Roseblood by Paul Doherty Page B

Roseblood to meet this LeCorbeil. Why?’
    ‘He went to his death,’ Simon admitted. ‘Edmund and I served Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, in France. We fought well. I took many ransoms.’ He waved around the solar. ‘That is obvious. Then the tide of war turned against us. We burnt the Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc, in the marketplace at Rouen. Many, including myself, believed that we became cursed. We murdered a saint who had ordered us to go home in our ships or she would send us back in our coffins. Joan’s martyrdom certainly brought this about. English rule collapsed. Commissioners of array found it difficult to levy men here in London and in the shires both north and south of the Trent, so the prisons were emptied, be it Newgate or Windsor Castle.’
    ‘Les Écorcheurs!’ Father Benedict exclaimed abruptly, drawing himself up. ‘Les Écorcheurs!’ he repeated. ‘The Flayers.’
    ‘Les Écorcheurs,’ Simon agreed. ‘The scum of our prisons – rufflers and rifflers, cut-throats, murderers, rapists and worse – were dispatched by ship to Normandy. No rules of war for them. They raped, plundered and engaged in the cruellest methods of killing another human being. They particularly liked to flay their victims, peel their skin from their bodies as you would take off a tunic. No one was safe, be it man, woman, child or priest.’ He shook his head. ‘Beaufort hired companies, but he could not dictate what they did.’
    ‘LeCorbeil?’ Raphael insisted.
    ‘A town in Normandy. Edmund and I visited it after the Écorcheurs had been there: a true slaughterhouse. The wells and streams were choked with naked lacerated corpses. Cadavers hung from steeples, market crosses, gable ends and shop signs. The place stank like an open sewer. Plumes of black smoke billowed down narrow streets, their cobbles glistening red. We had no part in this, but I suspect we were blamed. Some survivors of the massacre – we do not know or cannot even imagine who they are – have sworn vengeance against the English, and Beaufort in particular. LeCorbeil is more than one person, and whoever they may be, they are generously financed and warmly supported by the French Crown. They are a veritable will-o’-the-wisp, a shape-shifter, a dark strider.’
    ‘What do they want with you?’
    Simon paused to collect his thoughts. ‘To answer your question bluntly, I do not really know. LeCorbeil were certainly involved in Cade’s uprising. They had a hand in the seizure and execution of William de la Pole, the Duke of Suffolk, and they slaughtered other Beaufort adherents, both here and elsewhere. Somehow – and only God and his angels know the truth – LeCorbeil enticed Edmund away from the security and safety of this tavern and struck off his head.’ He rubbed his brow. ‘John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, was another of their victims. Gossips claim that he took his own life, distraught at being stripped of his command in France.’ He tapped both hands against the tabletop. ‘I do not think so. Shortly before his death, our good duke, sheltering in his castle, was visited by a Gascon minstrel, a very handsome, charming young man.’
    ‘LeCorbeil?’ Raphael asked.
    ‘Certainly. One thing is constant. Beside the corpses of my brother, de la Pole, Beaufort and others, a dead crow was left. The message is clear: LeCorbeil hold us personally responsible for the massacre.’
    ‘But why?’ Monkshood demanded. ‘Beaufort didn’t hire the Écorcheurs.’
    ‘The company who ravaged LeCorbeil,’ Simon replied, ‘had links with Beaufort. It was led by a mercenary captain – I forget his name – who had acquired a reputation for ferocious cruelty.’
    ‘But you were not responsible,’ Raphael said. ‘Surely? And nor was Beaufort.’
    ‘I have racked my brain,’ Simon confessed. ‘Edmund and I visited the town on Beaufort’s orders; that company was under his command. We were as shocked as anyone. I can’t recall seeing any