by Paul Doherty
Corbett let the procession pass and looked around. Southwark was still busy with a few hours of daylight left before those many, shadowy figures who haunted the place, came to life to pursue their secret trades and illegal businesses. In the open-fronted shops, bakers, potters, furriers and other minor traders did brisk business. The whores were there but, given the hour of the day, acted as discreetly as they could with their painted faces, braided hair and scarlet gowns. Corbett turned down one street and found himself amongst scriveners, illuminators of parchment and ink-sellers. He asked one of these for directions to 'The Scullion' but was so bemused by the complicated directions that he slipped the man some pennies and paid for a rough map to be sketched on a piece of dirty, disused vellum. Using that, Corbett arrived at a modest, two-storeyed building with an ale-stake and a crude sign above the narrow wooden entrance, proclaiming it was 'The Scullion'. He tried the door but it was locked, so he continued down the street and into a small square where a crowd surged around two large carts with boards thrown over them. It was surrounded by rough scaffolding over which were draped thick cloths adorned with religious and not so religious themes. Jesters and devils curled and twirled through enormous vines: rabbits fought knights; sacred texts trailed off into long-headed fantastical creatures; bare-bottomed monks climbed towers bearing dragons with tonsured heads; goat-faced priests chased nuns with monkey faces and slim bodies; devils and angels fought over small white souls.
Corbett leaned against a doorpost and watched the crowd mill around the makeshift stage, yelling abuse at the black-bearded Herod, laughing at the "donkey" carrying Jesus into Jerusalem as the actor inside the skin 'hee-hawed', lifted the tail and dropped huge turds on the stage. Corbett smiled and watched the devils led by a huge black Satan with a grisly mask, horns, tail and a black horse-hair suit. The creature reminded Corbett of Burnell's words about the satanic coven pledged to Fitz-Osbert and he wondered if the murderers of Duket had used black arts to get in and out of Saint Mary Le Bow Church.
He quickly cleared such a fantasy from his mind, recalling the words of one of his lecturers in philosophy: "There is nothing new under the sun, there is a cause for everything be it good or bad and these causes are, or will be, within human understanding. " No, Corbett thought, Duket was killed by human cunning. If it was some secret coven, espousing the beliefs of de Montfort and Fitz-Osbert, he would find them. But what if it wasn't? If Burnell was mistaken? Or if Crepyn had been the leader and Duket's death was just an act of vengeance and now the perpetrators would simply slide back into the dark pools of intrigue which seemed to ring this city?
Corbett shook his head and looked up through the gap between the jutting gables of the houses. The sky was darkening. He did not want to be in Southwark when night fell, so he left the small square and went back to 'The Scullion'. The doors were now open, rushlights had been lit and the large, stuffy room was beginning to fill up with a strange array of customers seated around the stout wooden tables. There was a tooth-puller with pincers, bucket and pack of needles still touting for custom: a seller of squirrel skins, the dried pelts draped around his shoulders; an apothecary with skull cap and herb-bag. A forger, the 'F' brand still a resplendent scar on his left cheek.
They were joined by students and clerks from across the river, openly mocking a pedlar, a crafty-eyed, sharp-nosed man who had a tray slung around his chest which, he proudly claimed, bore the wonders of the world; one of Charlemagne's teeth, a feather from the wing of the Angel Gabriel, a phial of the Virgin Mary's milk, straw from the manger at Bethlehem, porcupine quills and the molar tooth of a giant. Corbett, grinning at the man's patter, pushed his way through the crowd towards the far end of the room where a red-haired, white-faced man in a leather jerkin and apron stood guard over the huge barrels used by the servants who rushed back and forth with dirty pots brimming with the rich brown London ale.
Corbett introduced himself and the man stared back with watery-blue eyes. "Yes, Master Clerk, what can I do for you?"
"Robert Savel?" Corbett replied. "He worked here?"
The man's eyes slipped away before he answered. "Yes, he worked here. Why? What is it to you?"
"I am, was related to him, " lied Corbett. "I want to know how, even why he died?"
The man nodded to a small table in the corner. "You want my custom? Then sit down, drink, and pay for it. "
Corbett shrugged, moved over and sat down, the owner later joined him with a dish of beef sprinkled with pepper, garlic, leeks and onions. A large pot of ale in his other hand. "Eat, " he commanded, "and I will talk. "
Corbett did as he was told; the ale was strong and tangy but the food was hot and well spiced. The landlord sat opposite and watched him. "Who Robert Savel really was, " he began, "I do not actually know. He seemed well bred. I know people. I watch them and I saw through his disguise. But, he was a good stableman, he knew horses, so I gave him a job here. "
"What did he do? I mean, apart from his job?" Corbett asked.
The man grimaced. "Like you, Master Clerk, he asked a lot of questions, and also went to places I would never dream of going. " He leaned forward, his breath a gust of stale onions and garlic. "I am an honest man, " he confided. "I liked Savel, but we all know what is going on in the city. The unrest, the plotting. I am an innkeeper, people talk and chatter in their cups, I just listen and keep my mouth shut. I want no trouble. "
"So, whom did Savel meet?" Corbett queried.
"I don't know, except that he used to go out at night. Sometimes he used to talk about the Populares, the dead de Montfort and the unrest in the city. Savel tried to question people here but I put a stop to that. " The man shrugged wearily. "It was only a matter of time before something happened. "
"So, you know nothing about him really?" Corbett asked. The innkeeper looked around the now noisy and crowded room.
"Yes, " he muttered, "one thing. He used to go and talk to an old hag who lived in a hovel down near an old, disused church by the river. This aged crone boasted that she could talk to demons and tell fortunes with her magic bones. "
"Is she there now?" Corbett impatiently interrupted.
The innkeeper shook his head. "I doubt it. She was found sewn in a sack a few days ago, her magic bones thrust in her mouth and her throat slashed from ear to ear, trussed and tied she was, like a hog at Michaelmas. "
"And Savel left nothing?"
"A change of tunic, that is all. "
Corbett leaned across the table. "And he said nothing to you?" he asked anxiously. "Surely there was something?"
The innkeeper rubbed his mouth and concentrated on a point beyond Corbett's head. "Only a riddle, " he replied. "He came back early one morning, in fact the very day he went missing. He was excited and he told me a riddle. What was it now?" The man paused, eyes screwed up in concentration.
"Oh, yes, " he continued. "When is a bow which cannot be used, stronger than a bow which can?"
"And the answer?" Corbett interjected.
"Savel's answer, " the innkeeper flatly replied, "was another riddle – 'when it includes all other weapons'. " The innkeeper rose. "That is all. Now I must go, and so should you!" He wandered off while Corbett sat thinking about what he had learnt.
First, Savel must have stumbled on some truth, probably through the old hag who was murdered. Secondly, judging from the short note sent to Burnell, it must be connected with a secret coven of witches and rebels. But what about the riddle? Was the bow somehow connected with Saint Mary Le Bow? If it is, Corbett thought, then it's a tenuous link between a secret coven and Duket's death. His mind probed at the riddle but concluded it could mean anything. If it was a reference to Saint Mary Le Bow then it was not, at this time, worth pursuing; his task was to find the murderers and an explanation of how they so effectively carried out the assassination.
Corbett looked round the tavern, now more noisy and packed with people. The pedlar, drunk, was offering a phial containing, so he said, the Virgin Mary's tears. Corbett lo
oked hard at some of the customers and realized it was time that he was gone. He felt uneasy as if someone evil was watching him, a malevolent presence, but it could be anyone, any of the eyes which weighed him up and then slid away when they met his. Corbett was suddenly frightened. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl and he fought down the urge to rise and run from the tavern. The strong ale made him sleepy and he tensed, realizing that he had to make his way back to the river bank. A woman, a whore with a blonde wig and a scarlet, loose flowing dress, came up and leaned against the table: a young girl with a sweet face and eyes a thousand years old, she lisped and promised him delights for a drink and a few coins. Corbett panicked. He rose, shoved her aside and, ignoring her stream of rich profanities, pushed through the crowd to the door. Was this, he thought, how Savel was trapped? A blow on the head, then dragged away? Corbett opened the door, entered the cold silence of the night and almost screamed as the black-haired monster approached him. Corbett stepped back against the door and watched the evil, satanic masked figure come closer.
He scrabbled for his dagger but the grotesque mask was suddenly lifted and a young, boyish face smiled at him. Corbett, weak-kneed, breathed a sigh of relief and stood aside to let the youth, Satan from the mummers' play he had seen earlier, enter the tavern.
Corbett composed himself, rearranged his cloak and withdrew his long Welsh dagger. Holding this against his chest, he began to walk through the winding rutted streets, avoiding the heaps of ordure outside each door and the open sewer which ran down the centre of the street. There were shadows deep within other ones but they saw the knife and let him pass unmolested. Corbett breathed deeply and turned into the street he knew led down to the river bank and then suddenly stopped. He was sure he had heard footsteps behind him, something quiet, slithering across the cobbles. He whirled round but there was nothing. He continued on his way, the river bank was before him.
There was torch light, a group of boatmen, the sound of voices. Corbett walked on. The sound behind him re-occurred, almost like the patter of children's feet but Corbett sensed it was something evil pursuing him through the darkness. He gathered his breath, sheathed his knife and burst into a sudden run, the night wind whipping his cheeks, his cloak flapping behind. Corbett reached the bank and almost fell into one of the barges. An astonished boatman jumped in after him, Corbett gabbled his instructions, scanning the bank for any signs of pursuit. There was none, only the silent baleful darkness of Southwark, soon hidden by a mist as the barge nosed its way across the cold, black river.
Ten
It was dark when Corbett turned into Thames Street where the fog from the river had curled inland obscuring every recognizable landmark. He was so tired and exhausted after his meeting with Burnell and the journey to Southwark, that he never even saw where the attackers came from. They were just there, muffled and hooded, stepping sideways like dancers towards him. He instinctively knew that these were not the 'roaring boys', bullies or cutthroats from the gutter but professional assassins. There were two of them, almost indistinguishable in the misty darkness, silent and dangerous, armed with long swords and short wicked daggers. Corbett unclasped his robe, rolled it around one arm and drew the long Welsh dagger from his belt. He remembered the advice of an old mercenary who had chatted about the macabre dance-like routine of professional street-fighters and, before the advice was clear of his brain, had acted upon it, sending the dagger straight into the chest of the nearest assassin.
His attacker tottered on the balls of his feet and then, with almost a sigh, slumped to his knees and pitched forward onto his face. His companion was stunned and by the time he resumed his fighting stance, Corbett had picked up the sword of the fallen assassin and was preparing to meet him. But he lacked his companion's mettle and when a casement above them opened and a raucous voice asked what was happening, he turned and fled into the mist even as the casement shut with an angry bang.
Corbett waited for a while before turning over the corpse of the fallen attacker with his foot. His knife had torn a huge gaping wound in the chest, made even worse by the man's fall. Corbett withdrew his dagger, wiped it clean on the dead man's tunic and pulled the hood from his dead assassin's face to reveal staring eyes, close-cropped hair and pox-pitted cheeks. Corbett had never seen him before, though he guessed that the man was an ex-soldier turned professional murderer. He felt nauseous at his escape, sheathed his dagger and, leaving the corpse for the scavengers, continued warily to his lodgings.
His banging awoke his sullen landlord, who looked surprised when Corbett demanded a jug of wine and a cup, and brought them without demur. Corbett grabbed them, muttered his thanks and climbed the stairs to his garret. There, he sat on his bed and poured himself a generous cupful of the wine but only drank when he was certain his trembling had ceased. He considered the danger he had just come through, recognizing that the attack was planned and wondering who had the resources to mount it. Corbett sat, chin in hand, his tired brain going round and round like a stupid dog chasing his tail. Burnell was wrong.
Corbett felt out of his depth in the murky, treacherous depths of city politics. This was not the Chancery, white-walled clean-smelling redolent of wax, ink and freshly scraped vellum with everything neatly filed and ordered. He knew that world and was at home in it. Now, he was out of his depth even with Alice. He was still deeply attracted to her but even there he felt something was wrong, threatening, though did not know what. He needed someone to rely on, someone to protect his back, someone to lead him safely through the maze of the city's underworld.
The next morning Corbett, refreshed, turned once more to the problem, but it was not until early in the afternoon that an idea had formed in his mind. He returned once more to Westminster and sought an urgent audience with Burnell. The Chancellor was preparing to travel to meet the King at his palace of Woodstock, outside Oxford. The carriage and carts were being organized and marshalled in the palace courtyard and, though on the point of departure, the Chancellor stayed to hear Corbett's request and, despite his puzzlement, immediately granted it. A clerk was called, the required letter was written out, hot wax poured on it, the Chancellor even had his own seal brought back to validate the document and so silence any questions it may provoke. Corbett then bowed, muttered his thanks, and, after requisitioning a horse from the palace stables, rode north along Fleet Street to Newgate Prison
The prison was really a collection of buildings, small towers along the old city walls bounded by the odiferous city ditch. Their overall command was under the nominal custody of a keeper and other officials often no better and sometimes much worse than the prisoners within. In theory, the city granted money and alms towards the upkeep of the prisoners but in actual practice, very little of this money reached the inmates. Not that any of them were there long enough to experience the people's generosity. Justice was swift and the phrase 'tried on Wednesday, hanged on Thursday' was correct. The prison was divided into debtors, aliens and felons. The latter experienced the worst conditions, cramped, two or three to a cell, or the many pits beneath ground. Every week these pits were emptied, the prisoners drawn up, shackled and put into carts to be taken to The Elms or Smithfield to be hanged.
The prison officials were engaged in just such an exercise when Corbett arrived. The carts were already half full, the greasy, black-garbed gaolers impatient to be off. The prisoners, young and old, stood like stunned oxen, listless, dirty, frightened, yet eager to get on, to be through with the nightmare and so be done with it. Corbett immediately used his warrant from Burnell to halt the proceedings while he walked amongst them, a living man amongst the dead. He looked at their faces, the evil, the bland, the good, the innocent and, above all, the young. He felt a terrible compassion for them all and used his influence to get the young taken back to the cells, abruptly informing the keepers that the Chancellor himself would review their cases. Then he continued his scrutiny until he found the person he was looking for, a youth of about sixteen or seventeen summer
s, black tousled hair, with a filthy face and clothes, though there was a mark of defiance and sardonic amusement in the clear blue eyes.
"What is your name?" Corbett asked.
"Ranulf. And what is yours?" came the quick reply. The voice was sharp with a city accent.
"I am Hugh Corbett, Clerk in the Court of the King's Bench and I may have a pardon for you!" The blue eyes shifted and the boy turned and spat.
Corbett shrugged. "So, let it be. Hang if you wish!"
"Wait!" Corbett turned back. "I am sorry, " the boy's face was suddenly young and frightened. "But what do you want?"
"I need your help, " Corbett replied. "I need you to lead me through the sewers of this city, and I am not talking about those that run beneath our feet. " Corbett looked around; "But those we stand in. "
Ranulf grinned. "Then I am your man. "
"Good!" Corbett turned to the gaoler who was hovering nervously behind him. "There, " Corbett said, handing him the document that Burnell had drawn up. "Fill in the blank space. This is a pardon for all crimes past and present of Ranulf… " Corbett stared questioningly at the boy.
"Just Ranulf, " the youth replied.
"Ranulf atte Newgate" – Corbett concluded. The keeper nodded and barked a few commands which soon had the boy released from his chains and the rope removed from his neck.
Corbett immediately seized the boy by the shoulder, put his arm around him and almost ran him out of the prison yard. He hurried his new-found assistant into the street, then turned into a dark alleyway strewn with offal and reeking of stale blood from the nearby slaughterhouses. Here, Corbett put Ranulf up against the urine-stained wall and, drawing his dagger, held it so close to the boy's throat that a small jewel-pinprick of blood appeared on his skin. Corbett watched the surly arrogance be replaced by fear, then spoke softly and slowly:
