by Paul Doherty
They left the city by a postern gate, following a dry, dusty path out past a straggling line of cottages and vegetable gardens. The darkness gathered round them. Soon all the noise and clamour of the city was left behind. The evening was cool, the sky clear and there was little sound, except the clink of arms or the odd flurry of some animal in the hedgerow or ditch. Some of the soldiers began to complain, but when Bullock turned, fist raised, they fell silent. At length they left the path and followed a trackway into the forest. The trees closed round them. The sounds of the forest became more intense: the hoot of a screech owl, the cry of a night hawk, quick thrusting rustles from the undergrowth. Corbett and Ranulf, with Maltote hobbling behind them, tried to keep up with Bullock’s striding gait. The forest grew deeper, branches extending like stark fingers to catch the ghostly moonlight. Boletus came hopping back, moving soundlessly. He held his hand up and whispered to Bullock who ordered his soldiers to fan out. The line of men moved forward slowly. Corbett sniffed the air. He smelt wood smoke, the rather unsavoury smell of burning meat, and glimpsed the glow of fire amongst the trees. The beat of a drum came faintly through the night air. As they drew closer, the trees thinned, the ground dipped and they looked down into a glade. Corbett watched fascinated as Bullock whispered rebukes to his men who were beginning to laugh and make obscene remarks. The glade was full of dancing, naked figures. Four fires had been lit and around these naked men and women cavorted. The musicians couldn’t be seen, though Corbett glimpsed a group cooking meats over another fire at the far end of the glade.
‘It’s like some mummers’ play,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘In God’s name, what is that?’
A cowled, masked figure walked forward, dressed in a grey robe on which had been painted a large human eye.
‘Master,’ Ranulf had to stop himself laughing, ‘I don’t think this is what we thought it was.’
Beside Corbett, Bullock rose, drawing his sword.
‘I don’t give a bugger!’ he said. ‘I’m hungry: there’s wine down there and some of those young ladies are very attractive.’
Bullock began to run forward, his men following. They were into the glade before the dancing stopped.
Corbett, who had motioned Ranulf and Maltote to stay behind, realised Bullock had underestimated his opponents. The dancers may have been drunk and caught unawares but they were well armed. Swords and daggers were drawn, staves produced and the glade became a battleground. Even the women joined in: Corbett saw one burly lady, a quarterstaff in her hand, send two of Bullock’s men crashing to the ground.
‘I suppose we had better help,’ Ranulf whispered.
Corbett reluctantly agreed. However, by the time they had reached the glade, the masked figure had been knocked to the ground and his crudely fashioned satyr mask pulled off his face. David Ap Thomas glared up at Corbett.
‘You bloody, snooping crow!’
He vainly kicked out at the two archers now lashing his thumbs together behind his back.
All round them the sound of fighting began to die. There were about fourteen scholars and two whores; the rest, including the pimp Vardel, having decided that discretion was the better part of valour, had fled deeper into the forest. Some of Bullock’s men were complaining of cuts and bruises. Nevertheless, they helped themselves to roasted strips of meat and drank greedily from the jugs of wine. Once they were finished, they led their prisoners off in single file back along the forest path.
Bullock was a cruel captor. Most of the prisoners had been allowed to don some form of dress but boots and shoes had been thrown into a bag and the night air was riven by curses, oaths and a stream of filthy abuse from the ladies of the town. The soldiers shoved and taunted back. Ap Thomas was loud in his protests.
‘There is no law against it!’ he cried.
‘What exactly were you doing?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, kiss the Devil’s arse!’ Ap Thomas snarled.
They entered Oxford by a postern gate and made their way up into the castle. Bullock, now full of himself and eager to tell the University authorities of what he had found, declared they were all his prisoners and must spend time in the castle dungeon. The students, led by Ap Thomas, loudly protested; the whores, more pragmatic, began to smile and wink at their captors. Bullock led his line of prisoners away. Corbett and his companions watched them go, listening to the shouts fade on the night air, before they made their way back to Sparrow Hall.
The doorkeeper let them into the hostelry, loudly grumbling at the late hour. Corbett ignored him. He knew the fellow had probably been bribed by Ap Thomas to wait up to let the scholars back in so he let the man remain innocent of what had happened.
Once back in Corbett’s chamber, Ranulf washed and bathed the bruise on his right hand. Maltote sat on the floor, nursing his shin, grumbling at how the night march had aggravated the injury.
‘It was a waste of time,’ Corbett declared, pulling off his cloak and unbuckling his war belt. ‘Our good friend Ap Thomas is probably guilty of nothing more than being involved in petty pagan rites which are, I suppose, as good an excuse as any for debauchery.’
‘There was nothing remarkable in the glade,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘Bread, wine, some meat: a yellowing skull which probably belonged to someone who was long in his grave when my grandfather was born.’ He shook his head. ‘And I thought Ap Thomas might have been guilty of more serious crimes.’
‘I wonder?’ Corbett sat down on the bed. ‘I wonder if the Bellman knows what happened tonight because, if he does, I think he’ll strike. He knows we are tired and weary after our wild-goose chase. Our good Sheriff, on the other hand, will spend the night thoroughly enjoying himself interrogating Ap Thomas and the other scholars whom he detests.’
‘Shouldn’t we watch Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Or, at least, the alleyways at the back? See who comes and goes? We could draw lots,’ he suggested.
‘I’ll go.’ Maltote, face pulled long, clambered to his feet.
‘But your ankle?’ Corbett said.
‘I slept well this morning,’ Maltote replied. ‘And I don’t think I can sleep now, not with this pain. What hour do you think it is?’
‘About midnight, perhaps a little earlier.’
‘I’ll take the first watch.’
Maltote hobbled out of the room, his war belt slung over his shoulder.
‘Should one of us go with him?’ Ranulf asked.
‘He’ll be safe,’ Corbett replied. ‘Go after him, Ranulf. Tell him to stand and watch, keeping deep in the shadows and, if he gets tired, to return. Our doorkeeper will think he is one of Ap Thomas’s companions.’
Ranulf left and Corbett lay down on the bed. He meant to keep awake but his eyes grew heavy and he slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Ranulf returned and pulled off his master’s boots. He placed the cloak over him, blew out the candle and went to his own chamber. He struck a tinder, the meagre oil lamp flaring into light, and opened the Confessions of St Augustine.
‘Thou has made us, O Lord, for Thyself and our hearts can find no rest until they rest with Thee.’
Ranulf closed his eyes. He would remember that. He would quote it the next time that Master Long Face entertained some pompous prelate or knowledgeable priest. Oh yes, everyone would shake their heads in silent wonderment at the change in Ranulf-atte-Newgate.
In the alleyway behind Sparrow Hall, Maltote squatted and wondered how long Sir Hugh would keep them in Oxford. Unlike Ranulf, Maltote could have lived and died at Leighton. Up at dawn, Maltote would happily stay in the stables until darkness fell and he dropped with exhaustion. He glanced up at the dark mass of Sparrow Hall and saw the faint pinpricks of candlelight. The wall around the hall garden was high and Maltote kept his eye on the postern gate. If anyone left, he was certain it would be through that door. A hunting cat slipped by. Maltote watched it climb the midden-heap next to the wall: a furry shape shot out, and both that and the cat disappeared into the darkness.
/> Maltote stared up at the stars and grinned. He’d enjoyed this night’s foray into the forest. He could not believe his eyes at the sight of some of those ladies! Maltote licked his lips. He’d not told even Ranulf that he was still a virgin. He’d once loved a girl, a miller’s daughter, who lived near Leighton Manor, and he’d taken some flowers to her but she had laughed when Maltote became red-faced and tongue-tied. Perhaps, when he returned, he’d go and visit her again? Maltote heard a sound and opened his eyes. The postern door was still firmly shut. He got to his feet, narrowing his eyes at the dark shape shuffling towards him: his hand fell to the dagger on his belt.
‘Who’s there? Who are you?’ Maltote called.
A clack dish rattled, and Maltote relaxed. The beggar drew near, dish out. Maltote fished in his purse - he had a coin somewhere. Perhaps the man would be company to while away the night hours? He looked up and the dish hit him straight in the face. Maltote staggered back, hitting his head against the wall. He lurched forward but his assailant was too quick, the dagger came up, sharp and cruel, ripping into Maltote’s belly. The groom screamed at the pain, one hand clutching his stomach, the other clawing the air. He fell, his head smashing against the cobbles, as the beggar shuffled off into the darkness.
The next morning Corbett was awakened by a pounding on the door. He pulled it open, to find Norreys standing there. Ranulf also came out of his room, tugging his boots on.
‘Sir Hugh!’ Norreys swallowed hard. ‘You have got to come to the Hall, it’s Maltote!’
Corbett cursed.
‘He never came back,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘I was supposed to take over.’
‘He’s dying,’ Norreys declared. ‘Sir Hugh, your servant is dying. Master Churchley has him in the infirmary but there’s nothing we can do.’
Corbett gaped at him. He crossed his arms against the cold he felt. Ranulf, however, had already pushed by them, pounding down the stairs. Corbett put his boots on, grabbed his cloak and went down with Norreys across the lane to Sparrow Hall.
Churchley was waiting for them in the parlour, the other Masters grouped around him. He opened his mouth to explain but then beckoned at them to follow and led them up the stairs to a white-washed chamber. Maltote was lying on a bed just inside the door. His face was as white as the sheet tucked under his chin, his eyes were half-closed and a faint trickle of blood snaked out of the corner of his mouth. Ranulf pulled the blankets down and groaned at the sight of the soggy, bloody mess of bandages Churchley had tied round Maltote’s stomach.
‘I did my best,’ the physician explained.
Maltote turned, his eyes flickering open. He spluttered, his arms flailing feebly beside him. Corbett leaned down to hear the words he gasped.
‘I’m thirsty. Master, the pain ...’
‘Who did it?’ Corbett asked.
‘The beggar. No face. Silent as a shadow.’
Corbett fought back the tears of rage.
‘I’m dying, aren’t I?’
Corbett grabbed Maltote’s hand, which was icy cold to the touch.
‘Don’t lie,’ Maltote whispered. ‘I am not frightened or, at least, not yet.’ His face tightened as a spasm of pain caught him.
‘I have given him an opiate,’ Churchley declared. He beckoned Corbett away from the bed. ‘Sir Hugh, you must have seen such belly wounds on battlefields. The opiate soon wears off and when it does the pain will be terrible and he’ll have a raging thirst.’
‘Is there anything you can do?’
Churchley shook his head. ‘Sir Hugh, I am a physician not a miracle worker. He will literally bleed to death and do so in great agony.’
Corbett closed his eyes, breathing in slowly. He went back to Maltote.
‘Do you want a priest?’ he asked.
Maltote struggled to answer. ‘Father Luke shrived me before I left Leighton but if I could have the sacrament?’
Tripham came into the room. ‘Sir Hugh, I apologise for disturbing you but there’s a royal messenger waiting for you at the hostelry with messages from the King at Woodstock. I have already sent for Father Vincent,’ he added. ‘He’s on his way.’
Corbett went back to the bed. He squeezed Maltote’s hand and kissed him gently on the forehead. He then wiped the tears from his own face and hurried out, whispering at Ranulf to stay.
A short while later Father Vincent arrived, a little boy walking in front of him carrying a lighted candle and bell. Over the priest’s shoulders hung a gold-fringed silver cope with an Agnus Dei in the centre. Churchley left the room but Ranulf remained. The service was short: Father Vincent gave Maltote the final absolution and administered the small Eucharistic wafer from a silver pyx. He then took a golden phial out of his pocket and anointed with holy oil Maltote’s eyes, mouth, hands, chest and feet. The little boy stood like a waxen statue. The priest never even looked at Ranulf but, immersed in the sombre liturgy for the dying, finished the anointing. Afterwards he knelt by the bed and recited the De Profundis: ‘Out of the depths, O Lord, have I cried unto Thee.’
Ranulf found himself echoing the words. Only when this was finished did Father Vincent turn and acknowledge Ranulf’s presence.
‘I am sorry.’ He grasped Ranulf’s hand and looked back at the bed where Maltote, the opiate now wearing off, was beginning to twist and turn in pain. ‘Is there anything more I can do?’
Ranulf blinked back his own tears. He took off his boot and pulled out a gold piece from the hidden flap.
‘Say Masses for him,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Say Masses until Michaelmas.’
The priest would have given the coin back but Ranulf insisted he took it.
Father Vincent, with the little boy ringing his small hand-bell, made his way down the passageway and out of the hall. Others came - Appleston and Dame Mathilda - but Ranulf turned them away, bolting the door behind them. He crouched by the bed and grasped Maltote’s hand. The groom turned. Ranulf’s heart lurched at the agony in the cornflower-blue eyes.
‘Will there be horses in heaven?’ Maltote asked.
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf replied hoarsely. ‘Of course there will be!’
Maltote opened his mouth to laugh but the pain was too intense, and his body arched.
‘I’m frightened, Ranulf. In Scotland ... remember?’ he gasped. ‘That archer who had a spear thrust in the belly? He took days to die!’
‘I’m here,’ Ranulf replied.
He pulled back the blankets. Maltote’s stomach was now a vast red puddle, blood soaking into the sheets and mattress beneath. Ranulf closed his eyes. He recalled one of Augustine’s maxims, when the philosopher had been quoting from the Gospels: ‘Judge all others, treat all others as you would want them to judge and treat you.’ Ranulf got up, walked to the door and beckoned Churchley in.
‘You are a physician, Master Aylric,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘I’ll be blunt. I have heard of apothecaries who can distil a powder which gives eternal sleep.’
Churchley glanced at Maltote who was now thrashing about on the bed, moaning softly.
‘I can’t do that!’ he declared.
‘I can,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘There’s no dignity in bleeding to death.’ Ranulf’s hand fell to his dagger.
‘Don’t threaten me!’ Churchley snapped.
‘I never make threats, only promises!’ Ranulf snarled. He took off his boot, plucked out a gold piece and pressed this into the Master’s hand. ‘I want you to bring it now!’ he ordered. ‘A small cup of wine and the powder I need. I know you must have it.’
Churchley was about to refuse but then he scuttled off. Ranulf went back and knelt by the bed, holding Maltote’s hand, making soothing noises as he would to a child. Churchley returned, a pewter cup in one hand, a small pouch in the other.
‘No more than a sprinkling,’ Churchley whispered. He thrust both into Ranulf’s hand and fled from the room.
Ranulf bolted the door. He opened the pouch and poured half the contents into the wine, swirling it round. He went back to
the bed and lifted Maltote up by the shoulders.
‘Don’t say anything,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Just drink.’
He put the cup to Maltote’s lips. Maltote sipped, coughing and retching. Ranulf brought the cup back and his friend drank greedily. Ranulf lowered him back on the bed. Maltote grinned weakly.
‘I know what you have done,’ he whispered. ‘And I would have done the same. Ranulf ...?’ he paused, tightening his lips. ‘Ranulf, yesterday when I went to the castle...’ he gasped. ‘I passed a group of scholars ... They were arguing ... one of them asked if there was a divine intelligence?’
‘People without intelligence always ask that,’ Ranulf replied smoothly.
He bent down and stroked Maltote’s cheek. The young man’s eyes were already becoming glazed, his face slack. Maltote grasped Ranulf’s hand and held it. Maltote shuddered once and closed his eyes, his face turned away and his jaw fell slack. Ranulf leaned down and felt for the blood pulse in his neck but it was gone. He turned Maltote’s face, kissed him on the brow and then pulled the blanket up over the corpse.
‘God speed you, Ralph Maltote,’ he prayed. ‘May the angels welcome you into Paradise. I hope there is a divine intelligence,’ he added bitterly, ‘because there’s bugger all down here!’
For a while Ranulf knelt by the bed and tried to pray but found it impossible to concentrate. He kept remembering Maltote grooming the horses and his friend’s total inability to handle a weapon without hurting himself. He cried for a while and realised this was the first time he had done so since the city bailiffs had tossed his mother’s corpse into the burial pits near Charterhouse. Ranulf dried his eyes. He emptied the rest of the wine into the rushes, put the small bag of powder into his wallet and left the chamber.