Hugh. I learnt that later. He said the secret was bound up with the hermitage and its chapel, St Simon of the Rocks, and that’s all he would say.’
‘And then what happened?’ Corbett asked.
‘He left us. He said he was going back to Suffolk. Why, Sir Hugh? Will he return?’
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘Brother Griskin is dead.’
The Merchant of Souls hastily crossed himself. ‘Then God assoil him,’ he whispered. ‘How, Sir Hugh, an accident?’
‘Murder!’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am God’s vengeance.’ He leaned down and patted the leper on the shoulder. ‘I promise you that, Merchant of Souls. Remember me in your prayers, and here.’ He opened the leather bag again and pressed another small purse into the man’s hand. ‘Give that to Christ’s Treasury.’
He was about to turn his horse when the leper spoke.
‘Sir Hugh, have you forgotten something?’ Corbett soothed his horse. ‘What, sir? What have I forgotten?’
‘Brother Griskin was searching for a man called Hubert the Monk, a man who hunted down outlaws, half-brother to the pirate Blackstock.’
‘Do you know of him?’ Corbett asked. ‘Indeed, how do I know you are not he?’
The Merchant of Souls laughed, a merry sound. ‘Trust me, Sir Hugh, I am not Hubert the Monk. Griskin talked about him and said he was a man of great deceit and subtle wit. They say he, too, was one of the few men not frightened by the likes of us.’
‘Have any of your brothers ever met him?’ Corbett asked.
‘Many, many years ago. One of our brothers, now deceased, went to the cloister school with him; Magister Fulbert taught them both. That is all. But as I said, we stand by gateways and porchways; we listen to the chatter of everyone. You are hunting him, aren’t you, Sir Hugh? I wish you well. God’s grace go with you, for I have told you all I can.’
Corbett thanked him and rejoined Ranulf, and they made their way back up towards Queningate. They passed through that yawning arched entrance into the city and Ranulf stared around. He’d been to Canterbury with Corbett once before, but that had been through the outskirts, not the city itself. This was a stark contrast to the silent countryside. Despite the snow and ice, the place was busy as an upturned beehive. The broad pathways and lanes were packed with people, a sea of surging colour as the crowds moved to and from the markets. Corbett and Ranulf had no choice but to dismount and lead their horses, forcing their way through, following the old city wall down beneath the glorious massy-stoned cathedral and on to Burgate Street, which cut through the centre of Canterbury.
On either side of this main thoroughfare rose the beautiful mansions and stately homes of the merchants and burgesses of the city. These were sumptuous houses of pink and white plaster and black beams, each storey jutting out above the other and resting on a solid stone base. The doorways and gables of these mansions, carved, gilded and painted, overlooked the cacophony of sound along Burgate as pantlers, grooms, buttery boys and other servants bustled out to buy provisions for their masters. Herb wives and milkmaids were eagerly selling their produce. Apprentice boys scampered up to attract their attention by plucking at their sleeves before retreating back behind the broad stalls, erected against the front of houses under their billowing striped awnings. The poor clamoured for alms as the rich, with sparkling eyes, red lips and lily-white skin, processed by in their satins and samites, heads covered in short hoods with the liripipes wrapped around their necks, their shoulders mantled in wool, their waists girdled with belts studded with silver and gold. Dirt-smattered blacksmiths in bull’s-hide aprons stood outside their smithies shouting for custom, whilst beside them water boiled in buckets from the red-hot irons thrust there. Merchants’ wives in costly robes furred with ermine, multicoloured and lined with soft
‘And then what happened?’ Corbett asked.
‘He left us. He said he was going back to Suffolk. Why, Sir Hugh? Will he return?’
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘Brother Griskin is dead.’
The Merchant of Souls hastily crossed himself. ‘Then God assoil him,’ he whispered. ‘How, Sir Hugh, an accident?’
‘Murder!’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am God’s vengeance.’ He leaned down and patted the leper on the shoulder. ‘I promise you that, Merchant of Souls. Remember me in your prayers, and here.’ He opened the leather bag again and pressed another small purse into the man’s hand. ‘Give that to Christ’s Treasury.’
He was about to turn his horse when the leper spoke.
‘Sir Hugh, have you forgotten something?’ Corbett soothed his horse. ‘What, sir? What have I forgotten?’
‘Brother Griskin was searching for a man called Hubert the Monk, a man who hunted down outlaws, half-brother to the pirate Blackstock.’
‘Do you know of him?’ Corbett asked. ‘Indeed, how do I know you are not he?’
The Merchant of Souls laughed, a merry sound. ‘Trust me, Sir Hugh, I am not Hubert the Monk. Griskin talked about him and said he was a man of great deceit and subtle wit. They say he, too, was one of the few men not frightened by the likes of us.’
‘Have any of your brothers ever met him?’ Corbett asked.
‘Many, many years ago. One of our brothers, now deceased, went to the cloister school with him; Magister Fulbert taught them both. That is all. But as I said, we stand by gateways and porchways; we listen to the chatter of everyone. You are hunting him, aren’t you, Sir Hugh? I wish you well. God’s grace go with you, for I have told you all I can.’
Corbett thanked him and rejoined Ranulf, and they made their way back up towards Queningate. They passed through that yawning arched entrance into the city and Ranulf stared around. He’d been to Canterbury with Corbett once before, but that had been through the outskirts, not the city itself. This was a stark contrast to the silent countryside. Despite the snow and ice, the place was busy as an upturned beehive. The broad pathways and lanes were packed with people, a sea of surging colour as the crowds moved to and from the markets. Corbett and Ranulf had no choice but to dismount and lead their horses, forcing their way through, following the old city wall down beneath the glorious massy-stoned cathedral and on to Burgate Street, which cut through the centre of Canterbury.
On either side of this main thoroughfare rose the beautiful mansions and stately homes of the merchants and burgesses of the city. These were sumptuous houses of pink and white plaster and black beams, each storey jutting out above the other and resting on a solid stone base. The doorways and gables of these mansions, carved, gilded and painted, overlooked the cacophony of sound along Burgate as pantlers, grooms, buttery boys and other servants bustled out to buy provisions for their masters. Herb wives and milkmaids were eagerly selling their produce. Apprentice boys scampered up to attract their attention by plucking at their sleeves before retreating back behind the broad stalls, erected against the front of houses under their billowing striped awnings. The poor clamoured for alms as the rich, with sparkling eyes, red lips and lily-white skin, processed by in their satins and samites, heads covered in short hoods with the liripipes wrapped around their necks, their shoulders mantled in wool, their waists girdled with belts studded with silver and gold. Dirt-smattered blacksmiths in bull’s-hide aprons stood outside their smithies shouting for custom, whilst beside them water boiled in buckets from the red-hot irons thrust there. Merchants’ wives in costly robes furred with ermine, multicoloured and lined with soft
Similar Books
