‘The King has also heard about the deaths here at St Osyth’s, or rather-’ Corbett added hastily as the smile faded from the Franciscan’s face ‘- the corpses found in the woods outside the city.’
‘We know little of that,’ Brother Angelo confessed. ‘Look around, master clerk; these are poor men, decrepit, old beggars. Who, on God’s earth, could be so cruel to them? There’s neither rhyme nor reason to it,’ he added. ‘I cannot help you.’
‘You’ve heard no rumours?’ Corbett asked.
Brother Angelo shook his head. ‘Nothing except Godric’s wild rantings,’ he murmured. ‘But you see, Corbett, men come and go here as they please. They beg in the city streets. They are helpless, easy prey for anyone’s malice or hatred.’
‘Do you remember Brakespeare?’ Corbett asked. ‘A soldier, a former officer in the King’s army?’
‘There are so many,’ Brother Angelo apologised, shaking his head. He glanced at Ranulf. ‘You have the look of a fighting man.’ He pointed to Ranulf’s sword, dagger and leather boots. ‘You walk with a swagger.’ He leaned across and nipped the skin of Ranulf’s knuckle. ‘Go outside, young man, and see your future. Once they too swaggered under the sun. But come on. I’ll find old Godric for you.’
He led them out, down a whitewashed passageway, up some stairs and into a long dormitory. The room was austere, yet the walls and floor had been well scrubbed and smelt of soap and sweet herbs. A row of beds stood on either wall with a stool on one side and a small, rough-hewn table on the other. Most of the occupants were asleep or dozing fitfully. Lay brothers moved from bed to bed, wiping hands and faces in preparation for the early morning meal.
Ranulf hung back. ‘I’ll not be a beggar,’ he whispered. ‘Master, I’ll either hang or be rich.’
‘Just be careful,’ Corbett quipped back, ‘that you are not both rich and hanged!’
‘Come on!’ Brother Angelo waved them over to a bed where a man was propped up against the bolsters: he was balding, his face lined and grey with exhaustion though his eyes were lively.
‘This is Godric,’ Brother Angelo explained, ‘a long-time member of my parish. A man who has begged in London, Canterbury, Dover and even at Berwick on the Scottish march. Very well, Godric.’ Brother Angelo tapped him on his bald pate. ‘Tell our visitors what you have seen.’
Godric turned his head. ‘I’ve been out in the woods,’ he whispered.
‘Which woods?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, to the north, to the south, to the east of the city,’ Godric replied.
‘And what have you seen, old man?’
‘God be my witness,’ the beggar replied. ‘But I’ve seen hellfire and the devil and all his troupe dancing in the bright moonlight. Listen to what I say-’ he grasped Corbett’s hand ‘- the Lord Satan has come to Oxford!’
Chapter 7
Corbett laid his hand over that of the beggar.
‘What devils?’ he asked.
‘Out in the woods,’ Godric replied. ‘Dancing round Beltane’s fires! Wearing goat skins, they were!’
‘And did you see any blood?’ Corbett asked.
‘On their hands and faces. Oh yes,’ Godric continued. ‘You see, sir, when I was greener, I was a poacher. I can go out and hunt the rabbit and take a plump cock pheasant without blinking. Since early spring this year I’ve tried my luck again and twice I saw the devils dance.’
‘How many devils?’ Corbett asked.
‘At least thirteen. The cursed number,’ Godric replied defiantly.
‘And have you told anyone else?’ Corbett asked.
‘I told Brother Angelo but he just laughed.’ Godric laid his head back on the bolsters. ‘That’s all I know and now old Godric has got to sleep.’ The beggar turned his face away.
Corbett and Ranulf left the infirmary. They followed Brother Angelo out, down the stairs and into the still busy yard.
‘Have you heard such stories before?’ Corbett asked.
‘Only Godric’s babble,’ the friar replied. ‘But, Sir Hugh -’ Brother Angelo’s lugubrious fat face became solemn ‘- God knows if he’s roaming in his wits or what?’ He lifted one great paw in benediction. ‘I bid you adieu!’
Corbett and Ranulf left the hospital and entered Broad Street. The crowd had thinned because the schools were open, and the students had flocked there for the early morning lectures. Corbett led Ranulf across the street, stepping gingerly along the wooden board placed across the great, stinking sewer which cut down the centre of the street.
Outside the Merry Maidens tavern, a butcher, his stall next to that of a barber surgeon, was throwing guts and entrails into the street. Beside the stall, a hooded rat-catcher, his ferocious-looking dog squatting next to him, was touting for business.
‘Rats or mice!’ he chanted above the din,
‘Have you any rats, mice, stoats or weasels?
Or have you any old sows sick of the measles?
I can kill them and I can kill moles!
And I can kill vermin that creep in and out of holes!’
The man hawked and spat; he was about to begin again but stood aside as Corbett and Ranulf kicked their way through the mess.
‘Do you have any rats, sir?’ the fellow asked.
‘Aye, we have,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But we don’t know where they are and they walk on two legs!’
Before the startled man could reply, Ranulf followed Corbett into the tavern. The greasy-aproned landlord, bobbing like a branch in the breeze, showed them to the garret Ranulf had rented: a stale-smelling chamber with a straw bed, a table, a bench and two stools. Ranulf stretched out on the bed only to leap up, cursing at the fleas gathering on his hose. He sat on a stool under the open window and watched as Corbett opened his chancery bag and laid out his writing implements: quill, pumice stone and ink horn.
‘What do we do now, Master?’ Ranulf asked sharply.
Corbett grinned. ‘We are in Oxford, Master Ranulf, so let’s follow the Socratic method. We state a hypothesis and question it thoroughly.’
He paused at a knock on the door and a slattern asked if they wished anything to eat or drink. Corbett thanked her but refused.
‘Now,’ he began. ‘The Bellman. Here is a traitor who writes proclamations espousing the cause of the long-dead de Montfort. He pins them up on church or college doors throughout the city. This, apparently, is always done at night. The Bellman claims also to live in Sparrow Hill. So, what questions do we ask?’
‘I cannot understand,’ Ranulf broke in, ‘why we can’t discover the identity of the Bellman by his writing and style of letters?’
Corbett dipped his quill into the open ink-horn and carefully wrote on the parchment. He handed this to Ranulf who pulled a face and passed it back.
‘The Bellman,’ he declared. ‘It’s the same letters, you’d think it was the same hand.’
‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘A clerkly hand, Ranulf, as you know, is anonymous. All the clerks of the Chancery or Exchequer are taught what quills to use, what ink, and how to form their letters and the Bellman hides behind these. Even if we did find the scribe, it does not necessarily mean he is the Bellman.’
‘But why does he claim to live at Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett rocked backwards and forwards on his stool.
‘Yes, that does puzzle me. Why mention Sparrow Hall at all? Why not the church of St Michael’s, or St Mary’s or even the Bocardo gaol?’
‘There’s the curse?’ Ranulf offered. ‘Maybe the Bellman knows of this? He not only wishes to taunt the King but also the memory of Sir Henry Braose who founded Sparrow Hall.’
‘I would accept that,’ Corbett replied. ‘There is a bravado behind these proclamations, as well as a subtle wit. The Bellman might truly be from elsewhere but he hopes the King will lash out and punish Sparrow Hall. Yet-’ he scratched his head ‘- we do suspect the Bellman is at Sparrow Hall, what with Copsale dying mysteriously in his bed; Ascham in his library; Passerel poiso
ned in St Michael’s church and Langton’s death last night.’
‘Yes,’ Ranulf added. ‘Langton’s murder seems to prove the assassin lurks in Sparrow Hall.’
‘Let’s move on,’ Corbett replied. ‘We have the Bellman posting his proclamations. He does so in the dead of night. Now, who could flit like a bat through the streets?’
‘At Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf replied. ‘All the Masters, including Norreys, are strong-bodied men. Lady Mathilda, however, has no reason to hate the Hall her brother founded. I can’t see her hobbling through the streets of Oxford at night, her arms full of proclamations.’
‘There’s Master Moth!’ Corbett replied.
‘He’s witless,’ Ranulf replied. ‘A deaf mute, who can neither read nor write. I noticed that in the library last night. He picked up a book and was looking at it upside down.’ He grinned. ‘Can you imagine him, Master, going through the streets of Oxford in the pitch dark, posting the Bellman’s proclamations upside down?’
‘Of course,’ Corbett added, ‘there’s also our scholars, led by the redoubtable David Ap Thomas. You challenged him last night?’
‘No, Master, I frightened him. But I did notice something: Ap Thomas was wearing his boots, as were his companions, and all had wet streaks of grass clinging to their footwear and clothing. Moreover, Ap Thomas wore a charm or amulet round his neck, as did some of his companions: circles of metal with a cross in the centre, surmounted by a cheap piece of glass in the shape of an eye.’
‘A wheel cross,’ Corbett explained. ‘I saw them in Wales. They are worn by those who believe in the old religion, who hark back to the glorious days of the Druids.’
‘Who?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Pagan priests,’ Corbett explained. ‘The Roman historian, Tacitus, mentions them when writing of Anglesey: they worshipped gods who lived in oak trees by hanging sacrificial victims from the branches.’
‘Like the heads of our beggars?’
‘Possibly,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s Godric’s wild ravings about fires and garishly dressed people practising rites in the woods. But is that our Bellman?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Let us keep to our hypothesis. Who is the Bellman and how does he act?’ He drew a deep breath. ‘We know Ascham was close to the truth. He was searching for something in that library but he betrayed himself to the Bellman. Ergo—’ Corbett tapped the quill against his cheek. ‘Ascham was an old and venerable man. He was not used to going to the schools or wandering around Oxford so he must have voiced his suspicions to someone at Sparrow Hall.’ Corbett rose, walked over and looked out of the window. ‘I think we can rest assured,’ he declared, ‘that the Bellman lives in Sparrow Hall or the hostelry across the lane.’
‘But what was Ascham looking for?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Again that proves the conclusion we have reached,’ Corbett replied. ‘Apparently Ascham had a book out on the table but this was later returned to the shelves: an easy enough task for someone at the Hall. However, let’s move on. Ascham was shot by a crossbow bolt, fired by an assassin who persuaded him to open the library window. The Bellman then tossed in his contemptuous note. Ascham, knowing he was dying, grasps it and begins to write what appears to be Passerel’s name in his own blood. Now, why should he do that?’
‘I know.’ Ranulf sprang to his feet, clapping his hands with excitement. ‘Master, how do we know Ascham wrote those letters? How do we know that the assassin didn’t climb through the window, take Ascham’s finger, dip it into his own blood and scrawl those letters to incriminate Passerel?’
Corbett returned to sit at the table. He wafted at the flies which were hovering above the stains in the wood grain.
‘I hadn’t thought of that, Ranulf,’ he declared. ‘It’s possible; but let’s continue. Passerel is depicted as Ascham’s murderer and he, in turn, flees the college only to be later murdered at St Michael’s. But why was Passerel killed?’ he asked. ‘Why not leave him as he was depicted, the possible murderer? Unless, of course,’ Corbett concluded; ‘Passerel might reflect on what his good friend Ascham had told him.’ He paused and glanced up. ‘Do you know something, Ranulf? When we return to Sparrow Hall I must do two things. Firstly, I want to look through Passerel’s and Ascham’s possessions, particularly their papers.’ Corbett began to write.
‘And secondly?’ Ranulf asked hopefully.
‘I want to ask our good physician, Master Aylric Churchley, if he keeps poisons? Copsale was probably poisoned and we know Passerel and Langton certainly were. Now such potions are expensive to buy; moreover, some apothecary or leech would certainly recall anyone asking to buy them...’
‘But would Churchley have some?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, and I suspect the poisons used were from his stock. Anyway, to conclude—’ Corbett sighed. ‘We know the Bellman is at Sparrow Hall or the hostelry. We are not too sure about his motives, except for his deep hatred for the King and the Hall itself. We know the Bellman is a skilled clerk, able to move round Oxford in the dead of night. A ruthless murderer who has already killed four men in order to conceal his identity...’
‘Master?’
Corbett glanced at Ranulf.
‘If, as you say, the Bellman hates the King and Sparrow Hall, then that places me, and certainly you, in grave danger. Can you imagine what would happen if Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s principal clerk, friend and companion, was found poisoned or with his throat cut in some Oxford alleyway, with a proclamation from the Bellman pinned to his corpse?’
Corbett didn’t flinch but Ranulf saw the colour fade from his face.
‘I am sorry, Master, but if we are going to put up hypotheses then I am going to study mine very carefully. If Sir Hugh Corbett is hurt or killed, the King’s wrath would know no bounds. That sullen bastard at the castle would soon find the King shaking him by the collar whilst the Royal Justices would be in Sparrow Hall as quick as an arrow, expelling the community, sealing its rooms and confiscating possessions.’
Corbett smiled thinly. ‘You put a very high price on my head, Ranulf.’
‘No, Master. I am a rogue, a street fighter, and, whoever he is, the Bellman is no different: he will reach the same conclusion as I have, if he hasn’t already.’
‘Then we should be careful.’
‘Aye, Master, we should. No more food or wine in Sparrow Hall. No wandering the streets of Oxford at night.’
‘That is going to be hard!’
Corbett returned to his writing, listing quickly the conclusions he had reached, his pen skimming over the smooth vellum he had taken from his chancery bag. He put the quill down.
‘And now to our final problem,’ he declared. ‘Every so often, the headless corpse of a beggar is found in the fields outside Oxford, the head tied by its hair to the branches of some nearby tree. We know that beggars are chosen as victims because they are lonely and vulnerable. In a sense, no one will miss them. However—’ Corbett ticked the points off on his finger. ‘Firstly, why aren’t the corpses found within the city walls? Secondly, according to Bullock there’s been very little sign of violence around where the severed corpses were found. Thirdly, why are they always found near some trackway? And finally, why are they never found along the same road but at different places around the outskirts of the city?’
Corbett dropped his hand. ‘Which means, my dear Ranulf, that they must have been killed inside Oxford and then transported out by different routes to be later disposed of. However, if the murders occur within the city, surely someone would notice? The only conclusion we can draw is that, perhaps, they are killed outside the city at one particular spot but the remains deliberately displayed elsewhere. What else?’
‘I am just thinking about Maltote. We shouldn’t leave him alone too long.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘No, if you are correct, the Bellman will hunt the King’s dog or crow. Maltote is safe - except, perhaps, from the teasing of Ap Thomas and others.’ He picked up his quill. ‘Concentrate on the problem. What other questions
can we ask about the murders of these poor beggars?’
‘Why?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Why are they killed in such a barbaric way?’
Corbett stared at a wine stain on the far wall. ‘Godric may indeed have seen something in the woods around Oxford: the activities of a coven or a group of warlocks, and this group must be based here in Oxford. We know there’s some connection with Sparrow Hall, because of the button we took from the last corpse. Now, I can’t see any of the Masters engaged in some devilish activity. However, our scholars, under David Ap Thomas, might have something to answer.’
‘Do you think Ap Thomas could be the Bellman?’ Ranulf asked. ‘After all, scholars can move round Oxford at night? David Ap Thomas is a rebel by nature: he might enjoy baiting the King.’ He paused. ‘Have you forgotten Alice atte-Bowe and her coven?’
Corbett closed his eyes. So many years ago, he thought. It had been the first task entrusted to him by Chancellor Burnell, the rooting out of a coven of witches and traitors around the church of St Mary Le Bow in London. Corbett recalled Alice’s dark, beautiful face. He opened his eyes.
‘I shall never forget,’ he replied. ‘I think I have but then - a sound, a smell and the memories come tumbling back.’ He packed away his writing equipment. ‘There’s always the library,’ he added. ‘We have yet to search for what Ascham was studying, although that might be an impossible task: there are so many books and manuscripts! We don’t even know if the book is still there. We could waste days, even weeks, playing a game of Blind Man’s Buff!’ Corbett rose. ‘It’s time we left for Sparrow Hall.’
They left the chamber and went downstairs. The landlord was waiting for them, a battered leather bundle in his hands.
‘Sir Hugh Corbett?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
The landlord thrust the small bundle into Corbett’s hands.
‘A beggar child came in.’ He pointed to the doorway. ‘A man, cowled and hooded, was standing behind. The child gave me this for you.’
The Devil's Hunt (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 11
