by Paul Doherty
‘Something to eat and drink,’ Ranulf murmured, rubbing his stomach, ‘would satisfy the inner man.’
‘Just a little wine,’ Corbett retorted. Ignoring Ranulf’s black looks he led them into the musty taproom. They stood by the door drinking quickly before going back into the streets.
‘What are we doing?’ Ranulf pushed alongside Corbett. ‘Where are we going, Master?’
‘I want to show you the city,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I want you to feel it in your brain as well as your belly.’ He paused and beckoned his companions closer. ‘Oxford is a world unto itself,’ he explained. ‘It is a city made up of small villages which are the Halls or Colleges. Each stands in its own ground and has its own workshops, dorters, forges and stables.’ He pointed down the street where Ranulf and Maltote could glimpse a great metal-studded gate in the high curtain wall. ‘That’s Eagle Hall and there are numerous others. Each has its own privileges, traditions and history. They take students from France, Hainault, Spain, the German States and even further east. The Halls dislike each other; the University hates the town; the town resents the University. Violence is rife, knives are ever at the ready. Sometimes you may have to flee and -’ he added,‘- to know in which direction you are fleeing, could save your life.’
‘But you are the King’s clerk,’ Maltote spoke up, stroking the muzzle of his horse. ‘They’ll obey the King’s writ?’
‘They couldn’t give a fig,’ Corbett replied. ‘Let’s say we were attacked now, who’d come to our assistance? Or later stand up as a witness?’ He punched Ranulf playfully on the shoulder. ‘Keep your cowl pulled, your face down and your hand well away from your dagger.’
They went along the High Street and stood aside as a church door opened: scholars, in shabby tabards tied round the waist by cords and leather straps, burst out from the noonday Mass. As Ranulf whispered, the service seemed to have had little effect on them. The scholars jostled and shoved each other, bawling raucously, some even sang blasphemous parodies of the hymns they had just chanted. Despite the wet and the jostling crowds, Corbett persisted in showing his two companions the layout of the city. At last they returned, past the Swindlestock tavern, making their way gingerly around the gaping sewer in Carfax and into Great Bailey Street, which led up into the castle.
‘Why are we going there?’ Maltote asked. ‘I thought we were for Sparrow Hall?’
‘We have to visit the Sheriff,’ Corbett explained over his shoulder. ‘Sir Walter Bullock.’ He grinned. ‘And that will be an experience in itself. Bullock is as irascible as a starving dog.’
They crossed the moat, really nothing more than a narrow ditch, its water covered with a black slime on which a cat’s corpse, soggy and bloated, floated lazily beneath the drawbridge. A guard dressed in a dirty leather sallet slouched against the wall beneath the portcullis, his sword and shield lying on the ground beside him. He hardly looked up as they entered the inner bailey. The castle yard was busy: a group of archers shot lustily at the butts; a group of ragged-arsed children, armed with wooden swords, attempted to fight a strident goose; women stood round the well, slapping cloths on the side of the great tuns which served as their bowls. No one took any notice of the new arrivals except a relic seller dressed in garish rags who’d been touting his wares and now came across, a piece of wood in his hand.
‘Buy a piece of the juniper tree.’ He pushed the blackened piece of wood almost into Ranulf face.
‘Why?’ Ranulf asked.
The fellow bared his mouth in a horrid display of crumbling teeth. ‘Because it’s the very tree,’ he whispered, ‘that protected the baby Jesus when Mother Mary took him into Egypt, away from Pilate’s fury.’
‘I thought it was Herod?’ Ranulf retorted.
‘Yes, but he was helped by Pilate,’ the relic-seller gabbled.
Ranulf took the piece of wood and studied it carefully.
‘I can’t buy this,’ he said. ‘It’s not juniper, it’s elder!’
The rascal’s mouth opened and closed. ‘God bless you, sir, I was in confusion myself. You are sure?’
‘Certainly,’ Ranulf replied, handing it back.
‘Then that’s what it is,’ the relic-seller whispered and, turning round, walked over to a group of castle scullions. ‘Buy a piece of elder!’ he shouted. ‘The very tree on which Judas hanged himself!’
Corbett grinned; he was about to ask Ranulf how he could tell the difference between juniper and elder when a prod in his back made him turn around.
‘What do you want?’
The serjeant looked Corbett over from head to toe.
‘What do you want?’ he repeated. ‘And where did you get those horses?’
Ranulf stepped between his master and the serjeant and stared at the man’s dirty, unshaven face.
‘We want the Sheriff,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Sir Walter Bullock. This is Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s principal clerk from the Office of the Secret Seal.’
The serjeant hawked and spat. ‘I couldn’t give a bugger if he was from the Holy Father!’
He bawled across at a groom to come and take their horses and, snapping his fingers, told Corbett and his companions to follow.
They found Sir Walter in his chamber above the gate house. It was a stark room with coloured cloths hung against the wall like rat banners. The fat, balding Sheriff was eating from a dish of eels, beside him on a trauncher were several apples and some cheese. Short and thickset, Bullock was dressed in jerkin, hose and shirt, his war belt and leather riding boots thrown on the straw-covered floor beside him. As the serjeant ushered Corbett and his companions in, slamming the door behind them, the Sheriff raised his clean-shaven face bright as a brass pot.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, his mouth full of eels.
‘That’s what the ignorant bastard downstairs asked me,’ Ranulf retorted.
Bullock sat back on his stool and nodded towards the arrow slit window.
‘If it was big enough, you’d leave through that!’
Corbett sighed and pulled from his wallet the King’s seal and tossed it on the table. Bullock swallowed his mouthful of food and picked it up.
‘You know what that is, Master Bollock?’ Ranulf taunted.
‘My name’s Bullock.’ The Sheriff pushed back his stool and got up, licking his fingers and wiping them on a dirty napkin. He went and stood before Ranulf, hands on hips. ‘My name is Bullock,’ he repeated. ‘And do you know why, sir? Because I am like one: stocky, addle-pated and foul tempered.’ He poked Ranulf in the stomach. ‘Now you look like a fighting boy, but that doesn’t concern me. I’ve pulled bigger things out of my nose!’ He turned abruptly to Corbett, his hand extended. ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh. The King sent a cursitor, we’ve been expecting you.’
Corbett grasped the Sheriff’s hand. He noticed how the man’s eyes were dark-ringed with exhaustion.
‘You look tired, Master Sheriff?’
Sir Walter waved to a bench near the wall. ‘If I lie down, Sir Hugh, I’d never get up. Would you like some wine? Something to eat?’ He looked slyly at Ranulf. ‘Maybe a bucket of water from the well to cool you down after your long, hot journey?’
Ranulf grinned at this little fighting cock of a man. ‘Sir Walter, I apologise.’
The Sheriff shook Ranulf’s hand then picked at his teeth. ‘Bugger this for a soldier’s life!’ he growled.
He waited until Corbett sat down then pulled his own stool across. He ticked the points off on his stubby fingers.
‘The King’s at Woodstock breathing down my neck. There’s a parliament summoned to sit at Westminster: I’m under orders to get the right man elected. There’s some charlatan selling rats’ teeth to children. The garrison hasn’t been paid for four months. I am running short of supplies. There are three felons in the Bocardo,’ he added, referring to the town gaol, ‘whose necks I am going to stretch before dusk. A tavern wench was ravished in the Chequers tavern. I’ve got a boil on my arse. I haven’t slept for two nights and
my wife’s kinsfolk want to come and stay till Michaelmas.’ He sniffed. ‘Now, those are only the minor matters.’
Corbett smiled. He dug into his purse and handed two gold coins over.
‘I don’t take bribes, Sir Hugh.’
‘It’s not a bribe,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s your wages. I’ll tell the Exchequer.’
The coins disappeared in the twinkling of an eye.
‘The Bellman?’ Corbett asked.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ the Sheriff replied. ‘All I know is that every so often, one of his proclamations is pinned on the doorway of some Hall or church.’
‘Didn’t you fight at Evesham for de Montfort?’ Corbett asked abruptly.
Bullock’s gaze fell away. ‘Yes, I did,’ he replied as if to himself. ‘I was young, an idealist, stupid enough to believe in dreams. Now, Sir Hugh, I am the King’s man in war and peace. I’m no traitor. I do not know who the Bellman is or where he comes from. Oh, I have trotted down to make my inquiries amongst the empty heads of Sparrow Hall, but I might as well whistle across a graveyard as expect a response!’
‘And the corpses round Oxford?’
Bullock shrugged. ‘You know as much as I do, Sir Hugh. Poor men; heads taken off and strung up by their hair to a tree. I have had my men out. They’ve scoured the woods and fields. There’s something going on.’ He paused and scratched the mole on his right cheek. ‘Oxford is a curious place, Sir Hugh. In the churches they sing the Salve Regina and venerate the Body of Christ. At night, in the taverns, they lose their souls in wine and debauchery. Beyond the walls, in the lonely places - well, to cut a long story short, on the Banbury road my men talked to a forester. He led them to a glade deep in the trees. There’s a rock, a huge boulder, as if Satan himself thrust it up from hell. Someone had used it as an altar; there were marks of fire, blood-stains and, in the branch of a tree, an animal’s skull.’
‘Warlocks?’ Corbett asked.
‘Wizards, warlocks, and witches?’ Bullock sniffed. ‘That’s all there was. The local peasants or farmers are innocent: they’ve neither the time nor the energy for such nonsense.’
‘And you think it’s connected to these deaths?’
‘Possibly.’ Bullock wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I’d love to find the killer. I hope it’s some arrogant popinjay of a student. By the way, another corpse was brought in this morning: an old simpleton called Senex. He was found like the others-’ Bullock smiled grimly ‘-with one exception: the old man’s hand was tightly clenched. When I prised the fingers open, I found dirt, pebbles and, more importantly, a button.’
‘A button?’ Ranulf queried.
‘Yes, of metal, embossed with a sparrow, the escutcheon of Sparrow Hall. What is more,’ Bullock continued, ‘as you know, Sir Hugh, these buttons are only worn on the gowns of Masters or certain rich scholars. Most of the rest are clothed in nothing better than sacking.’
‘So, what do you think?’ Corbett asked.
Bullock got to his feet. ‘My view is that there is a coven of warlocks in the hall who follow the Lords of the Gibbet. The deaths of these old beggars are linked to some loathsome practices but I have no proof or evidence. The old man may have picked the button up whilst he was being hunted or, in his death struggle, plucked it from someone’s coat. However, his is not the only corpse we have this morning.’ Bullock slurped from his wine goblet. ‘An evening ago, just before Vespers, William Passerel the bursar was hounded from Sparrow Hall by a mob of students. It’s common knowledge that Ascham, who was well loved, wrote most of Passerel’s name on a scrap of parchment as he lay dying in the library. Now Passerel fled, and took sanctuary in St Michael’s Church. Father Vincent, the parish priest, gave him sanctuary, food and drink. The mob dispersed, but later on, someone entered the church and left a flagon of wine and a cup near the rood screen door. Passerel drank it; but it contained an infusion of poison. He died almost immediately.’
‘How do you know that?’ Corbett asked.
‘St Michael’s has an anchorite, a mad, old woman called Magdalena. She saw the person steal into the church, a mere shadow. She glimpsed Passerel drinking and then heard his death screams.’ Bullock moved to the door. ‘Come on, I’ll take you down to the corpse chamber!’
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.