by Paul Doherty
No, he concluded, the only possible explanation is that Duket did not commit suicide in Saint Mary Le Bow but was hanged in such a way to make it appear as if it was suicide. Someone else tied that noose round the iron bar in the church, and had put the noose round Duket's neck, taken away the chair and pinioned Duket's arms behind his back, dragging him down to hasten his death agonies. Hence those bruises on Duket's arms. Corbett made a rapid calculation. There must have been at least two or three people involved in such a murder. But why did Duket not cry out? How did the murderers get into the church? How did they get out?
Corbett sighed and wrote his conclusions: Lawrence Duket was murdered in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow by persons unknown, for reasons unknown, and in a manner unknown. He threw the pen down and stared at the meaningless conclusion while his mind began to drift back to The Mitre and the ravishing beauty of Alice atte Bowe.
Seven
Of course, Corbett returned to The Mitre over the next few days. Ostensibly he came 'on the King's business' but his real reason was to see Mistress Alice. The burly giant and his confederates knew this and so did Mistress Alice. Corbett did not care, he felt alive in her presence, free of the Chancery, the drudgery of each passing day and the pressure of the task entrusted to him. Sometimes he sat in the tavern or the small room behind it. When the weather turned fair, they walked in the garden. Alice cultivated herbs, sage, parsley, fennel, hyssop as well as leeks, gelves and onions. There was a pear tree with a sprinkling of early spring blossom, a plot of fine grass with the surrounding soil well tilled and expecting, so Alice remarked, an abundant crop of roses, lilies and other flowers when summer did arrive.
Alice talked about her former life; her youth as an orphan, a ward of old, distant relatives. Her marriage to Thomas atte Bowe, her early widowhood and her survival in the hustle and bustle of London's wine trade with Bordeaux and Gascony. She was well versed in politics and shrewdly assessed King Edward's policies towards the Capetian Kings of France whose possible interference with Gascony and their claims of overlordship over the Duchy could plunge both countries into war and so wreck the wine trade and her profits. She alluded to the huge giant and other men whom
Corbett had seen round the tavern as 'her agents and protectors'. She gently questioned Corbett about 'the King's business' he was on but then changed the subject, as if it was rather too boring or hurtful to listen to.
Corbett spent hours at the tavern. He talked as he never had before about his training in Oxford, his work as a clerk, his military service, his wife, Mary, and his young child gone, in what seemed to be a twinkling of an eye, taken by the plague. The pain of such a loss came out as if Alice was his confessor, prising open all the secrets of his mind. Sometimes, he would just sit and play the flute, solemn tunes, love songs or dances and reels, while Alice twirled and danced. Her body slim and smooth turned and moved with the music until both were breathless either at the tempo of the music or their own laughter. Then they would eat, dishes famous for their delicacy and flavour; muscade of marrow, baked herring, pike, lamprey, porpoise roasted on coals, fresh sturgeon and dates, jellies, or light dishes, hot apples and pears with sugar, wafers with hippocras and always the best wines to drink.
The days passed into a week and then another. Corbett became tired of the tavern and so he and Alice went walking through the streets of Cheapside. On one occasion he took her to the horseshows at Smoothfield, or Smithfield as it was vulgarly called. Here, every Friday, there was a wonderful show of the best horses for sale. Horses trained for ladies, the great coursers for knights, and mares with shapely ears and necks and erect, plump haunches. Alice admired them all, particularly the young colts prancing and kicking about with their ungainly legs. The noise and smell was almost overwhelming. Soldiers, merchants, and the armed retainers of great lords moved from one group of horses to another, arguing and shouting prices with the owners.
On another occasion, arm-in-arm, they went to watch a mummer's play in Cheapside and laughed at the antics of the clown with the great phallus and the blundering knight on his sorry nag. Then, they would move on to a cockfight or a bear-baiting show. Corbett did not like the latter with the huge animal, fierce pink eyes glaring at the dogs who would fasten themselves on him only to be shifted in a flurry of fur and blood as the bear clawed, growled and tossed himself free. Nevertheless, Alice would enjoy such sights, eyes intent, she would cry support for both bear and dogs. Corbett did not mind, he enjoyed such outings, proud of the beautiful woman alongside him and more than aware of the envious glances of other men.
Time and again, however, Alice would return to Corbett's profession, his work in the lawcourts and his special task which he now tried to forget. After all, what matter if two rogues met, one knifed the other and then later hanged himself? Such crimes were common everyday occurrences in London, and so he hid his doubts and believed the picture he had formed about the events in Saint Mary Le Bow. He was happy, content and unconcerned about Burnell or the Chancery. Indeed, he reminded himself that he had enough wealth to leave his post, a small price for the happiness he had now found. Nonetheless, Alice kept asking him and Corbett considered taking her to the courts at Westminster but thought of Burnell and changed his mind. Instead they went to the Guildhall and the city court which sat there.
He used his influence to gain access and thus hear the case of two impostors. Robert Ward and Richard Lynham. This precious pair, although well able to work and had their tongues to speak with, pretended that they were mutes who had been deprived of speech and went around the city carrying in their hands an iron hook, pincers and a piece of leather shaped like the part of a tongue, edged with silver and bearing the inscription "This is the tongue of Robert Ward". With such instruments and different signs, they tricked many people into believing that they were traders attacked and plundered by robbers, who had stripped them of their tongues as well as their goods, using the very hook and pincers these two now carried around with them. They claimed that all they could do was make a horrible roaring noise. The court soon proved this was a tissue of lies for both men could talk freely with the tongues they were born with.
Consequently, they were sentenced to stand in the pillory for three days with the offending hook, pincers and counterfeit tongue slung around their necks. Alice laughed so much that Corbett had to almost carry her out of the Guildhall. She later confessed she found the law better sport than all the mummers' plays. She mocked the authority of the King and Church to such an extent that Corbett suspected she was one of the Populares, a radical, a follower of the dead de Montfort. Corbett was not too surprised. The city was full of them, friends and acquaintances in the Chancery and Exchequer were tinged with such sympathies even though de Montfort was dead, his body hacked to pieces and fed to the dogs some twenty years ago.
Of course, Corbett and Alice became lovers, a kiss at first, an embrace, a meal late in the evening when the tavern was closed. Then, almost as if they were man and wife of many years, Alice took Corbett by the hands and led him up to her own room. A spacious room, almost like a solar, with large cupboards, chests, a table and stools on a polished floor covered in woollen rugs. The walls were green, spattered with gold stars and the small painted heads of men and women. There were small, capped braziers and freshly cut boughs to perfume the room with their fragrance. Alice led Corbett over to a huge, low-slung bed and then, turning her back demurely, began to undo her gown, slipping it over her shoulders, removing hose and petticoats until she stood naked, a pool of lace around her. Corbett smiled when he saw that she had not removed her small black silken gloves and went to pull one off but she smilingly removed his hand and began to undress him in turn while he admired her diminutive Venus-like body.
Corbett had never experienced such passion and skill as he did that night. Time and again her lips sought his while her body enticed and drew him into a dark whirlpool of passion until eventually their bodies locked and twined together into an embrace, fell into the deep
dreamless sleep of lovers. The next morning Corbett woke to find her up, dressed and fresh and lovely as any bride. She sat beside him on the bed, laughing and teasing him and disappeared when he threatened to repeat the performance of the night before. Deep in his soul, however, Corbett knew that the idyll could not last. The burly giant, Peter, stared at him murderously every time he entered the tavern while the group of men, Alice's "protectors and agents", closely watched him. They made no attempt to approach him – or he them. In fact, Alice took every precaution to keep them apart, Corbett did not care, dismissing their quiet malevolence as simple envy and jealousy.
The Chancellor, Burnell, however, kept sending Corbett sharp, brusque letters demanding reports on what progress he was making. Corbett never replied, secretly hoping that the matter would lapse and be forgotten and was rather surprised that the King's chief minister should still be interested in the suicide of a pathetic little man like Duket. It was Couville who brought him up sharp. One night, a few weeks after he had first met Alice, he returned to his lodgings in Thames Street to find a leather pouch waiting for him. The mistress of the house muttered something about it being delivered earlier in the day. Corbett took it to
his room and, breaking the seal, drew out a long roll of aged vellum and a short covering letter from Couville which he tossed onto the bed. He then sat and unrolled the long scroll. It was yellow with age, frayed and cracked at the edges and the fine Norman-French writing was quite faded, though still legible. He skipped the usual flowery phrases, discerning that it was a report from one of the under-sheriffs in the city to the Chancellor of Henry II. Looking at the end of the report, Corbett saw the date above the old cracked seal, 'Written at the Tower – 2nd December in the 28th year of the King's reign' which, he quickly calculated, was 1182. He took his own writing-tray and began to transcribe the main substance of the report.
"It was early in the summer of this year that one William Fitz-Osbert, a traitor and a man of evil life, began to gather people together in a coven bound to Satan, rejecting Mary's son, as he termed Christ our Saviour. This son of the devil held coven meetings beyond the city walls and, because of the absence of our good King Henry, even within the city itself. It has been established that Fitz-Osbert and his retinue celebrated secret rites, the Black Mass, in which they committed desecration of the Host and abominably treated the sacred vessels, statues and crucifixes stolen from churches in London. Fitz-Osbert preached and proclaimed that his Master, the Anti-Christ, was coming, who would sweep away the evil, as he termed the King, Holy Mother Church, and all the pillars of government and law in the country. Time and again their secret ceremonies were performed at houses in the city or deserted ruins around the Tower where they plotted to destroy the government of the King. Secret supplies of arms were smuggled into the city to equip his followers and Fitz-Osbert stirred the people up by preaching at St. Paul's Cross, he even had the temerity to take over the churchyard gardens of St. Paul's Cathedral as if they were his own fief or holding.
"The Bishop of London bitterly complained about these practices and placed Fitz-Osbert and his followers under interdict, but that evil man simply burnt the letter and promised to do the same to the sender. Whereupon the Bishop asked the Mayor and Sheriffs of London to clear Fitz-Osbert from the churchyard of St. Paul's and place Fitz-Osbert and all his coven under arrest. Just after Michaelmas in this same year the sheriffs, constables and militia from Walbrook and the Ward of the Cordwainers attempted to clear the churchyard of St. Paul's but were beaten off with considerable losses by Fitz-Osbert and his followers. Consequently, the Mayor petitioned the Lord Chancellor to use his writ to move soldiers from Dover and Rochester Castles, as well as levy men in the surrounding counties of Middlesex, Essex and Surrey to deal with the problem.
"On the Eve of All Saints, when it was established that Fitz-Osbert and his coven would be engaged in abominable and secret practices within the churchyard of St. Paul's, the forces of the King attacked the said place. This perpetrator of all evils, however, together with his lieutenants, counsellors and close companions, many of evil repute in the city, fled from St. Paul's along Cheapside and occupied the church of Saint Mary Le Bow. The rector, Benedict Fulshim, gave them secret comfort and counsel and allowed them to take over the church. It was also later proved that this Benedict Fulshim had given permission for Fitz-Osbert and his confederates to perpetrate their secret rites in the church, supplying them with consecrated hosts as well as sacred vessels for their blasphemous practices. Once in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow, Fitz-Osbert's contingent fortified the steeple with bows, arrows, axes and swords and managed to beat off any soldiers sent against them.
Accordingly, it was decided that bundles of burning sticks should be pushed through the windows of the said church in the hope that this would drive Fitz-Osbert and his coven back into the street. Once this was done, and not without loss of life, Fitz-Osbert and all those in the church attempted to flee but all were arrested and placed in the Tower.
"Two days later, under writ from the Chancellor, they were placed before the Justices of the King's Bench at Westminster. Fitz-Osbert refused to accept their authority, cursing the name of the king, the church and that of Christ, vowing that Satan would deliver him. The Justices sentenced Fitz-Osbert and nine of his followers to be drawn by the heels to Smithfield and there hanged in chains above a fire. Fitz-Osbert and his adherents kept up their cursing and pleas to their Lord (or so they termed Satan) to come and deliver them. God's justice and the king's, however, was done. Fitz-Osbert and his confederates being burnt alive at Smithfield and their ashes scattered in the city ditch.
"This Fitz-Osbert was a man of good birth and education. He was of medium stature and of swarthy countenance; the King's Justices established that he had spent part of his life in the east where he first became acquainted with the Black Arts amongst the infidels of Syria, known as the Assassins. He claimed he was chosen specially by Lord Satan and wore Satan's mark upon the palms of his hands; namely, two inverted crosses. Purple scars upon the palms of his hands. His wife, Amisia, and their children were also members of his coven but they escaped and the most scrupulous search by the Mayor and Sheriffs revealed no trace of them. "
Corbett finished transcribing and studied the report of this long dead city official before rolling it up gently and slipping it back into its leather pouch, satisfied that his earlier suspicions about Saint Mary Le Bow had been correct. He picked up Couville's note in which the old man apologized for the long delay and wished him well with his search, adding an ominous postscript that his former pupil's lack of commitment to the task assigned him was causing gossip and concern amongst his former acquaintances at the Chancery. Corbett accepted this warning, realizing that for the last few weeks he had been under Alice's spell and that he must reassert himself and complete the task, even if it was the last thing he did as a royal clerk. In all things Corbett was a professional. The long hard years of training and work in the Chancery and in the King's Bench compelled him to complete tidily and satisfactorily the matter in hand.
Eight
The next morning Corbett rose early and made his way back to Cheapside and the church of Saint Mary Le Bow. A slatternly woman, who announced that she kept house for the priest, stated that the rector was absent but, if he wanted, Corbett could wait. The clerk made his way across the churchyard and entered the main door of the church. It was deserted. Everything was as normal. The Blessed Chair was back in its proper place. No trace remained of the violent crime which had been committed there, the chairs and the benches were still stacked against the wall, so Corbett wrapped himself in his cloak and sat at the base of one of the pillars just inside the nave of the church. He crouched there staring at the long black iron bar from where Duket had hanged himself and then at the Blessed Chair back in its proper position before the high altar.
Something suddenly caught his attention. He rose, went up the church and moved the Blessed Chair to where he had found if t
he last time he had visited the church after it had been moved by Duket in his supposed suicide. Corbett placed the chair as closely as he remembered it from last time, then stood on it and stared at the long metal bar above him. Satisfied, he got down, moved the chair back and turned to go back down the church, almost shouting with fright at the black-gowned figure which appeared before him.
"Good morning, Master Clerk. Did I scare you?"
Corbett stared at the pale, sallow features of Bellet, the rector, trying to look calm while he endeavoured to soothe the panic which had set his heart pounding.
"No, " he lied. "I was simply studying the place where Duket died. "
"Ah, yes, Duket. I understand you have been very busy on this matter. "
Corbett caught the sarcasm in the priest's voice and saw the smirk on his pale thin lips. He hated this man who was staring at him as if he was some sort of conspirator, as if this priest knew something unpleasant. A joke at Corbett's expense. "Yes, Master Priest, " Corbett said deliberately. "I have been very busy reading a report about William Fitz-Osbert and the abominable rites he committed in this church. " He felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched Fitz-Osbert's name wipe the smirk as well as any colour from the priest's face.
"Oh, have I frightened you, Master Priest?" he asked. "Surely you know about Fitz-Osbert? He can do little harm now being burnt to death over a hundred years ago. " The priest's nervousness was almost tangible. A fine sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead and he kept wiping the palms of his hands along the dirty black robe he wore. Corbett watched him closely. "What is it, Master Priest?"
The rector turned slightly, looking around as if he expected someone in the far shadows of the church to be listening. "Nothing, " Bellet whispered. "There is nothing the matter. I just cannot see that Fitz-Osbert's death has anything to do with the suicide of Lawrence Duket. "