by Paul Doherty
‘We waited here,’ he declared in a sing-song accent, ‘because, Sir Walter, we were told you would return shortly. But if I had known you had such illustrious visitors...’ Norreys’s protuberant blue eyes blinked. He licked his lips as if choosing his words carefully.
‘Oh, stop grovelling, Norreys!’ Lady Mathilda pushed the plate of eels away from her. ‘Sir Walter, we have come to collect Passerel’s corpse. He died a dishonourable death. We wish to give him honourable burial.’
Bullock didn’t answer her but picked up the plate of eels, leaned against the wall and started eating. He didn’t bother to look at Tripham, and Corbett sensed the bad blood between them. Lady Mathilda glanced at Corbett slyly, dismissing Ranulf and Maltote standing behind with a contemptuous pull of her mouth.
‘So, you are the King’s clerk? Corbett, yes?’
Sir Hugh bowed. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘I have heard of you, Corbett,’ she continued, ‘with your long, snooping nose. So the King’s dog has come to Oxford to sniff amongst the rubbish.’
‘No, madam,’ Ranulf spoke up quickly. ‘We have come to Oxford to catch the Bellman, an attainted traitor. We will take him to London so he can be hanged, drawn and quartered at the Elms near Tyburn stream.’
‘Is that correct, Red Hair?’ Lady Mathilda whispered mockingly. ‘You’ll catch the Bellman and hang him.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Just so?’
‘No, madam,’ Corbett replied. ‘As you say, I’ll forage amongst the rubbish and drag him out, as I will the assassin responsible for the deaths of Ascham and Passerel and, perhaps, the cold-blooded killer of old beggar men.’
‘What’s that?’ Tripham rose to his feet. ‘Are you saying they are one and the same?’
‘He’s a good dog.’ Sir Walter grinned, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘He’s already been sniffing amongst the rubbish.’
‘Lady Mathilda! Lady Mathilda! Master Tripham!’ Master Norreys came forward, hands flapping. He remembered himself and wiped the palms of his hands against his woollen tunic. ‘Sir Hugh is the King’s clerk,’ he continued. ‘We’ve met before, sir.’ He went up to Corbett. ‘I was with the King’s armies in Wales.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘Sir, there were so many and it was so long ago.’
‘I know, I know.’ Norreys pulled back the sleeve of his gown and showed the leather wrist guard. ‘I was a speculator,’ he explained.
Corbett nodded. ‘Ah yes, a scout!’
‘Now the Welsh are at Sparrow Hall,’ Tripham intervened. He forced a smile as if apologising for his previous bad manners. ‘Sir Hugh, whatever you think, you are most welcome. The King has insisted that we show you hospitality. Richard Norreys here is Master of the hostelry. He will ensure you have good food and are well housed.’ He hitched his robe round his narrow shoulders. ‘And tonight, Sir Hugh, be our guest at Sparrow Hall. Our cooks are trained in the French fashion. Master Norreys, you too can join us.’ He blew his cheeks out and turned to where Sir Walter still leaned against the wall. ‘Sir, you have Passerel’s corpse?’
The Sheriff continued to chew slowly. He put the bowl back on the table, licked his fingers and nodded at Corbett. He was about to lead Tripham out of the chamber when there was a knock on the door. The young man who slipped into the room was fresh-faced, his black hair carefully oiled and tied behind him. He was dressed in the clothes of a student commoner, a brown woollen jerkin, with hose of the same colour pushed into boots, the belt round his waist carried a dagger slitted through a ring. He had an ordinary face except for his eyes, which were bright, watchful and anxious until Lady Braose beckoned him over. He trotted across like a lapdog and stood behind her. Corbett watched curiously as Lady Mathilda made signs with her fingers. The young man nodded and gestured back. Lady Mathilda’s face softened, reminding Corbett of a doting mother with a favoured child.
‘This is my squire,’ she announced proudly. ‘Master Moth.’ She smiled at Corbett. ‘I am sorry if I was brusque, sir, but when Master Moth is not with me -’ her eyes slid towards the Sheriff ‘- I become afeared for him.’ She patted Master Moth’s hand. ‘He’s a deaf mute; he has no tongue. He can neither read nor write. An orphan, a foundling, who was left at Sparrow Hall. He’s the son I never had but wished I could.’ She turned and made more signs. The young man responded and pointed at the window. ‘Master Sheriff,’ Lady Mathilda snapped. ‘It’s time we were gone before our cart goes without us! Sir Hugh?’ She rose. ‘You’ll be our guest tonight?’
Corbett nodded.
‘And I suppose the questioning will begin?’
‘Yes, madam, it will.’
Lady Mathilda grasped Moth’s arm and hobbled towards the door.
‘Come on, Master Sheriff,’ she snapped. ‘You wish us gone and so do we!’
Sir Walter bade his farewells to Corbett and followed, shouting over his shoulder that, if Corbett wished to speak to him, he knew where to find him. Corbett waited until their footfalls faded in the distance.
‘A pretty pottage, eh, Ranulf?’ he asked. ‘Hate and resentments all round.’
‘Does anyone in Oxford, Sir Hugh, love anyone else?’
Corbett smiled wryly and moved to the window. He stared down into the castle yard and glimpsed Sir Walter and his party making their way to the corpse chamber whilst Lady Braose sent Moth scurrying to fetch the cart.
‘I thought it strange,’ he murmured. ‘Do you realise, Ranulf? A bursar at Sparrow Hall was chased by a mob of students and forced to take sanctuary in a church where he was later poisoned, but no one asked why. No one showed any grief. Oh, they came to collect the corpse but they acted as if they’d returned for some forgotten baggage. Now, why is that, eh?’
‘Perhaps Passerel was disliked?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett licked his lips and realised how hungry and thirsty he had become. ‘Come, we’ll break our fast in some tavern and then go to the hostelry to see what awaits us.’
‘You have not answered your own question, Master?’
Corbett stopped, his hand on the latch of the door.
‘I wager a tun of wine to a barrel of malmsey that, before long, Passerel will be depicted as a murderer, maybe even the Bellman and - if we are foolish enough to swallow that - that the Bellman will remain silent until we are out of Oxford.’
Chapter 4
Two hours later, as the rain clouds began to gather, Corbett and his party arrived at Sparrow Hall in Pilchard Lane. The college itself was a gracious, three-storeyed building with a grey slate roof capping yellow sandstone bricks; it boasted a fine main door with a large oriel window above it. The other windows were square and broad, with coloured glass filling the mullions. The hostelry on the other side of the lane was more nondescript. Apparently, its founder had bought three four-storey mansions, each with a brick base, the upper storeys of plaster and wooden beams, and had connected the houses by makeshift wooden galleries. The hostelry lacked the grace of the Hall; some of the windows were shuttered, and others were covered by horn paper.
Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote went down a side lane and into the rear yard, its chipped cobbles covered in mud. This housed stables, forges and store rooms. Scholars, in various forms of dress, lounged in the open doorways. An ostler came across to take their horses. As Corbett dismounted, the scholars took a deeper interest in them, clustering together, whispering and pointing. A brick flew well above their heads and a voice in a Welsh accent shouted, ‘The royal dogs have arrived!’
Ranulf’s hand went to his dagger. The yard fell silent. More students now thronged about. A tall, thickset, young man, languidly pushing back a mop of hair from his ruddy face, sauntered across. He was dressed in the garb of a commoner: tight-fitting hose, soft leather boots, a white cambric shirt covered by a robe which fell just above a protuberant codpiece. He wore a broad leather war belt round his waist, from which a sword and dagger hung, pushed through rings. As he sauntered over, others followed.
The ostler hastily l
ed the horses away, whilst the students ringed Corbett and his companions.
‘It’s a fine day,’ Corbett declared, throwing his cloak back over his shoulders so the students could see his sword. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your studies? The Trivium, the Quadrivium, Grammar and Logic? In the immortal words of Aristotle: “Seeking truth and turning the will to good”.’
The leader of the scholars stopped, nonplussed. He would have liked to have quipped back in the time-honoured fashion. Corbett wagged a finger at him.
‘You have been neglecting your horn book, sir.’
‘That’s correct,’ the young man replied languidly, his voice betraying a soft, Welsh accent. ‘Hall life has been disturbed by the comings and goings of inquisitive, royal clerks.’
‘In which case,’ Ranulf spoke up, stepping forward, ‘you can join us at Woodstock to debate the matter in front of His Grace the King.’
‘Edward of England does not concern me,’ the fellow replied, grinning over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Llewellyn and David are our Princes.’
‘That’s treason,’ Ranulf retorted.
The student leader took a step forward. ‘My name is David Ap Thomas,’ he declared sternly. ‘What’s the matter, clerk, don’t you like the Welsh?’
‘I love them,’ Corbett replied, putting a restraining hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I am married to the Lady Maeve Ap Llewellyn. Her Uncle Morgan is my kinsman. Yes, I have fought the Welsh; but they were resolute fighters - not bullyboys.’
The scholar stared at him, surprised.
‘Now,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Either stand out of my way, sir...!’
‘Leave him be, ap Thomas!’ a voice shouted.
Richard Norreys shouldered his way through the crowd. The scholars dispersed, not because of Norreys’s arrival, but due to Corbett’s claim to kinship with one of the leading families of South Wales. Norreys was apologetic as he led them across the yard into the downstairs parlour of the hostelry. The passageway was rather dirty, its whitewashed walls marked and stained, but the parlour itself was comfortable. The sandstone floor was scrubbed, and tapestries, shields and weapons hung on the walls. Norreys ushered them across to a table, flicking his fingers at a servitor to bring goblets of white wine and a dish of sugared almonds.
‘I must apologise for Ap Thomas.’ He breathed heavily as he sat down at the table beside Corbett. ‘He’s a Welsh noble and likes to play the part of the swaggart.’
‘Are there many Welsh here?’ Ranulf asked.
‘A good number,’ Norreys replied. ‘When Henry Braose founded the Hall and bought this hostelry, special provision was made in the Foundation Charter for scholars from the shires of South Wales.’ Norreys smiled. ‘Henry felt guilty about the Welsh he killed but... don’t we all, Sir Hugh?’
For a while they discussed the King’s campaigns in Wales. Norreys recalled the mist-filled valleys, treacherous marshes, sudden ambuscades and the soft-footed Welsh fighters, who would steal into the King’s camp at night to cut a throat or take a head.
‘You served there long?’ Corbett asked.
‘Aye, for some time,’ Norreys replied. He spread his hands. ‘That’s how I received preferment here. A benefice for services rendered.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its nook beside the fireplace. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, we are expected at the Hall at seven o’clock and Master ‘Tripham’s a stickler for punctuality.’ He got to his feet. ‘I have chambers for you,’ Norreys continued. ‘Two chambers on the second floor.’
He led them out and up a wooden staircase. Now and again they had to pause as students rushed by, horn books in their hands, sacks or bags slung over their shoulders.
‘The afternoon schools,’ Norreys explained. He then began to describe how Braose had bought three great mansions with cellars and chambers and united them to form the hostelry.
‘Oh yes, we have everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘Garrets for the commoners, dormitories for the servitors, chambers for the bachelors. All those who have the money to pay.’ He glimpsed Maltote perspiring under the weight of the heavy saddle bags he carried. ‘But come on, come on.’
Norreys led them up to the second gallery. The passageway was dull and damp, the walls mildewed. He pushed open the doors of two rooms; both were no more than austere monastic cells. The first had two truckle beds; the other, Corbett’s, a mattress on the floor. It also possessed a table, chair, chest, two candlesticks and a crucifix on the wall.
‘It’s the best we can do,’ Norreys mumbled. He glanced shamefacedly at Corbett. ‘Sir Hugh, you are not really welcome here, you must know that.’ He hastened on, ‘If it grows cold, I can have braziers brought up. For heaven’s sake, watch the candles, we live in mortal fear of fire. The refectory and tap room are on the ground floor, though Master Tripham will probably invite you to eat at the Hall.’
‘If we could have some water?’ Corbett asked. ‘My companions and I would like to wash.’
Norreys agreed and left them.
Muttering and cursing under their breath, Ranulf and Maltote made themselves as comfortable as possible. Corbett placed the few possessions he had brought in a small battered chest under the arrow slit window. His writing bag he hid under the bolster of his pillow before he went to see Ranulf and Maltote. He stood in the doorway and grinned: Maltote was already fast asleep on his bed, curled up like a child; Ranulf squatted to the side of him, glowering at the wall.
‘Don’t say you wish you were back at Leighton,’ Corbett teased.
‘I can see why you told us to bring little or nothing of value,’ Ranulf replied without turning his head.
‘At Oxford,’ Corbett said, ‘students are not thieves, they are like jackdaws. If they want something, they take it. I began my first Trinity term here in one set of clothes and finished it in another.’
A servant brought up two pewter bowls and jugs of water. Corbett returned to his own chamber. He washed his face and hands, rested for a while and was drifting off to sleep when he was roused by the harsh ringing of a bell. He rose, put his sword belt on and decided to wander around the hostelry. The sprawling mansion immediately reminded Corbett of the maze in Queen Eleanor’s garden at Winchester: there were passageways and galleries, stairways and steps leading hither and thither, past chambers, offices, store rooms - a veritable warren. It was none too clean, reeking of burnt oil and boiled cabbage. He went down to the refectory, a long, white-washed chamber with tables and benches placed along the walls. A few students lounged there, arguing loudly, whilst others lay fast asleep on the rushes in the corner. A servant came over and asked if he wished something to drink but Corbett refused. He went along a passageway and stopped before a great, iron-studded door. He tried the handle but the door was locked.
‘Can I help you?’ Norreys came running up, a bunch of keys jangling in his hand.
‘I’m fascinated by your hostelry, Master Norreys. It’s a veritable warren.’
‘It could be better,’ Norreys replied. ‘But the Masters of the Hall are reluctant to spend more silver.’ He pointed to the door. ‘That leads to the cellars and store rooms. It is kept firmly locked, otherwise the students would steal wine and beer and help themselves to the stores. Do you want to go down? I must warn you, it’s no better than the hostelry itself and you’ll need a candle.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘What were these houses before?’
‘They belonged to a wine merchant. One of the houses was used for storage, and the merchant and his company lived in the other two. And there’s the yard and the cellars beneath.’
‘No gardens?’
‘Oh no, the price of land is rising, Sir Hugh. Five years ago Master Copsale sold the garden plots to the City Council.’
Corbett thanked him and returned to his own chamber. Ranulf and Maltote were awake. After they had unpacked their belongings, they dressed and followed Corbett out of the hostelry into the lane. They paused as a friar hurried by pushing a wheelbarrow, with a sheeted corpse lyin
g in it. Beside the friar went a young boy, struggling to keep a candle alight: at every step the altar boy took, a bell, slung on a cord round his waist, tinkled as a warning. Corbett blessed himself and stared up at the windows of the Halls opposite. The sky was still overcast and he glimpsed the glow of candles. Three debtors, chained together and released from the city prison, hobbled along, begging bowls in their hands. A drunken bailiff swayed behind them; he cursed and yelled as a group of children knocked against him in pursuit of a little monkey dressed in a small jacket and a bell cap. They were throwing sticks and stones and, in turn, were chased by the relic-seller whom Corbett had met earlier at the castle. Corbett tossed a coin into one of the beggars’ bowls and waited for the mêlée to pass before making his way across and up the lane. He pulled hard at the bell outside the main door of the Hall: this was swung open, and a smiling Master Moth beckoned them in. Corbett was immediately struck by the contrast between the Hall and the hostelry: here, bright oaken wainscoting covered most of the walls, above this hung coloured cloths and tapestries; rush matting lay across the paving stones; candles glowed in brass holders and small, tin pots, full of fragrant herbs, were placed on shelves or in comers.
Moth led them silently into the parlour, which was a comfortable, cosy chamber. Tripham and Lady Mathilda were sitting in box chairs before the fire. Moth, helped by a servant, brought stools for Corbett and his companions. Greetings were stiffly exchanged, the offer of wine and small portions of toasted cheese made and taken. Tripham must have caught Ranulf’s sardonic glance at the luxuries round the room: the tapestries, Turkish rugs, pewter and silver pots glistening on shelves; the small, metal coffers and three long chests standing under a table in one corner.