Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18) by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2016-08-24T16:00:00+00:00

Corbett was roused by Ranulf shouting and pounding on the chamber door.

‘Sir Hugh, master!’

He opened the door.

‘Holy Trinity the Little,’ Ranulf gasped, struggling into his leather jerkin. ‘Burghesh and Stapleton have been murdered.’

‘Sweet God!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘What hour is it?’

‘About the fifth. Master, you must come.’

They reached Holy Trinity a short while later. Sconce torches spluttered against the darkness, lanternhorns glowed through the murk. The main door to the church was locked. Corbett, watching his step as he crossed the tangled gorse and bracken, followed the coffin path to the side entrance through the sacristy. Parson Layburn, bleary-eyed and unshaven, stood in the doorway, around him gathered members of his parish council. The clerk, a scrawny-haired beanpole of a man who found it difficult to keep still, explained how they had arrived at the church to prepare the nave for the feast of Trinity Sunday at the end of the week. They had wanted to enter the church before the dawn mass began. The clerk stamped his feet and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Corbett could smell the tang of fear from these men, as well as the pervasive smell of vomit. The clerk gulped and would have continued in his chatter. Corbett held a hand up.

‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, the king’s own officer. What has happened here?’

‘Yes, yes,’ the clerk spluttered, ‘Parson Layburn told us about you.’

‘What has happened?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Show us now.’ He snapped his fingers and pointed at the entrance.

Preceded by torchbearers, Corbett entered the sacristy. He paused to quickly scrutinise the door, which had been forced, the lock ruptured, and now hung askew. The sacristy itself was undisturbed, but the door to the sanctuary had been similarly rent and swung all awry from its top leather hinge. The sanctuary looked like a battlefield, ominous and macabre. No furniture had been disturbed. Nothing overturned or smashed. The red sanctuary light still glowed as a telling witness to the divine presence, though looking round, Corbett felt the angels of heaven must weep at the sight of such bloodshed.

Burghesh and Stapleton, cloaked and booted, their war belts close by, lay sprawled on the sanctuary floor, pools of blood from the stab wounds to their hearts glistening around them. Corbett leaned down and studied the gashes: deep, savage cuts like those inflicted by a razor-sharp two-handed sword.

‘Sweet heaven,’ he whispered, ‘what is this?’

‘Lord have mercy! In God’s name …’

Corbett turned. Mistress Philippa, Sokelar the harbour master and his daughter Agnes stood in the sacristy doorway. The tavern mistress and her companions walked slowly over.

‘We heard the clamour,’ she explained, ‘the alarm being raised. I cannot believe this. Sir Hugh, what can I do?’

Parson Layburn stood shaking, a man overwhelmed by fear.

‘Mistress, if you could …’ Corbett gestured at the priest. Philippa nodded and took Parson Layburn over to the other side of the sanctuary as Corbett quickly scrutinised the scene. The two corpses sprawled dead-eyed, their saddlebags fully strapped as if ready to leave.

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