Death's Dark Valley by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Hugh Cobertt, Mistery, Medieval, Mystery, Britain
ISBN: 9781472259172
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2019-09-30T22:00:00+00:00

PART FOUR

He said certain and shameful things about the king.

Life of Edward II

The normal bustle of life at Holyrood returned, the daily horarium imposing its own order and harmony. Mortimer dispatched a small cohort into the mouth of the valley, but the only person they encountered was an old woman pulling a sledge who said she wanted to seek shelter in Holyrood for a while. The horsemen brought her back and she sat on a ledge in the inner bailey, her paltry possessions piled high on the sledge, while she sipped from a blackjack of mulled ale a servant had brought.

Ranulf came down on some errand and the woman deliberately pulled her sledge so that the clerk slipped and knocked into it. He turned to offer his apologies.

‘Keep calm, Ranulf of the Red Hair,’ the woman hissed. ‘Give no sign of recognition or surprise. I need to speak urgently to Sir Hugh Corbett.’

‘Many people want that, lady.’

‘About the prisoner kept here?’ she asked archly.

Ranulf immediately returned to the tower and brought down Corbett, who squatted in front of the old woman. She now pulled back her hood to reveal iron-grey hair and a strong, fair face that still exuded some of the beauty she must have enjoyed in her youth.

‘I remember you.’ Corbett offered his hand to her; she clasped it, then raised it to her lips and kissed it. Corbett smiled his thanks. ‘I remember you,’ he repeated, ‘when we first invaded the Valley of Shadows. You were standing amongst the trees, not far into the valley. When I looked again, you were gone.’

‘Sir Hugh.’ The woman removed a wisp of hair from her face. ‘Are we to freeze here? I must insist that you take me into your chamber. It’s the only place someone like myself will be safe. I need not tell you that death stalks this abbey, busy with its scythe.’

Once in Corbett’s chamber, his visitor settled herself in a chair before a brazier with the two clerks sitting on stools beside her. She sipped at the mulled wine and ate the bread, cheese and dried meat Ranulf served. She dined delicately like any court lady, using forefinger and thumb, wiping her hands and mouth on the napkin provided. Once she had finished, she stretched out her hands to the warmth.

‘My name,’ she began, ‘is Matilda Beaumont. I am from a noble family, though a descendant from the wrong side of the blanket, so I have no pretensions to nobility. I was born here, the only but beloved daughter of John and Margaret Beaumont, who owned a small farm deep in the forest though close enough to the mouth of the valley.’

‘Your family farmed?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, my father was a verderer, a forester, given royal licence to hunt and to use forest wood. He had a prosperous business taking produce down to Tewkesbury or the merchant barges that ply the Severn. My mother was a seamstress, and a very good one. From spring to autumn she

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