Angel of Death hc-4

by Paul Doherty

  'Abigail.'

  The woman stopped and turned, a faint smile on her lips. 'Yes, Master Clerk?'

  'There are probably only five honest people in this city and you must be one of them.'

  Her smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth.

  'Perhaps we may meet again, Clerk, in more comfortable surroundings.'

  Corbett grinned, but the woman, not waiting for a reply, disappeared into the darkness.

  Compline had been sung at St Paul's and the canons had filed out, some to the refectory, others to their own chambers; the doors were closed and locked. Outside the snow-packed earth gleamed under the light of a full moon and a wind had sprung up, its eerie noise singing around the building, making it creak and groan. Even the hardened sanctuary men, who lived amongst the graves in the derelict huts near the huge curtain wall, shivered and pulled their rags closer about them and vowed they would not go out on such a night. During the day St Paul's was a bustle of activity, but this only masked the feeling of menace, of ominous silence, which fell once the cathedral was closed.

  The sanctuary men would have been even more frightened if they had got within the locked church and seen the cowled figure crouching at the base of a pillar and singing a hymn softly to himself as he glared into the darkness. The man stopped his humming and chewed his lip thoughtfully. He really should not be here, but it was the best place to think. Plots and plans, like bats, seemed to move more smoothly at night. He had not intended to kill de Montfort though he was glad the silly, pratding hypocrite was dead. The figure cursed his own mistakes: Edward of England should have collapsed in the presence of his subjects, lay and spiritual. All would have seen it as God's judgement, and his brother's death and those of his wife and little ones would have been avenged.

  The man raised his head and peered deeply into the darkness. He had heard stories that the cathedral was built over the original place of a temple dedicated to Diana and he wondered if the old demons lingered still. If he could, he would call up these demons and offer them his soul in exchange for Edward's downfall. There would be other opportunities for that, however. He must first deal with that meddling clerk, Corbett. The man bit fiercely at the skin on his thumb but felt no pain. God, how he hated that interfering clerk! There was something cold and detached about him, with his long dark face, black tousled hair and those eyes, like a cat's, slanted, green, ever watchful. The man rubbed his hands and smiled. Yes, he would have to do something about Corbett and it would have to be done very soon.

  12

  Corbett spent the next three days going through de Montfort's accounts. They were really quite crude, written on pieces of parchment stitched together with heavy twine. They did not refer to the abbey but simply listed expenses, though a great deal of the money had been deposited with different bankers. Corbett idly wondered how many of these would admit to holding monies on behalf of the priest. The income fascinated him, coming as it did from several sources. One was minor: stipends, benefices, gifts from people and close relatives, nothing much, but a sharp contrast to the rest. Every quarter there were huge amounts, literally hundreds of pounds sterling in bags of silver from two places: Cathall Manor in Essex and from his property in London.

  Corbett knew the secret of de Montfort's London houses but he wondered what was so special about Cathall. Corbett considered travelling there to find out but, after many journeys downstairs to inspect the weather, realized it could change again and he did not wish to be cut off in some village in Essex. Moreover, if the thaw continued, his letters would soon reach the sheriff and other officials in Essex and they would collect the necessary information on his behalf. He wondered about Ranulf's recent, fitful appearances; on one occasion to change his clothes, another to beg Corbett for some money which the clerk absentmindedly gave. He never enquired too much into Ranulf s whereabouts; he had told him blundy not to break the law and, apart from that, left him to his own conscience and confessor. Corbett had a shrewd idea, however, that Ranulf was a man totally dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh, having seen him flirt dangerously with other men's wives and daughters.

  In this the clerk was correct, for Ranulf was busy pursuing the plump-haunched, arrogant young wife of a London mercer. He had wooed and pursued her for days and felt sure his quarry would be brought down. On that particular Sunday evening, however, Ranulf returned, minus one boot, to his lodgings in Bread Street. Corbett was too immersed in his own thoughts to pay much attention and Ranulf was not humble enough to admit that he had been in the lady's chamber preparing for a night of pleasure when her husband, reportedly away on business, had returned unexpectedly because of bad weather. Ranulf had had to flee, the anguished screams and the angry roars of the couple behind still ringing in his ears.

  Ranulf slunk back to his lodgings, anxious lest his master interrogate him, but Corbett was still trying to reconstruct what had happened at the high altar of St Paul's.

  First, he listed what each priest had worn: a white alb bound by a cord over which there was a chasuble; the thick gold jewel-encrusted cope displaying the colour of the day's feast; a matching stole round the neck and an amice. Corbett remembered the copes and chasubles he had seen in the cupboard in the sacristy of St Paul's, thick, heavy, encrusted with jewels.

  Secondly, he looked at the plan of the celebrants that day. On the far right of de Montfort had been de Eveden and the Scotsman, Ettrick. On the far left the young man, Blaskett, de Luce and Plumpton. Once again Corbett traced the way the chalice would have been passed. First, up to Ettrick, and then back along to Plumpton, de Luce and Blaskett before it was returned by de Luce and Plumpton to de Montfort who had taken the fatal sip. According to de Eveden he had not drunk from the chalice. Corbett wondered whether to believe him. He was sure, during the feast after the mass at which de Montfort had died, he had seen de Eveden drinking. So was the librarian lying? If he was not, the logical explanation would be that the chalice had been poisoned by Blaskett or de Luce. But there again, Plumpton on de Montfort's left, could be the secret assassin. Moreover, de Eveden may not have drunk from the chalice, but that did not stop him from poisoning it.

  Corbett looked again at the diagram. He tried to reconstruct the altar as he had seen it when the king had sent him back to assess everything. He had seen something odd which was now mysteriously plaguing him, something very wrong. He remembered the stains on the altar frontal and the wine on the carpet. His mind chased the problem. He felt like a dog, loose in a forest chasing shadows, nothing substantial, except there was something evil about St Paul's. Perhaps, as a good servant of the king, he should insist that the whole college of canons be investigated by the Bishop of London and have the evil rooted out, for there was something malevolent beyond the normal animosities, jealousies and rivalries one would find in any small, enclosed community.

  Corbett spent most of Sunday evening attempting to solve the puzzle, but he failed to reach a satisfactory conclusion. At last, he put down his pen, opened the shutters of his room and looked out over the city. A heavy mist had rolled in across the Thames, blanketing out the sky so that he could only see the odd winking glare of a fire or the lights of lanterns placed outside doors by householders. He wanted this matter finished. He thought of Ranulf upstairs and envied the young man's exuberance for every waking moment. Corbett looked up, the same sky now shrouded Maeve in Wales. Suddenly he felt a tremendous longing for her, almost a hunger which made him feel ill. All he could think of was her sweet face, long blonde hair and the wide innocent eyes which could suddenly crinkle with amusement or flash with anger. He was tired of the city, of the filthy streets, the offal, the lay stalls thick with muck, the sluggish river, the arrogant courtiers, the bickering and in-fighting amongst the clerks and, above all, the animosity of the canons of St Paul: liars, lechers, men who should have been pursuing goodness but seemed to have lost their way. He felt impatient with the king who had put him to this task: a man intent on power, who honoured Corbett only because Corb
ett had served him well. Yet, all the clerk really wanted was to be in a lonely room in Neath Castle overlooking the wild seas, seated before a fire with Maeve in his arms. In his garret, Ranulf, busy congratulating himself on his rapid and lucky escape from the mercer's wife's bedroom, heard the faint lilting sound of the flute. He knew Corbett was sad and wished he could help. The playing went on into the early morning before it fell silent and only then did Ranulf know that his master had found some peace in sleep.

  Corbett slept late the next morning, until he was abruptly woken by a pounding on the door below. Throwing a cloak round him, he hurried down and opened it. The mists outside swirled and boiled like steam from a cauldron. At first, he could see no-one.

  'Who is there?' he called out and leapt back as a muddied figure, with a cut on his face, stepped into the house. At first the thought of a secret assassin crossed Corbett's mind but the man pulled back a rain-soaked hood and let the cloak fall from his shoulders.

  'Master Corbett?'

  'The same.'

  'I am John Enderby, messenger from the Sheriff of Essex.' He handed a small scroll to Corbett, who instantly broke the red-and-white encrusted seal. The letter consisted of only four lines: the sheriff sent Corbett health and greetings; the information he had sent would be given to him by his messenger, John Enderby, the bearer of this letter.

  Corbett crumpled the parchment in his hands. 'Please follow me.'

  Enderby followed him up the stairs and, once Corbett had made him comfortable, the man delivered his message.

  'The sheriff,' he said, 'was sorry he could not give a full written report but that would have taken more time. Suffice to say that the sheriff's men went to the manor of Cathall where they had found Walter de Montfort's steward, Thomas, dead; his throat had been cut. His wife Katherine had been raped a number of times by a notorious outlaw band, led by Robert Fitzwarren. They had apparently come to the manor to meet Thomas and, because of some quarrel, had cut his throat and raped the poor woman until she was half-crazed. The sheriff's men were able to calm Katherine, whereupon she confessed to the most extraordinary story. How the same outlaw Fitzwarren had raided convoys of travellers, traders and merchants on the roads leading out of London into Essex. Fitzwarren's plunder, however, was passed on to the Dean of St Paul's, who had sold it in the market-place of London and divided the money with the outlaw leader. On the day de Montfort died, his steward had been present in the congregation of St Paul's, having come to London to settle business on behalf of the outlaw. Because of his master's death, however, the steward was unable to conclude this business and returned empty-handed to the manor of Cathall. There, the outlaws, disappointed and frustrated, had taken out their rage on Thomas and his wife.'

  'The Sheriff added,' Enderby wearily related, 'that although the woman was half crazed, a search of the house had revealed certain goods taken months earlier from a merchant. The sheriff sent his greetings and good wishes to His Grace and hoped the information would be of use.'

  Corbett made Enderby repeat the story a number of times, satisfying himself on certain details before calling Ranulf down and instructing him to take Enderby to a nearby tavern to find him lodgings, before the messenger's return to Essex. Once he was gone, Corbett lay on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head, and once again considered de Montfort's death. So far, he had concentrated solely on the canons of St Paul's but there were others who would wish him dead. The courtesan had said this and she had also been present. Did Thomas, the steward, have a hand in this? Did he in fact kill his master? Was the king totally blameless? After all, and Corbett had consistently overlooked this fact, the king hated the de Montfort family. There were yet others who, if they had known de Montfort had been bought, would have gladly destroyed him. Was Robert Winchelsea, His Reverence the Archbishop of Canterbury, above murder? Corbett would have liked to think so but, having spent some time with the canons of St Paul's, believed priests and bishops were as capable of murder as any member of the laity. Finally, there were the barons. Corbett had heard rumours, about how the barons were gathering, plotting in secret meetings, trying to resist Edward's demands to follow him abroad.

  Corbett let the questions swirl round his mind until he returned to the nagging half-memory of what he had seen on the altar. He had to concentrate on this matter, try and resolve it and perhaps some progress would be made. Accordingly, when Ranulf returned, Corbett asked him to go to St Paul's to seek out Sir Philip Plumpton and ask the canon, on the king's orders, to meet Corbett on the high altar once nones were completed. After that Corbett penned a short letter to the king describing what he had done and admitting that he had made little progress in the matter. He hoped the king would not be at Westminster when the message arrived. This would give him more time; for, if the king was displeased, he would simply send a curt order instructing Corbett to show some fruits of his hard labour.

  The clerk spent the rest of the afternoon in his chamber thinking over the details and the facts he had garnered about de Montfort's death. He became resdess and would have gone out if it had not been for the cold mist seeping in through the chinks and cracks of the shutters. So he stayed inside, warming himself by the brazier. Corbett wrote a short message to Maeve, saying how much he missed her and hoped that spring would soon come so that he could see her again. He tried to joke about warming his heart and soul on the fires of her love and hoped it wouldn't read as clumsily as it sounded.

  Ranulf returned and announced that he was going to the city. Corbett nodded absent-mindedly and let him go. Once his servant had clattered down the stairs, Corbett took up his flute, but only played a few notes before throwing it onto his bed. He opened the trunk at the bottom of his bed and took out a small leather pouch. Inside was Maeve's letter, now some four months old. The ivory-white vellum was beginning to turn slighdy yellow but the handwriting was still as firm, curved and well formed as any scribe's. The halting phrases seemed to reflect the passion which existed between them.

  My dearest Hugh [it began],

  Affairs in Wales and around the castle of Neath are still not setded. My uncle says he is ill and has taken to his bed. He is as good an actor as any in a mummer's play. The countryside around is turning a golden yellow as summer fades and autumn begins. Strange that at such times of the year, partings from loved ones are all the more bitter. I miss you now more than ever. Every day, every waking moment, I think of your face, and would love to kiss your eyes and mouth. You must smile more, my serious clerk, the sun does rise and set without your leave. The shadows in your mind are nothing but dust on the leaf or wind through the trees. Yet I know you constantly live on the edge of darkness. Soon the night will be over, I shall be with you and the sun will always shine. I long for your touch. God keep you safe.

  Your lover, Maeve.

  Corbett sighed as he rolled the letter up again and placed it in his pocket. Then he smiled, for he must have read the letter at least twice a day. He heard the wind howl outside and wished the iron-hard winter would break and Maeve would come. A knock on the door made him jump. He slid his hand under the bolster of the bed, his fingers touching the ice-cold handle of the dagger which lay there.

  'Come in,' he snapped. The door swung open; Ranulf stood there, his hair wet, a bruise under his left eye. In his arms he held a bundle, cradling it clumsily like a bulky parcel.

  'Come in!' Corbett repeated peevishly.

  Ranulf, his face white with shock, his eyes glazed as if he had seen some terrible vision, walked slowly into the room like some sleep-walking dreamer. Wordlessly, he stretched out his hands, offering Corbett the bundle. The clerk took it apprehensively as the bundle stirred.

  'It's a boy,' Ranulf murmured. 'A boy.'

  Corbett pulled aside the edge of the tattered shawl and stared dumbstruck at what he saw, before bursting into peals of laughter and slumping on the bed. The baby, angry at being so rudely woken, flickered open his eyes and extended his mouth for one great bellow. The small pink face crumpled
into a red mask and the tiny fists clenched on his chest, as the baby gave full vent to his fury. The cry seemed to shake Ranulf from his trance. He stood, arms dangling by his side, hopping from one foot to another, a look of abject horror on his face. Corbett controlled his laughter and gendy cradled the baby in his arms. The infant, lips pursed, stopped his bawling and looked up speculatively at the clerk as if expecting some reward for its silence. Corbett rapped out a few instructions to Ranulf, who clattered downstairs to the buttery to bring back a bowl of warmed milk and a clean linen cloth. Corbett took the cloth and dipped it into the milk for the lusty infant to suck noisily.

  'You are not,' the clerk began, 'to claim this is not yours,

  Ranulf.' He looked down at the baby, the wisps of sandy hair, the small cleft chin, the dimple in the left cheek. If Corbett had found the baby in the street, he would have immediately recognized it as Ranulf's. Corbett made his servant pour two goblets of wine whilst the baby began positively to gnaw at the milk-soaked rag. After a few gulps of wine, the bemused father was calmer, more prepared to explain. He had gone out for a night's pleasure but, unfortunately, the father and elder brother of one of his earlier conquests had been waiting for him. A furious altercation ensued. Ranulf received a sharp blow to the face and his offspring was unceremoniously dumped into his arms. He gazed fearfully at his master.

  'What, Master,' he muttered, 'are we going to do?' Corbett noted the word 'we' and glared at his servant. Some time soon, he really must have a quiet but very firm talk with this young man, who threatened to turn the house into a home for foundlings. The 'younger Ranulf, now angry at the cloth being drained of its milk, was beginning to look dangerously round the room trying to seek out the cause of his discomfort. Corbett hastily soaked the rag again and popped it into the infant's small extended mouth. 'Ranulf the younger' gripped it firmly and began to chew as vigorously as a young puppy.