Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Why should I flee?’. Passerel’s lower lip quivered. ‘Why should I?’ he shouted.

  He heard a sound at the mouth of the alleyway and looked up. His stomach clenched in fear. A group of students had gathered there. Passerel hoped that, in the poor light, they might not see him. He flattened his bulk, closing his eyes, praying to Saint Anne, his patron saint.

  ‘There he is!’ a voice cried. ‘Passerel the murderer!’

  The bursar fled down the alleyway. He stopped at the end. Which way should he go? Down Bocardo Lane? Perhaps reach the castle? He heard the sound of pounding feet and changed direction. He ran as fast as he could, pushing his way past students, merchants, knocking aside children playing with an inflated pig’s bladder. He gasped with relief when he saw the lych-gate of St Michael’s Church. Behind, shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ echoed as the hue and cry was raised. He thought he had outwitted his pursuers until a clod of earth sped past his head. Passerel hurried on through the cemetery and threw himself through the doorway of the church. He slammed the door behind him, pulling across the bolt.

  ‘What do you want?’ a woman’s voice sang out above him.

  Passerel, drenched with sweat, peered into the darkness. He stared up at the light flickering through a slit in a wooden partition above the door. At first he thought he’d heard a ghost until he realised there was an anchorite’s cell built just above the main porch. Passerel heard the sound of shouts and blows from outside.

  ‘I seek sanctuary!’ he gasped.

  ‘Then ring the bell to your left,’ the anchorite ordered. ‘And hurry! The church has a side door and they’ll cut you off!’

  Passerel groped in the darkness and pulled at the rope. Above him the bell began to toll like the crack of doom.

  ‘Run!’ the anchorite shouted.

  Passerel needed no second bidding. He fled up the nave, slipping and slithering on the smooth, greystone floor. He reached the oaken rood screen, heavy and squat. He stumbled through the entrance into the sanctuary and grasped the altar. The bell, still rolling from the force of his pull, clanged on. Passerel, weeping like a child, crouched in the darkness. He stared up at the red sanctuary light, a little lamp within a red glass bowl, which flickered on a shelf beneath the silver pyx holding the host. The side door opened with a crash. Passerel whimpered with fear.

  ‘What do you want? What do you seek?’

  Passerel screwed up his eyes: a cowled figure stood in the entrance to the rood screen. A tinder was lit and a candle bathed the sanctuary in a pool of light. The face above it was gentle with straggly, spiked hair, and sad eyes in a wrinkled ageing face. Passerel sighed with relief as he recognised Father Vincent, the priest of St Michael’s.

  ‘I seek sanctuary,’ Passerel whimpered.

  ‘For what crime?’

  ‘For no crime,’ Passerel said. ‘I am innocent.’

  ‘All men are innocent,’ the priest replied, ‘in the eyes of God.’ He lit a candle on the altar as well as two large ones on the offertory table near the lavabo bowl. ‘Stand up! Stand up!’ Father Vincent ordered. ‘You are safe here!’

  Passerel did so, trying to keep his legs from trembling.

  ‘I am Master William Passerel,’ he announced. ‘Bursar of Sparrow Hall. They have accused me of the murder of Robert Ascham the archivist.’

  ‘Ah!’ The priest came closer. He lifted his hand around which was wrapped a string of polished, black rosary beads. ‘I have heard of Ascham’s death and that of the Regent Sir John Copsale. They were both good men.’

  ‘No man is good!’ the anchorite shouted from the back of the church.

  ‘Shush, shush, Magdalena!’ the priest answered. ‘Sir John Copsale gave generously to our alms box. I have heard of Ascham’s death and the doings of the Bellman.’

  The priest’s voice, like every sound, echoed round the church - small wonder the anchorite could hear it.

  ‘The Bellman came here!’ Magdalena boomed. ‘Pinned his proclamation to the church door he did. Creeping he came: mouse-eyed and close-mouthed. A goblin of wit!’

  ‘Shush! Shush!’ The priest brought his hand down on Passerel’s shoulder. ‘Your pursuers have gone. I heard the bell toll and came out. Bullyboys, the lot of them.’ He added, ‘Swaggering swains, empty vessels always make the most sound.’ The priest smiled. ‘I ordered them out of God’s acre. They had no right to bring their violence here but they are keeping watch on the lych-gate and around the cemetery. If you leave, they will kill you.’ The priest drew himself up, eyes wide. ‘That’s what happened to the last man who fled here. He came and went like a thief in the night. They caught him near Hog Lane and chopped his head off.’

  Passerel moaned in fear.

  ‘However, you are safe here,’ the priest added kindly. ‘Look.’ He grasped Passerel by the arm and led him across to a recess in the wall. ‘This is the place of sanctuary. I’ll bring a bolster, some blankets, wine, bread and cheese. You can stay here for forty days.’ He watched as Passerel clutched his stomach. ‘If you have to relieve yourself, go out at the side door. There’s a small drain near one of the graves. But mind your step.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t fall in and take no light with you.’

  Passerel sat down in the recess. The priest padded away. He returned a little later with a cracked pewter cup, a jug of watered wine and a trauncher of bread, strips of dried bacon, cheese and two rather hard manchet loaves. Passerel ate hungrily, listening to the priest chatter as he returned with a roll of blankets that smelt of horse piss.

  ‘There!’ Father Vincent stood back and admired his handiwork. ‘Keep the sanctuary clean.’ He pointed at the red winking lamp. ‘The Lord sees you and Holy Mother Church protects you. I’ll shrive you before morning Mass and you can be my altar boy. I’m giving a sermon tomorrow. It’s a very good one, on the dangers of riches.’

  ‘What does it profit a man?’ Magdalena’s voice boomed down the church. ‘To gain the whole world but suffer the loss of his immortal soul.’

  ‘Quite, quite.’ The priest began to douse the candles. ‘I’ll leave one alight.’ He reached down and grasped Passerel’s hand. ‘Goodnight, brother.’

  Father Vincent went out under the rood screen. Passerel heard the side door close and he leaned back with a sigh. What could he do? he wondered. Surely master Alfred Tripham, Vice-Regent of Sparrow Hall, would help? He would petition the Sheriff for assistance. Passerel gnawed at his lip. Nevertheless, his life was over. He had been happy at Sparrow Hall with his books and manuscripts, and studying the accounts in his little money chamber. Now it was all gone in the twinkling of an eye. What would happen to poor Passerel now? If this nonsense continued he would be given a choice: either to surrender himself to the Sheriffs bailiffs or to leave Oxford and walk to the nearest port and take ship to foreign parts. Passerel scratched his chapped legs and ruefully decided he would be dead of exhaustion before he reached the city gates. And outside? Those students would be waiting for him.

  ‘On your knees and pray to God!’ Magdalena’s voice echoed down the church. ‘Pray that you be not put to the test!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Passerel whispered.

  He put his face in his hands and tried to make sense of the chaos and tragedy seething around him. He recalled Copsale being found dead in his bed. The Regent had always had a weak heart: had he died in his sleep? And Ascham? Passerel remembered opening the door to the library and finding the archivist lying there, the blood like spilled wine soaking his robes; the crossbow bolt in his chest. Yet the window had been shuttered, the door had been bolted. Why had Ascham been murdered? What had he meant by his mutterings about ‘dear little sparrows’ or something like that? What had he hoped to find amongst the writings of de Montfort’s adherents, so much rubbish from decades before? And what of Ascham’s belief that someone at Sparrow Hall wished to destroy the work of its founder, Henry Braose?

  Passerel took his hands away and looked around. It was growing darker. The solitary candle wavered and bent in
some draught, its flickering flame brought out the garish painting on the far wall, which portrayed a group of demons, hollering like hounds after some poor soul. Passerel saw little comfort there. He lay down on the slab, groaning at its hardness, recalling his own soft, high bed. He heard a sound. The side door opened - someone was coming in. Passerel stiffened. Someone was slithering quietly towards the sanctuary. He kept still, watching the entrance to the rood screen. He heaved a sigh of relief as he glimpsed a pair of shadowy hands place a wine jug and cup down. A friend from Sparrow Hall? The footsteps receded, and the side door quietly closed. Passerel got up and walked across. He picked up the jug and sniffed at it. The claret it contained was rich and thick. Passerel’s mouth watered. He poured himself a generous cup and drank quickly.

  ‘This is the House of God and the Gateway of Heaven!’ the anchorite shouted. ‘A Place of Terrors!’

  Passerel, emboldened by the wine, lifted his head.

  He was about to fill the cup again when pain seized his belly, as if someone had thrust a knife into his innards. Passerel staggered forward, the jug and cup falling from his hands and shattering on the ground, ringing like a bell along the deserted nave. Passerel clutched at his stomach. He opened his mouth to scream but gagged on the bile at the back of his throat.

  ‘It is a terrible thing indeed,’ the anchorite intoned, ‘for a sinner’s soul to fall into the hands of the living God!’

  Passerel, his face soaked in sweat, eyes popping, stretched his hand out towards the anchorite’s light. The waves of pain stretched up through his belly along his gullet. Closing his eyes, William Passerel, former bursar of Sparrow Hall, slumped in death before the sanctuary screen.

  As Passerel died before the high altar of St Michael’s Church, the old beggar Senex - for that was the only name by which he was known - tried to flee from the death pursuing him. He couldn’t run very fast: a suppurating ulcer on his right shin made him wince every time he brought his foot down. Senex shuffled on, staggering blindly through the darkness, straining his ears, listening for any soft footfall.

  ‘Oh please!’ Senex whispered.

  He sat down, crouching like a dog, arms wrapped tightly round his chest. If he stayed here, silent as a statue, perhaps he would not be found. Senex recalled a rabbit pursued by a weasel he had once seen in a field. The rabbit had stayed frozen beside a tussock of grass. Senex closed his eyes: he didn’t know how old he was and he had given up trying to guess. Life was never good but nothing had prepared him for this. He should never have come to Oxford. If he had stayed in the countryside sleeping in barns and begging at cottagers’ doors, he would have been safe. Yet last winter had been severe so Senex had wandered into Oxford and made his way to St Osyth’s Priory, his hands and feet covered in burning chilblains and blisters. The good brothers had tended to his every wound except for the ulcer on his shin, which they had been unable to cure. Senex had grown accustomed to the city: the jostling noise, the arrogant, swaggering students: the grand Masters in their furred robes. Oh, he had eaten well: last Midsummer’s Day he’d even been given a shilling to buy sweetmeats for himself and his comrades at St Osyth’s. Senex opened his eyes and listened, he stared back through the darkness: all he’d wanted was a piece of cheese and a pot of ale. Senex shivered as he recalled the whispers around St Osyth’s about those other inmates who had disappeared, their headless corpses found in lonely woods. He now knew the reason why and he quietly cursed. He thought of a prayer, a short one, taught him many years ago when he and Margaret, his elder sister, had tramped the lanes begging for bread.

  Senex whimpered like a dog. Margaret was gone: she’d died of a fever in the ditch, many years ago. He’d covered her corpse with bracken. Surely Margaret in heaven would help him now? Poor, old Senex would never hurt a fly. The beggar man stared into the gloom. He’d been told that it was a game. Perhaps he could win, for the first time in his life? Senex began to crawl forward on all fours, going back along the way he had come, keeping close to the mildewed wall. He reached a comer and turned: he could see a chink of light in the distance but then he heard that whistle again, low yet clear, like a man calling his dog. Senex listened intently. Was someone lurking there? He turned and scampered away, back to the place he’d left, his hand catching the grey ragstone wall. There must be a way out surely? He would not be trapped like old Brakespeare had been. Senex stopped, fingers to his lips - Brakespeare had been a soldier and he’d been caught! Senex stopped and sniffed the air; he could smell faint cooking smells; bacon and freshly cooked meat. Senex’s stomach growled. He licked dry lips. If he kept going ahead perhaps he’d be safe? He reached the corner and, after crouching, ran on blindly. He froze at the stealthy patter of feet behind him. Someone was in hot pursuit. Senex reached a wall, he scrambled up, looking for an escape but could find no way. He turned. He should have gone right! He heard the whistle again and the pinprick of a torchlight grew as the figure carrying it drew closer. Senex put his hands up.

  ‘Oh, please no! Please no!’

  He heard the click and, before he could move, he took the crossbow bolt full in his stomach. Senex crouched down, his fingers curling in pain, grasping the dirt. He couldn’t move. He tried to edge forward but then he saw the boots. He looked up and, as he did, the great two-handled axe took his head off, clean and sheer.

  The next morning, just after dawn, journeyman Taldo, making his way out of Oxford towards Banbury, came across Senex’s corpse. It lay beneath an old holm tree and, from one of the branches stretched across the path, hung the old beggar’s severed head.

  Chapter 3

  On the day after Taldo had hurried back to Oxford to report his grisly findings to the sheriff, Sir Hugh Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote entered the city. An early downpour of rain had drenched the streets and cleaned the runnels and alleyways, dulling the rotten odour from the middens. Corbett, his cowl pulled back, let his horse find its way through the dirty packed streets of the university town. They’d entered by the south gate but, instead of going straight towards the castle or Sparrow Hall, Corbett took Ranulf and Maltote along the byways and alleyways so they could grasp the feel of the city. Corbett himself felt a little nostalgic. It had been years since he’d returned: now, the sight, sounds and smells brought back the glorious days of his youth. A happy, carefree time when Corbett had lived in shabby apartments and thronged with the rest of the bachelors, students and scholars down to the bleak rooms of the Schools to hear the Masters lecture on rhetoric, logic, theology and philosophy.

  Corbett found his return eerie: despite the passing of the years, nothing seemed to have changed. Peasants from the outskirts of Oxford tried to force their way through with heavy wheeled carts or sodden sumpter ponies laden with produce for the city markets. As he passed the open doorways of shabby tenements, Corbett glimpsed children and beldames warming their knees before the fire, and sullen lamps glowing in the darkness. On every street the houses huddled on either side, interspersed by a tangle of alleyways and trackways still rough and slippery after the rains. Nevertheless, as always in Oxford, the streets were thronged. Merchants in fur-lined robes marched purposefully in their high, leather Moroccan boots. Servitors went before them to brush aside screaming children or barking dogs. Franciscans, Dominicans and Carmelites made their way to their respective houses: some walked in devout silence, others were as noisy and chattering as magpies. On a corner a gong cart, full of dung and ordure from the sewers, was now being used as a punishment post. A fellow who had sold faulty cloth had been forced to stand waist-deep in the dung whilst lashed to the wheels were other traders found guilty by a Pie Powder court of selling rotten meat, tawdry goods or trying to break the price code set by the market beadles. Next to this, a dog-whipper, the cage on his cart full of fighting, snapping curs, was formally arresting a lean-ribbed mongrel whilst a group of scruffy urchins screamed abuse and claimed the dog belonged to them. The dog-whipper, his sulphurous face ablaze with fury, cursed and yelled back.

  Corbe
tt sighed and dismounted, telling Ranulf and Maltote to do likewise. They took a short cut up Eel Pie Lane which led them on to the High Road. Here Corbett ran into roaming bands of scholars, wags, braggarts, hedge-creepers and rascals from the University, all dressed in their tawdry finery: the short gowns of the bachelors, the tattered hose and shabby jackets of the commoners. The air rang with the noise of different accents and tongues as students spilled out of the Halls or the lecture chambers of the schools. Lost in their own world, the scholars shouted and sang, pushed and shoved each other, totally oblivious of the good citizens and burgesses of the city. These passed the scholars with muttered curses and looks of disdain. Here and there some Masters or lecturers strutted like geese, heads swathed in woollen hoods lined with silk, which proclaimed their status and importance. Behind them beggar scholars, youths unable to pay the fees, staggered along carrying books or other baggage for their masters. Beadles and proctors, the disciplinarians of the University, also strode by wielding lead-tipped, ash cudgels. As they passed the students fell silent, though their presence did little else to curb their high spirits and boisterousness.

  Corbett paused, wrapping the reins round his hands, staring up and down the High Street. This had changed: there were more houses on either side, so densely packed that their gables met to block out the light. Pushed in between these, were the cottages of the poorer folk, padded with reeds, straw or shingles which the rain had turned to a soggy mess. The market stalls on either side of the High Road had now re-opened after the downpour and were doing a busy trade. Jostled and pushed, Corbett had to move on. Behind him Ranulf lifted one boot and groaned: the mud and dirt were ankle-deep and he looked pityingly at a group of urchins who, despite the weather, were playing in mud half-way up their legs. Ranulf bit back a curse. He would have loved to have roared his irritation at Corbett trudging so stoically ahead of him but the noise was growing more deafening. Corbett abruptly turned left, going down a sordid alleyway. It was quieter here and, when he led them into the yard of the Red Lattice tavern, Ranulf sighed with pleasure. He joyously threw his reins at a surly ostler who came out quietly cursing at these new arrivals who’d disturbed his rest.