Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders Read Free

fool’s life in a world where cruel rapacity was the order of the day. He and Adam agreed that the night their parents died, their own souls had also died. God had taken everything from them so they would give nothing to God. Hubert explained how he was now hired by mayors, sheriffs and bailiffs as a venator hominum , a hunter of men, tracking down outlaws, bringing them to justice and claiming the reward. He had even hunted members of the coven who had murdered their parents, though in the main, death had placed most of these beyond his reach. He confided to Adam that some had been Canterbury men, which only deepened the brothers’ hatred and contempt for that city.
    In the end, Hubert and Adam spoke little about the past but planned for the future. They agreed to meet more often. Both men realised that what had happened so many years ago outside Canterbury had scarred their lives and only vengeance could purge their anger. Taken up by the surge of life, they could do nothing but go with it. Over the succeeding months they grew even closer. Hubert would often share information with his brother, who would reciprocate by handing over plunder for Hubert to sell to the denizens of the underworld in London, Bishop’s Lynn, Bristol and Dover, where goods could be moved and sold without any questions asked . . .
    Blackstock hung grimly to the rigging ropes, straining against the sway of the ship. He glanced over his shoulder at Stonecrop, his lieutenant and manservant, a dour man who stood hunched, head and face almost hidden by his deep-cowled cloak.
    ‘You are sure of this, master?’
    Blackstock turned. Stonecrop approached, pushing back his cowl to reveal black hair closely shorn over a lean, spiteful face. Blackstock had met him in Dordrecht some years ago and saved him in a tavern brawl. Stonecrop had proved to be his man, body and soul, in peace and war. He had eyes as dead as night, black and lifeless. Hubert didn’t like him, adding that he certainly didn’t trust him. Blackstock did. He recognised himself in Stonecrop, a man who cared for nothing and no one.
    ‘I’ve told you.’ Blackstock turned away. ‘I met Hubert in Wissant; he confirmed the treasure must exist.’ He pointed through the grey, misty drizzle towards the coastline. ‘We will soon make landfall at Orwell and thread our way up to the hermitage. Hubert will be there.’
    ‘Why didn’t he come with us?’
    Blackstock laughed. ‘Hubert doesn’t like the sea. Anyway, he had other business to do, a matter between him and me, not you.’
    Stonecrop pulled his cowl back over his head and turned away whilst his master stared up at the great mast, its canvas sail furled back. Once again Blackstock looked round, making sure all was well, lookouts posted in the prow and stern vigilant for rocks.
    Now his thoughts turned to the Cloister Map; that was what its owner, the German Merchant Paulents, had called the ancient manuscript. The map had been sketched in the form of a cloister and marked an area of wasteland in Suffolk around a cluster of ancient barrows near the River Denham. According to the map, one of these barrows contained the vast treasure hoard of some barbarian king buried in a longship packed from prow to stern with gold, silver plate, precious jewels and costly armour, a king’s ransom waiting to be claimed.
    ‘A ship on land, buried near a river,’ Blackstock pondered the riddle posed by the map, ‘but out of the swing of the sea.’
    ‘What was that, master?’ Stonecrop called.
    ‘Nothing.’ Blackstock grinned to himself. There’d be time enough, he reflected, to inform Stonecrop and the rest of the crew.
    He moved as the ship swayed, buffeted by the powerful north-easterly wind which raised curtains of misty salt-edged spray. Blackstock looked up once again at the raven’s nest on the mast, then around at the men slopping water from the bulwarks. He strained as he always did to hear the music of the ship. Never mind the