by Paul Doherty
Corbett squeezed her hand. He pulled out the roll of parchment the King had given him. He undid this carefully and studied the clerkly hand.
‘It’s written in chancery script,’ he murmured. ‘So it could come from the pen of any trained scribe.’
‘If it was a royal scribe,’ Simon retorted morosely, ‘he’d be hanged, drawn and quartered. Read it, Sir Hugh.’
‘ “To the Mayor, Burgesses, Chancellor of the University of Oxford and to the Regents of the Halls,”’ Corbett began, ‘“The Bellman sends fraternal greetings. Once again I raise a clamour, bringing to attention the abuses of our King and his Council of nobles.
Item:- There should be a parliament at least once a year, at which the King should listen to the petitions of his good burgesses and citizens.
Item:- Holy Mother Church should not be taxed, nor its revenues disturbed, without the agreement of a Convocation of the Clergy.
Item:- The King dissipates his wealth in a futile war against the Scots whilst closing his eyes and ears to the manifold abuses of his officials at home.
Item:- The King should confirm the clauses of Magna Carta and the privileges of the University ...”’
The proclamation went on, listing real or alleged abuses but it was the final paragraph that caught Corbett’s attention.
‘Remember,’ it began, ‘in your prayers, the saintly Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, brutally killed by this same king. The Earl’s measures, published here in the city of Oxford, would have established good governance of this realm. Given at Sparrow Hall on the feast of St Bonaventure, the 15th of July 1303, and ordered to be proclaimed throughout the City and University of Oxford, signed, THE BELLMAN OF OXFORD.’
Corbett studied the manuscript closely. The vellum was of good quality with the edges precisely cut, the ink was mauve, the letters clearly formed, the phrases neatly set out. It bore no other mark except the sign of a bell at the top: this had been pierced by a nail where the notice had been pinned to the door of some church.
Corbett passed the manuscript over to Maeve. She studied it and then pushed it across to Ranulf.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked.
‘Almost forty years ago,’ Corbett began, ‘Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, led a rebellion against the present king and his father. De Montfort was a brilliant, charismatic leader. He didn’t bother with the nobility but appealed to the burgesses and the citizens of cities like Oxford and London. He won their support, as well as that of many of the clergy who sit in their own parliament called Convocation. De Montfort was the first to expound the theory of a Parliament where the commons and nobles could meet in separate sessions to present petitions to the King as well as seek agreement before they were taxed.’
Maeve shrugged. ‘But that is just.’ She screwed her eyes up. ‘Didn’t one of Edward’s judges say that what affects all must be approved by all?’
‘Oh, Edward agreed: he took on the idea himself. Parliaments are regularly called although they don’t command the same importance de Montfort wanted to give them.’ Corbett played with the blackjack of ale a servant had poured him. ‘What de Montfort wanted,’ he continued, ‘was for Parliament to control the King and all royal officials but, more importantly, de Montfort wanted to control Parliament.’
‘But why is the King so frightened of such an idea, from a man who was killed almost forty years ago?’ Maeve asked.
Corbett shrugged. ‘Because de Montfort was almost successful and, if he had been ...’
‘And if he had been,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘De Montfort would have become King and Edward ...’
‘Edward-’ Corbett finished the sentence for him, ‘- would have disappeared into some castle where he would have met with an unfortunate accident. There would now be a new royal line and that is the nightmare still haunting the Crown!’
Chapter 2
Corbett studied the Bellman’s proclamation once again.
‘How long have these been appearing?’
‘Over five months,’ Simon replied. ‘At first we thought it was some scholar’s madcap scheme. Then the King’s Council tried to hush matters up but the proclamations became more frequent. The King wrote to the Regent, John Copsale, who wrote back claiming all innocence. A month ago Copsale who was in his fifties, was found dead in his bed. The physician said he had died from natural causes, but since then the Bellman has grown more vindictive.’
‘And how are matters at Sparrow Hall now?’
‘As in any college, Sir Hugh, there are tensions, rivalries, petty jealousies. Lady Mathilda would like more royal patronage : the other Masters find the Braose family irksome. They don’t like the name of the hall and would prefer to change it as well as the statutes drawn up by Braose when the college was founded.’
‘Why?’
‘Sparrow Hall is seen as a royal foundation, built on the blood of a man, de Montfort, whom many now see as a saint. Copsale believed it important for the Hall to have more self-determination, especially for a college in Oxford which prides itself on its history and its independence.’
‘Was de Montfort from Oxford?’ Maeve asked.
‘De Montfort had a great following in the University,’ Corbett replied, ‘amongst both the Masters and students. More importantly, the Earl raised troops there for his civil war. He also held a great Council in the city where he issued the Provisions of Oxford, a scheme to take over the royal Council and Government.’
‘And, of course,’ Ranulf added, ‘Oxford is the gateway to the kingdom. Scholars come there from all parts of the country as well as from abroad. The Bellman’s treason is like a pestilence, it could spread and cause further unrest.’
‘And the King doesn’t need that,’ Simon interjected. ‘Taxes are heavy, the royal purveyors are collecting provisions. The great earls want to return to their manors. It’s a fire which might quickly spread.’ Simon gestured at the proclamation. ‘I have a sack of these: I’ll leave them with you. But, before you ask, Sir Hugh, we have no evidence as to whether the writer is a Master or a scholar at Sparrow Hall. Of course, the King sent down his justices - but what could they do? The Masters and the scholars protested their innocence and cried harassment.’
‘Why doesn’t the King,’ Maeve asked, ‘just close down Sparrow Hall?’
‘Oh, the Bellman would love that,’ Corbett answered. ‘Then the entire University as well as the city would see the King conceding defeat. It would be embarrassing in the extreme: Sparrow Hall was founded by Lord Henry Braose, one of Edward’s principal captains, who fought resolutely against de Montfort. Braose was given some of the dead earl’s lands and revenues, and he used these to buy buildings in Oxford, near St Michael’s Northgate. The Hall itself - and I remember it well - stands on one side and, across the lane, there’s the hostelry where the scholars stay: a large five-storey house with gardens and courtyards.’
‘If the Hall was closed -’ Simon tapped his fingers on the table ‘- the Bellman would indeed laugh. Many see Sparrow Hall as cursed, founded and built on the blood of the so-called great Earl. They even say his ghost haunts the place seeking vengeance.’
‘Who are the Masters there?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, Alfred Tripham is the Vice-Regent. Until Ascham’s and Copsale’s deaths there were eight Masters. Now Tripham is in charge with five others: Leonard Appleston, Aylric Churchley, Peter Langton, Bernard Barnett and Richard Norreys, the Master of the Hostelry. Henry Braose’s younger sister, the Lady Mathilda, also has a chamber in the Hall.’
‘That’s unusual! - for a woman to be given residence in an Oxford Hall?’
‘Lady Mathilda,’ Simon replied, ‘is a good friend of the King. She’s constantly petitioning the Crown for further recognition of her dead brother and extra grants to enlarge the Hall.’ Simon pulled a face. ‘But the Exchequer is exhausted, the treasury’s empty.’
‘And no one at the Hall knows anything about the Bellman or about Copsale’s death?’
&nb
sp; ‘No.’
‘And Ascham?’ Corbett asked.
‘He was the librarian and archivist,’ Simon replied. ‘A great friend of the founder. Five days ago, late in the afternoon, Ascham went into the library. He locked and bolted the door, and the window was shuttered. He lit a candle but we don’t know whether he was working or looking for something. When he failed to arrive at the buttery, the Hall bursar, William Passerel, went looking for him.’ Simon shrugged. ‘The doors were forced and Ascham was found lying in a pool of his own blood, a crossbow quarrel in his chest. But he didn’t die immediately.’
The clerk pushed back his stool, opened his pouch and passed across a piece of parchment. Corbett unrolled it.
“‘The Bellman fears neither King nor clerk,”’ he read aloud. ‘“The Bellman will ring the truth, and all shall hear it.”’
The message was written in the same script as the proclamation.
‘Turn it over,’ Simon remarked.
Corbett did so and noticed the strange symbols daubed in blood. ‘P ASS E R...’ He spelt out the letters.
‘Apparently,’ Simon explained, ‘Ascham wrote that in his own blood as he lay dying.’
‘But that’s almost the name of the bursar you mentioned at the hall?’
‘Yes, William Passerel,’ Simon replied. ‘But no action can be taken against him. For most of that day, when Ascham died, Passerel was in Abingdon on official business. He returned and went straight to the buttery, and then decided to look for Ascham who was his friend.’
‘And the library was sealed?’ Corbett asked.
‘The door leading to the passageway was locked and barred from the inside. The garden window was shuttered. There are no other entrances.’
‘Yet,’ Corbett said, studying the scrap of parchment, ‘someone not only shot Ascham but was able to leave this note? And Passerel the bursar still remains free?’
‘Oh yes, there’s no evidence against him. Passerel can prove he was in Abingdon. Servants attested that when he came back he went straight to the buttery.’ Simon gave a lop-sided smile. ‘There’s one further problem. Passerel’s eyesight isn’t very good. He also suffers from the rheums in his fingers. He could not hold or pull back a crossbow winch. Nor is there any explanation of how he could enter and leave the library, locking the windows and doors from the inside.’
‘The King and his council have discussed this?’
‘Oh yes, Edward and his principal henchmen have spent hours on the matter. They have even got a spy in Sparrow Hall. I don’t know who it is.’ Simon licked his lips. ‘The King said the spy would make himself known when you arrived in Oxford...’
Corbett tapped the parchment against the table. ‘Why now?’ he murmured. ‘Why does this mysterious writer called the Bellman appear, writing and posting his proclamations attacking the King? What does he hope to gain?’ He glanced at Simon. ‘There’s no evidence of interference by the King’s enemies either here or abroad?’
Simon shook his head.
‘And the writing?’
‘As you can see,’ Simon replied, ‘it’s in a clerkly hand. Those proclamations could be the work of you, or me or Ranulf.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Clerks are ruthlessly trained in the same style of writing.’
‘No threats have been made, there’s been no attempted blackmail?’
‘No.’
‘And you think Copsale’s death and Ascham’s were the work of the Bellman?’
‘Possibly.’ Simon spread his hands. ‘But, there again, the antagonism between these Masters is so intense, that Ascham may have been killed for other reasons and his death made to look like the work of the Bellman.’
‘And the beggars who have been found dead?’
‘Ah, that’s a tragedy.’ Simon sipped from his blackjack of ale. ‘The corpses are always found outside the city, with the head sheared off and tied by the hair to the branch of some tree. There are two other things common to the deaths. Firstly, the corpses all belong to men, old beggars. Secondly, they are always found near a trackway leading to or from the city.’
‘Are the bodies marked?’
‘One had been killed by an arrow - again a crossbow bolt, fired at close quarters. It went clean through the body. Another had been struck on the back of the head by a club or mace. The rest appeared to have had their throats cut.’
‘And they were all from the hospital of St Osyth?’
‘Yes, it’s a charitable foundation near Carfax, the crossroads in Oxford.’
‘Could it be the work of some gibbet lord?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The magicians and warlocks who always lurk around cities like Oxford?’
‘No, there’s plenty of them about but, there’s no mutilation, no clear reason for such deaths.’
‘Is there any connection between these deaths and the Bellman?’ Maeve asked, fascinated by the task entrusted to her husband. She had forgotten the twinges in her belly and her determination to settle accounts with the reeve whom, she believed, was helping himself.
‘None,’ Simon replied. ‘Except in the case of the old soldier, Brakespeare. About two days before his corpse was found, he was seen begging in the lane between Sparrow Hall and the hostelry. However, apart from that -’ he got to his feet ‘- I can tell you no more.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its wooden spigot near the fireplace. ‘I must go. The King told me to join him at Woodstock.’ His voice became more pleading. ‘You will go, Sir Hugh, for all our sakes?’
Corbett nodded. ‘Ranulf, make sure Simon is fed and his horse ready.’ He rose and took Simon’s hand. ‘Tell the King that, when this is finished, I’ll see him at Woodstock.’
Corbett sat down and waited till Ranulf had taken Simon out of the hall. Maeve grasped his hand.
‘You should go, Hugh,’ she said softly. ‘Eleanor is well. Oxford is not far away and the King needs you.’
Corbett pulled a face. ‘It will be dangerous,’ he murmured. ‘I can sense that. The Bellman, whoever he may be, is full of malice. He hides behind the customs and traditions of the University and could do the King great damage. He will do his best not to be caught for, if he is, he will suffer a terrible death. Edward hates de Montfort, his memory and anything to do with him.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Two years ago, during the council meeting at Windsor, some poor clerk made the mistake of mentioning de Montfort’s Provisions of Oxford. Edward nearly throttled him.’ Corbett put his arm round his wife and drew her closer. ‘I’ll go there,’ he continued, ‘but there’ll be more deaths, more chaos, more heartache and bloodshed before this is over.’
Corbett’s words were prophetic. Even as he prepared to leave for Oxford, William Passerel, the fat, ruddy-faced bursar, sat in his chancery office at Sparrow Hall and tried to ignore the clamour from the lane below. He threw his quill down on the desk, put his face in his hands and tried to fight back the tears of fear pricking his eyes.
‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why did Ascham have to die? Who killed him?’
Passerel sighed and sat back in his chair. Oh why? Oh why? The words screamed within him. Why had Ascham written his name, or most of it, on that document? He had been in Abingdon the day Ascham had been murdered. He had only returned a short while before. Now he stood accused of murdering the man he had regarded as a brother. Passerel stared up at the crucifix fixed on the white-washed wall.
‘I didn’t do it, Lord!’ he prayed. ‘I am innocent!’
The sculpted, carved face of the Saviour stared blindly back. Passerel heard the hubbub in the street below grow. He went to the window and peered out. A group of scholars, most of them from the Welsh counties, now thronged below. Passerel recognised many of them. Some wore gowns bearing a crudely sewn sparrow, the badge of the Hall. Their leader, David ap Thomas, a tall, blond-haired, thickset, young man, was busily lecturing them, his hands flailing the air. Even the blind beggar, who usually stood on the comer of the alley with his pittance bowl, had gathered his clammy, dirty rags about him and drawn closer to listen. Pa
sserel tried to compose himself. He went back to the list he was compiling of Ascham’s personal effects: the scarlet gown with tartan sleeves; the green cushions; the silk borders; mazers; gilt cufflets; silver vestments; saucers; dishes; pater nosters; amber beads and breviaries. For a while, despite the distraction of the growing clamour below, Passerel worked on. However, as the clamour grew to shouts and yells of defiance, he heard his own name called. He stole furtively to the casement window and stared out. His heart sank and beads of sweat turned his skin clammy. The crowd was now a mob. They were shouting and yelling, shaking their fists: their leader, David Ap Thomas, standing with hands on hips, glimpsed Passerel peeping through the window.
‘There he is!’ he yelled, his voice ringing like a bell. ‘Ascham’s assassin, Passerel the perjurer! Passerel the murderer!’
The words were taken up: fistfuls of mud and ordure were hurled at the window. A brick smashed through the mullioned glass. Passerel whimpered, gathering his cloak about him. He jumped as the door was flung open. Leonard Appleston, Master of Divinity in the hall, lecturer in the schools, burst in. His square, sunburnt face was ashen, his mouth tight with fear.
‘William, for the love of God!’ He grabbed the bursar by the arm. ‘You must flee!’
‘Where to?’ Passerel’s hands fluttered.
‘Sanctuary,’ Appleston replied. He grasped the bursar and pulled him closer. ‘Take the back stairs, quickly. Go!’
Passerel looked round the chamber at his books, his beloved manuscripts. He, a scholar, was being forced to flee like a rat up a drain. He had no choice. Appleston was already bundling him out of the room, pushing him along the gallery. In the stairwell he passed Lady Mathilda Braose, her thin, waspish face startled; beside her was the deaf mute Master Moth who followed her everywhere like a dog. She cried out but Appleston pushed Passerel past her. The bursar, fear now lending him speed, scurried through the kitchen and the scullery, out across the urine-stained hall. A mangy cat slunk up, its back arching. Passerel lashed out and looked back through the gateway. Appleston was standing at the door urging him on.