Satan in St Mary hc-1

by Paul Doherty

  He touched Alice's hand and felt the ice of her skin. "You, small, cloaked and hooded, were what Simon called 'the dwarf. You would be, beside Peter. I thought the same when I saw you last at The Mitre. I thought there was something strange when you called Ranulf my bodyguard

  but Ranulf was never introduced as that. He left The Mitre as soon as he saw Peter. So, Alice, how did you know?"

  Alice turned her back on him, head bowed, her hands clenched. "You are still guessing, Master Clerk, " she murmured. "You have no proof, no evidence that I was there. "

  "Oh, yes, I have, " Corbett answered. "Or rather you now have it!" Alice whirled round, her eyes dilated with fury and rage, the skin of her face stretched like gauze across her cheekbones. She looked older, wilder, her lips drawn back almost curled with anger but Corbett simply stared at her. "I gave it to you, " he said, "the black silk threads!"

  "But they were caught on the clasp of your brooch!" Alice almost shrieked at him.

  "No, " Corbett dug into his wallet and drew out more black silk threads. "These are the ones caught on my brooch. The threads you have were taken from the rope tied round Duket's neck. "

  Alice now knelt on the ground, her gown billowing round her like a cloak. Only her face, small, white and naked, betrayed a mixture of anger and terror. She raised her arms and slowly removed the gloves from her hands as if peeling an apple. She put them down and stretched out her hands, palms up. "You know about these?" she asked.

  Corbett looked at the small, bright purple inverted cross on her palms which looked like brand marks recently burnt on. "Yes, " he answered. "The marks of Fitz-Osbert. I guessed you had them but Couville… " he looked at her. "You will not know him but he conducted a search of letters, charters and writs and drew up a report. You wish to read it?"

  Alice shook her head. "Why should I?" she replied. "I know its contents better than you. I was married to Thomas atte Bowe, vintner of Cheapside, but I was born in Southwark. My maiden name was Dachert but, secretly, I always called myself Alice Fitz-Osbert, my mother's name. She had the marks as I had. She told me about our family, the persecution of our great ancestor, William Fitz-Osbert, and others by the House of Plantagenet. The Fitz-Osberts, my uncles and cousins, were ardent supporters of de Montfort and fought with him to the very end, dying with him in the slaughter at Evesham. " Alice traced the mark on her right hand. "From the beginning I was initiated into these mysteries and got to know and love the Lord Lucifer! I used my wealth to blend the Fitz-Osbert hatred for the Plantagenets with that of the followers of de Montfort and others of the Populares party. I built up the Pentangle, an intimate, close organization which worked together, though the identity of each individual was known only to me. I am 'The Hooded One', only you and one other know that, the rest thought I was a man. I plotted against the Plantagenet, destroyed his spy, spread dissension and was responsible for Duket's death. All for a dream and a reality you could not begin to understand. "

  "Nonsense!" Corbett shouted and got to his feet. "Incantations, spells, dancing in circles, heathen rites and now treason. Is it worth being hung in chains above a fire at Smithfield?" He glared at Alice. "That, " he almost spat the words out, "is the punishment for sorcerers and traitors!"

  Alice smoothed the creases on the front of her dress, her hands fluttering like small white birds hovering over a dark green field. She looked up at Corbett and he realized that she was calmer, the colour had returned to her face, but the light and laughter had gone from her eyes. "Your religion, " she replied, "may matter to you, mine certainly does to me. It is older than Christianity, was practised here even before the Romans came, but the church has driven it underground. "

  "Then why the treason?" Corbett asked.

  Alice shrugged. "King Edward has to die. He has smashed the Welsh and done great damage to the old religion, its shrines and graves in the west just like he did in Palestine. He was hated for killing de Montfort and crushing the Populares movement here in London! He deserves to die! He would have done, when he entered the city. Master bowmen, stationed on the tower of Saint Mary Le Bow, would have brought him down. Then we would have seized our arms stored around that church and risen in rebellion. "

  Alice almost smiled. "We nearly succeeded but for Duket and his foolish murder of Crepyn. It was not that we mourned Crepyn though he was one of us, but more that Duket had to be killed. We know he suspected our true aims and might have bartered this knowledge for a pardon for Crepyn's death. Perhaps he deliberately chose Saint Mary Le Bow to draw the attention of the government. Bellet was a member of the Pentangle, his cemetery held stores of arms. Savel, the royal spy, discovered that and died. So we could not let Duket live. He threatened us all!"

  "And me?" Corbett asked.

  Alice's eyes slid away from his. "I don't really know. " Her voice was so low that he could hardly hear it. "As the Pentangle, indeed, as The Hooded One, I wanted you dead but, as an individual, I was anxious about the sentence passed and, so, so relieved to see you always walk away unscathed. The Pentangle, not I, decided that you must die. Twice, we tried in Thames Street, then we waited for you outside Saint Katherine's but the boy was early, he died and his corpse drew a crowd. When Bellet was arrested, we knew you would go to his house. But each time you were saved. We thought you had a charmed life and wished that you were one of us. "

  "You are lying!" Corbett was almost shouting. "Somebody gave you information about where I was and what I was doing! Who was it?"

  Alice beckoned with her hand and, when Corbett drew close, quietly murmured a few words into his ear. Corbett stared at her, smiled coldly and drew away. She could have told him outright but, getting close to her, he felt her soft lips near his face, smelt the perfume of her hair and body and realized he could still lose his soul in such a soft deadly trap.

  Corbett shook his head and scuffed at the grass with the toe of his boot.

  "Is the rest as I described?" he asked.

  "Yes, " Alice smiled tightly, like a little girl admitting she was wrong when caught out in mischief.

  "And the others?" he queried.

  She looked at him sharply, the smile had gone. "Your King will have to hunt them down, Master Clerk, " she snapped.

  "That will be easy. They are not far away, " Corbett murmured. "There are those at The Mitre, one will break. "

  "And me? I am not afraid to die, " Alice whispered.

  Corbett looked into her dark eyes and saw the terror there; she was lying and he knew that she was asking for pity. He crouched down and cupped her face in his hands. "I can do little for you, Alice, " he said gently. "I cannot get you a pardon, not for this. I cannot ignore you as some others may well use your name to buy mercy. You cannot hide for the rest of your life for, if you did, they would surely hunt you down. " He stopped talking and kissed her gently on her eyelids, tasting her tears. She was a murderess, a sorcerer and traitor but his love cut through such names.

  "Listen, Alice, " he continued quickly, "tomorrow I will write my report for Burnell. The day after I will send it to him. That is the day he will strike, The Mitre will be surrounded. You must flee today. You must not inform the others. They are lost and, " he lied, "already under scrutiny.

  Do you understand?" She nodded and he kissed her on the brow, smelling the faint fragrance of her hair.

  Corbett rose and walked quickly away. He thought he heard her call his name but he did not turn back and dismissed it as the screech of a gull hunting in the mudflats along the river bank.

  Eighteen

  True to his word, Corbett spent the following day drawing up his report for Burnell, hoping that Alice would save herself and not warn the rest of her coven. Ranulf was still absent so Corbett asked Swynnerton to send one of his more intelligent squires into the city to see if anything untoward was happening in The Mitre. The squire returned late in the evening, quite drunk, but after Corbett had doused him in a tub of icy moat water, he recovered sufficiently to report that he had noticed nothing ext
raordinary.

  Early the next morning Corbett finished his report; it contained all that he had told Alice with a few additional facts and observations. He re-read it then, satisfied, sanded and sealed it 'for the Chancellor only', and sent it into the city under an armed escort from the Tower. The task done, he wandered out of the Tower back to the place he had met Alice a few days before. The grass where they had sat still bore the scuff marks of their boots and the silence and lonely desolation of the ruins a marked contrast to the passion and fury he had felt when he had first visited the place. He was about to turn away when he saw a posy of spring flowers resting on the top of the wall, tied in a bunch by a small black silk glove. Alice had left them, knowing he would return. Corbett picked them up and slipped the flowers inside his jerkin and sat slumped against the wall,

  cursing his luck, preferring anything rather than face the yawning emptiness in his heart.

  Corbett stared across the fields and realized that he had one more task to accomplish. He hurriedly went back to the Tower and left hasty instructions for Swynnerton and Ranulf. From a cleric in the Tower he borrowed a thick, heavy, brown cloak with a cowl to cover his head, rubbed crushed ash into his hair and face and, disguised in both dress and behaviour like an old monk, left the Tower and took a barge to Westminster. He arrived at the usual place but, when he had slowly climbed the steps from the river, he ignored the usual route to the Great Hall and made his way instead to the main entrance of the abbey. Inside he ambled slowly up the great nave of the church not bothering to stare at the pure spotless white walls, the trellised stonework or the soaring majesty of the pillars which seemed to make the roof of the church float on air as if by magic.

  Despite the thin sunlight streaking through the coloured windows, the abbey was dark and Corbett felt protected in his disguise. He knew his way around the abbey and slipped through a side entrance into the deserted cloisters where only an old monk sat on the low brick wall. The old man gaped with rheumy eyes and drooling mouth at Corbett, raising a skeletal hand in doubtful salute. Corbett nodded in return and walked on, forcing himself to keep to a slow shuffle, head bowed, hands concealed in the thick bell-like sleeves of the cloak. He looked around the cloisters, but they were empty except for the old monk and a raven which stalked across the ground, its cruel yellow beak jabbing at the thin sparse grass. Corbett continued on to the south-east corner of the cloisters, and sat down on the low wall, his head bowed as if in silent prayer, whilst his hands searched desperately at the stonework below him. Eventually he found it, a loose brick which could be slid in or out. Corbett pretended to drop something and crouched down to look for it. He found the brick was completely free of plaster and, when withdrawn, left a small gap.

  Corbett slid his hand in but found nothing, breathed slowly to hide his excitement and almost screamed aloud as someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled round, his hand going beneath his cloak for the dagger but it was only the old monk, his drooling lips parted in a toothless smile, his vacant eyes searching for companionship. Corbett hastily sketched a Benedicte and the old man bowed and shuffled off mumbling to himself. Corbett watched him go, rose and glanced furtively around. There was still no one about. Had he come too late for that particular day? He decided to stay and, climbing over the low wall, made his way to the far corners of the cloisters and a weed filled clump of bushes. He pushed through them, ignoring the cold, wet, overgrown leaves and the water which soaked his gown with its icy droplets. Corbett concealed himself, certain he was hidden from view and so began his vigil.

  The cloisters remained deserted, the monks of the abbey were either in the scriptorium or involved in their various tasks. The old monk wandered back for a while and others also passed; servants, domestics and officers of the abbey but none stayed. It was too cold and Corbett wondered how long he could stay; his legs and feet were now freezing, the cold gripping his body like an icy mailed fist. The bells of the abbey were beginning to toll for early evening prayer when a cowled figure suddenly entered the cloisters and walked quickly to the same spot where Corbett had sat earlier. After looking around, the stranger stopped to remove the brick and searched the gap. The figure then straightened and hastily walked back the way he had come. Hugh had not been able to glimpse the face hidden deep in the cowl so he waited until the man left the cloisters before following in pursuit.

  Corbett re-entered the now darkening abbey and saw the figure ahead of him skulking across the nave towards a small door in the north wall, and, without looking around, disappeared through a half-open door. He stopped to regain his breath before following, turned and realized that he was in a deserted area which stretched between the abbey and the palace, strewn with scaffolding and brick kilns left by workmen putting finishing touches to the outside wall on the abbey's north side. He sensed that his quarry might escape in the gathering dusk and so strode silently but swiftly towards him. The figure, alarmed by some sound, was half turning as Corbett grasped him tightly by the shoulder. The man shrugged off Corbett's hand and backed away.

  "What is it? What do you want?" The voice was slightly fearful.

  Corbett pulled back his own cowl to reveal his identity. "Why, Master Hubert Seagrave, " he said. "It is only Hugh Corbett. I thought I recognized your voice. " Corbett peered closer. "It is Master Hubert of the Chancery is it not?" A pair of soft, plump, white hands pulled back the cowl and Hubert, prim-lipped and cold-eyed, stared back at Corbett.

  "Master Corbett, " he murmured. "Why are you floundering around in the dusk?" Hubert rolled his eyes coyly like some innocent maid. "Did you think that I was someone else?"

  "Where have you been?" Corbett snapped.

  "At my prayers. Why, what business is it of yours?"

  "Prayers!" Corbett felt the rage pounding in his head. "No prayers, Master Hubert. I doubt you ever pray. You have just been to see if your friends in the Pentangle have left you any money or a message. You are a traitor, Master Hubert, and I shall prove that!"

  Hubert narrowed his eyes speculatively and Corbett sensed that his opponent, beneath his puppy fat and the elegant mannerisms of a court clerk, was a very dangerous man.

  "You have no proof, Master Corbett, " Hubert said mockingly.

  "You did not even ask who the Pentangle is, " Corbett bitingly interrupted. "In fact you may be one of them. "

  "No, " Hubert shrieked in a high-pitched voice. "Not the Pentangle, Corbett, but the Populares, yes. The people's party. My father fought and died at Evesham, my uncles and cousins at other battles, while those who were left adorned the gibbets around London. " Hubert stopped speaking, his eyes glaring at Corbett, his mouth half open in rage as he struggled to control himself. He leaned against a brick kiln.

  "You have no proof, Master Corbett, " he said again.

  Corbett smiled and shook his head. "Oh, yes I do. I know The Hooded One. I know who she is. She has told me that you were the Pentangle's spy in the Chancery but I had to catch you red-handed!"

  "She!" Hubert whispered hoarsely.

  "Never mind that, " Corbett jibed. "You told them about me. You told Bellet when I was going to the church of Saint Mary Le Bow. You told the assassins where I lived and what time I returned. Above all, you told them about my past life, about my dead wife and young child, about my love of the flute. You gathered information, you collected it like some rat scurrying around the Chancery collects bits of wax, anything to chew on, information to be sold at a profit. I can prove this. After all, there are not many clerks in the Chancery. I suspect that the King's torturers will begin with you!"

  Corbett leaned closer and watched the fear start in Hubert's eyes. "The Pentangle is finished, " he whispered. "And so are the Populares. Probably while you are outlooking to see if your masters left money for information received, the Chancellor is already issuing orders for the arrest of people all over the city. You may be one of them! You are betrayed, Hubert, by no less a person than The Hooded One. She told me where and when the Pentangle's spy in the C
hancery left his information. I would tell you her name but what does it matter, I am going to see you die!"

  Hubert gnawed at his lips with fear and looked anxiously around.

  "I can give you gold, " he replied huskily. "Look!" He opened his cloak and Corbett thought he was scrabbling for his purse but jumped back when he saw the faint glint of steel and Hubert drew the sword he had hidden there.

  Corbett now knew that his adversary was no longer the soft, effete clerk for Hubert held his sword like any trained soldier or street fighter. He advanced towards Corbett, the cruel point of his sword not wavering. Corbett hastily drew his own long Welsh dagger, stepping back carefully searching for a foothold, and all the time watching Hubert's face.

  "Master Corbett, " Hubert snapped. "I am going to kill you and then I will disappear. '

  Corbett was about to reply when he realized his mistake for Hubert suddenly lunged towards him, the sword's point searching for his heart. He struggled backwards, his feet hit some wood and he crashed on his back on the ground. Hubert stood between his legs and laid the sword point to Corbett's throat, gently pushing until Corbett felt a pinprick of pain and a faint trickle of blood.

  "Well, Corbett?" Hubert cocked his head to one side as if meditating on what to do next. Corbett's fingers were flailing, searching on the ground where he lay. There was nothing. He grasped what he thought was some sand and, as Hubert brought the sword back, flung it into the man's face, while he rolled to one side.

  Hubert fell to his knees, screaming with pain. "I am blind! I am blind!" he shrieked. Corbett smelt his own hand and realized that he had thrown lime straight into his opponent's face. He picked up Hubert's fallen sword and, without a flicker of remorse, brought it down in one sweeping curve to bite deep into Hubert's neck. A great fountain of blood spurted out and with a long sigh the body simply toppled to one side and lay still. Corbett felt no regrets or sorrow at what he had done. He wiped the bloody sword on his dead enemy's cloak and carefully searched around the ground. Eventually, near the place he had fallen, he found the lime pit and, dragging Hubert's corpse by the heels, pulled him to the side and pushed him gently in. The body bobbed for a while on the surface before slowly sinking from view.