Song of a Dark Angel

the effects of last night's drinking, he rode along the cliff top. The morning was calm, the clouds had broken and pale sunlight glinted on the sea. At the scaffold Corbett reined in. He stared up at the jutting beams with their ugly, rusting hooks.
    'What's the matter, Master?' Ranulf asked crossly. 'And why are we going to Bishop's Lynn?'
    'Just think, Ranulf, all those deaths, all that violent intrigue. Do you know whom I pity most? The baker's wife, Amelia. She didn't care for any of this. She loved that evil bastard Augustine to distraction.' Corbett stared over his shoulder at Ranulf. 'He had a treasure few of us will ever have but he rejected it for bags, coffers of plate and sacks of coins.'
    The wind agitated his horse and Corbett patted his mount gently, though his eyes never left the scaffold.
    'I have asked Sir Simon to burn the scaffold,' he said quietly. 'He's agreed. He'll put a cross up in its place, asking travellers to pray for the repose of the soul of Amelia Culpeper.'
    'I wager he's sad about losing the treasure,' Ranulf said, pushing his horse alongside. 'That fat physician looked as if he had lost a groat and found a farthing!'
    'Oh, they'll get their just reward,' Corbett replied. 'Sir Simon knows the law. The treasure was found on his land. He's also promised to keep quiet about the chalice at the convent.'
    'And that's the end of it,' Ranulf announced.
    'Is it?' Corbett asked. 'Do you really think that, Ranulf? No, no, we are just like judges who have risen from the bench after delivering sentence. Alice will never be the same, nor will the villagers. They won't forget the priest. Fulke the tanner will never forget Marina, his daughter. Poor Fourbour will never forget his wife. Poor, simple Gilbert will spend the rest of his life wondering why the people who drowned his mother now pat him on the back and buy him stoups of ale. Dame Cecily will count the cost of all this as will Sir Simon. Finally, of course, they have all smelt the lure of gold.'
    'But we have found the treasure,' Ranulf interrupted.
    'No! We only found Alan of the Marsh's share. Where did Holcombe hide the rest, eh?' Corbett stared out over the moors, where the morning mist still hung in thin grey wisps. 'Some of the treasure's still here. As long as the stories persist, so will the searching.' Corbett stared once more at the scaffold and crossed himself. 'Ah well, and now for Bishop's Lynn!'
    'Why there?' Ranulf asked.
    'I want to talk to the miller about his daughter. I want to tell him that he, too, owned a treasure of great price.'
    Corbett dug his spurs into his horse. Behind them the scaffold creaked as the wind rose and the dark angel swept in from the sea to sing its eternal song above the desolate moors. Author's Note
    There are several strands to this story, all based on fact rather than fiction. The Pastoureaux or Shepherd's Movement in France, and the rest of Europe, is well documented in the 13th and 14th centuries. A lay visionary movement which went terribly wrong, the Pastoureaux acquired the reputation for being nothing better than gangs of criminals. For a brief time, they even enjoyed royal patronage until their true nature was revealed. They became involved in robbery, rape, rapine, pillage and extortion. In England their presence led to violent affrays at Shoreham in Sussex. Eventually, condemned by Church and state, the Pastoureaux were hunted down and their leaders hanged. Their followers dispersed until the next new cults appeared, as they did with alarming regularity during the medieval period.
    The church had always condemned slavery. However, the kidnapping of young men and women from Western Europe for sale in the markets along the Mediterranean and Middle East was a well-known medieval scandal. It was much more sinister and wicked than the white-slave trade of Victorian imperialism. Time and again, popes thundered their condemnation and kings issued orders, but the trade continued to thrive. The most flagrant example of this is mentioned in the novel, the Children's Crusade, a visionary crusading movement which led to death and abuse for thousands of the children involved. They never reached Palestine, but became the prey of mercenary ships' captains and greedy slave-masters.
    King John's debacle at the Wash in the autumn of 1216 is, of course, well documented, though historians heatedly debate the exact location of the disaster and the causes behind it. Treason and treachery have never been