by Paul Doherty
‘Did the King ask you to spy?’ Corbett asked.
Lady Mathilda’s sallow face relaxed, her eyes still glittered with anger.
‘No, I offered my services, Sir Hugh. Don’t you know my history? As a damsel, I played cat’s cradle with de Montfort’s knights.’ Her face softened. ‘In my day, Corbett, I was beautiful. Men begged to kiss this bony, vein-streaked hand. The King’s knights often wore my colours in the lists and tournaments.’ She grinned, her face becoming impish. ‘Even Edward Longshanks tried to enter my bed. I suppose I was the King’s in war and peace,’ she added wryly. She clasped her bejewelled fingers together. ‘Those were great days, Corbett. Days of war; of armies marching and banners flying, of spying and treachery. If de Montfort had won, a new king would have sat on the throne at Westminster and the likes of me and my brother would have gone into the darkness. You have heard the story?’
Corbett shook his head, fascinated by the intensity of this old but vibrant woman.
‘At Evesham, at the height of the battle, five of de Montfort’s knights tried to break through to kill the King. They hacked down his bodyguard and burst into the royal circle - but my brother Henry was there.’ She lifted her face, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Like a rock he was, so the King said; feet planted like oaks in the ground, his great two-handed war sword whirling like the wind: those knights never reached the King. My brother killed them all. Afterwards, that night in his tent, Edward swore a great oath.’ She closed her eyes, her voice thrilling, “‘I have sworn a great oath and I will never repent of it”, the King declared, his hand over a relic of Edward the Confessor. “Whenever Henry Braose, or any of his family, seek my help I shall not forget”.’ Lady Mathilda opened her eyes. ‘My brother did not kill de Montfort,’ she continued, ‘to see his great enterprise here overturned by pompous scholars. So yes, Corbett, I volunteered my services to the King.’
‘And what have you found?’
‘It’s not a question of finding,’ she retorted. ‘Sir Hugh, I have lived here for years, and I have seen Masters come and go but... this group!’ She sighed. ‘Old Copsale was a true scholar but as for the rest! Passerel was fat, living only for his belly. Langton was a mere ghost of a man, who won’t be missed in death just as he wasn’t noticed in life. Barnett’s a drunkard who likes pretty whores. Churchley’s so narrow-minded I don’t think he even knows there’s a world outside Oxford.’
‘And Tripham, your Vice-Regent?’
‘Oh, Master Tripham is a viper,’ she replied. ‘A cosy snake who’s coiled himself round Sparrow Hall and wishes to make it his. He wants to become Regent. He’ll not weep at Passerel’s or Langton’s death. He’ll slither about ensuring that his cronies are appointed to the vacant positions. He’s a parvenu!’ she spat out. ‘A thief and a blackmailer who tramples over my brother’s memory...!’
‘Why a thief?’ Corbett interrupted.
‘He’s also the treasurer,’ Lady Mathilda explained. ‘And the Hall receives revenues from many quarters: a field here, a barn there; manors in Essex; fishing rights at Harwich and Walton-on-Naze. The money comes in piecemeal. I am sure some sticks to Master Tripham’s fingers.’
‘And a blackmailer?’ Corbett asked.
‘He knows all the little sins of his fellows,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘Barnett is well known to the whores. Churchley likes boys, particularly young men from Wales. You’ve met the loud-mouthed David Ap Thomas? I’ve seen Churchley pat his bottom. A bum squire, born and bred.’
‘And Appleston?’
Lady Mathilda’s eyes softened.
‘Leonard Appleston’s a good Master: a fine scholar, skilled in logic and debate. The scholars flock to his lectures in the schools.’
‘But?’
‘He has secrets from his past. Master Tripham tries to ingratiate himself with me.’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, Appleston is not his real name.’ She pulled at the corner of her mouth. ‘His name is de Montfort. Oh, no, no.’ She waved a hand at the surprise in Corbett’s face. ‘Born the wrong side of the blanket he was: a bastard child.’
‘Does the King know this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened?’
She shrugged. ‘Appleston cannot be arrested simply because he was the by-blow of a traitorous earl.’
‘And his sympathies?’
‘He keeps himself to himself. Once I caught him in the library amongst my brother’s papers where there are some of de Montfort’s proclamations. I passed him before he turned the book over, and I saw the title. When Appleston looked up, he had tears in his eyes.’
‘So he could be the Bellman?’
‘Anyone could be the Bellman,’ Lady Mathilda retorted. ‘Except Master Moth.’
‘He slides like a ghost round the hall.’
Lady Mathilda tapped her head. ‘Master Moth is not a madman, Sir Hugh, but he finds it difficult to concentrate or remember anything. Remember, he can neither hear, nor speak or read and write.’ Lady Mathilda rose to her feet, cocking her head to one side, as if listening to something. ‘I don’t know who the Bellman is, Corbett. You’ve met Bullock the Sheriff?’
Corbett nodded.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘there’s a man who hates us! And, of course, there are the students - you must not think they are as poor as they look. Many of them come from very wealthy families, particularly the Welsh. Their grandfathers fought for de Montfort and later their fathers and elder brothers fought the King in Wales.’ She came over and touched the greying locks on Corbett’s head. ‘Like the lovely Maeve, your good wife!’
‘Aye, God bless her!’ Corbett rose. ‘She’s in bed and so should I be, Lady Mathilda.’
He grasped her cold, thin hand and kissed it.
‘Are you frightened, Corbett?’ she asked. ‘Will the Bellman’s threats keep you awake at night?’
‘In media vitae,’ he replied, ‘sumus in morte! In the midst of life, Lady Mathilda, we are in death.’ He walked to the door then turned. ‘What concerns me is what the others will say about you?’
Lady Mathilda laughed, the age and pain disappearing from her face. Corbett glimpsed the beautiful young woman she once had been.
‘They’ll call me an interfering, sinister, old witch,’ she replied. ‘Do you know what I think, Corbett?’ She paused, fingering the tassel of the cord round her waist. ‘I think the Bellman’s coming. He might come after you, Sir Hugh, but, remember, I am Sir Henry Braose’s sister.’ She drew herself up. ‘I know he will not let me live!’
Chapter 6
Corbett left the library, Master Moth pushing by him in his haste to return to his mistress. Ranulf tapped the side of his head.
‘Take no offence, Master. Moth is only a child. Lady Mathilda is both his mother and his God. He was fair scratching at the door to get in.’
‘I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘She’s frightened. She believes the Bellman has a list and that her name is on it.’
A servitor was waiting to escort them out. Corbett excused himself and went out through a small postern door which led into the garden. A full moon bathed the lawns, flower beds and raised herb patches in its silvery light. On the left and far side was a curtain wall, to the right a line of buildings. Corbett glanced towards the library window.
‘Yes, it’s possible,’ he murmured. ‘Look, Ranulf. There are two small buttresses on either side, not to mention the hedge in front: these would conceal the assassin.’ Corbett indicated the small path which ran between the hedge and the wall of the building. ‘Provided no one saw him come out, he’d be almost invisible.’
Corbett walked down gingerly; the hedge was prickly and sharp and the soil underneath wet and slippery after the recent rain. He stopped outside the library window: it was fastened shut, the shutters behind betraying faint chinks of light. He walked back to his companions. Maltote was leaning against the door, falling asleep.
‘So the assassin could have shot from there?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Pulled back the shutters then cl
osed the window over?’
‘I think so,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘But I’m not as clever as I think. We know the window was closed and shuttered. We also know Ascham was in the library looking for something which would unmask the Bellman, or at least we think he was. Imagine him sitting at the table. He hears a tap on the window so he goes and opens the shutters.’
‘And then the window?’ Ranulf added helpfully.
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s where my clever theory fails. Tell me, Ranulf - if you had an inkling of who the Bellman was and you’d sealed yourself in the library to hunt for the necessary evidence. You hear a tap on the window, open the shutters and, through the window, see the face of the very person you suspect - would you open the window? Bearing in mind this Bellman may have also murdered the Regent, John Copsale?’
‘No,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I wouldn’t. But maybe Ascham was not sure and had more than one suspect?’
‘Perhaps... ah well!’ Corbett shook Maltote’s arm. ‘It’s well after midnight and time we were in our beds.’
They walked back into the hall and out, through the main door, into the lane. Only the faint glow of candles from windows high in the hostelry provided any light. A beggar, his legs shorn off at the knees, came out from an alleyway, pushing himself on a small barrow, waving his clacking dish.
‘A penny!’ he whined. ‘For an old soldier!’
Corbett crouched down and stared at the man’s rotting face: one eye was half-closed, and there were large festering sores around his mouth. Corbett put two pennies in the earthenware bowl.
‘What do you see, old man?’ he asked. ‘What do you see at night? Who leaves the hall or hostelry?’
The beggar opened his mouth, in which only one tooth hung down, sharp and pointed like a hook.
‘No one bothers poor Albric,’ he replied. ‘And I sees no one. But there again, sirs, rats have always got more than one hole.’
‘So, you have seen people sneak out at night?’
‘I see shadows,’ Albric replied. ‘Shadows, cowled and muffled, slip by poor Albric, not a penny offered, not a penny given.’
‘Where do they go?’ Corbett asked.
‘Into the night like bats.’ The beggar pushed his face closer. ‘A coven they are.’ Albric fluttered his fingers before Corbett’s eyes. ‘Albric can count; I went to the abbey school I did, as a child. Thirteen go by, thirteen come back: a warlocks’ coven! That’s all I know.’
Corbett pushed another penny into the dish: he glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf who was now supporting Maltote. They continued across the lane. After a great deal of knocking the ostarius or porter pulled back the bolts, locks screeching as the keys were turned. They entered the gloomy passageway. Corbett made towards the stairs but Ranulf, having shaken Maltote awake, pulled at his sleeve and pointed at a door under which candlelight seeped out. Corbett paused and heard the faint murmur of conversation and laughter: he opened the door and went into the refectory. David Ap Thomas, his hair even more tousled than ever, was holding court round one of the tables, surrounded by other scholars. Corbett smiled a greeting. Ap Thomas put down his dice and scowled back. Corbett shrugged and started to leave.
‘No, no, Master,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘You take Maltote up to our chamber. I wish to have words with our Welshman.’
‘No trouble!’ Corbett warned.
Ranulf smiled, pushed by and sauntered down the refectory. He threw his cloak over his shoulder so the long stabbing dagger sheathed in his belt could be clearly seen. As he approached, one of the group began to caw like a crow, making fun of La Corbière, the crow, the Norman origin of Corbett’s name. Ranulf grinned. He pushed his way through, taking his own loaded dice out. He kept his eyes on Ap Thomas and threw, the dice rattling on the table.
‘Two sixes!’
Ap Thomas shook his dice but only managed to raise a four and a three. Ranulf, whose dice had been fashioned by the best trickster in London, threw again. Ap Thomas had no choice but to follow but, each time, his throw was less than that of Ranulf’s. Ranulf sighed, picked up his dice and slipped them into his purse.
‘You’ve lost, Welshman,’ he said. ‘But, there again, could you ever win?’
Ap Thomas pushed back his stool and stood up, his hand going to his knife. Ranulf moved sideways and, suddenly, the point of his dagger was pressing at the softness of the Welshman’s throat.
‘I am sure,’ the clerk declared, ‘that none of your friends will move or my hand might slip. But you, sir, if you wish, can pull your dagger.’
‘It was only a game,’ Ap Thomas said tightly, chin up. ‘I thought you were cheating.’
‘But, now you realise I was not.’
‘Of course,’ Ap Thomas grated.
‘Good!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘So, next time when you meet my master, smile when he smiles. And no more cawing noises. Agreed?’ He glanced around and there was a quick murmur of assent. ‘Good!’ Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger, sauntered out of the refectory and up the stairs.
Maltote was already on the bed, snoring like a little pig. Next door Corbett was kneeling on the floor, his rosary beads tight round his fingers, his eyes shut, his lips moving wordlessly.
‘Good night, Master.’
Corbett opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Good night, Ranulf. We will not talk here,’ he added, ‘God knows that the walls have ears. But, tomorrow yes, after Mass?’
Ranulf returned to his own chamber. He made sure Maltote was comfortable and went to the window, pulling back the shutters. He stared through the narrow arrow slit up at the starlit sky. He was pleased to be back on the King’s business, away from Leighton and its lonely fields and woods. More importantly, doors would be opened, and Ranulf’s ambition to climb the steep, slippery ladder of advancement burned as fiercely as ever. He was too proud to whine to Corbett, too grateful to leave his master and the Lady Maeve to make his own fortune. The King’s arrival at Leighton had changed all that. Just before the King had left, when Corbett had been elsewhere, Edward had plucked at Ranulfs sleeve. He had taken him away to a far comer, loudly proclaiming he had a story about a certain bishop they both knew. Once they were out of sight, in a quiet, narrow passageway, the King’s mood had changed.
‘Sir Hugh is well, Ranulf?’
‘Aye, your Grace, and as loyal as ever but he worries about the Lady Maeve and, perhaps, does not have other men’s stomach for bloodshed and war.’
The King had grasped Ranulfs shoulder, his fingers digging into his skin.
‘But you, Ranulf, you are different, aren’t you, my clerk of the Green Wax?’
‘Each man walks his own path, your Grace!’
‘Aye, they do, Ranulf, and sometimes they walk alone. If Corbett will not return permanently to my services,’ the King added, ‘then you must.’ The King smiled. ‘I see ambition in your eyes, Ranulf-atte-Newgate; it burns like a flame. Skilled in French and Latin, are you now? Expert in drafting a letter and attaching the Seals? A man quick on his feet, sharp of eye, keen of wit and not averse to trapping and killing the King’s enemies?’
‘What Your Grace thinks, Your Grace must believe.’
The King’s finger relaxed. He slipped an arm round Ranulf’s shoulders, pulling him closer.
‘Corbett is a good man,’ Edward whispered. ‘Loyal and honest, with a passion for the law. He will go to Oxford, Ranulf, and he will trap the Bellman. I know that: you, however, have a special task.’
‘Your Grace?’
‘I don’t want the Bellman brought south for trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster. I don’t want to provide him with a pulpit to lecture me and the people about the blessed de Montfort!’ The words were spat out. The King paused, his eyes never leaving those of Ranulf.
‘Your Grace?’
‘Your Grace!’ Edward mimicked back. ‘What Your Grace wants, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, is that when Corbett traps the Bellman, you kill him! Do you understand! Carry out that lawful execution on behalf of your King!�
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Edward then pushed him away gently and walked back to rejoin his companions. The meeting had only stoked Ranulf’s ambitions, yet he was worried: there was something the King had not mentioned. Ranulf tapped the hilt of his dagger: the Bellman seemed to be intent on bringing both the Crown and Sparrow Hall into disrepute. And what better way than to murder the King’s principal clerk? Ranulf closed the shutters. He took off his boots and lay down on the bed. He lay for a while quietly thinking before turning to douse the candle, his mind going back to Ap Thomas and those scholars in the refectory. One night, soon, he thought, he must find out why Ap Thomas and his cronies had blades of rain-soaked grass on their boots and leggings. There was no garden here in the hostelry and the streets of Oxford were muddy trackways. Had Ap Thomas been elsewhere, out in the countryside where those grisly corpses had been discovered? And those amulets he’d glimpsed round the scholars’ necks...?
Corbett knelt in a side chapel, consecrated to the Guardian Angels, in the church of St Michael. At the high altar the priest was celebrating a lonely, dawn Mass. Corbett looked over his shoulder and grinned. Maltote was leaning against a pillar, eyes closed, mouth drooling; he’d still not recovered from the feasting of the night before. Ranulf sat back on his heels, eyes closed; Corbett wondered to what God his manservant prayed. Ranulf never mentioned religion but dutifully went to Mass and the sacraments without making any comment. Corbett’s gaze moved to the walls of the chapel. He was intrigued by the hunting scenes painted there: to the left, devils with huge nets hunted souls in some mythical forest, whilst above them angels, swords drawn, tried to rescue the virtuous from their snares. On the other wall, the artist, in garish vigorous strokes, had depicted a world turned upside down with the rabbit as the hunter and man as the quarry. Corbett was particularly fascinated by a huge hare, russet brown, its belly white as snow, who walked upright on its hind legs with a net slung over its shoulder, containing some hapless souls.
