beneath a screed of soil in one of the city cemeteries.’
‘There have been murders since the days of Cain,’ Launge pointed out, ‘and maids have been ravished since time immemorial.’
‘No, this is different.’ Corbett raised his tankard against his cheek, relishing its coolness. ‘Sir Edmund, you have heard how the Commons and the Lords have approved measures, statute law, to clear the highways and make the roads safer. Do you know the reason for that? They say that the countryside is changing. There’s no longer any need to plough the land or sow a crop.’
‘Just grass it over,’ Sir Edmund declared, ‘and let the sheep graze. It’s happening all through Dorset and Devon. God forgive me, in my own manor I have done the same.’
‘The foreign merchants can’t get enough of our wool,’ Corbett continued, ‘and King Edward sells it to the Frescobaldi bankers in return for treasure to finance his wars. They say it takes twelve people to plough, sow and harvest a field, but one man to guard a hundred sheep. Villages are dying, the poor are becoming poorer and they flock to the cities, London, Bristol, York, Carlisle, or to the great castles like Corfe, young maids looking for employment, sometimes without kith or kin or a place to lay their head. In Southwark alone there are five thousand whores, easy prey for the foxes, the hawks and the weasels, those with killer souls.’ Corbett paused, half listening to the sounds of the castle carrying faintly through the thick walls of the keep. For a few moments he felt a deep pang of home-sickness and wondered what the Lady Maeve would be doing. ‘What hour is it?’ He turned to Sir Edmund.
‘It must be about nine.’ The Constable apologised for the hour candle not being lit.
‘If we can,’ Corbett sighed, ‘we shall help trap this murderer. Do you suspect anyone?’
Launge shook his head.
‘The hour hurries on.’ Corbett drew himself up. ‘We must come to the business in hand. When do the French arrive?’
‘They should be here late this afternoon. They landed at Dover three days ago. Seigneur de Craon, four professors from the Sorbonne, de Craon’s bodyguard and a few royal archers. Why this meeting?’ Sir Edmund leaned forward. ‘And why here?’
‘Seven months ago,’ Corbett replied, ‘Edward of England sealed the peace treaty of Paris with his beloved cousin Philip of France. They promised to settle all differences over shipping in the Narrow Seas, as well as Philip of France’s claim over certain territories in dispute in the English Duchy of Gascony. Our King was forced to agree to a marriage between the Prince of Wales and Isabella, Philip’s only daughter. The French King is beside himself with glee; he sees himself as a new Charlemagne – the king before whom all other kings and princes will bow. He looks forward to the day when one of his grandsons sits on the throne at Westminster whilst another is made Duke of Gascony. He hopes this will weaken English control over south-western France and make it easier to absorb Gascony into the Capetian patrimony. Philip sees himself as the glorious descendant of St Louis. He claims that his family, the Capets, are of sacred blood. He is helped in all this by the Papacy, who, as you know, because of family feuds in Rome, have moved to Avignon in southern France.’ Corbett placed his thumb against the table top. ‘The French have the Pope there.’ He pressed his thumb even harder. ‘The Treaty of Paris is protected by the most solemn penalties imposed by the Pope.’
‘And our King wishes to escape it.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He would love to tell Philip to tear the treaty up, leave Gascony alone, stop meddling in Scotland and allow the Prince of Wales to marry whom he wishes. In truth, Edward is trapped. If he breaks the treaty he will be excommunicated, cursed by bell, book and candle, an outcast in Europe. He would love to go to war, but the barons of the Exchequer
‘There have been murders since the days of Cain,’ Launge pointed out, ‘and maids have been ravished since time immemorial.’
‘No, this is different.’ Corbett raised his tankard against his cheek, relishing its coolness. ‘Sir Edmund, you have heard how the Commons and the Lords have approved measures, statute law, to clear the highways and make the roads safer. Do you know the reason for that? They say that the countryside is changing. There’s no longer any need to plough the land or sow a crop.’
‘Just grass it over,’ Sir Edmund declared, ‘and let the sheep graze. It’s happening all through Dorset and Devon. God forgive me, in my own manor I have done the same.’
‘The foreign merchants can’t get enough of our wool,’ Corbett continued, ‘and King Edward sells it to the Frescobaldi bankers in return for treasure to finance his wars. They say it takes twelve people to plough, sow and harvest a field, but one man to guard a hundred sheep. Villages are dying, the poor are becoming poorer and they flock to the cities, London, Bristol, York, Carlisle, or to the great castles like Corfe, young maids looking for employment, sometimes without kith or kin or a place to lay their head. In Southwark alone there are five thousand whores, easy prey for the foxes, the hawks and the weasels, those with killer souls.’ Corbett paused, half listening to the sounds of the castle carrying faintly through the thick walls of the keep. For a few moments he felt a deep pang of home-sickness and wondered what the Lady Maeve would be doing. ‘What hour is it?’ He turned to Sir Edmund.
‘It must be about nine.’ The Constable apologised for the hour candle not being lit.
‘If we can,’ Corbett sighed, ‘we shall help trap this murderer. Do you suspect anyone?’
Launge shook his head.
‘The hour hurries on.’ Corbett drew himself up. ‘We must come to the business in hand. When do the French arrive?’
‘They should be here late this afternoon. They landed at Dover three days ago. Seigneur de Craon, four professors from the Sorbonne, de Craon’s bodyguard and a few royal archers. Why this meeting?’ Sir Edmund leaned forward. ‘And why here?’
‘Seven months ago,’ Corbett replied, ‘Edward of England sealed the peace treaty of Paris with his beloved cousin Philip of France. They promised to settle all differences over shipping in the Narrow Seas, as well as Philip of France’s claim over certain territories in dispute in the English Duchy of Gascony. Our King was forced to agree to a marriage between the Prince of Wales and Isabella, Philip’s only daughter. The French King is beside himself with glee; he sees himself as a new Charlemagne – the king before whom all other kings and princes will bow. He looks forward to the day when one of his grandsons sits on the throne at Westminster whilst another is made Duke of Gascony. He hopes this will weaken English control over south-western France and make it easier to absorb Gascony into the Capetian patrimony. Philip sees himself as the glorious descendant of St Louis. He claims that his family, the Capets, are of sacred blood. He is helped in all this by the Papacy, who, as you know, because of family feuds in Rome, have moved to Avignon in southern France.’ Corbett placed his thumb against the table top. ‘The French have the Pope there.’ He pressed his thumb even harder. ‘The Treaty of Paris is protected by the most solemn penalties imposed by the Pope.’
‘And our King wishes to escape it.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He would love to tell Philip to tear the treaty up, leave Gascony alone, stop meddling in Scotland and allow the Prince of Wales to marry whom he wishes. In truth, Edward is trapped. If he breaks the treaty he will be excommunicated, cursed by bell, book and candle, an outcast in Europe. He would love to go to war, but the barons of the Exchequer
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