by Paul Doherty
Corbett turned and walked into the nave of the church, a large paved area which stretched down to the rood screen, a wooden trellised partition with a huge door in the centre which led into the sanctuary and the stairs to the high altar. There was a row of stout squat pillars down either side of the nave. Each of the transepts looked black and empty except for the stacked wooden benches and the faded frescoes on the dirty whitewashed walls. High above each transept was a row of small oval-shaped windows. Corbett stared up at them, they were all firmly shuttered both inside and out except for one where the shutters hung loose, though still too small for any man to get through unnoticed by either Duket or the ward watch.
Corbett pulled his cloak around him and walked further down the nave, noting even how his leather-soled boots echoed like drumbeats round the church. He could hear the priest slithering behind him like some rat creeping along a pipe. Corbett walked into the sanctuary. The Blessed Chair, thick heavy and wooden, sat like a throne at the bottom of the white stone altar. There was nothing to see, though Corbett realized that he had never been in such a stark, lonely sanctuary. The high altar rose above him, lonely and impassive, its marble ledge unadorned by flowers or linen cloths. Behind it was a reredos, a blank screen with a faded fresco and above it a lonely red sanctuary lamp gleamed and winked in the gloom. There were benches at either side. Corbett turned and looked up, there was a trefoil window meshed with wire and horn above the high altar, which provided most of the light, flanked by a row of shuttered windows as in the rest of the church.
He walked over to the right of the sanctuary and looked up at the iron bar jutting out beside the large, wooden shuttered window. "Is that the bar?"
The priest, standing behind him, one hand on the arm of the Blessed Chair, nodded. "Yes, " he replied slowly. "The chair had been moved by Duket. He must have used it to fasten the rope round the bar. "
Corbett turned, looked directly at Bellet and shook his head. "I would not be too sure about that, " he replied and, not waiting for a reply, walked back down the nave of the church.
Corbett left the church and turned into the area below
Friday Street occupied by foreign tanners. The place was now a scene of frenetic building activity as workmen were engaged in constructing a huge cistern or conduit which would hold water run through elm. pipes from the Tyburn Stream. It was also the gallows ground and two bodies, fresh carrion by the look of them, hung twirling by their necks from the crude crossbeam of the scaffold. At any other time Corbett would have quickly passed such a scene but now, with the image of Lawrence Duket hanging by his neck at Saint Mary Le Bow fresh in his mind, Corbett went up and closely studied the bodies. Impervious to the smell and the horror of the grisly corpses, Corbett stayed till he was satisfied and then moved away to ask the whereabouts of Duket's house. His enquiries usually drew dark looks or blank stares but at last he was directed to a house on the corner of Bread Street.
A modest, two-storeyed building, Corbett thought it was deserted for the front door was secured tightly as were all the shutters. Corbett, however, pounded on the door, shouting for it to be opened "on the King's business". He heard footsteps, the bolts drawn and the door was opened by a small slim woman of medium height with auburn hair caught up in a wimple, the air of sobriety and mourning completed by a long, black dress. The only concession to fashion was a filigree gold chain round her waist and fresh white lace round the cuffs and long slim neck. Her face was severe with petulant lips and arrogant grey eyes. Corbett offered his warrant, the woman took it and read it quietly, her lips moving slowly over the words, she returned it and beckoned Corbett into the lower room, opening the shutters to allow in some air and light. The place was bereft of furniture except for leather trunks and heaps of clothing.
The woman watched Corbett for a while. "I am Jean Duket, " she said softly. "What do you want with me?" The words had a faint suggestive tone which Corbett ignored as he described his interest in Lawrence Duket's death. Although the woman was in mourning weeds, she seemed little disturbed by her brother's death. Only when Corbett mentioned Crepyn's name did Jean's eyes narrow, the colour rising in her cheeks.
"I did not like Crepyn, Master Clerk, " she snapped. "He was, " she searched for words.
"A blackmailer?" Corbett prompted her.
"Yes, Master Corbett, a blackmailer, a nothing, a fornicator and despoiler of women!"
"So, the story is true?" Corbett queried. Jean did not answer but turned and nodded her head vigorously.
"Is that why Lawrence killed him?" Corbett persisted.
Jean turned and laughed, almost hysterical. "Master Clerk, my brother and I, though we shared the same womb and later the same house, did not love each other. " She laughed nervously. "My brother did not kill for me. There were other things!" She looked quickly at Corbett. "I do not know, but the Bitch will know!"
"Who is this Bitch, Madam?"
"Alice atte Bowe, she keeps a tavern in St. Mark's Lane, the haunt of others of her coven or company. Reginald de Lanfer, Robert Pinnot, Paul Stubberhead, Thomas Coroner…?" Her voice trailed off and she stood twisting her waist chain in her fingers. "She was Crepyn's mistress. An evil whore!" She almost spat the words out of her mouth. "Crepyn forced me to sleep with him, to strip and pose, and then he told her and others what had happened. " Jean slumped on to one of the trunks, her head in her hands.
Corbett just stood and watched for a while. "Was Lawrence Alice's lover as well?" he asked.
Jean lifted her head back and laughed loudly. "My brother, Master Clerk, did not like women. As to the real cause of his quarrel with Crepyn, " she looked directly at Corbett. "I do not know, I do not care and, in days, I will be free of here. I have relatives in Oxford. I shall go there. " She rose and smoothed the folds of her dress. "That is all, Master Corbett. I wish you well. " She opened the door and stood aside to let Corbett pass through into the street.
Outside Corbett suddenly felt tired and hungry and eager for his own bed. He bought a pie from a nearby stall and ate it as he walked, quite determined to stay away from the taverns and their heady drink, at least for one night. He had begun his task as a good clerk should by collecting facts and information and, now was trying to organize it into some recognizable pattern. Yet there were items which confused and perplexed him and he knew his chancery-trained mind would give him no rest until everything was in order.
He turned off Cheapside down Paternoster Row and eventually arrived outside his lodgings in Thames Street just as darkness fell. He entered the house, ordered a lighted brazier from the owner, the sulky wife of a merchant, and climbed the rickety stairs to his garret. For a while he lay on his bed, swathed in his cloak as he recalled all he had seen, heard or said. Gradually, a pattern began to emerge in his mind and, having lit candles, he undid his bundle and, picking out his writing tray, slowly began to write on a piece of used parchment the facts now so clear in his mind.
Five
Corbett slept late that morning and, when he awoke, returned to the document he had drawn up the previous evening, studying it carefully and making corrections until he was satisfied. He then washed, dressed and, after a quick meal, took his cloak and left his lodgings to walk briskly towards the river. A bright winter sun seemed to add to his mood of quiet expectancy about his mission. He was quite confident about what had happened in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow, though he was baffled as to why and how. These questions perplexed him throughout his short walk to the east Watergate where he hired a boat to take him to Westminster. The journey was cold, quick and noisome. At Westminster he disembarked, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to avoid recognition and pushed through the crowds, taking a path around the Great Hall to the buildings beyond. Here he went towards one of the small outbuildings, knocked on the door and demanded entrance. When a querulous voice told him to go away, he knocked again and eventually the door swung open to reveal a tall, ascetic man dressed in a long brown robe. His face was pale, long and lined, and
his watery eyes squinted at the daylight. "Master Couville. It is I, Hugh Corbett. Are you so blind you cannot see me or just so senile you cannot recognize me?" The old man's drawn face broke into a smile and thin
blue-veined hands clasped Corbett by the arms.
"Only you, Hugh, would dare insult me, " he murmured. "My best pupil! Come in. Come in. It's cold outside. "
Hugh entered the room, the light was poor and the air was musty with the smell of tallow, charcoal and the lingering perfume of leather and old parchment. There was a trestle table and a huge stool, the rest of the room being taken up with leather and wooden chests of all sizes. Some were open with rolls of parchment spilling out onto the floor; around the walls on shelves stretching up to the blackened ceiling were more rolls of parchment. It all looked very disorganized but Corbett knew that Couville could accurately pick out any manuscript he wanted. This was part of the records office of the Chancery and Exchequer dating back centuries. If a document was issued or received, it would be filed in the appropriate place and this was Nigel Couville's kingdom. Once a principal clerk in the Chancery, he had been given this assignment as a benefice or sinecure, a reward for long faithful service to the Crown. Couville had been Corbett's master and mentor when Hugh first became a clerk and, despite the gap of years and experience, they became close friends.
There were questions, comments, but Corbett deftly fended off the old man's solicitous enquiries until Couville laughed. "Come, Hugh, " he asked. "What do you want? You're here for a purpose besides teasing an old man?" Corbett grinned, nodded and described his mission as quickly as he could and detailed what he was looking for. The old man sat and listened patiently. When Corbett finished, Couville rose and, one hand covering his mouth, stared around the room, his eyes flickering from one chest to another. He shook his head. "I am sorry, Hugh I cannot help you here. What you are looking for will be in one of the depository rooms at the Tower. " Corbett's heart sank at the prospect of another long journey and days, even weeks, searching through the thousands of records at the Tower under the watchful if obstructive eye of some strange clerk. Couville sensed the young man's bitter disappointment. He put one scrawny hand on his young friend's shoulder. "Do not worry, Hugh. I will get what you want. I still have some authority. It may take a day or even two but I will get it and send it to you. "
Corbett embraced the old man. "Thank you, " he said. "That will at least be part reparation for being such a hard taskmaster!" He turned and left with the old man shouting affectionate abuse and insisting that Corbett's next visit be longer.
Corbett, however, was already striding through the mud, muffled and hooded, slightly disappointed with his visit to Couville but determined to get to St. Mark's Lane and the tavern of Alice atte Bowe. He knew the area well, a small lane off Paternoster Row near the Cathedral Church of St. Paul's. Corbett walked some of the way but then hitched a lift from a carter on Fleet Street who was taking produce in from the country to the stalls and markets of the city. Along Paternoster Row, Corbett left the carter and went down Ivy Lane into the square bounded by the monastery of Greyfriars at one end and the soaring church of St. Paul's at another. There were more stalls and shops here and, though late afternoon, it was still very busy. Corbett, however, was cautious, securing his purse and keeping his hand on his dagger as he passed through the great west gate into the church of St. Paul's. The area was a well-known haunt of 'Wolfsheads', outlaws and members of the city's murky underworld, who lived in and around the church ready to bolt for sanctuary should the forces of the law appear.
Corbett walked through the main door of St. Paul's into the main meeting place under its vaulting nave. It was still
busy. At the west end sat twelve scribes ready to prepare documents, indentures, letters, bonds for anyone willing to hire their services. Serjeants-at-law in their ermine-lined robes stood in the aisles, meeting clients or discussing the finer points of law with each other, while around one pillar, anxious serving-men waited to be hired. Corbett searched about until he saw the person he was looking for, a scrivener with his writing trays seated on a stool in a small alcove. He looked almost like a human bird, fine small claw-like hands and a small round head tilted to one side with a cheerful ruddy face under a shock of white hair. Corbett walked over.
"Matthew!" he called out. "How's business?"
The scribe looked up, spread his hands and shrugged. "Fair, it comes and goes. But what can I do for you?"
"Alice atte Bowe, " Corbett replied. "She owns a tavern in St. Mark's Lane. Which one and what do you know of her?"
Corbett knew that Matthew was an incorrigible gossip with a genius for picking up the scandal of the city. He was surprised to see the man's eyes flicker sideways and the fear emanate from him like a perfume. Matthew looked nervously around and beckoned Corbett to crouch beside him.
"Is this about Crepyn's death and Duket's suicide at Saint Mary Le Bow?" he asked. Corbett nodded and Matthew bit his lower lip nervously.
"Be careful, " he whispered. "They say that Alice is a dangerous woman. She was, according to common report, Crepyn's mistress. She has connections with the powerful Lanfor family. She married a vintner, Thomas atte Bowe, an old man who died soon after the marriage leaving her the family business. The tavern she owns is called 'The Mitre'. It is a large place. It is also a dangerous one. Now, please go. "
Corbett obeyed the scribe, surprised at his reaction and concerned that this gregarious scrivener should be frightened of a mere name.
Corbett found 'The Mitre' tavern in St. Mark's Lane, an elaborate two-storeyed affair with the upper floor jutting out over the central door. A large ale stake, and the sign of a bishop's mitre against a black background, made it the most obvious building in the street. As he entered, Corbett noted the bishop's face on the sign was a mocking caricature of a churchman, pompous, cruel and greedy. Inside, it was dark but comfortable, much cleaner than many such establishments. A long room with whitewashed walls, clean rushes on the floor sprinkled with crushed herbs. The ceiling was quite high with timbered rafters black from the hearth in the centre of the room with a flue above it to allow the smoke to escape. Along the walls there were stools, rough benches and trestle tables.
A huge, bald-headed man stood before the hearth, his small piggy eyes scrutinized Corbett before sliding away to look at the customers scattered round the room. There were the usual drunks, fast asleep at the tables, a few solitary individuals totally involved in their own thoughts or cups and a group of men lazily tossing dice watched by a bawd in a scarlet gown and head-dress. Pot-boys and drawers served the groups, both with wine and ale under the severe scrutiny of the bald-headed giant. No one else noticed Corbett's entrance except for a small group of men in the far corner who studied him for a while and then turned back to their own conversation.
Corbett sat at one table and ordered wine and food from one of the tapsters. He ate his meal slowly while he took in his surroundings. Somehow he was aware that he was recognized, almost expected, and that what he was seeing was a tableau, something staged for his own benefit. After a while Corbett beckoned the huge bald-headed man over to his table. The man saw his gesture but studiously ignored him for a time and then, after biting his nail and spitting into the fire, moved across to him.
"Sir?" The voice was rather high for such a big man.
"My name is Hugh Corbett, clerk in the King's Bench. I am here on the King's business. I have a warrant which proves this and I would like to speak to Mistress Alice atte Bowe. "
His words like stones thrown into a pool spread ripples, circles of silence around the tavern. The conversation dropped to a low hum, the dice rolled, heads did not turn but he was aware of ears straining to hear him. The large man simply looked at him with his small pebble-black eyes and then, beckoning to Corbett, turned and walked to the far end of the tavern. Corbett followed him into a second room at the back which served as a kitchen. A small whitewashed place with a long table covered in pewter and earthe
nware pots. At the far end was a fire with a roast on a spit and, above it, a row of iron flesh hooks.
The place was clean and smelt of the crushed herbs and spices which were packed in pots on shelves around the room. At the far end of the table, almost unnoticed, was the small, slim figure of a woman studying a piece of parchment. At Corbett's entrance, she looked up and slipped the parchment beneath the table. Corbett had never seen such beauty, a Flemish white-laced head-dress framed a small olive face, large dark eyes, perfectly chiselled nose and lips which would have tempted the holiest hermit. A lock of black hair had escaped from under her head-dress to lie on a perfect cheek. She was small, petite, but the green gown and gold waist belt emphasized, not hid her beautiful body with its swelling breasts and slim waist. Corbett could only stare as the giant introduced him. The woman gazed at him with eyes full of laughter and a smile which showed her perfect teeth as well as her pleasure at meeting him.
"So, Master Corbett, what can we do for you?" The voice was low and surprisingly deep. Corbett thought she was laughing at him and could only stand and shuffle his feet like some country bumpkin. The woman turned to the giant still standing threateningly close to Corbett. "Peter, " she said. "You can go. I do not think that Master Corbett is here to arrest me. I think I am perfectly safe though I suspect that Master Corbett may not feel so secure!"
Her gentle mockery jolted Corbett into some form of self-assurance. "Madam, " he said, "I am here to ask you a few questions. I am here on the King's commission!" He looked at the mocking laughter in her eyes and his voice trailed off into silence.
Alice beckoned to a place near her on one of the benches which ran the length of the huge table. He sat, aware that Peter the giant was being silently dismissed back into the front room of the tavern. Corbett looked at the fine-grained table top. He felt shy and tongue-tied, wanting to gaze again into those wide dark eyes. He was drawn to this woman like a deer, hunted and thirsty, is drawn to a clear babbling spring of water. He heard the retreating giant's footsteps and looked up. Her eyes were not dark, he realized but a deep blue, surrounded by laughter lines.