‘Yes, your Grace,’ the King jibed again. ‘Of course, your Grace. Would it please your Grace?’ Edward lashed out with his boot and caught the leg of his clerk’s chair. ‘So, tell me Master Corbett, what is my problem?’
The clerk would have liked to have informed the King, bluntly and succinctly, that he was arrogant, short-tempered, cruel, vindictive and given to wild bursts of rage which profited him nothing. Corbett, however, folded his hands in his lap and stared at the King.
Edward was still dressed in his dark-green hunting costume, his boots, leggings and jerkin stained with fat globules of mud. Moreover, every time the King moved he gave off gusts of sweaty odour; Corbett wondered which was worse, the King or the King’s greyhound. Edward crouched before Corbett and the clerk stared coolly back at the red-rimmed, amber-flecked eyes.
The King was in a dangerous mood. He always was after hunting; the blood still ran hot and fast in the royal veins.
‘Tell me,’ Edward asked with mock sweetness. ‘Tell me what our problem is?’
‘Your Grace, you have a revolt in Scotland. The leader, William Wallace, is a true soldier and a born leader.’ Corbett saw the annoyance flicker across the King’s face. ‘Wallace,’ Corbett continued, ‘uses the bogs, the fens, the mists and the forests of Scotland to launch his attacks, plan his sorties and arrange the occasional bloody ambush. He cannot be pinned down, he appears where he is least expected.’ Corbett made a face. ‘To put it succinctly, your Grace, he is leading your son, the Prince of Wales and commander of your forces, a merry jig.’
The King’s lips parted in a false smile. ‘And, Master Corbett, to put it succinctly, what is the rest of the problem?’
The clerk glanced sideways at de Warrenne but found no comfort there. The Earl sat as if carved out of stone and Corbett wondered, not for the first time, if John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, was in full possession of his wits.
‘The second part of the problem,’ Corbett continued, ‘is that Philip of France is massing troops on his northern borders and, within the year, he will launch an all-out assault against Flanders. On the one hand, if God wills it, he will be defeated but, if he is victorious, he will extend his empire, destroy an ally, interfere with our wool trade and harass our shipping.’
Edward rose and clapped his hands slowly. ‘And what is the third part of the problem?’
‘You said you had a letter from the Mayor of London but, as yet, your Grace, you have not revealed its contents.’
The King sat down on a stool, dug inside his jerkin and pulled out the white scroll of parchment. He unrolled it and his face became grave.
‘Yes, yes,’ he spoke up. ‘A letter from the Mayor and the Council of London, they require our help. There’s some bloody assassin, some killer slitting the throats of whores, prostitutes and courtesans from one end of the city to the other.’
Corbett snorted with laughter. ‘Since when have the city fathers been concerned about the deaths of some poor whores? Walk the streets of London in the depths of winter, your Grace, and you’ll find the corpses of raddled whores, frozen stiff in ditches or starving on the steps of churches.’
‘This is different,’ de Warrenne spoke up, turning his head slowly as if noticing Corbett for the first time.
‘Why is it different, my Lord?’
‘These are not your common night-walkers but high-ranking courtesans.’
Corbett smiled.
‘You find it amusing, clerk?’
‘No, I don’t! There’s something else isn’t there?’
Edward balanced the small scroll of parchment between his fingers. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied wearily. ‘There’s something else. First, these courtesans know a lot of secrets. They have made it clear to the sheriffs and the great ones of the city that if something is not done, our ladies of the night may start telling everyone what they know.’
Now Corbett’s grin widened. ‘I’d give every penny I have to be there when it happens. All our virtuous burgesses having their dirty linen washed in public.’
Edward smiled at the thought. ‘I could say the same but these burgesses raise taxes for me. The city of London offers interest-free loans.’ His voice became a snarl. ‘Now you can see the problem, Corbett. I need silver to keep Philip out of Flanders and drive Wallace out of Scotland, otherwise my armies will melt away like ice before a fire.’ The King turned, hawked and spat into the rushes. ‘I couldn’t give a damn about the whores, I couldn’t give a damn about the burgesses. I want their gold. I also want vengeance!’
‘Your Grace?’ Corbett asked.
Edward just stared moodily at the greyhound, now getting ready to cock its leg against one of the wall tapestries. The King absent-mindedly took off a boot and threw it at the dog who yelped and scampered away.
‘Some whores have died,’ Edward answered. ‘But there are two deaths I will not accept.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There’s a guild of high-born widows in the city. They call themselves the Sisters of St Martha, they are a lay order dedicated to good works. To be specific: the physical and spiritual well-being of the young girls who walk the streets. Now, I gave these Sisters my personal protection. They assemble in the Chapter House at Westminster Abbey where they pray, meet and plan their activities. The Sisters do good work, their superior is the Lady Imelda de Lacey whose husband went with me on crusade. Did you ever meet him, Corbett?’
The clerk shook his head but watched the King carefully. Edward was a strange man. He could swear, be violent, treacherous, cunning, greedy and vindictive but he always kept his word. Personal friendship was as sacred as the Mass to him. The King especially remembered the companions of his youth, those knights who travelled with him and the now dead, but much beloved, Queen Eleanor, to fight in Outremer. If any of these companions or their interests were hurt, the King would act with all the speed and energy he could muster. Corbett felt a secret dread. He had promised his wife Maeve that he would return to London and take her and their three-month-old baby daughter Eleanor to visit her family in Wales. Corbett cringed at what the King might ask.
‘Now, amongst the Sisters of St Martha,’ Edward continued slowly, ‘was the widow of one of my boon companions, Lady Catherine Somerville. Two weeks ago, Lady Catherine returned from Westminster along Holborn, her companion left her at St Bartholomew’s and Lady Somerville took a short cut across Smithfield to her house near the Barbican. She never reached her home. The next morning her body was found lying near the gallows, her throat slashed from ear to ear. She died the same way as the whores she tried to help. Who,’ Edward glared at de Warrenne, ‘would kill an old lady in such a barbaric fashion? I want vengeance,’ the King muttered. ‘I want this killer seized. The city fathers are in uproar. They want their good names untarnished and the widows of high-ranking lords protected.’
‘You mentioned a second death, your Grace?’
‘Yes, I did. In the grounds of Westminster Abbey there’s a small house. I persuaded the Abbot and monks to give it, as a stipend, a sinecure, a benefice, to an old chaplain of mine, Father Benedict. He was a saintly, old priest who loved his fellow man and was dedicated to good works. The night after Lady Somerville was killed, Father Benedict was burnt to death in his house.’
‘Murder, your Grace?’
The King made a face. ‘Oh, it looked like an accident but I think it was murder. Father Benedict may have been ancient but he was careful, quick on his feet. I cannot understand why he reached the door of his house, even had the key in his hand but failed to get out.’ The King spread out his fingers, carefully examining an old sword cut across the back of his hand. ‘And before you ask, Corbett, there is a connection. Father Benedict was chaplain to the Sisters of St Martha.’