‘The Bellman greets Corbett the King’s crow: the royal lap dog. The Bellman asks what the crow does in Oxford? The crow should be careful where he pecks and where he flies. This follower of carrion, this hunter of bloody morsels has been warned. Do not tarry long in the fields of Oxford or your beak may be bent, your claws broken, your wings pinioned, to be despatched back dead to your royal master. Signed ‘the Bellman’.
Corbett hid his fear and passed the proclamation around. Ranulf swore. Maltote, who could barely read, asked what it was? Lady Mathilda’s fingers went to her lips, and the rest of the Masters seemed to sober up.
‘This is treason,’ Ranulf hissed. ‘This is treason against the King’s clerk and against the Crown itself!’
‘It’s murder,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Horrible murder. Bring the cups here, all of you!’
They scurried about until all the cups were on the table in front of him: it was difficult to tell which had been Langton’s. Corbett and Ranulf, assisted by Churchley, sniffed tentatively at each. All bore the juicy fragrance of sweet wine except one: Corbett held it up to his nose and caught a sharp, acrid smell.
‘What is it?’ He passed the cup to Churchley who sniffed it, swilling it around.
‘White arsenic,’ he finally declared. ‘Only arsenic has that tang, particularly white arsenic: it is deadly in its effect.’
‘Wouldn’t Langton have tasted it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Churchley replied. ‘But, there again, if his palate was sweetened by what we have eaten and drunk, he might dismiss it.’
‘But how did it get there?’ Barnett bellowed. ‘Master Alfred.’ He grasped Tripham’s arm. ‘Are we to be poisoned in our beds?’
Lady Mathilda snapped her fingers and gestured to Master Moth who, throughout it all, had stood silently near the door. She made those strange, bird-like gestures and Moth hurried off. He returned accompanied by two sleepy-eyed servitors who had arranged the library and brought the wine down. Somehow the news of Langton’s death had already begun to spread and the servitors crept like mice into the library. Tripham interrogated them but their mumbled replies shed no light on what had happened.
‘Master Tripham,’ one of them wailed, ‘we filled the wine and put the goblets on a tray.’
Corbett dismissed them. ‘Did any of you see someone playing with the cups, moving them about?’ he asked the rest.
‘No,’ Barnett replied on behalf of them all. ‘I was next to Langton all the time.’ His voice faltered as he realised the implications of what he had said. ‘I did nothing!’ he gasped. ‘I would not do such a thing!’
‘Was Langton holding his cup all the time?’ Corbett asked.
Churchley flailed his hands. ‘Like the rest,’ he whispered, ‘he probably put it down on the table and then picked it up.’
‘But what I can’t understand,’ Barnett declared, ‘is why Langton should be carrying a message to you, Sir Hugh, from the Bellman?’
‘I know.’ Corbett sat on a stool, ‘Master Alfred Tripham. Bring the servants back, and have the corpse removed! The rest of you stay!’
The Vice-Regent hurried off. He returned with four servants carrying a sheet and Langton’s corpse was placed in it. Tripham told them to take it to the corpse house at the far side of the garden.
Corbett sat, head bowed. How could this have happened? He closed his eyes. Think! Think! Why did Langton have a letter addressed to me in his wallet? If Langton hadn’t died, would he have handed it over, and would he have been able to tell me who the writer was. The Bellman must have been taking a huge risk. What would have happened if Langton had suddenly handed it across during the meal or afterwards? And how did the poisoner know which cup to taint? He opened his eyes. Langton’s corpse had now been removed. The rest were looking at him strangely.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up. ‘The night is drawing on, we are all tired.’
Corbett got up, trying to hide his confusion and fear at the menacing threats of the Bellman.
‘Little can be done now,’ he said. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’
‘I would like to have words with you before you go,’ Lady Mathilda said. ‘Sir Hugh, I am, with my brother of blessed memory, the founder of this Hall.’ She stared defiantly at Tripham. ‘I demand to have words with you!’
The Vice-Regent looked as if he was going to protest but instead, gesturing in exasperation, left the chamber. The others followed. Lady Mathilda asked Ranulf and Maltote to stand outside with Master Moth. She locked and bolted the library door behind them and then returned. She sat down at the table and flicked her fingers for Corbett to sit opposite her.
‘We can’t be heard here,’ she whispered, leaning across. ‘Sir Hugh, you must have been told that the King had a spy at Sparrow Hall?’
Corbett just stared back.
‘Someone who tells the King what happens here.’ Lady Mathilda pushed back the sleeves of her dress. ‘I am that spy, Sir Hugh. My brother was the King’s man in peace and war. This Hall, this callege -’ her voice rose slightly, and spots of anger appeared high in her cheeks ‘- this place was founded for learning and now it has become a mockery!’
‘Did the King ask you to spy?’ Corbett asked.
Lady Mathilda’s sallow face relaxed, her eyes still glittered with anger.
‘No, I offered my services, Sir Hugh. Don’t you know my history? As a damsel, I played cat’s cradle with de Montfort’s knights.’ Her face softened. ‘In my day, Corbett, I was beautiful. Men begged to kiss this bony, vein-streaked hand. The King’s knights often wore my colours in the lists and tournaments.’ She grinned, her face becoming impish. ‘Even Edward Longshanks tried to enter my bed. I suppose I was the King’s in war and peace,’ she added wryly. She clasped her bejewelled fingers together. ‘Those were great days, Corbett. Days of war; of armies marching and banners flying, of spying and treachery. If de Montfort had won, a new king would have sat on the throne at Westminster and the likes of me and my brother would have gone into the darkness. You have heard the story?’
Corbett shook his head, fascinated by the intensity of this old but vibrant woman.
‘At Evesham, at the height of the battle, five of de Montfort’s knights tried to break through to kill the King. They hacked down his bodyguard and burst into the royal circle - but my brother Henry was there.’ She lifted her face, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Like a rock he was, so the King said; feet planted like oaks in the ground, his great two-handed war sword whirling like the wind: those knights never reached the King. My brother killed them all. Afterwards, that night in his tent, Edward swore a great oath.’ She closed her eyes, her voice thrilling, “‘I have sworn a great oath and I will never repent of it”, the King declared, his hand over a relic of Edward the Confessor. “Whenever Henry Braose, or any of his family, seek my help I shall not forget”.’ Lady Mathilda opened her eyes. ‘My brother did not kill de Montfort,’ she continued, ‘to see his great enterprise here overturned by pompous scholars. So yes, Corbett, I volunteered my services to the King.’
‘And what have you found?’
‘It’s not a question of finding,’ she retorted. ‘Sir Hugh, I have lived here for years, and I have seen Masters come and go but... this group!’ She sighed. ‘Old Copsale was a true scholar but as for the rest! Passerel was fat, living only for his belly. Langton was a mere ghost of a man, who won’t be missed in death just as he wasn’t noticed in life. Barnett’s a drunkard who likes pretty whores. Churchley’s so narrow-minded I don’t think he even knows there’s a world outside Oxford.’
‘And Tripham, your Vice-Regent?’
‘Oh, Master Tripham is a viper,’ she replied. ‘A cosy snake who’s coiled himself round Sparrow Hall and wishes to make it his. He wants to become Regent. He’ll not weep at Passerel’s or Langton’s death. He’ll slither about ensuring that his cronies are appointed to the vacant positions. He’s a parvenu!’ she spat out. ‘A thief and a blackmailer who tramples over my
brother’s memory...!’
‘Why a thief?’ Corbett interrupted.
‘He’s also the treasurer,’ Lady Mathilda explained. ‘And the Hall receives revenues from many quarters: a field here, a barn there; manors in Essex; fishing rights at Harwich and Walton-on-Naze. The money comes in piecemeal. I am sure some sticks to Master Tripham’s fingers.’
‘And a blackmailer?’ Corbett asked.
‘He knows all the little sins of his fellows,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘Barnett is well known to the whores. Churchley likes boys, particularly young men from Wales. You’ve met the loud-mouthed David Ap Thomas? I’ve seen Churchley pat his bottom. A bum squire, born and bred.’
‘And Appleston?’
Lady Mathilda’s eyes softened.
‘Leonard Appleston’s a good Master: a fine scholar, skilled in logic and debate. The scholars flock to his lectures in the schools.’
‘But?’
‘He has secrets from his past. Master Tripham tries to ingratiate himself with me.’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, Appleston is not his real name.’ She pulled at the corner of her mouth. ‘His name is de Montfort. Oh, no, no.’ She waved a hand at the surprise in Corbett’s face. ‘Born the wrong side of the blanket he was: a bastard child.’
‘Does the King know this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened?’
She shrugged. ‘Appleston cannot be arrested simply because he was the by-blow of a traitorous earl.’
‘And his sympathies?’
‘He keeps himself to himself. Once I caught him in the library amongst my brother’s papers where there are some of de Montfort’s proclamations. I passed him before he turned the book over, and I saw the title. When Appleston looked up, he had tears in his eyes.’
‘So he could be the Bellman?’
‘Anyone could be the Bellman,’ Lady Mathilda retorted. ‘Except Master Moth.’
‘He slides like a ghost round the hall.’
Lady Mathilda tapped her head. ‘Master Moth is not a madman, Sir Hugh, but he finds it difficult to concentrate or remember anything. Remember, he can neither hear, nor speak or read and write.’ Lady Mathilda rose to her feet, cocking her head to one side, as if listening to something. ‘I don’t know who the Bellman is, Corbett. You’ve met Bullock the Sheriff?’
Corbett nodded.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘there’s a man who hates us! And, of course, there are the students - you must not think they are as poor as they look. Many of them come from very wealthy families, particularly the Welsh. Their grandfathers fought for de Montfort and later their fathers and elder brothers fought the King in Wales.’ She came over and touched the greying locks on Corbett’s head. ‘Like the lovely Maeve, your good wife!’
‘Aye, God bless her!’ Corbett rose. ‘She’s in bed and so should I be, Lady Mathilda.’
He grasped her cold, thin hand and kissed it.
‘Are you frightened, Corbett?’ she asked. ‘Will the Bellman’s threats keep you awake at night?’
‘In media vitae,’ he replied, ‘sumus in morte! In the midst of life, Lady Mathilda, we are in death.’ He walked to the door then turned. ‘What concerns me is what the others will say about you?’
Lady Mathilda laughed, the age and pain disappearing from her face. Corbett glimpsed the beautiful young woman she once had been.
‘They’ll call me an interfering, sinister, old witch,’ she replied. ‘Do you know what I think, Corbett?’ She paused, fingering the tassel of the cord round her waist. ‘I think the Bellman’s coming. He might come after you, Sir Hugh, but, remember, I am Sir Henry Braose’s sister.’ She drew herself up. ‘I know he will not let me live!’
Chapter 6
Corbett left the library, Master Moth pushing by him in his haste to return to his mistress. Ranulf tapped the side of his head.
‘Take no offence, Master. Moth is only a child. Lady Mathilda is both his mother and his God. He was fair scratching at the door to get in.’
‘I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘She’s frightened. She believes the Bellman has a list and that her name is on it.’
A servitor was waiting to escort them out. Corbett excused himself and went out through a small postern door which led into the garden. A full moon bathed the lawns, flower beds and raised herb patches in its silvery light. On the left and far side was a curtain wall, to the right a line of buildings. Corbett glanced towards the library window.
‘Yes, it’s possible,’ he murmured. ‘Look, Ranulf. There are two small buttresses on either side, not to mention the hedge in front: these would conceal the assassin.’ Corbett indicated the small path which ran between the hedge and the wall of the building. ‘Provided no one saw him come out, he’d be almost invisible.’
Corbett walked down gingerly; the hedge was prickly and sharp and the soil underneath wet and slippery after the recent rain. He stopped outside the library window: it was fastened shut, the shutters behind betraying faint chinks of light. He walked back to his companions. Maltote was leaning against the door, falling asleep.
‘So the assassin could have shot from there?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Pulled back the shutters then closed the window over?’
‘I think so,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘But I’m not as clever as I think. We know the window was closed and shuttered. We also know Ascham was in the library looking for something which would unmask the Bellman, or at least we think he was. Imagine him sitting at the table. He hears a tap on the window so he goes and opens the shutters.’
‘And then the window?’ Ranulf added helpfully.
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s where my clever theory fails. Tell me, Ranulf - if you had an inkling of who the Bellman was and you’d sealed yourself in the library to hunt for the necessary evidence. You hear a tap on the window, open the shutters and, through the window, see the face of the very person you suspect - would you open the window? Bearing in mind this Bellman may have also murdered the Regent, John Copsale?’
‘No,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I wouldn’t. But maybe Ascham was not sure and had more than one suspect?’
‘Perhaps... ah well!’ Corbett shook Maltote’s arm. ‘It’s well after midnight and time we were in our beds.’
They walked back into the hall and out, through the main door, into the lane. Only the faint glow of candles from windows high in the hostelry provided any light. A beggar, his legs shorn off at the knees, came out from an alleyway, pushing himself on a small barrow, waving his clacking dish.
‘A penny!’ he whined. ‘For an old soldier!’
Corbett crouched down and stared at the man’s rotting face: one eye was half-closed, and there were large festering sores around his mouth. Corbett put two pennies in the earthenware bowl.
‘What do you see, old man?’ he asked. ‘What do you see at night? Who leaves the hall or hostelry?’
The beggar opened his mouth, in which only one tooth hung down, sharp and pointed like a hook.
‘No one bothers poor Albric,’ he replied. ‘And I sees no one. But there again, sirs, rats have always got more than one hole.’
‘So, you have seen people sneak out at night?’
‘I see shadows,’ Albric replied. ‘Shadows, cowled and muffled, slip by poor Albric, not a penny offered, not a penny given.’
‘Where do they go?’ Corbett asked.
‘Into the night like bats.’ The beggar pushed his face closer. ‘A coven they are.’ Albric fluttered his fingers before Corbett’s eyes. ‘Albric can count; I went to the abbey school I did, as a child. Thirteen go by, thirteen come back: a warlocks’ coven! That’s all I know.’
Corbett pushed another penny into the dish: he glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf who was now supporting Maltote. They continued across the lane. After a great deal of knocking the ostarius or porter pulled back the bolts, locks screeching as the keys were turned. They entered the gloomy passageway. Corbett made towards the stairs but Ranulf, having shaken Maltote awake, pulled at his sleev
e and pointed at a door under which candlelight seeped out. Corbett paused and heard the faint murmur of conversation and laughter: he opened the door and went into the refectory. David Ap Thomas, his hair even more tousled than ever, was holding court round one of the tables, surrounded by other scholars. Corbett smiled a greeting. Ap Thomas put down his dice and scowled back. Corbett shrugged and started to leave.
‘No, no, Master,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘You take Maltote up to our chamber. I wish to have words with our Welshman.’
‘No trouble!’ Corbett warned.
Ranulf smiled, pushed by and sauntered down the refectory. He threw his cloak over his shoulder so the long stabbing dagger sheathed in his belt could be clearly seen. As he approached, one of the group began to caw like a crow, making fun of La Corbière, the crow, the Norman origin of Corbett’s name. Ranulf grinned. He pushed his way through, taking his own loaded dice out. He kept his eyes on Ap Thomas and threw, the dice rattling on the table.
‘Two sixes!’
Ap Thomas shook his dice but only managed to raise a four and a three. Ranulf, whose dice had been fashioned by the best trickster in London, threw again. Ap Thomas had no choice but to follow but, each time, his throw was less than that of Ranulf’s. Ranulf sighed, picked up his dice and slipped them into his purse.
‘You’ve lost, Welshman,’ he said. ‘But, there again, could you ever win?’
Ap Thomas pushed back his stool and stood up, his hand going to his knife. Ranulf moved sideways and, suddenly, the point of his dagger was pressing at the softness of the Welshman’s throat.
‘I am sure,’ the clerk declared, ‘that none of your friends will move or my hand might slip. But you, sir, if you wish, can pull your dagger.’
The Devil's Hunt (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 9
