‘Enough,’ he whispered. ‘Ah, Jesus …’
Ascham closed his eyes, coughed and died as the blood bubbled on his lips.
Chapter 1
The outlaw standing in the gallows cart moved his head as the chafing rope gripped his neck. He hawked, spat and glared defiantly at Sir Hugh Corbett, former courier and clerk of the Secret Seal but still the powerful lord of the manor of Leighton in Essex. Beside Corbett was the man who had hunted him down, caught him and brought him to trial in Sir Hugh’s court: Ranulf-atte-Newgate, formerly Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, Corbett’s henchman, bailiff and chief steward. The outlaw licked his chapped lips and glared hatefully at Ranulf.
‘Well, come on, you red-haired bastard!’ he shouted. ‘Hang me or let me go!’
Corbett pushed his horse forward.
‘Boso Deverell, you are an outlaw, a wolf’s-head, a thief and a murderer! You have been found guilty and sentenced to hang!’
‘Go to hell!’ Boso retorted.
Corbett ran his fingers through his hair: he stared at Father Luke, the village chaplain, who was standing beside the cart.
‘Have you shriven him, Father?’
‘He’s refused confession,’ the dusty-faced priest replied, his eyes hard, seething with fury.
Father Luke glanced up at the lord of the manor, studying Corbett’s sallow, clean-shaven face; the black hair streaked with grey; the sharp nose above thin lips. Father Luke held Corbett’s eyes: he knew this clerk, hard on the outside but soft within.
‘You are not going to pardon him, Sir Hugh?’ he whispered. ‘Or lessen his punishment?’ The priest gripped the reins of Corbett’s grey roan. ‘He killed two women,’ the priest hissed. ‘Raped them and then slit them from neck to crotch as if they were chickens.’
Corbett nodded and swallowed hard.
‘And that’s just the start of it,’ the priest continued remorselessly. ‘He’s responsible for other deaths.’ Father Luke pointed at the few villagers who had assembled just after dawn to witness royal justice being done. ‘If you show mercy,’ the priest declared, his hand on Corbett’s knee, ‘every wolfs-head-’ He threw his hand dramatically out towards the forest. ‘Every wolf’s-head will learn from it.’ The priest’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I don’t want to bury any more of my flock. I don’t want to have to tell husbands, fathers, lovers that their women were raped before their throats were cut! Hang him!’
‘Do you want his life so badly?’ Corbett replied, his eyes never leaving those of Boso.
‘God does.’ Father Luke turned to the outlaw. ‘Are you ready to die, Boso?’
The outlaw coughed, brought his head back and spat, catching the priest on the side of the face. Ranulf pushed his horse up.
‘How many did you kill, Boso?’
‘More than you’ll ever know.’ Deverell’s eyes shifted back to Corbett. ‘It’s a pity you were at home, lord of the earth! Otherwise I’d have come calling on that flaxen-haired wife of yours!’
Corbett pulled his horse’s head around. He glanced at the villagers, their grimy, brown faces passive; his stewards and bailiffs stood slightly apart from them. Corbett drew his sword and held it up, clasping his fingers round the crosspiece.
‘I, Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s loyal servant, lord of Leighton Manor, by the power granted to me of axe, rope and tumbril do sentence you, Boso Deverell, to be hanged immediately for the diverse and horrible crimes of murder, rape and theft!’
As Corbett’s death sentence rang out, a strange silence descended upon the crossroads; even the birds in the trees and the rooks circling above the gallows fell silent. Corbett looked at the priest.
‘Father, say a prayer. Ranulf, hang him!’
Corbett turned his horse away and rode back along the track, waiting round the bend behind a fringe of trees. He closed his eyes, gripping the pommel of his saddle. He heard the creak of wheels, followed by a murmur of approval.
‘God have mercy!’ Corbett whispered.
He hated hangings! He knew Boso had to die but it brought back memories: the rain-soaked forests of Scotland with corpses hanging by the score as Edward’s troops crushed the Scottish rebels under Wallace; fields blazing in sheets of flame; villages covered by a thick, heavy pall of smoke; wells choked with corpses; women and children dying in ditches.
‘Thank God!’ Corbett breathed. ‘Thank God! I’m not there!’
‘It’s done.’
Corbett opened his eyes and saw Ranulf-atte-Newgate, his long, red hair hidden under a hood, his white face solemn though the green eyes reflected a task well done.
‘It’s over, Master. Boso’s gone to hell. Father Luke’s pleased and so are the villagers.’ Ranulf straightened up and stared up through the overhanging branches. ‘By dusk the news will be all over Epping. The other wolf’s-heads will learn to leave Leighton alone. And you’ll keep your promise, Master?’
Corbett took the leather gauntlets from his belt and put them on.
‘I’ll keep my promise, Ranulf. Within a week, I’ll issue a Commission of Array. You can take every able-bodied man into the forest and hunt down the rest of Boso’s followers.’
Ranulf smiled.
‘Are you so bored?’ Corbett asked.
The smile died on Ranulf’s face. ‘It’s been three months, Master, since you left the royal service. The King has written to you five times.’ He saw the flicker of annoyance on Corbett’s face. ‘But, yes, I am bored,’ he added hastily. ‘I liked being a royal clerk, Master, busy on the King’s affairs.’
‘As in Scotland?’ Corbett snapped.
‘That was war, fighting the King’s enemies on land and sea — we took an oath.’
Corbett studied Ranulf; his henchman was no longer a stripling but an ambitious clerk. Sprung from the gutters of London, Ranulf had educated himself, and was now skilled in French, Latin and the art of drafting and sealing letters. To put it bluntly, Ranulf hated the countryside and loathed farming, and he was growing increasingly restless. Corbett put his gloves on slowly.
‘I could write letters,’ he offered. ‘The King would take you back in his service. You could hold high office, Ranulf.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’
Corbett grinned. He leaned over and grasped Ranulf’s wrist.
‘When the King’s forces sacked Dundee,’ he said, ‘I saw the corpse of a woman with a child in her arms who could have been no more than three years. How in God’s name, Ranulf, were they the King’s enemies?’
‘So you think the King should retreat? Give up his claims to Scotland?’ Ranulf pulled back his hood and scratched his head. ‘Some of the Royal Justices would rule that as treason.’
‘I just think there’s a better way,’ Corbett replied. ‘The wars have exhausted the treasury. Wallace still leads the rebellion: the King should sit down and negotiate.’
‘Then why not tell the King that?’ Ranulf replied. ‘Why not return to the royal service? Make it clear you will do anything but wage war in Scotland?’
‘Now you are being stupid.’ Corbett gathered the reins of his horse. ‘You know, Ranulf, that where the King goes, his chief clerk must follow and that’s the end of the matter.’
Corbett edged his horse forward. Ranulf cursed, pulled up his hood and followed him.
They were scarcely through the gates leading up to the manor house when Corbett sensed something was wrong. A thatcher, with bundles of straw on his back, stepped to one side and shouted excitedly, pointing up the path. Corbett rode on. Suddenly a figure seemed to leap out of nowhere, jumping up and down, waving his hands. Corbett reined in and stared down at his master of horse, Ralph Maltote, who knew everything about horses but little about human nature. Maltote’s round, boyish face was red and sweaty. He gasped for breath as he clutched the reins of Corbett’s horse.