Song of a Dark Angel

Hermitage. I've got to inform the so-called community that it's finished. Some can walk home, others I'll give money to.' Gurney glanced at Corbett. 'What about their possessions?'
    'Let them take their own belongings with them,' Corbett suggested. 'The place will be stripped of everything else once the villagers get to know. I doubt if Master Joseph's wealth is there. It will take months for officials from the exchequer to track it down. A house here, money banked there. Our prisoner's a master criminal and I don't think he will hang as quickly as he wished.'
    'Will his accomplice be pardoned?' Ranulf asked.
    'If he sings a song the justices want, he'll probably spend some months in prison before being exiled for life.' Corbett laughed sourly. 'I am sure he'll know enough ships' captains to secure safe passage abroad.' Corbett placed Blanche's dagger on the table. 'But, Ranulf, you go with Sir Simon.'
    Corbett left the hall. He could tell from the anxious whispers and looks of the servants that the story was already out. Gilbert was there, a free man. He was hopping from foot to foot and smiling vacuously at Alice, who was pressing food and a few coins into his hands. Corbett went up to his chamber. For a while he sat on the bed and thought about the young lives the Pastoureaux had ruined. Then he lay down, staring up at the rafters, puzzling over the heart-shaped parchment that Culpeper had given him in Bishop's Lynn.

Chapter 11
    Corbett shivered as he heard the wind lash the heavy rain against the window. He had shaved, dressed and been down to the hall to break his fast after a restless night's sleep which had left him aching and heavy-headed. The excitement of the previous day, fanned by the gossips, had swept through the village. Gilbert had returned to Hunstanton like some hero returning from the wars and, if Catchpole was to be believed, the villagers had already looted the Hermitage. Members of the community had immediately fled, eager to be away and escape untainted from the heavy charges laid against their leaders. Blanche had already left with two of Gurney's retainers. Maltote went with them, grumbling at the prospect of riding through such cruel weather. Ranulf enjoyed the thought of the hapless messenger's discomfort, but Corbett soon wiped the smile off his face.
    'You found nothing about Alan of the Marsh at the Hermitage?'
    'No, Master.'
    'Then take your horse and ride along the coast – not along the cliff top but along the beach. The tide will be out.' 'What am I looking for?' 'You will know when you find it.'
    Ranulf stormed off, muttering and cursing about oldMaster Long Face. Corbett returned to his brooding, before going down to the dungeons to question Master Joseph. The Pastoureaux leader, though, knew the strength of his position.
    'The more I keep to myself,' he taunted Corbett, 'the more I have to bargain with.'
    Corbett smiled to hide his despair. The rogue was right. Corbett knew that the exchequer officials would enter into any negotiations, make any concessions, if they thought they would augment the king's treasure. If a pardon for Master Joseph would make the king richer, that was the price they would cheerfully pay.
    'Doesn't it rile you, Corbett,' the rogue jibed, 'to know that somewhere round here lies a great treasure trove?'
    'Where is Alan of the Marsh?' Corbett snapped.
    'I've told you, look in the Hermitage, if it's still there.'
    Corbett got to his feet.
    'Oh, clerk!' Master Joseph's bruised face was one long sneer. 'Do give my tenderest love to our plump prioress. Oh, and clerk!'
    Corbett refused to look round.
    'I wouldn't trust anyone if I were you!'
    Corbett slammed the door behind him. He made sure the guard locked and bolted it before trying his luck with Philip Nettler, but he was equally taciturn.
    'I'll speak,' he muttered, 'when I have the king's pardon signed and sealed in my hand. Until then, you can piss off!'
    Corbett left the two felons and returned to his chamber. Gurney was down in the village and the house was quiet. The rain had begun to lighten, so Corbett pulled on his riding boots, collected his cloak, saddled his horse and rode out across the moor to the Hermitage. The building was now derelict, someone had even removed the gates. Corbett paused inside the yard and looked around. It was a low, grey, overcast day which reflected his mood. He had an uneasy feeling, born of years of experience, that someone was following him. He sat on his horse, the