The Sheriff led them down, out of the gate house, across a still busy yard. They went down a long, narrow staircase which led into the cellar and dungeons of the castle. It was as black as night, only occasional pitch torches provided pools of dancing light. Bullock took them along the dank, musty passageway, round a corner to a room at the far end. He pushed the door open, and they were assaulted by the sour air inside; fetid, soggy straw covered the floor. The squat, tallow candles and smelly oil lamps placed on ledges gave the vaulted room a macabre atmosphere. As Corbett’s eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw two tables, like those found in a slaughterhouse, on each of which lay a corpse. One was covered by a sheet, bare feet protruding beneath: the other was naked except for a loin cloth; the man bending over it was dressed like a monk in a cowl and gown. He didn’t look up as they entered but kept dabbing at the corpse’s face with a cloth.
‘Good day, Hamell!’
The man turned, pulling back his hood, and leaned against the table. His face was a cadaverous yellow, long like that of a horse, with mournful eyes and slobbering mouth. His upper lip was covered by a straggly moustache, cut unevenly at one end. He gazed blearily at the Sheriff.
‘This is Hamell, our castle leech.’
‘And a drunken sot,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘I’m not drunk.’ Hamell staggered towards them. ‘I’ve just taken a little cordial. This is a filthy business.’ He breathed strong ale fumes in Corbett’s face. ‘You’ve come to claim the corpse?’
‘He’s the King’s clerk,’ Bullock explained.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Hamell slurred. ‘So the King wants the body, does he?’ He staggered back towards the corpse, the wet rag still clutched in his hand. ‘Dead as a doornail, this one is.’
‘What caused it?’ Corbett asked, coming up behind him.
‘I’m not a physician,’ Hamell slurred.
He pointed to the purple scratches on the man’s stomach, chest and neck: the face was a liverish hue, the eyes popping, the mouth half-open, the swollen tongue thrust out.
‘He consumed deadly nightshade,’ Hamell explained. ‘I’ve seen cases before - people who have taken it accidentally.’ He gestured at Corbett to go to the other side of the table. ‘But the face and swollen tongue -’ he pointed to the discoloration of the skin ‘- means he drank a lot. It’s easily done,’ he added. ‘Particularly if it’s stirred into strong wine.’
‘And there are no other wounds?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or marks?’
‘Some scratches,’ Hamell explained.
‘And the other corpse?’ Corbett asked.
Hamell turned and pulled back the sheet. Corbett flinched. Ranulf cursed and Maltote was promptly sick in the corner. Senex’s corpse was a dull white like the underbelly of a stale cod but it was the head, severed from the bloody neck, and placed beneath one of the arms, which rendered the whole scene ghastly.
‘I haven’t sewn it back yet,’ Hamell explained cheerily. ‘I always do that.’
Bullock, hand to his mouth, also turned away.
‘And make sure you do it properly this time,’ he growled. ‘Last time, you were so drunk, you sewed it on back to front!’
Corbett looked at the severed neck and the dark blood encrusted there, and recognised the sheer cut of a sharp axe brought down with great force.
‘Cover it up!’ he ordered.
Hamell did so.
‘What was found in his hand?’
The leech pointed to the side of the table. Corbett, bringing a candle closer, carefully scrutinised the dirty pebbles, then picked up the brass button, the shape of a sparrow clearly etched on it.
‘Can I keep it?’ he asked.
Bullock agreed. Corbett examined Senex’s hands: the cold, chapped fingers and the jagged, dirty nails. He noticed the palm of the right hand was much dirtier than that of the left. He then examined the knees, remarking how grubby they were.
‘He must have been crouching,’ Corbett explained. ‘Kneeling on soil or dirt. His killer stood over him. He brought the axe back, and that’s probably when the button fell off. Poor Senex, scrabbling about, clutched it even as the axe fell.’ Corbett put the button into his pouch. ‘Ah well, God knows, Master Sheriff, I have seen enough!’
They left the chamber. Maltote had now composed himself, though his face was as white as a ghost. They walked back up into the castle bailey. The serjeant who had accosted Corbett was waiting for them.
‘You have more visitors, Sir Walter, from Sparrow Hall: the Vice-Regent. Master Tripham and others have come to claim Passerel’s corpse.’ The soldier pointed to a cart standing near the gateway.
‘Where are the visitors?’
‘I put them in the gate-lodge chambers.’
Sir Walter rubbed his eyes. ‘Come on, Sir Hugh.’
They returned to find three people waiting for them. Master Alfred Tripham, the Vice-Regent, was sitting on a bench and didn’t bother to rise when the Sheriff and Corbett entered the room. He was tall with an austere, clean-shaven face under a mop of silver hair. Deep furrows were scored around his thin-lipped mouth. He was dressed in a costly, dark-blue robe, his hood, cowl and gown were embroidered with silk edgings of a Master. Lady Mathilda Braose was sitting on the Sheriff’s stool. She was short and thickset, her steel-grey hair and plain face shrouded by a dark veil. A grey cloak covered a burgundy-coloured dress buttoned high at the throat. She had lustrous brown eyes but these were shadowed with dark rings and the petulant cast to her lips gave her sallow face a sneering, arrogant look. Richard Norreys, who made the introductions, was a much more jovial, pleasant man: round-faced with a neatly trimmed moustache and beard, his mop of red hair had greying streaks. He had a firm handshake and seemed eager to please.
‘We waited here,’ he declared in a sing-song accent, ‘because, Sir Walter, we were told you would return shortly. But if I had known you had such illustrious visitors...’ Norreys’s protuberant blue eyes blinked. He licked his lips as if choosing his words carefully.
‘Oh, stop grovelling, Norreys!’ Lady Mathilda pushed the plate of eels away from her. ‘Sir Walter, we have come to collect Passerel’s corpse. He died a dishonourable death. We wish to give him honourable burial.’
Bullock didn’t answer her but picked up the plate of eels, leaned against the wall and started eating. He didn’t bother to look at Tripham, and Corbett sensed the bad blood between them. Lady Mathilda glanced at Corbett slyly, dismissing Ranulf and Maltote standing behind with a contemptuous pull of her mouth.
‘So, you are the King’s clerk? Corbett, yes?’
Sir Hugh bowed. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘I have heard of you, Corbett,’ she continued, ‘with your long, snooping nose. So the King’s dog has come to Oxford to sniff amongst the rubbish.’
‘No, madam,’ Ranulf spoke up quickly. ‘We have come to Oxford to catch the Bellman, an attainted traitor. We will take him to London so he can be hanged, drawn and quartered at the Elms near Tyburn stream.’
‘Is that correct, Red Hair?’ Lady Mathilda whispered mockingly. ‘You’ll catch the Bellman and hang him.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Just so?’
‘No, madam,’ Corbett replied. ‘As you say, I’ll forage amongst the rubbish and drag him out, as I will the assassin responsible for the deaths of Ascham and Passerel and, perhaps, the cold-blooded killer of old beggar men.’
‘What’s that?’ Tripham rose to his feet. ‘Are you saying they are one and the same?’
‘He’s a good dog.’ Sir Walter grinned, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘He’s already been sniffing amongst the rubbish.’
‘Lady Mathilda! Lady Mathilda! Master Tripham!’ Master Norreys came forward, hands flapping. He remembered himself and wiped the palms of his hands against his woollen tunic. ‘Sir Hugh is the King’s clerk,’ he continued. ‘We’ve met before, sir.’ He went up to Corbett. ‘I was with the King’s armies in Wales.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘Sir, there were so many and
it was so long ago.’
‘I know, I know.’ Norreys pulled back the sleeve of his gown and showed the leather wrist guard. ‘I was a speculator,’ he explained.
Corbett nodded. ‘Ah yes, a scout!’
‘Now the Welsh are at Sparrow Hall,’ Tripham intervened. He forced a smile as if apologising for his previous bad manners. ‘Sir Hugh, whatever you think, you are most welcome. The King has insisted that we show you hospitality. Richard Norreys here is Master of the hostelry. He will ensure you have good food and are well housed.’ He hitched his robe round his narrow shoulders. ‘And tonight, Sir Hugh, be our guest at Sparrow Hall. Our cooks are trained in the French fashion. Master Norreys, you too can join us.’ He blew his cheeks out and turned to where Sir Walter still leaned against the wall. ‘Sir, you have Passerel’s corpse?’
The Sheriff continued to chew slowly. He put the bowl back on the table, licked his fingers and nodded at Corbett. He was about to lead Tripham out of the chamber when there was a knock on the door. The young man who slipped into the room was fresh-faced, his black hair carefully oiled and tied behind him. He was dressed in the clothes of a student commoner, a brown woollen jerkin, with hose of the same colour pushed into boots, the belt round his waist carried a dagger slitted through a ring. He had an ordinary face except for his eyes, which were bright, watchful and anxious until Lady Braose beckoned him over. He trotted across like a lapdog and stood behind her. Corbett watched curiously as Lady Mathilda made signs with her fingers. The young man nodded and gestured back. Lady Mathilda’s face softened, reminding Corbett of a doting mother with a favoured child.
‘This is my squire,’ she announced proudly. ‘Master Moth.’ She smiled at Corbett. ‘I am sorry if I was brusque, sir, but when Master Moth is not with me -’ her eyes slid towards the Sheriff ‘- I become afeared for him.’ She patted Master Moth’s hand. ‘He’s a deaf mute; he has no tongue. He can neither read nor write. An orphan, a foundling, who was left at Sparrow Hall. He’s the son I never had but wished I could.’ She turned and made more signs. The young man responded and pointed at the window. ‘Master Sheriff,’ Lady Mathilda snapped. ‘It’s time we were gone before our cart goes without us! Sir Hugh?’ She rose. ‘You’ll be our guest tonight?’
Corbett nodded.
‘And I suppose the questioning will begin?’
‘Yes, madam, it will.’
Lady Mathilda grasped Moth’s arm and hobbled towards the door.
‘Come on, Master Sheriff,’ she snapped. ‘You wish us gone and so do we!’
Sir Walter bade his farewells to Corbett and followed, shouting over his shoulder that, if Corbett wished to speak to him, he knew where to find him. Corbett waited until their footfalls faded in the distance.
‘A pretty pottage, eh, Ranulf?’ he asked. ‘Hate and resentments all round.’
‘Does anyone in Oxford, Sir Hugh, love anyone else?’
Corbett smiled wryly and moved to the window. He stared down into the castle yard and glimpsed Sir Walter and his party making their way to the corpse chamber whilst Lady Braose sent Moth scurrying to fetch the cart.
‘I thought it strange,’ he murmured. ‘Do you realise, Ranulf? A bursar at Sparrow Hall was chased by a mob of students and forced to take sanctuary in a church where he was later poisoned, but no one asked why. No one showed any grief. Oh, they came to collect the corpse but they acted as if they’d returned for some forgotten baggage. Now, why is that, eh?’
‘Perhaps Passerel was disliked?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett licked his lips and realised how hungry and thirsty he had become. ‘Come, we’ll break our fast in some tavern and then go to the hostelry to see what awaits us.’
‘You have not answered your own question, Master?’
Corbett stopped, his hand on the latch of the door.
‘I wager a tun of wine to a barrel of malmsey that, before long, Passerel will be depicted as a murderer, maybe even the Bellman and - if we are foolish enough to swallow that - that the Bellman will remain silent until we are out of Oxford.’
Chapter 4
Two hours later, as the rain clouds began to gather, Corbett and his party arrived at Sparrow Hall in Pilchard Lane. The college itself was a gracious, three-storeyed building with a grey slate roof capping yellow sandstone bricks; it boasted a fine main door with a large oriel window above it. The other windows were square and broad, with coloured glass filling the mullions. The hostelry on the other side of the lane was more nondescript. Apparently, its founder had bought three four-storey mansions, each with a brick base, the upper storeys of plaster and wooden beams, and had connected the houses by makeshift wooden galleries. The hostelry lacked the grace of the Hall; some of the windows were shuttered, and others were covered by horn paper.
Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote went down a side lane and into the rear yard, its chipped cobbles covered in mud. This housed stables, forges and store rooms. Scholars, in various forms of dress, lounged in the open doorways. An ostler came across to take their horses. As Corbett dismounted, the scholars took a deeper interest in them, clustering together, whispering and pointing. A brick flew well above their heads and a voice in a Welsh accent shouted, ‘The royal dogs have arrived!’
Ranulf’s hand went to his dagger. The yard fell silent. More students now thronged about. A tall, thickset, young man, languidly pushing back a mop of hair from his ruddy face, sauntered across. He was dressed in the garb of a commoner: tight-fitting hose, soft leather boots, a white cambric shirt covered by a robe which fell just above a protuberant codpiece. He wore a broad leather war belt round his waist, from which a sword and dagger hung, pushed through rings. As he sauntered over, others followed.
The ostler hastily led the horses away, whilst the students ringed Corbett and his companions.
‘It’s a fine day,’ Corbett declared, throwing his cloak back over his shoulders so the students could see his sword. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your studies? The Trivium, the Quadrivium, Grammar and Logic? In the immortal words of Aristotle: “Seeking truth and turning the will to good”.’
The leader of the scholars stopped, nonplussed. He would have liked to have quipped back in the time-honoured fashion. Corbett wagged a finger at him.
‘You have been neglecting your horn book, sir.’
‘That’s correct,’ the young man replied languidly, his voice betraying a soft, Welsh accent. ‘Hall life has been disturbed by the comings and goings of inquisitive, royal clerks.’
‘In which case,’ Ranulf spoke up, stepping forward, ‘you can join us at Woodstock to debate the matter in front of His Grace the King.’
‘Edward of England does not concern me,’ the fellow replied, grinning over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Llewellyn and David are our Princes.’
‘That’s treason,’ Ranulf retorted.
The student leader took a step forward. ‘My name is David Ap Thomas,’ he declared sternly. ‘What’s the matter, clerk, don’t you like the Welsh?’
‘I love them,’ Corbett replied, putting a restraining hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I am married to the Lady Maeve Ap Llewellyn. Her Uncle Morgan is my kinsman. Yes, I have fought the Welsh; but they were resolute fighters - not bullyboys.’
The scholar stared at him, surprised.
‘Now,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Either stand out of my way, sir...!’
‘Leave him be, ap Thomas!’ a voice shouted.
Richard Norreys shouldered his way through the crowd. The scholars dispersed, not because of Norreys’s arrival, but due to Corbett’s claim to kinship with one of the leading families of South Wales. Norreys was apologetic as he led them across the yard into the downstairs parlour of the hostelry. The passageway was rather dirty, its whitewashed walls marked and stained, but the parlour itself was comfortable. The sandstone floor was scrubbed, and tapestries, shields and weapons hung on the walls. Norreys ushered them across to a table, flicking his fingers at a servitor to bring goblets of white wine and a di
sh of sugared almonds.
‘I must apologise for Ap Thomas.’ He breathed heavily as he sat down at the table beside Corbett. ‘He’s a Welsh noble and likes to play the part of the swaggart.’
‘Are there many Welsh here?’ Ranulf asked.
‘A good number,’ Norreys replied. ‘When Henry Braose founded the Hall and bought this hostelry, special provision was made in the Foundation Charter for scholars from the shires of South Wales.’ Norreys smiled. ‘Henry felt guilty about the Welsh he killed but... don’t we all, Sir Hugh?’
For a while they discussed the King’s campaigns in Wales. Norreys recalled the mist-filled valleys, treacherous marshes, sudden ambuscades and the soft-footed Welsh fighters, who would steal into the King’s camp at night to cut a throat or take a head.
‘You served there long?’ Corbett asked.
‘Aye, for some time,’ Norreys replied. He spread his hands. ‘That’s how I received preferment here. A benefice for services rendered.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its nook beside the fireplace. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, we are expected at the Hall at seven o’clock and Master ‘Tripham’s a stickler for punctuality.’ He got to his feet. ‘I have chambers for you,’ Norreys continued. ‘Two chambers on the second floor.’
He led them out and up a wooden staircase. Now and again they had to pause as students rushed by, horn books in their hands, sacks or bags slung over their shoulders.
‘The afternoon schools,’ Norreys explained. He then began to describe how Braose had bought three great mansions with cellars and chambers and united them to form the hostelry.
‘Oh yes, we have everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘Garrets for the commoners, dormitories for the servitors, chambers for the bachelors. All those who have the money to pay.’ He glimpsed Maltote perspiring under the weight of the heavy saddle bags he carried. ‘But come on, come on.’
Norreys led them up to the second gallery. The passageway was dull and damp, the walls mildewed. He pushed open the doors of two rooms; both were no more than austere monastic cells. The first had two truckle beds; the other, Corbett’s, a mattress on the floor. It also possessed a table, chair, chest, two candlesticks and a crucifix on the wall.
The Devil's Hunt (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 6
