by Paul Doherty
Ranulf thrust the cup into Churchley’s hand.
‘He’s dead. Now, listen!’ He snapped his fingers at Tripham. ‘I speak for Sir Hugh Corbett and the King. I don’t want Maltote buried here, not in this bloody cesspit! I want his body embalmed, placed in a proper coffin and sent back to Leighton Manor. The Lady Maeve will take care of it.’
‘That will cost money,’ Tripham bleated.
‘I don’t give a fig!’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Send the bill to me. I’ll pay whatever you ask. Leave the body for a while: Sir Hugh will wish to pay his respects.’
Ranulf left the hall and crossed the lane. Corbett was in the yard talking to a horseman wearing the royal livery. The fellow was splattered in mud and dust from head to toe. Corbett took one look at Ranulf’s face and dismissed the courier, telling him that Norreys would give him refreshment and look after his horse.
‘Maltote’s gone, hasn’t he?’
Ranulf nodded. Corbett wiped his eyes.
‘God rest him.’ He thrust the letters he was holding into Ranulf’s hand. ‘I’ll meet you in my room.’
Corbett went across to the Hall. He suspected, and secretly agreed with, what Ranulf had done. For a few minutes he knelt by the corpse and said his own requiem, Tripham and Churchley standing at the door behind him. Corbett crossed himself and rose. He put one hand on the crucifix above the bed and the other on Maltote’s brow.
‘I swear by the living God,’ he declared, ‘here, in the presence of Christ and of he who was slain, that whoever did this will be brought to justice and suffer the full rigours of the law!’
‘Your manservant has already given us orders on what to do with the corpse,’ Tripham broke in, now terrified by the harsh, white face of this powerful, royal clerk.
‘Do what he asked you!’ Corbett snapped.
He pushed by them and returned to Ranulf in his chamber at the hostelry. Neither talked about what had happened. Instead, Corbett opened the letters he had received from the King and Maeve.
‘And there’s one from Simon for you.’
He handed Ranulf a large, square parchment sealed in the centre with a blob of red wax.
Corbett opened his letters. The message from the King was predictable. He had arrived at Woodstock with his entourage and would wait there until his ‘good clerk’ had resolved matters to his satisfaction. The second letter was from Maeve. Corbett sat down at the table and studied it carefully. Most of it was chatter about the manor, the prospect of a good harvest and the depredations of certain poachers who had been raiding the stew pond. Maeve then went on to say how both she and Eleanor missed him and how Uncle Morgan was still full of the King’s visit.
‘I wish he would not tease Eleanor,’ she wrote, ‘with his stories about Wales and the way we Welsh terrified our enemies by displaying heads taken in battle. Eleanor, I think, encourages him.’
Corbett read on, then glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf.
‘The Lady Maeve sends her regards. What news do you have?’
‘Oh, just gossip about the chancery,’ Ranulf refused to meet his eye and pushed the letter into his wallet.
Corbett returned to Maeve’s last paragraph.
‘I miss you dearly,’ she wrote, ‘and every day I visit the chapel and light a candle for your swift return. My deepest love to you and my good wishes to Ranulf and Maltote. Your loving wife, Maeve.’
Corbett took a piece of parchment and began to write his reply. He described Maltote’s death, then paused as he recalled the groom taking Eleanor for a ride on her pony, and how she would shriek and laugh. Maltote would lecture her on horse lore, most of which Eleanor could not understand, but she’d sit in her special saddle and nod solemnly. Corbett blinked away the tears and in terse sentences described his sense of loss. He paused.
‘Ranulf,’ he asked, ‘Maltote’s body is to be sent back to Leighton, yes?’
‘Of course, I told Tripham that I would cover any expense.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Corbett replied.
‘No, Master, let me. I had two friends, now I have only one.’
Corbett turned to face Ranulf squarely.
‘Am I guilty?’ he asked. ‘Did I cause Maltote’s death?’
Ranulf shook his head. ‘The dance we are in is a deadly one. It could happen to any of us at any time. We are like hunters,’ he concluded. ‘We hunt in the dark and it’s easy to forget that those we hunt also hunt us: a knife in the back, a cup of poisoned wine, an unfortunate accident.’
‘And who do you think was responsible?’
‘Well, it can’t be David Ap Thomas. He and his henchmen were locked up in the castle. It must be the Bellman.’
‘Which means,’ Corbett replied, ‘that either Maltote was killed as a warning to us or the Bellman was going about his business, and Maltote happened to be in his way. He was killed by the oldest trick in the book: a beggar pleading for alms.’ Corbett stood up. ‘I am going to trap him, Ranulf, I am going to catch Maltote’s murderer and, God forgive me, I am going to watch him hang!’
Ranulf glared defiantly back.
‘I mean that,’ Corbett insisted. ‘He will be caught and tried by due process of law. He’ll die on the scaffold!’
Ranulf got up, his face only a few inches away from Corbett’s.
‘Now, that’s very good, but let me tell you about Ranulf-atte-Newgate’s law which makes sure there is no slip between cup and lip or, in this case, between prison and the gallows. Eye for eye! Tooth for tooth! Life for life.’
Chapter 10
Corbett was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Dame Mathilda stood there, with Master Moth like a shadow behind her. The old lady was leaning on a stick, breathing heavily.
‘I came to express my condolences.’
She extended her hand and Corbett raised it and kissed her fingers. She promptly snatched her hand away. Corbett looked at her in surprise.
‘I am sorry,’ she apologised. ‘But all this business ...’
‘Corbett!’
He turned. There was a crashing on the stairs and Bullock came lumbering up, his face red as a plum.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Lady Mathilda whispered. ‘Not him.’ She turned, sniffing the air. ‘He’s a disgusting man.’
She put her arm out for Moth who took it, his eyes never leaving hers. They walked down the passageway, forcing Bullock to flatten himself against the wall. The Sheriff watched them go, narrow-eyed, his rubicund face glistening with sweat.
‘I’ve come as fast as I could!’ he bawled. He jerked his head at Dame Mathilda now going down the stairs. ‘What did that old bitch want?’
‘She came to offer her condolences,’ Corbett snapped. ‘My friend Maltote was stabbed last night. He’s dead.’
Bullock groaned, slapping the leather saddlebags he carried against his leg.
‘God have mercy on him!’ he breathed. ‘And may Christ and His Mother give him good rest!’ He followed Corbett into the chamber. ‘And who is responsible?’
‘We don’t know. Reportedly a beggar - but probably the work of the Bellman.’
Bullock nodded at Ranulf who stood up to greet him.
‘Well, this is also the work of the Bellman.’
The Sheriff opened the saddlebags and threw on to the floor the faded, battered corpse of a crow, a piece of twine round its neck. Ranulf picked it up and, before anyone could object, pushed it out through the arrow slit window.
‘What else has the bastard done?’ he asked.
Bullock handed Corbett a scroll of parchment.
‘Two of these were posted last night,’ he replied. ‘One on the door of an Oxford Hall, the other at the Vine. I had two bailiffs patrolling the city just before dawn. They found these and the dead crow.’
Corbett undid the scroll and read the words which seemed to leap from the page:
‘So the King’s crow has come to Oxford. Caw! Caw!
Caw!
So the King’s crow, La Corbière, st
icks his yellow
beak
In the midden heap of the city. Caw! Caw! Caw!
The Bellman says this: cursed be Corbett in his sleeping.
Cursed be Corbett in his waking.
Cursed be Corbett in his eating.
Cursed be Corbett in his sitting.
Cursed by Corbett in his shitting.
Cursed be Corbett in his pissing.
Cursed be Corbett naked. Cursed be Corbett clothed.
Cursed be Corbett at home. Cursed be Corbett
abroad.’
‘I don’t think he likes you.’ Ranulf remarked, peering over Corbett’s shoulder. He pointed to the last few lines:
‘When the crow comes,’ the proclamation shrilled, ‘it is to be driven away by stones. The crow has been warned! Signed the Bellman of Sparrow Hall.’
Corbett looked at the vellum. The ink and the writing were the same as before, with a crude bell painted at the top where a pin had been driven through to attach it to a door.
‘So the Bellman was out last night?’ Corbett remarked, tossing the scroll on the bed. ‘That’s why Maltote died. Sir Walter, as of tonight, from curfew till dawn, I want your best archers to guard all the approaches to and from Sparrow Hall. I order that on the King’s authority.’
Bullock agreed.
‘Do you have anything else to report?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, our prisoners at the castle are not as bold and brave as they were last night,’ the Sheriff replied, mopping his face and slumping down on a stool. ‘But I think you should question them.’
‘And have you told anyone at Sparrow Hall about Ap Thomas?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, yes, on my way up. I left Tripham looking as white as a sheet.’ Bullock slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘I’m enjoying this. I am going to take you back to the castle, Sir Hugh. Once we are done, I’m off like a whippet to lodge a formal complaint with the Proctors of the University and then I’m back to Sparrow Hall. I am going to rub their arrogant faces into the growing shame of their so-called college.’
Bullock ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Firstly, they house a traitor who is also a murderer. Secondly, someone there has slain a royal servant. Thirdly, a group of their so-called scholars are guilty of debauchery and God knows what else. Finally, somehow or other that damnable place is linked to the deaths of these beggars on the roads outside Oxford.’
‘Don’t tell them about the button,’ Corbett warned. ‘Though, I have seen so many buttons on the gowns and clothing of the masters and scholars, it would be difficult to trace,’ he added ruefully.
‘What will happen to Ap Thomas and the others?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, they’ll appear before the Justices,’ Bullock replied. ‘They will be fined, and maybe given a short stay in the stocks, and then the University will probaby tell them to piss off for a year to face the fury of their families in Wales.’
‘Are you sure they are innocent of the activities of the Bellman or the deaths of these beggars?’ Corbett asked.
‘I am certain,’ Bullock replied. ‘But, as I have said, Ap Thomas is more amenable now. He may answer further questions.’ The Sheriff lumbered to his feet and tapped Corbett gently on the chest. ‘Sir Hugh, you’re the King’s clerk. When I post my guards not a mouse will be able to fart in Sparrow Hall without our permission.’ He pointed to the scroll lying on the bed. ‘But the Bellman is a vicious bugger. I would heed his warning. Now, you’ll come back with me to the castle?’
Corbett agreed. Bullock put his hand on the latch then turned.
‘I’m sorry about the lad,’ he said softly. ‘I am sorry he died. Do you know what I’d do?’ The Sheriff stuck his thumbs in his sword belt, puffing his chest out. ‘If I were you, Sir Hugh, I’d get on my horse and go out to the King at Woodstock. I’d have this bloody place closed down and the Masters taken into the Tower for questioning.’
‘You don’t like Sparrow Hall, do you?’ Corbett asked.
‘No, I don’t, Sir Hugh. I never liked Braose. I don’t like to see a man profit from the pain and humiliation of others. I don’t like his bloody sister either - constantly petitioning me to ask the King whether her brother’s memory could be more hallowed. Braose was no saint but a bloody warlord who turned to religion and study in the twilight years of his life.’
Corbett watched fascinated as this fat, little man let his anger flow.
‘I don’t like the Masters either!’ he spat out. ‘Either here or elsewhere in the city. I resent their so-called scholars swaggering around, who are responsible for more crime than any horde of outlaws.’
‘I was a scholar once.’
Bullock relaxed and smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I’m in a temper. Many Masters and their scholars are good men, dedicated to a life of study and prayer.’
‘It’s Braose you don’t like, isn’t it?’ Corbett asked.
Bullock raised his head - there were tears in his eyes.
‘When I was young,’ the Sheriff replied, ‘a mere lad, a stripling, I was my father’s squire in de Montfort’s army. Did you ever meet the great Earl?’
Corbett shook his head.
‘He spoke to me once,’ Bullock replied. ‘He got down off his horse and clapped me on the shoulder. He made you feel important. He never stood on ceremony and, when he talked, it was like listening to music - your heart skipped a beat and the blood began to pound in your veins.’
‘And yet you are now the King’s good servant?’ Corbett asked.
‘Some of the dream died,’ Bullock replied. ‘Part of the vision was lost but the good of the commonality of the realm is still a worthwhile idea. Of course, there’s Edward our King - well, that’s the tragedy, isn’t it?’ Bullock continued. ‘In his youth, the King was like de Montfort. But come, I’m gossiping like an old crone - we should go.’
Corbett and Ranulf followed Bullock down and out of the hostelry. The lanes and streets were thronged but Bullock marched purposefully, the people parting like waves before a high-prowed ship. The Sheriff looked neither to the right nor the left. Corbett was amused at how quickly scholars, beggars, even the powerful tradesmen, kept well out of the little Sheriffs path. They paused on the corner of Bocardo Lane where the bailiffs were putting street walkers into the stocks. Corbett seized Ranulf’s sleeve.
‘Maltote? He died peacefully?’
‘I did what was necessary, Master.’ He glanced sideways at Corbett. ‘And, when that happens to me, I expect you to do the same.’
They continued, following Bullock out of the town, across the drawbridge and into the castle. Sir Walter led them into a hall, and told them to sit behind the table on the dais whilst he waddled off into a corner where he filled cups of white wine.
‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ he apologised, bringing the wine back and clearing away the chicken bones and pieces of bread from in front of them. ‘Bring the prisoners up!’ he bawled at a soldier on guard just inside the door. ‘And tell them I want no insolence!’ Bullock sat down between Corbett and Ranulf. He picked up a napkin and started cleaning his fingers. He saw Corbett watching him. ‘It’s the grease,’ he explained, gesturing at the mess on the table.
‘No, no,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir Walter, you’ve ...’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It’s nothing, just something I have seen.’
He glanced up as the doors were flung open and Bullock’s soldiers dragged a line of sorry-looking scholars into the hall.
‘I’ve released the whores,’ Bullock whispered. ‘Smacked them on the bottom and let them go. They were causing dissension amongst my men.’
The scholars were lined up; their faces were dirty, and some bore red, angry bruises on the cheek or round the mouth.
‘Well, you’re sober now, are you? David Ap Thomas, step forward!’
The Welshman, still dressed in a grey, shabby gown, his hands tied securely before him, shuffled forward. He had lost his arrogance, and there was a cut on the side of his mouth, whilst his left eye was half-cl
osed and beginning to bruise. Nevertheless, he began with a protest.
‘I am a scholar at Sparrow Hall,’ he declared. ‘I am also a clerk. I can recite the psalm, I claim benefit of clergy. You have no right to try me before a secular court.’
‘Shut up!’ Bullock growled. ‘You are not being tried.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘When I have finished with you, I am handing you over to the Proctors’ court. It’ll be back to Wales for you, my lad!’
Ap Thomas’s bluster faded. Corbett snapped his fingers and beckoned him forward.
‘Master Ap Thomas,’ he began quietly. ‘Last night one of my men was murdered by the Bellman. That’s treason and you know the sentence for a traitor?’
Ap Thomas licked his lips. ‘I know nothing about the Bellman,’ he muttered. ‘Put me on oath.’
‘After having watched you last night, I know that would mean nothing!’ Bullock snapped.
‘Put me on oath,’ Ap Thomas repeated. ‘I know nothing.’
‘But you hounded poor Passerel to death?’
‘That’s because we thought he’d killed Ascham.’
‘And why, oh why -’ Ranulf jibed ‘- did David Ap Thomas care for a poor old librarian?’
‘Asham favoured us,’ Ap Thomas replied.
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘He told you about the ancient lore?’
‘He also gave us money,’ Ap Thomas replied. ‘He gave us silver for our festivities.’
‘Why should he do that?’ Corbett asked. ‘Ascham wasn’t a wealthy man.’
Ap Thomas shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much. Just after he died, I received a purse of silver coins with a short note stating that Ascham wished it to be mine.’
‘Where’s the note?’
‘I destroyed it. It was in a scrawled hand.’
‘But who delivered it?’
‘Actually, Passerel himself did.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suppose the letter was sealed?’
‘Yes, it was. Passerel handed it over with the small purse of silver; he claimed to have found it amongst Ascham’s possessions.’
‘You realise, of course,’ Corbett asked, ‘that the money probably came from the Bellman and you fell directly into his trap? Your favourite Ascham, the source of knowledge for your pagan rites, had been brutally murdered, and then even in death proves his generosity with his gift of money. The Bellman knew exactly how you’d react: you’d drink, you’d mourn and then you’d look for a scapegoat. Passerel was no more guilty of Ascham’s murder than I am,’ Corbett continued remorselessly.
