Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Master Barnett,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘I merely watch you do good works, helping the lame, feeding the hungry...’

  ‘Get out of my way!’ Barnett snapped and, pushing by, opened the door to Sparrow Hall.

  Corbett let him go and returned to his own chamber in the hostelry. He could tell, as soon as he opened the door, that someone had been there though, when he looked, nothing was missing. Corbett sat down at his table. He felt hungry but decided to wait until the evening to eat. He knew Ranulf and Maltote would soon return. He took out his quill and ink-horn and wrote a short letter to Maeve. He told her about his arrival in Oxford; how good it was to return to the place where he had studied as a youth, how both the city and University had changed. His quill sped across the page, telling her the usual lies he always told whenever he was in danger. At the end he wrote a short message for Eleanor, forming huge, round letters. He put the quill down and closed his eyes. At Leighton, Maeve would be in the kitchen supervising the maids for the evening meal or perhaps in the chancery office studying accounts or talking to bailiffs. And Eleanor? She would just have finished her afternoon sleep. Corbett heard a sound in the passage outside. He opened his eyes, quickly folded the letter and began to seal it. There was a knock on the door and Maltote and Ranulf came in.

  ‘I thought you’d be joining us?’ Maltote asked as he sat on the bed.

  ‘I said I might do. I am not too hungry yet.’

  ‘Then we should dine before we leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Tonight,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Maltote and I believe that our good friend David Ap Thomas and his henchmen will be leaving the city after dark.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Ranulf grinned. ‘This hostelry is a rabbit warren. You can hide in nooks and crannies and, when you are deep in the shadows, it is wonderful what you overhear.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘As sure as I am that Maltote can ride a horse.’

  Corbett handed the letter to Maltote. ‘Then take this to Master Sheriff at the castle and ask him to send it to Lady Maeve at Leighton. Tell him I need his help and assistance on an urgent matter.’

  Maltote put his boots on, grabbed his cloak and hobbled off. Corbett then told Ranulf what he had discovered on his visit to Sparrow Hall.

  ‘Do you think Barnett,’ Ranulf asked, ‘is involved in the death of these beggars? I mean, he is a wealthy, flabby Master of the schools. Such men are not usually famous for their alms giving?’

  ‘Perhaps. But what about Appleston and our Vice-Regent? Either man could be the Bellman. There again, the same could be said of our good friend David Ap Thomas.’

  ‘What does concern me, Master,’ Ranulf said, ‘is the one question to which there appears to be no answer. Oxford is full of clerks -’ he grinned ‘- such as ourselves, and scholars and students. Some of them come from abroad where their lords and rulers are the enemies of our King. Others come from the Scottish march or Wales and have no great love either for our sovereign lord. There must be many who would love to be the Bellman?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So why does the Bellman identify himself as living at Sparrow Hall?’

  Corbett shook his head. ‘I can’t really answer that except to say the Bellman must hate the Hall.’

  ‘Another question,’ Ranulf continued, ‘is that although we know the King is beside himself with fury at the Bellman’s appearance, who else really cares about his proclamations?’ Ranulf spread his hands. ‘I agree that there must be people in Oxford, as there are in Cambridge or in Shrewsbury, who’d follow any madcap rebel but - today, forty years after de Montfort’s death - what does the Bellman hope to achieve?’

  ‘Are you saying that the King should just leave it alone?’

  ‘In a way, yes,’ Ranulf replied.

  Corbett chewed the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I hear what you say, Ranulf. It might be that the King was first advised that the antics of the Bellman were merely some scholar’s prank and so that’s why the murders took place. There was no real reason for them otherwise. How do we know Ascham or Passerel suspected the Bellman’s identity? Perhaps he just killed them, as in some game of hazard, to raise the odds so that the King was forced to take notice? But again the question is, why?’

  Ranulf got to his feet. ‘I’m going across to the Hall,’ he declared. ‘Maltote will be some time hobbling to the castle and back. And, talking of hazard, I’ll wager that he stops at the Sheriffs stables to have a look at the horses.’

  ‘What do you want from the Hall?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘A book,’ Ranulf replied abruptly, becoming offhand.

  ‘What book, Ranulf?’

  ‘The ...’ Ranulf stammered.

  ‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Corbett exclaimed.

  ‘The Confessions of St Augustine,’ Ranulf replied in a rush.

  ‘Augustine of Hippo? What interest do you have in him?’

  Ranulf sighed in exasperation and leaned against the door.

  ‘When I was at Leighton Manor, Master, I often spoke to Father Luke. He heard my confession and told me about St Augustine.’ Ranulf closed his eyes. ‘Father Luke gave me a quotation from the Confessions: “Late have I loved thee, Lord.” And again: “Our hearts are never at peace until they are at rest with Thee.” They are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.’ Ranulf opened his eyes.

  Corbett sat, mouth open, eyes staring.

  ‘I suppose you think it’s funny?’ Ranulf retorted.

  Corbett just shook his head. ‘Can I ask why?’ he stuttered.

  ‘As a young man,’ Ranulf answered, ‘Augustine was a scapegrace, a rascal, who consorted with whores and courtesans. Father Luke told me he even had an illegitimate son. But then he converted, and became a priest and a bishop.’

  Corbett nodded, fascinated. ‘And you think you can do the same?’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, Master.’

  ‘Ranulf, I have cursed you, I have complained about you, I have prayed for you, I have even had the urge to shake you warmly by the neck,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I have never laughed at you and I never will.’

  His manservant let his arms fall to his sides.

  ‘During our long stay at Leighton,’ he stammered, not meeting Corbett’s eyes, ‘I started to think about the future.’

  ‘And you wish to become a priest?’ Corbett asked.

  Ranulf nodded. ‘If that’s what it means...’

  ‘Means to do what?’

  ‘I am not too sure, Master.’

  ‘But you are Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The terror of maidens from Dover to Berwick. A street fighting man! My bullyboy!’

  ‘So was Augustine,’ Ranulf replied hotly. ‘So was Thomas à Beckett. And Father Luke said that, even amongst Jesus’s followers, there was a knife man.’

  Corbett held his hand up. ‘Ranulf, God forgive me, I don’t doubt what you say but you must admit it comes as a surprise.’

  ‘Good!’ Ranulf lifted the latch. ‘Father Luke said that when Augustine changed, it surprised everyone.’ He opened the door and went out.

  Corbett sat as if poleaxed. ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’ he whispered. ‘Who has lifted more petticoats than I have had hot dinners.’

  Corbett closed his eyes and tried to think of Ranulf as a priest. At first he found it amusing but, the more he thought, the less surprised he became. Corbett lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering about the vagaries of the human heart. Ranulf was no longer a stripling. He was a man with a mind of his own and a steely determination to do what he wanted. He’d applied himself ruthlessly to his studies and his recent questions about the doings at Sparrow Hall showed a sharp mind as well as a quick wit. Somehow, Corbett realised, Ranulf’s questions lay at the heart of the mystery. Why was the Bellman doing what he did? And why proclaim himself as a Master or scholar at Sparrow Hall?

  He dozed for a while. When Ranulf returned, the
manservant pushed open the door.

  ‘The Vice-Regent gave me a copy,’ he called in.

  ‘Good,’ Corbett murmured.

  A short while afterwards Maltote limped back.

  ‘The Sheriff will see you now,’ he declared, still nursing his bruised shin. ‘Oh, by the way, Master, they’ve got some fine horses in the castle stables.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they have.’ Corbett swung his legs off the bed, put his war belt on and went to tell his companions to do the same.

  They took their cloaks and walked out into the lane. They crossed Broad Street, taking the road which led up to the castle. At the corner of New Hall Street and Bocardo Lane they had to stop: the street markets and shops were closing. Peasants pushed handcarts and barrows, the wealthier ones leading ox-drawn carts, out towards the city gates. All had stopped before the open space before the gallows; a hideous, three-branched scaffold against which ladders had been placed. Bailiffs were tightening nooses round the necks of three felons whilst the town crier loudly proclaimed ‘the horrible homicides, depredations and rapes of which these three had been found guilty’. He finished bawling and clapped three times. The red-masked executioners slid down the ladders as nimble as monkeys. The ladders were pulled away and all three felons danced and jerked at the end of their ropes. A collective sigh rose from the crowd, as a bailiff shouted that the King’s justice had been done. Corbett glanced away. The crowd dispersed and they were allowed through up a lane that skirted the old city wall and led into the castle. The bailey was deserted. A groom told them the garrison was preparing for the evening meal. Only a little boy with a chicken under his arm staggered about, the bird squawking raucously. The stables and outhouses were quiet as the groom led them across and up outside stone stairs into the castle solar. This was a soldier’s room: the walls white-washed, the roof beams blackened by numerous fires. A few shields and rusting swords hung on either side of a battered crucifix, placed slightly askew, whilst the rushes on the floor were dry and crisp, and smelt rather stale.

  Bullock was sitting in a window seat with a large, beautiful peregrine falcon on his wrist, its jesses tinkling like bells. The Sheriff was tenderly feeding it succulent pieces of meat; every so often he would murmur quietly to the bird, stroking the ruffled plumage under its throat.

  ‘A beautiful bird, Master Sheriff!’

  ‘I love hawks,’ Bullock replied. ‘Corbett, when I see this peregrine fly I truly believe in God and all his works. There, there, Raptor.’ He spoke softly to the bird. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps, amongst the marshes.’

  Bullock sighed, got up and put the falcon back on its perch. He then led Corbett and his companions into a small adjoining chamber where he offered them stools whilst he leaned against the table, looking down at them.

  ‘Your messenger said you needed my assistance?’

  Corbett explained what Ranulf had told him. Bullock rubbed his chin.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Ideally, Sir Walter, I would like a cordon of steel around Sparrow Hall and the hostelry. On second thoughts—’ Corbett paused. ‘Perhaps just around the Hall itself; at least it will keep the Bellman under careful surveillance.’

  ‘And the hostelry?’

  ‘As I said, Ap Thomas is a leader of a coven. He may, or may not, be connected with the murder of the beggar men. If he leaves Oxford tonight, and we try to follow him, he will lead us a merry dance like some will-o’-the-wisp.’

  Sit Walter sighed and loosened the belt round his ponderous girth.

  ‘The King has arrived at Woodstock,’ he explained. ‘Half of my garrison has gone there. The few horsemen I have will be sent out to patrol the roads. I can’t help you with Sparrow Hall. It has a garden, windows, postern gates and rear doors. It would take a small army to watch every bolt hole.’ He sensed Corbett’s anger. ‘However,’ Bullock added hastily, ‘as regards Master David Ap Thomas, we have some verderers attached to the castle garrison. Sturdy buggers who like nothing better than a brawl - their leader is just the man to help.’

  And, without a further word, Bullock left. He was gone for some time and when he returned a small, nut-brown man, dressed in shabby Lincoln green, accompanied him. The fellow entered the room so quietly Corbett hardly knew he was there.

  ‘Let me introduce Boletus,’ Sir Walter said. ‘They call him that because it’s the Latin for mushroom.’

  Boletus stared unblinkingly at Corbett who noticed that the verderer had no eyelashes.

  ‘Boletus patrols the royal hunt runs in the forest between here and Woodstock. He can move amongst the trees as quietly and as swiftly as a sunbeam. Isn’t that right, Boletus?’

  ‘I was born in the forest,’ the verderer replied, his voice hardly above a whisper. ‘The trees are my friends. Better a wooded glade, eh, than the dirty streets of the city?’

  ‘Boletus,’ Bullock explained, ‘will watch Sparrow hostelry like a hawk. If David Ap Thomas and his henchmen leave, and I suspect they will after dark, Boletus will pursue like the Angel of Death and come back to inform us. In the meantime -’ the Sheriff smacked his lips ‘- I intend to fortify the inner man. Sir Hugh, you are welcome to join me.’

  Corbett excused himself but Ranulf and Maltote followed the Sheriff and his sinister companion out of the room. Corbett waited until they had gone. He would have liked to sleep, the night would be a long one, but he could not get Barnett’s meeting with that beggar out of his mind. He left the castle and made his way through the emptying streets and alleyways towards St Osyth’s Hospital. The sun was beginning to set: houses and shops were now closing, lamps being lit and hung on the hooks outside each door. The dun-collectors were out with their stinking carts, continuing their unequal battle to clear the sewers and sweep up the offal and mounds of rubbish left after a day’s trading. The taverns were beginning to fill and, because the evening air was warm, windows and doors were flung open. A young man was singing the ‘Flete Viri’ which Corbett recognised as a lament on the death of William the Norman. Further down, on the steps of a church, a small choir sweetly carolled Goliard songs and Corbett recognised his favourite, ‘Iam Dulcis Amica’, so he stayed and listened before walking on.

  On the corner of a street, just opposite the hospital, four scholars danced wildly to the sound of rebec and pipe. Corbett dropped a coin into their dish and crossed the street and into the main gateway of St Osyth’s. The yard was packed with beggars thronging there for an evening meal of broth, rye bread and a stoup of watered wine. Brother Angelo stood in the centre shouting orders, greeting many of the beggars by name. He glimpsed Corbett and his smile faded.

  ‘I am sorry, Brother,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I appreciate you are busy so I’ll be blunt. Do you know Master Barnett of Sparrow Hall?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ Angelo turned to roar at a beggar who had taken two pieces of bread. ‘Put that back, Ragman! You greedy little bugger!’

  Ragman jumped, dropped the offending piece of bread and scurried off.

  ‘Do you want something to eat, Corbett? You look pale-faced.’

  ‘No, just information about Barnett.’

  ‘Well, he’s a strange one,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘He likes the wine and the wenches, does Master Barnett, yet he also comes here, and brings money for the hospital. Sometimes he helps with the distribution of food. Some of the beggars talk highly of him, a kindly man.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Yes, on reflection, I suppose I do,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘But, there again, he does no harm and who am I to refuse any help? And that’s all I know.’

  Corbett prepared to leave.

  ‘Master clerk!’

  Corbett came back. Brother Angelo’s eyes had grown soft.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you probably think I am just a suspicious Franciscan. However, I have heard the confessions of many men, and sometimes, when I shrive them, I detect an air of menace. Last time you were here, I felt that.’

  ‘
You mean from us, Brother?’

  The Franciscan shook his head. ‘No, not the stink of sin. More of danger.’ He clasped Corbett’s shoulder. ‘Be careful.’ Brother Angelo smiled. ‘Keep your faith - and your backs to the wall!’

  Chapter 9

  Corbett, the friar’s dire warning still chilling him, returned to the castle. Ranulf and Maltote were playing a desultory game of dice, Ranulf showing Maltote the finer points of cheating. Corbett sat in a window seat. He daydreamed about Leighton and quietly prayed that Maeve would be well. He felt agitated so he made his way up to the castle chapel, a simple, narrow chamber with the wooden altar at the far end. In a niche to the left of this was a statue of the Virgin and Child; with Mary smiling, showed the Baby Jesus to an oblivious world. Corbett took a taper and lit one of the candles. He knelt and said a Pater Noster, an Ave Maria and the Gloria. He heard Ranulf calling his name so he hurried down. Bullock was there with Boletus jumping in the air like a frog beside him. The Sheriff waved Corbett back into the solar.

  ‘Shut up!’ Sir Walter yelled at the verderer. ‘Shut up and stop dancing about!’

  Ranulf and Maltote gathered round.

  ‘Your information was correct, Sir Hugh.’ Bullock’s face widened into a smile. ‘I’m going to enjoy this. Master David Ap Thomas and his henchmen have left the city by stealth. They’ve broken the curfew, climbed over part of the wall and made their way to the forest south-west of the city.’

  ‘Tell him the rest! Tell him the rest!’ Boletus screeched.

  ‘They have company,’ the Sheriff continued, glaring at his verderer. ‘They are accompanied by a cross-biter, a pimp called Vardel, and half a dozen whores from a city brothel.’

  ‘And I know where they are!’ Boletus yelled triumphantly.

  ‘Get your cloaks!’ Bullock ordered. ‘Boletus, I want four of your companions, six hobelars, fully armed, and about ten archers. We’ll go by foot.’

  A short while later the party of armed men, Boletus running ahead like a hunting dog, left the castle. As they tramped through the narrow streets, the beggars and tricksters saw the glint of chain mail, heard the clash of sword and drew back into the alleyways. Tavern doors were abruptly shut. Whores, their bright orange wigs like beacons in the darkness, saw them coming and fled like the wind. Now and again a shutter would open wide and a voice shouted abuse. Bullock, thoroughly enjoying himself, bawled back.