Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Very shrewd,’ Lady Mathilda taunted. ‘But where’s the real proof? The evidence for the Justices?’

  ‘You have heard some of it.’

  ‘Mere bird droppings!’ Lady Mathilda scoffed. ‘You can peck and poke to your heart’s content, Master Crow, but you’ll find no juicy tidbits.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t started yet,’ Corbett replied, looking round the room. ‘I’ll have you imprisoned in the cellar, Lady Mathilda. Then I and Master Bullock will go through this chamber.’ He smiled into Lady Mathilda’s face. ‘We’ll eventually find the evidence we need: pen, ink, parchment. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, the anchorite at St Michael’s Church, the one you wished you’d dealt with—’ Corbett stared boldly lest she detected he was lying. ‘The anchorite saw Master Moth go into the church with the poisoned wine.’

  Lady Mathilda brought back her head. ‘It was too dark! Black as night. How could she see anybody in that gloom?’

  ‘Who said the anchorite was in her cell?’ Corbett lied. ‘She was just within the doorway. She gave me a description which fits Master Moth. She then recalled,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘the same person pinning the Bellman’s proclamations to the door of St Michael’s Church.’

  ‘You are lying!’

  ‘I’m not.’ Corbett drew in his breath for his greatest lie. ‘You see the night Moth went to St Michael’s, he dropped the mallet. Magdalena, hearing the sound, came down from her cell above the porch. She peered through a crack and saw him: the same dark hood and cowl, that boyish, innocent face.’ Corbett rose to his feet to ease the cramp in his legs. ‘I shall tell you what will happen now, Lady Mathilda: I’ll go before the Royal Justices and provide them with the same evidence I have laid before you. They may not issue a warrant for your arrest but they’ll certainly be interested in Master Moth.’ He sat back in his chair. Ranulf was still staring at Lady Mathilda with the same fixed look. ‘You know the mind of the King,’ Corbett continued. ‘He’ll show no mercy. Master Moth will be taken downriver to the Tower and into its dark, dank dungeons. The King’s torturers will be instructed to apply their finest arts.’

  ‘He’s a deaf mute!’ Lady Mathilda cried.

  ‘He is an intelligent and malicious young man,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And your accomplice in murder.’

  ‘He killed Maltote,’ Ranulf declared, stepping forward. ‘He killed my friend. You have my word, Lady Mathilda, that I will join the King’s torturers. They’ll question and question until Master Moth agrees to tell the truth.’

  ‘Do you want that to happen to Master Moth?’ Corbett asked quietly.

  Now Lady Mathilda bowed her head. ‘I’d forgotten about that,’ she murmured. ‘I’d forgotten about Master Moth.’ Lady Mathilda glanced up. ‘What would happen if I told you what I know?’

  ‘I am sure that the King would be merciful,’ Corbett replied, ignoring Ranulf’s black looks.

  Lady Mathilda pulled up the cuffs of her sleeves. She leaned back in her chair, turning sideways to stare into the cold ash of the fire hearth.

  ‘Put not your trust in princes, Master Corbett,’ she began. ‘Forty years ago, I, and my brother Henry, were scholars here in Oxford. My father, a merchant, hired a master and I joined Henry in his studies. The years passed and Henry became a clerk at the royal court.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Something like yourself, Sir Hugh. I went with him. The old king was still alive but Prince Edward and my brother became firm friends. Then came the civil war with de Montfort threatening to tear the kingdom apart. Many of the court left to join him but my brother and I held fast. I went into London to spy for the King’. She turned in the chair. ‘I risked my life and gave my body so the King could learn the secrets of his enemies. I listened to conversations, picking up information, for who would believe that the pretty little courtesan in the corner thought about anything but wine and silken robes? My brother stayed with the King. He was instrumental in organising Edward’s escape and was always in the thick of the fight. After the war—’ Lady Mathilda waved her hand. ‘Oh, you know Edward. He showered us with gifts, anything we wanted: manors, fields, granges and treasures.’ She looked at Corbett squarely. ‘Brother Henry became sick of the bloodshed and the carnage. He didn’t want to spend his life in some manor house, hunting, fishing and stuffing himself with food and wine. He had this vision of an Oxford college, a Hall of learning. What Henry wanted, so did I. I loved him, Corbett.’ She glanced at Ranulf. ‘I had more passion, Red Hair, in my little finger than you have in your entire body.’

  ‘Continue,’ Corbett said, wary lest Ranulf be provoked.

  ‘The years passed,’ Lady Mathilda continued. ‘The college grew from strength to strength. My brother and I spent all our wealth. Then Henry grew ill, and when he died, this pack of weasels turned on his memory.’ Her voice rose to a mocking chant: “‘We don’t want this and we don’t want that!” “What a name for an Oxford college!” “Shouldn’t its statutes of government be changed?” I watched them,’ she added contemptuously. ‘I could see what was going on in their heads: as soon as I died and my body was dumped in some grave, they’d begin to dismantle Sparrow Hall and re-fashion it in their own way. I appealed to Edward for help but he was too busy slaughtering the Scots. I asked for confirmation of my brother’s foundation charter, only to receive a letter from some snivelling clerk saying that the King would attend to the matter on his return to London.’ Lady Mathilda paused, breathing quickly. ‘Where were the King’s promises then, eh, Corbett? How could he ever forget what the Braose family had done for him? Never trust a Plantagenet! One afternoon I was in the library, leafing through that book you found in Appleston’s chamber and the memories flooded back.’ She shook her head, lips moving soundlessly, as if unaware of Corbett.

  ‘And you decided to become the Bellman?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I thought I’d raise the demons in the King’s soul. So I began to copy out the proclamations. It took days, but about a baker’s dozen were done and Master Moth was despatched to display them.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Poor boy! He didn’t really understand what I was doing but he was the perfect weapon. If he was stopped he could act the beggar. Who’d ever be suspicious of a deaf mute? I showed him the mark of the bell and he carried a little bag of nails and a mallet.’ She clapped her hands in glee. ‘Oh, I felt such relief!’ She smiled in satisfaction. ‘Then I wrote to the King telling him about the traitor at Sparrow Hall and that I would search him out.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, I had his attention then! The King was all ears! There were couriers and letters sent under the Privy Seal to his “dear and loyal cousin Mathilda”. I never meant to kill,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘but I made a mistake. The King might have been frightened but Copsale wasn’t. He was intent on changes here and he didn’t like me. Everyone knew he had a weak heart so his death would not appear suspicious. I raided Churchley’s store room of potions and helped Master Copsale to his higher reward.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it would end there,’ she continued in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘I really did, but old Ascham was sharper than I thought. He was suspicious of both Appleston and me: he began to hint and make allusions, sometimes I would catch him watching me at the table. He had to die. It was so easy. I slipped into the garden with Master Moth. He tapped on the shutters, and when Robert opened them, I loosened the bolt, threw in that note, closed the window and slammed the shutters close: the bar, freshly oiled by Master Moth, fell into place.’

  ‘And Passerel?’

  Lady Mathilda smiled. ‘At first I couldn’t understand the meaning of what Ascham had written but then I saw how I could use it. I realised Passerel might have learnt something from Ascham. Our bursar was an agitated little man and forty days in a lonely church can be a powerful prick to the memory.’ She shrugged. ‘The rest you know. I really thought it would end with Appleston’s death.’ She wagged her finger at Corbett. ‘But, of course, you changed all that: the King’s clever, little crow hopping about, protected by his bullyboy.’

>   ‘Why did you kill Maltote?’ Corbett asked grimly.

  She raised her hand in a mock innocent gesture but her eyes showed no contrition.

  ‘The Lord be my witness: I told Master Moth never to be taken.’ She straightened in the chair, smoothing out the pleats of her dress. She breathed in noisily, her eyes never leaving Corbett. ‘You have my confession, master clerk. So what will happen now, eh? Edward will not put me before the King’s Bench. He’ll remember the old days -’ she preened ‘- and the good service I did for the crown: I am afraid it will be some nunnery for Lady Mathilda.’

  ‘I need some wine,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘Sir Hugh, a cup of claret?’

  Corbett was only too pleased to have Ranulf out of the room.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘And one for me, lackey!’ Lady Mathilda snapped.

  Ranulf glanced at Corbett who nodded.

  ‘And don’t worry,’ Lady Mathilda called after him, ‘there’ll be no more poison.’

  Ranulf left, and Lady Mathilda started to rise.

  ‘Madam, I would prefer it if you sat.’

  Lady Mathilda did so.

  ‘Can I remind you, clerk, that the King addresses me as “His loyal and dearest cousin”, not to mention your promise of mercy. I do not want to be arrested by that buffoon of a sheriff but taken to Woodstock. I’ll go in black, and throw myself at the King’s feet: he’ll not forget Henry or his Mathilda.’

  The door opened and Ranulf returned. He served the wine. Corbett sipped his and Lady Mathilda drank greedily as Ranulf sat down with his back to the door. She looked over her cup at Corbett.

  ‘You’ll take me to Woodstock, Corbett. You promised me mercy and I know that your word is your bond. You’ll repeat your promise before the King: Edward will understand.’

  ‘And Master Moth?’ Ranulf interrupted.

  ‘He will accompany me: he’s my servant.’ She didn’t even bother to turn her head.

  ‘Bullock is downstairs with Master Moth,’ Ranulf announced. ‘The sheriff wishes to have words with us; he said it was a most urgent matter.’

  Corbett looked at Lady Mathilda. He felt uneasy. Ranulf’s silence and grim face made the hair on the nape of his neck curl in fear.

  ‘Take him with you,’ Lady Mathilda said.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry!’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘Ranulf is very particular about the company he keeps. We’ll take the key out and lock you in.’

  Ranulf looked as if he was about to refuse but rose to his feet. He took the key out of the lock and opened the door. Corbett was half-way through before he realised his mistake. Ranulf gave him a push, sending him hurtling across the gallery. The door slammed shut, and was locked and bolted.

  ‘Ranulf!’ Corbett threw himself against the door but the metal embosses on the outside only hurt his shoulder. ‘Ranulf!’ he shouted. ‘For the love of God, I order you to open!’

  Inside the chamber, however, Corbett might have been at the furthest end of the earth. Lady Mathilda half rose in alarm. Ranulf pushed her back in the seat. She watched his hand go to the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘You’ll not kill me?’ she whispered. ‘Not an old lady? The King’s dear cousin? You’ll not draw your steel on me?’

  ‘I’ll not stab you,’ Ranulf replied, coming to crouch beside her chair, his cup of wine still in his hand. ‘I want to tell you, Lady Mathilda, that you are no woman! You have no soul! You seethe with malice and hatred.’

  ‘And I toast you, Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’ She put the cup to her lips and sipped. Her eyes rounded in alarm as Ranulf, with a vice-like grip, seized her hand. He stood up, pushed back her head, forcing more wine down her throat.

  ‘And Ranulf-atte-Newgate toasts you!’ he hissed. ‘You asked for wine, you bitch, now drink deep of the poison!’

  She struggled but Ranulf held her fast.

  ‘You killed my friend, you malicious, murdering bitch! And, when I’ve finished with you, I’ll settle with Master Moth as well!’

  Ranulf ignored the pounding on the door and Corbett’s yells from outside. He held the cup firm, his eyes glaring in fury.

  ‘Never trust a Plantagenet,’ he whispered. ‘Drink the poison. Go down to hell and tell the Lord Satan that I, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, sent you there!’

  He drew his hand back. Lady Mathilda let the cup fall to her lap, the remains of the wine splashing out in a sinister stain. She rose to her feet, a hand to her throat.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Ranulf declared. ‘There’ll be no comfortable nunnery, no escape.’

  Even as he went to the door, Lady Mathilda, hands clutching her stomach, sank to the floor. Ranulf looked round and he saw her jerk once or twice as he turned the key.

  Corbett, Bullock and others were in the gallery outside. Ranulf stood aside and let them in. Corbett crouched by Lady Mathilda, feeling for the blood beat in her neck. He shook his head.

  ‘She was the King’s prisoner,’ Bullock declared softly.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it!’ Corbett gripped Ranulf’s shoulder.

  ‘I carried out royal justice,’ Ranulf retorted. He drew a parchment from the pocket of his doublet and handed it to Corbett. ‘I received this from Simon the clerk,’ Ranulf explained. ‘I have done nothing but what the King has ordered though, I must admit, I enjoyed it.’

  Corbett read the commission.

  To the Sheriff and Bailiffs of the town and our city of Oxford and to the proctors of the University, Edward the King sends greetings. Know you that, what our beloved and trusted clerk, Ranulf-Atte-Newgate, has done in and around the city of Oxford, he has done for the wellbeing of the Crown and the good governance of our realm. Given under our own hand, Teste me ipso, Edward the King.

  The writ bore the imprint of the royal Privy Seal. Corbett handed it to Bullock.

  ‘So be it,’ the Sheriff murmured. ‘What the King wants, the King must have.’ He handed the parchment back.

  Corbett grasped Ranulfs elbow to lead him out of the room.

  ‘What shall I do with her?’ Bullock shouted.

  ‘Bury her,’ Corbett replied. ‘Bury her fast. Let the priest sing a Mass.’

  ‘And Master Moth?’ Bullock got to his feet. ‘I read your postscript, my men are holding him downstairs.’

  ‘Take him to the castle,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s not to be manhandled or abused. You are to await the King’s pleasure.’

  He led Ranulf further down the corridor.

  ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’ Corbett faced him squarely. ‘Do you remember when I first met you? Dirty, starving and ready for the hangman’s cart?’

  ‘I remember it every day, Master. In my life I have had two friends: one I met that day, the other was poor Maltote. So, before you object, Sir Hugh, remember Maltote. That bitch,’ he spat out, ‘really had planned to spend the rest of her days in some comfortable nunnery! Justice has been done. Not according to your likes but, as Father Luke said when he hanged Boso, it’s what God wanted. She had killed and she would have killed again. Do you think she would have forgotten you, Master? Do you really think she’d have let you walk away? ’

  Corbett nodded. ‘Let’s go Ranulf,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go back to the Merry Maidens. Let’s drink some wine and toast Maltote. Tomorrow we will make final arrangements for the transport of his corpse, and then go to Woodstock and thence to Leighton.’

  They went downstairs, out into the lane. It was deserted but for Bullock’s men guarding both entrances. Ranulf was still justifying what he had done when they heard a cry from behind them. Corbett turned. Master Moth, hair flying, had broken free from his captors and was speeding silently towards them. He’d grabbed a crossbow from somewhere. Corbett stared in horror as he brought it up: he pushed Ranulf aside but, even as he did, he heard the catch click, saw the hatred in Moth’s face and knew he had miscalculated. Too late. The crossbow bolt took him high in the chest. Corbett’s body exploded in pain and he staggered back. Ranulf was now running forward, dagg
er drawn. Corbett collapsed to his knees. He watched Ranulf moving quickly, the macabre dance of the street fighter. He was heading for Moth. He suddenly switched the dagger from one hand to the other, swerved and, as he did, drove the blade deep into Moth’s stomach. Ranulf then whirled round, sword drawn, bringing it down in a sweeping cut, slicing into Moth’s neck. Corbett didn’t care: the pain was terrible. He could taste the blood at the back of his throat. People were running towards him, slowly, as if in a dream. Maeve was there, with little Eleanor clutching her skirts.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he whispered. ‘But, there again,’ he added, ‘neither should I.’

  And, closing his eyes, Sir Hugh Corbett, the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, collapsed on to the mud-strewn cobbles of Oxford.

  Author’s Note

  There used to be a Sparrow Hall in Oxford but it is long gone, merely a footnote in the history of that University. The University and the town of Oxford did support de Montfort during the civil war of the 1260s. King Edward I, to his dying day, had a deep and lasting hatred for the memory of his dead enemy: as in this novel, he ruthlessly lashed out to crush any approbation given to the cause of the ‘martyred’ de Montfort.

  P.C. Doherty

  THE DEVIL'S HUNT

  PAUL DOHERTY

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