by Paul Doherty
‘Do you feel better?’
‘Aye.’ Corbett stretched. ‘It happened so quickly, Ranulf. You are hunting a murderer and, before you know it, the bastard’s hunting you. You have told Tripham?’
‘There’s chaos at Sparrow Hall,’ Ranulf replied.
‘Chaos!’
‘Bullock has removed Norreys’s corpse to the market cross in Broad Street. He’s hung it on a gibbet as a warning to other would-be murderers.’
‘And what are the rest of the Masters doing?’
‘They are virtually prisoners in their own Hall. They remind me of sparrows caught in a cage.’
Corbett smiled at the pun.
‘If I had my way ...!’ Bullock bellowed as he strode out into the garden.
‘I told him where we were,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘If I had my way,’ the Sheriff repeated, hitching his great, leather belt further up his ponderous girth, ‘I’d have all the buggers arrested and thrown in the dungeons!’ He stared at Corbett. ‘That was stupid, Sir Hugh. You could have ended up pickled in a barrel!’
‘I needed to search for proof and I suspected Norreys would follow me.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘But that’s over now and we must concentrate on Sparrow Hall.’
‘Once the curfew sounds,’ Bullock retorted, ‘there’ll be more soldiers round Sparrow Hall and that hostelry than flies on a dung heap. I’m also leaving men in the street outside; I thought I’d tell you.’ The Sheriff spun on his heel and walked back to the tavern.
‘What now, Master?’
‘I don’t know, Ranulf.’
Corbett looked up at the sky, which was still shot red from the setting sun. He wafted his hand against the gnats which had begun to swarm despite the bowls of vinegar that had been placed along the garden path.
‘The Bellman will not strike again, at least not against us. Old beggars will no longer be slaughtered in the cellars of the hostelry.’ He heard laughter, followed by the sound of a young boy breaking into a carol in a chamber high in the tavern. ‘You were playing hazard?’
Ranulf threw the dice from hand to hand. ‘Yes, and I wasn’t cheating.’
Corbett placed his hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I owe you my life.’
His servant glanced away.
‘How are you finding the Confessions of Augustine?’
‘Difficult but thought-provoking.’
‘So, we’ll see a new Ranulf, eh?’ Corbett steered him back towards the tavern door. ‘No more maidens in distress. And the aged goldsmiths of London will sleep more peacefully in their beds, eh?’
They entered the taproom and Corbett called across for wine. Ranulf thought Corbett would go up to his chamber but, surprisingly, the clerk joined a group of scholars sitting in the far corner. One of them had a tame badger and was busily feeding it drops of mead which the creature greedily guzzled.
‘Have you had it long?’ Corbett asked.
The scholar looked up. ‘Since it was a cub. I found it wandering in Christ Church meadows. They say it brings luck.’
‘And has it?’ Corbett asked, sitting down.
‘Well, it’s drinking my mead.’ The scholar looked enviously at Corbett’s brimming cup so the clerk called the tapster over.
‘The same for my companions!’ he ordered.
‘You are not interested in badgers, are you?’ the scholar asked slyly.
‘No, I’m not,’ Corbett replied. ‘Tell me, have you heard of the Bellman and his proclamations?’
‘I have heard a lot of things, sir: of deaths at Sparrow Hall and in the hostelry.’
‘But you have read the Bellman’s proclamations?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I’ve glanced at them.’ The scholar waved round to his companions. ‘As have we all.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
The fellow gathered the tame badger into his arms and sat stroking him gently.
‘It’s much ado about little, sir. What do we care for de Montfort? It’s the work of some trickster or madman. You’ll not get the scholars arming themselves and marching on Woodstock.’
‘And that’s the general feeling?’
‘I read the proclamations only because they were posted on the door of Wyvern Hall,’ the scholar replied. ‘But, to answer you bluntly, sir, I couldn’t care whether the Bellman lives or dies.’
Corbett thanked him, placed a coin on the table to buy more mead for the badger and, followed by a curious Ranulf, returned to his chamber.
‘What was all that about?’ Ranulf asked, slamming the door.
‘It’s something we’ve overlooked,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Let’s go back to that day at Leighton Manor. Edward arrives full of rage at the Bellman’s proclamations, all the nightmares about de Montfort springing fresh in his soul. The King cares so we have to care - after all we are the King’s most faithful servants, his royal clerks. We come to Oxford and we make the mistake of entering the Bellman’s world. However, as I was standing out in the garden, staring up at the sky, I recalled something you said at the hostelry. What does it really matter? Who really cares? And the scholar downstairs, the young man with the badger, proves it.’ He glimpsed the look of puzzlement in Ranulfs eyes. ‘Read your Augustine: reality is only what we perceive. Augustine perceived God, and suddenly all his former realities - lechery, revelry, drinking and women - disappeared.’ Corbett settled further back on the bed. ‘Who knows, the same might happen to Ranulf-atte-Newgate. It is the same with the King: De Montfort is a demon that haunts his soul - to him the Bellman poses a terrible threat to his crown and his rule.’
‘But in reality?’
‘The reality,’ Corbett continued, ‘is that people don’t care. De Montfort’s been dead for almost forty years: the Bellman is aiming directly at the King. We have got to pose Cicero’s question: “Cui bono?” What is the profit to the Bellman for all his hard and dangerous work? What is he trying to achieve? He won’t excite rebellion. He’ll not have armies marching on London and Westminster. So what is his purpose?’
‘To settle scores?’ Ranulf queried.
‘But why? Why now? Why the murders? The attack on me? The growing chaos at Sparrow Hall?’ Corbett picked at a loose thread on the blanket. ‘They have had their warning,’ he added softly.
‘Warning, Master?’
‘Chaos,’ Corbett replied. ‘The Bellman seems bent on bloody mayhem and, if that’s the case, believe me, Ranulf, before we are much older, there will be another murder at Sparrow Hall!’
Chapter 12
Ranulf sat just inside the church of St Michael. He crouched at the base of a pillar and stared across at the side chapel, disturbed by the colourful painting there. The church was dark except for two lighted candles, which glowed like the eyes of some beast lurking in the gloom. The candles lit up the lurid wall painting of Christ at the Last Judgement, coming with his angels to pronounce eternal doom, life or damnation. Ghostly skeletons, clothed in shrouds, lifted their hands in supplication to angels swooping above them, swords raised. On Christ’s left, goats ridden by fleshless hags mixed with demons, swarming for the last harrowing of souls before the doors to eternity closed for ever.
‘Remember, man, that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return!’
Ranulf looked over his shoulder at the small chink of light from the anchorite’s window.
‘For death shall come!’ the anchorite intoned. ‘Sprung like a trap upon every living soul upon the earth!’
‘Go to your prayers, old woman!’ Ranulf shouted back.
‘And I pray for you,’ Magdalena retorted. ‘Passerel prayed here but he died: the assassin slid in like a viper, with not a sound, even when he stumbled against the iron boot bar just within the door. So pray!’
‘I need your prayers,’ Ranulf briskly replied.
He stared down the long nave of the church at the huge cross which hung above the high altar. He was reflecting on what the anchorite had said when he heard a sound and turned, but it was only a rat climbing ou
t of the parish coffin that stood on a set of trestles in the transept. Ranulf ran a finger round his lips. He found it difficult to pray for himself, never mind poor Maltote. He shifted slightly to the left so he could see the statue of the Virgin and Child where it stood before a lighted oil lamp to the left of the high altar. Ranulf found it hard to recite the Ave Maria: what memories did he have of motherhood except of a foul-tempered woman who slapped him on his face and threw him out into the streets? One day Ranulf had returned and found her dead of the pestilence. He had just stood and watched as the corpse collectors came and took her off in a barrow to join the rest of the bodies in the great lime pits outside Charterhouse.
The sacristy door opened and Father Vincent came out. He genuflected before the rood screen and came down the church. Ranulf rose to meet him, not wishing to startle the priest.
‘Who is it?’ Father Vincent stopped, peering through the darkness.
‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’
‘I thought I heard a noise,’ Father Vincent said. He jingled the keys in his hands. ‘I must lock up now.’ He came closer and saw the book Ranulf was carrying. ‘You are at your devotions, sir?’
‘He’s praying!’ Magdalena shouted. ‘He’s praying for God’s judgement on Sparrow Hall!’
‘It’s the Confessions,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘St Augustine’s Confessions. I borrowed it from the library at Sparrow Hall.’
The priest took the book and weighed it in his hands. ‘Will this help you catch the assassin?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’m not here for that, Father. I came to pray.’
‘And do you want me to hear your confession?’ The priest’s tired, old eyes held those of Ranulf’s. ‘Do you want to be shriven, Ranulf-atte-Newgate?’
‘I have many sins, Father.’
‘Nothing can be refused absolution,’ the priest replied.
‘I have lusted. I have wenched. I have drunk.’ Ranulf took the book back. ‘And, above all, Father, I have killed. I killed a man this afternoon.’
The priest stepped back.
‘It was in self defence,’ Ranulf explained. ‘I had to kill him, Father.’
‘If that is so,’ Father Vincent replied, ‘there is no sin.’
‘And I intend to kill again,’ Ranulf added. ‘I intend to hunt down my friend’s assassin and carry out an execution.’
‘That must be done by the due process of law,’ the priest hastily replied.
‘I will kill him, Father.’
The priest crossed himself. ‘Then I cannot give you absolution, my son.’
‘No, Father, I don’t suppose you can.’ Ranulf genuflected and, without a backward glance, walked out of the church.
Corbett sat at his desk and pulled the two fat tallow candles closer so they bathed the piece of parchment in front of him in their light. Outside in the yard, dogs yapped at the moon. Now and again the sounds of revelry and drinking could be heard from the taproom below. Corbett had opened the shutters. The night air was soft, warm, mingling the smell of the yard with the more fragrant odours from the kitchen and herb garden. Corbett felt uneasy. He stared down at the blank piece of vellum and tried to marshal his thoughts.
‘What have we here?’ he whispered. He dipped his quill into the ink pot.
Item - The self-proclaimed Bellman nails his letters to the doors of churches and Halls all over Oxford. Vicious attacks on the King but who, apart from the King, really cares?
Item - which of the masters from Sparrow Hall could move so quickly round Oxford? Tripham? Appleston? Surely not Barnett who seems to spend his life torn between sin and penance for it? Or the Lady Mathilda, with her cane tapping on the cobbles? Or the silent Master Moth? Yet he seems witless and unable to read? Item - Ascham knew something. What book was he looking for? Why did he write ‘PASSER...’ in his own blood as he lay dying? And why was Passerel killed so silently in St Michael’s church?
Corbett lifted his quill. Ranulf had gone there, saying he needed to pray. Corbett hoped he’d be safe. He smiled grimly as he recalled Ranulf’s cold ruthlessness when dealing with Norreys.
Item - Langton? Why was he poisoned? And why was he carrying a warning letter to myself?
Item - All these deaths are the work of the Bellman. But why?
Corbett put the pen down and rubbed his face. He looked at the hour candle but it was so battered Corbett could hardly distinguish the hour marks. He rose, took off his jerkin, crossed himself and lay down on the bed. He would rest for a while and, when Ranulf returned, continue with his work. He thought of Maeve, Eleanor and Uncle Morgan at Leighton. Perhaps Maeve would be in the solar talking to her uncle? Or in her bed chamber? Maeve always took so long to come to bed, her mind constantly busy, getting things ready for the following day. Corbett closed his eyes, determined to sleep only for a short while.
When he awoke the shutters were closed and the candles doused. Ranulf lay fast asleep in his bed near the door. Corbett heard sounds from the yard below. He opened the shutters and was momentarily dazzled by the sunlight.
‘God have mercy,’ he murmured, ‘but I slept well and deep.’
‘Gone into the west,’ Ranulf joked as he threw his blankets off the bed. ‘I was back before midnight, Master. The taproom was empty. You were sleeping like the dead.’
Ranulf realised what he had said and apologised. He went down the passageway and came back with a fresh jug of water. Corbett decided not to shave but washed himself hurriedly. He changed his shirt and linen and, leaving Ranulf to his own ablutions, went down to the deserted taproom. He was half-way through a bowl of hot broth when Bullock strode into the room snapping his fingers.
‘Sir Hugh, you had better come! And you!’ he barked at Ranulf who had just come down the stairs. ‘We’ve found the Bellman!’
Corbett pushed away the bowl and jumped up.
‘The Bellman? How?’
‘Follow me!’
They hurried after him into the street, Ranulf running back for their war belts. He caught them up just as they entered the lane leading to Sparrow Hall.
‘Who is it?’ Corbett clutched at the Sheriff’s sleeve.
‘It’s Appleston. You know, de Montfort’s bastard son!’
‘And you have proof?’
‘All the proof in the world,’ the Sheriff retorted. ‘But much good it will do either him or you.’
Tripham, Churchley, Barnett and Lady Mathilda were waiting for them in the small parlour.
‘We found him just after dawn,’ Tripham bleated, getting to his feet, wringing his hands together. ‘So many deaths!’ he wailed. The Vice-Regent’s face was white and haggard. ‘So many deaths! So many deaths! The King will not accept this.’
‘Another murder,’ Corbett asked, staring round the group.
‘No murder,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘Appleston took the coward’s way out. Master Alfred Tripham will show you.’
The Vice-Regent led them up the stairs. On the first gallery two servants busily folding cloths from a chest stood up and flattened themselves against the wall as if they did not wish to be seen. Bullock pushed open a door. The chamber within was luxurious: it contained a four-poster bed with the curtains pulled, shelves laden with books, pewter plates and cups, stools and a cushioned chair before the elegant writing table under the window. On either side of it stood half-open coffers. Bullock pulled back the curtains of the bed. Appleston lay there, so serenely Corbett thought he was asleep. Bullock, grumbling under his breath, went and pulled back the shutters.
‘Don’t touch the cup on the table,’ he warned as Corbett picked it up and sniffed at it.
He caught the acrid tang beneath the claret.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I am a sheriff, not an apothecary!’ Bullock snapped. ‘But Churchley claims it’s a form of sleeping potion, the kind which provides eternal sleep.’
Corbett sat on the bed. He gently eased back the blankets and loosened the buttons of Appleston’s nightshirt.
&nbs
p; ‘Is all this really necessary?’ Tripham asked.
‘Yes, I think it is,’ Corbett replied.
Pulling up the nightshirt he studied the corpse. Corbett could find no mark of violence. The skin was slightly clammy, the face pale, the lips half-open and turning purplish, but nothing significant. If it had not been for the cup, Corbett would have thought Appleston had died silently in his sleep.
‘And why do you think he’s the Bellman?’
‘Look at the desk,’ Tripham replied.
Corbett did so. A piece of parchment, neatly cut, caught his eye: the writing on it was the same as on the Bellman’s proclamation. He also noticed the ink jar and quill lying beside it.
‘“The Bellman cometh and goeth,”’ he read aloud. “‘He sounds his warnings and proclaims the truth yet the darkness always comes. Who knows when he will return?” Slightly enigmatic,’ Corbett observed.
He went back to the bed and picked up Appleston’s hand and noticed the black ink stains on the fingers: flecks of ink also stained the white linen nightshirt.
‘And there’s more,’ Bullock declared.
He began to open chests and coffers, taking out rolls of vellum, pots of black ink. He also pushed scraps of yellowing parchment and thrust them into Corbett’s hand.
‘Draft copies of the Bellman’s proclamations.’ He pointed to a roll of vellum lying beside the desk. ‘Extracts from the chronicles about de Montfort’s life. And, more importantly—’
Bullock went into a coffer and rummaged about. He brought out what looked like a small triptych. However, when Corbett opened it, instead of a picture of the crucifix-ion in the centre with Mary and John on the side panels, there was a crudely depicted portrait of de Montfort portrayed as a saint; on either side stood hosts of people, hands outstretched, scrolls coming out of their mouths which bore the words, ‘Laudate!’ ‘Laudate!’ Praise! Praise!
