from his own blood-soaked past?
‘Listen, friend. Constantinople fell to the Turks in torrents of blood. The city became a flesher’s yard. We mercenaries, however, fought our way out. The Janissaries and Sipahis were only too willing to give us safe passage, more intent on sacking the city. The Frenchmen took me under their wing. We had all taken part in the looting and seized treasure; we hoped to take ship across the Middle Sea to Naples or Marseilles. We reached Izmir in Asia Minor, the old city of Ephesus, where we decided to stay for a while. One night I joined my French comrades for a drinking bout in a wine booth. My life changed. I drank deep on uncut wine and the opiates soaked in it. When I awoke, I was in a cell black as night. I was served food and drink. I was taken out to wash. Never once did my gaolers speak. They were cowled and masked. From the start, I was aware of a foul stench from their bodies.’
‘Lepers?’
‘Yes. I was left there for months unsuspecting. I’d eaten infected food, drunk tainted water, bathed in tubs they had used, defecated in their garderobes. Of course the contagion struck me. The first signs were dryness of the skin, a perpetual itchiness, the eruption of boils, a sickness that coursed through my body from head to toe. I was in a leper colony, a prisoner in a stockaded encampment outside the city. I had been fully immersed in all its filth, but I only became aware of this when the disease struck.
‘After six months, the French returned. They took me out to a desert oasis, where they had prepared a repast, an eerie, sinister experience. Can you imagine it, my friend? A light blue sky with date palms rising against it, lush green grass sprouting high around a spring-fed pool, blankets stretched across the ground, on them bowls of fruit and bread, a jug of wine and pewter beakers. I cursed and blasphemed, but I was already beginning to rot, my ankles were manacled and of course they were well armed. They made me eat and explained as a matter of mocking courtesy why they had condemned me to a living death.’
Holand held out his cup. Simon, fascinated by his tale, filled it, glancing swiftly at the narrow shuttered window. Daylight had disappeared. Darkness had truly fallen and the ghosts were gathering.
‘My captors sat taunting me for a while.’ Holand continued drinking noisily. ‘The desert sun set in a blaze of fire, bathing everything in changing colours. Buzzards floated above us and the call of night creatures welcomed the dark. Only then did they take my soul back to LeCorbeil on that summer’s evening locked away in its cool green wooded fastness.’
‘They had survived?’ Simon asked.
‘Listen, listen! The parish church of LeCorbeil was St Sulpice. Of course, it was ransacked, desecrated and pillaged. However, that particular evening was the vigil before the Feast of the Baptist. The parish priest of St Sulpice was a young cleric who had graduated from the University of Paris. He was a man dedicated to the beauties of plainchant, a Breton called Etienne Rupsnevar, an expert in the Missa Cantata – the sung mass. On that particular evening, Rupsnevar had assembled the male choir of his church to sing the psalms. Most of these were boys, adolescents.’
Holand paused to clean the scum frothing on his chapped lips with a rag. Simon felt the chill of fear grip him more tightly. He almost anticipated what Holand was going to tell him.
‘When we attacked, Rupsnevar was given early warning. He hastily locked and barred the church. He then extinguished all the candles, gathered the precious vessels and ushered his choir down into the great crypt. Once below, he fortified the door and led the choir along a secret passageway that ran beneath the church and cemetery to an ancient ruined chapel deeper in the forest. They sheltered there, praying that all would be well.’ Holand sighed deeply. ‘Of course it wasn’t. When they emerged, they saw the nightmare we had created.’
‘How many?’ Simon asked.
‘Oh, about forty, between the ages of eleven and twenty at the time of the massacre.’
Holand paused again. On the breeze echoed the bell-like growling of the mastiffs that patrolled the far grounds of the lazar house. Simon idly wondered why such dogs were kept and loosed after dark. To deter intruders? But who would want to break into a leper hospital? To prevent escape? But why should any leper want to do that? Where would they go? The poor creatures could scarce climb steps, never mind scale a wall. Unless of course Holand was correct and Master Joachim and his disciples were amassing a treasure hoard that had to be protected. Or was it something else? Simon quietly promised himself that when all this danger, the tumult caused by York, receded, he and his gangs would bring St Giles under closer scrutiny.
‘The survivors of the massacre,’ Holand resumed, ‘took the collective name of their village, LeCorbeil. Rupsnevar turned his own name round to become Ravenspur. He gave up the priesthood, the Cross of Christ and the belief in a loving God. He organised his young men into a fighting troop. They fortified the old church. Ravenspur sold the precious plate and used the wealth to arm and train those young men into a vengeful warband. They became skilled in combat, above all the crossbow; marksmen, master bowmen. Others joined them, men with similar grudges against the English, villagers who had been working in the fields and hid during the massacre. They soon established a fearsome reputation. God help any Englishman who fell into their hands.’
‘And no one objected? The local bishop? Seigneurs?’
Holand laughed, a strange, craking sound. ‘For the love of God, friend, this was Normandy after the Maid. Anyone who killed the tail-wearing goddams, as they called us English, was regarded as sent by heaven. LeCorbeil were generously patronised and supported. True, Ravenspur was a warlock, wizard or sorcerer, but this was the age of Jeanne d’Arc and Gilles de Rais; who could distinguish whether he was sent by God or Satan? The local clergy, including the Inquisition, looked the other way. The fame of LeCorbeil spread. Ravenspur was invited to Paris and Rheims to confer with the King and his secret chancery. Money, arms, livery, purveyance, horses and harnesses all came their way. They were given an open mandate. Whatever they did, they did for the King and the realm of France. Accordingly, all seneschals, bailiffs and other royal officers were ordered to provide them with every sustenance. They became the Riders of the Night, the Sons of the Dark. According to popular legend, they dwelt in the wilderness of dragons. They spread their net wider, acting as spies and provocateurs. When the English left France, they followed. They had a hand in the mysterious death of John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset. He allegedly took his own life, but the corpse of a crow was found next to his bed. They were present when William de La Pole, Duke of Suffolk, was killed on Dover sands, and they left their mark there too. Cade’s rebellion was supported and encouraged by LeCorbeil.’
‘What else?’ Simon asked, mouth dry, as he tried to recollect the brief visit he and Edmund had made to the village of LeCorbeil.
‘Oh, these French wraiths of vengeance, these dark riders, are always in for the kill. Do you remember the battle of Castillon, and England’s defeat? Talbot of Shrewsbury, together with his son, rode out to inspect the enemy’s position. Both were brought down by crossbowmen, bolts to the head and heart.’
Simon murmured his agreement.
‘LeCorbeil,’ Holand continued throatily, ‘are committed to damaging English power, either through direct attack or by stirring one faction up against another. York against Lancaster, Percy against Neville, lord against peasant; but they have a special hatred for the Beauforts and their power.’
‘And they have hunted down all who took part in that massacre?’
‘Yes, quite easily done. During the English retreat from France, chancery chests were taken, indentures, letters and other documents seized. When they captured Gaultier, they also ransacked his muniment chest. They seized all the agreements he’d signed with mercenaries. Every single man in that troop has been hunted down and executed.’
‘But my brother Edmund and I took no part…’
‘Didn’t you? We are all guilty, Roseblood. All those who were involved in the great chevauchées across Normandy, plundering and pillaging.’
‘But why were Edmund and myself singled out? Others fought for Beaufort.’
‘You said you were sent by the Beauforts to view the aftermath?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened?’
Simon closed his eyes. The ghosts were returning. Edmund in particular had been shocked at what he had seen at LeCorbeil and elsewhere. He had returned home a changed man. Simon recalled how his brother and his own younger son, Gabriel, would sit for hours in the gardens and orchards discussing what they enigmatically described to him as ‘the way of the world’. Had Edmund’s experience in France caused some form of inner conversion, a popular religious theme, according to Father Benedict, of the
devotio moderna
coming out of Flanders and the Low Countries? Had Edmund influenced Gabriel to enter the Franciscan order and live in a world radically different to that of the Roseblood?
‘Friend, I asked you a question.’
Both men started at the ghostly hooting of the old owl that sheltered in the massive oaks on the other side of the church, a grim reminder of where they were, a leper house full of secrets, traps and dangers. Simon rubbed his eyes and stared into the darkness. In truth, he’d tried to forget LeCorbeil, even when that mysterious visitor confronted him outside All Hallows. Now, though, he concentrated. He recalled riding into the village, its cobbled marketplace glittering with rivulets of blood, corpses choking the well. The creak of signs where more corpses dangled. He rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. A demon-filled place, but there had been something…
A young boy! That was it! A child, certainly no older than ten years. He was dressed in the stained surplice of a choirboy, and now Simon knew why. The boy was one of those who’d hidden. He’d been sent out to see who they were. He didn’t draw close, but stayed in a shadowy corner, ready to flee. He acted all innocent, asking their names, where they had come from and who had sent them. Edmund had been only too eager to help. The boy had then disappeared, leaving them in that gruesome marketplace. They too had fled, unable to cope with the horror around them.
Simon rubbed his face. ‘The man who threatened me outside the lychgate of All Hallows,’ he murmured. ‘He said we’d met before. He was that choirboy from LeCorbeil.’ He closed his eyes for a brief moment. ‘I have learnt a lot,’ he whispered. ‘But that will have to wait. You want my help?’
‘And I will give you mine in return.’
Holand moved restlessly. Simon caught the rank odour from his companion’s rotting body and polluted robes. He glanced away, vowing silently to be free of all this as soon as possible.
‘You are looking for Argentine in the wrong place.’
Simon turned back in surprise.
‘You seek him amongst the men,’ Holand chuckled, ‘but of course he will be hiding amongst the women.’ Simon gasped in astonishment. St Giles was a sprawling establishment, with the men living like monks and the women as nuns in a convent. ‘Easy enough,’ Holand continued. ‘The women’s precincts on the other side of the church are similar to this. the inmates all wear the garb of a Franciscan minoress: brown gown and capuchon with a linen wimple shrouding the face. Most of them wear gloves and a veil. It would be easy for a man to dwell in disguise, sheltered and hidden in their cloisters.’
‘But how can I enter?’
‘Promise me, when this is all over,’ Holand pointed at Simon, ‘that you will help me to move to the leper house at Harbledown.’
‘I promise. I will get you out of here.’
‘Then listen. We must begin tonight. Keep wearing your hood, gloves and face veil, as if the contagion is biting deeper, but secretly remove the false boils, tumours and buboes. Cleanse your skin, let your hair begin to grow again. Tomorrow I will bring you the gown and hood of a lay brother; there are many of them here. They move between the precincts, involved in a myriad of tasks.’ Holand paused, fighting for breath. ‘Pretend to be doing the most disgusting tasks, such as cleaning the latrines. Get into the women’s precinct. You may find something suspicious. Master Joachim will protect his kinsman and yet keep him comfortable. I suspect that Argentine, disguised as a female inmate, lodges in the women’s cloisters. Now I must go.’
Simon rose to his feet, nodding his agreement. They clasped hands and Holand left, flitting like a shadow along the moon-washed cloister alley. Simon watched him go. He was about to turn back when he felt a chill of apprehension similar to that experienced during his soldiering days. He glanced across the garth. A shadow shifted out of the light thrown by a torch. He stared again, but it was gone. He returned to his cell, locking the door before going up to lie on his bed, staring into the darkness. He heard the tolling of the infirmary bell proclaiming that some poor soul had died, and recalled Holand’s macabre tale about the master helping his patients into the dark. The tolling was immediately answered by that ominous barking of the war dogs, those huge mastiffs that Simon had glimpsed, muzzled and strapped, being taken by their keepers to their kennels. Why did Joachim need these? Even the Roseblood lacked such protection. He wondered how matters were at the tavern and breathed a Pater and three Aves for all those he loved, both living and dead. He thought about Katherine and Sevigny. Would the clerk be moved to express his regard for her? He smiled at the problems that would incur.