by Paul Doherty
"You must realize, Sir Edward, that I would not make this request unless I had good cause. I suspect that this man is an accomplice to murder, involved in treason which may threaten the very life of the King. You simply cannot stand aside, wash your hands of the matter and say that it is nothing to do with you. Moreover, " he added cautiously, "if I am proved correct, the King will have good reason to be grateful to you. "
Swynnerton turned away from the window, the doubt and uncertainty clear in his face and eyes. He carefully stroked his small goatee beard while searching for a way out of the problem presented to him. He sighed, went to the door and summoned in one of his attendants, ordering him to call the captain of the guard immediately. A short while later, a burly, red-haired, thick-set man came into the room. He had the rugged, sun-tanned features of a professional fighting man. His very presence, dressed in half armour, and the stance he adopted when he entered the room indicated a man who would take orders and follow them to the letter. Swynnerton went over and clapped him on the shoulder.
"John Neville, may I introduce our guest. Master Hugh Corbett, Clerk in the Court of King's Bench. "
Corbett felt Neville's eyes look him up and down, quietly assessing him. "Have you ever fought, Master Clerk?" The voice was clear and authoritative.
"Yes, " Corbett replied. "I saw some service in the Welsh counties when the King was chasing numerous Welsh princes up and down their valleys. It was an experience I shall never forget, and to be quite candid, I am not too eager to repeat. "
Neville grinned, showing a row of yellow, broken teeth. "I thought as much, " he replied. "I pride myself on being able to distinguish between those who have fought and those who have not. I simply think it rather strange to have a man I judge as a fighter in the garb of a clerk. "
"Master Corbett, " Swynnerton interjected, "is not here to do any fighting but to ask us to do it for him. Whatever he says, do!" Swynnerton then left the room and Corbett realized that the cunning old soldier had carefully covered both bets. If Bellet was arrested and later protested, Swynnerton could claim that he had no real part in it. If Bellet was arrested and Corbett was proved correct, then Swynnerton could bask in the reflected glory. Corbett, smiling at the adroit way the constable had dealt with him, took Neville by the arm and quietly confided what he wanted him to do.
After he had finished, Corbett would have liked to have left the Tower and gone to see Alice but, as he admitted to Ranulf when he returned to their quarters, he was too frightened to go out into the streets of London. It might well have been he, not the young boy, Simon, who could be lying outside the church of St. Katherine with his throat cut from ear to ear. Ranulf received the news of the young man's death with the same nonchalance Corbett had seen that day he had chosen him from the line of condemned men at Newgate. Death was a natural order of things, a daily risk, an occupational hazard, though he agreed that Corbett should stay in the Tower. Corbett also realized that he could not leave until Neville returned with the priest and put him to the question. He shuddered when he thought of this. Bellet would be taken to the dungeons beneath the White Tower and left to the tender mercies of the torturers and their skilled finesse in extracting information from the most recalcitrant prisoners.
Corbett then spent hours waiting by a window until Neville and a company of archers brought the priest, tied and bound, into the inner ward. He did not go down to meet them but, even from where he stood, he could see that the priest, for all his anger and protests, was a very frightened man. Bellet and his escort disappeared from view as they turned down a long row of stone steps leading to the dungeons. Corbett knew he would have to wait. He wrote a short note to Alice and sent Ranulf out with it, instructing him to inform Alice that he was safe but not to tell her of his whereabouts. He knew that if she had that information, she too would be in danger. After which, Corbett wrapped his cloak around him and lay on the bed awaiting for Neville to send for him.
It had been dark for some time when Corbett was aroused from an uneasy sleep by Neville roughly shaking his shoulder. "Come, Master Clerk, " he whispered hoarsely. "You had better join us. " Corbett got up, relieved himself in the garde-robe in the corner of the room, washed his hands and face in a bowl of cold water and, drying his hands and face with his cloak, followed Neville out down to the dungeons. The soldier led him down the long row of narrow steps that he had seen the priest descend a few hours earlier. Then Neville turned right, following the line of the Tower to a small door at the base of one of the turrets. They entered and Corbet felt he had arrived in what must be the very antechamber of Hell. It was a low-roofed room, cold and damp. The torches fixed in rusting sconces on the walls flickered and spluttered and he could smell the damp earth beneath his feet mingling with the smell of smoke, charcoal, blood, sweat and fear.
The room was empty of all furniture except for open braziers clustered together at the far end, besides which were two or three small stools. There were chains and manacles hanging from the wall but his eyes were drawn to the small macabre group at the far end.
As Corbett approached, he realized that there were three men stripped to the waist, black scraps of cloth wrapped around their foreheads to keep the sweat from running into their eyes. Their bodies glistened with sweat and they kept turning to the braziers, pulling out long rods of iron, the handles wrapped in cloth to protect their hands. He saw one of them take a glowing iron bar and place it against what he thought was a shadow near the far wall until he heard a terrible scream and saw the shadow jerk and writhe. He then became aware that it was the priest hanging by his wrists from the chains, stripped of all his clothing except for a loincloth. His body was covered in long gaping wounds where the hot metal bars had been pressed. Corbett hid his revulsion, knowing that this was not the time for pity. This man may well have been responsible for Duket's death, for the death of the young boy, Simon, and for the two criminal assaults on himself. The only fear Corbett experienced was a secret dread that the man might actually be innocent.
"Has he answered the question I asked you to put to him?" Corbett rasped. Neville shook his head.
"No, " he replied. "He says he had nothing to do with Duket's death. " Corbett almost felt his heart skip a beat and his mouth went dry with fright.
"Has he said anything?"
Neville grinned. "He has said enough. He keeps calling on the Lord Satan to help him and that is not the sort of prayer you would expect a priest to say!"
Corbett went round the braziers, pushing his way past the torturers, who looked expectantly at him as if waiting for fresh orders to apply their burning metal bars.
He could see that their victim had had enough. Bellet's face was bloodless and the eyes crazed with pain, the thin, bony, pathetic body of the priest had reached the limit of his endurance.
"Well, Master Priest?" Corbett whispered. "We meet again, though in quite unexpected surroundings!" He went closer, almost whispering through the priest's sweat-soaked hair so only he could hear. "Lawrence Duket, did you murder him?"
Bellet turned his face slowly towards him, his eyes narrowing as he tried to swim out of the circle of pain which had engulfed him. "This is your doing, Clerk! You whoreson get!" he cursed. "You are no more than a country bumpkin. You don't know with whom you are dealing. You and your sort will soon be swept away. " Bellet grunted and tried to lift his body to alleviate the racking pain in his chest and legs.
"I can stop this, " Corbett said. "I can stop it as soon as you tell the truth. What is the Pentangle? Who ordered Duket's death? Who killed the boy Simon? Who ordered the attacks on me?" The priest's eyes, however, slid away and Corbett sensed he was still secretly laughing at him. Flushed with rage, he grabbed the priest by his chin, wrenching his face round so he could look into his eyes.
"Tell me, " he urged. "Tell me now! "The only response he got was a stream of abuse and spittle. Then the priest's body twitched, went rigid like a man going into a fit and suddenly relaxed, the head slumping forward on his c
hest.
Neville came closer, pushing Corbett aside as he felt the chest and neck of the priest. "The man is dead, " he said. "It is now finished. " He looked at Corbett. "What shall we do with the body?" he asked.
Corbett shrugged. "Wrap it up in a shroud, " the clerk replied, "and bury it among the paupers. " He then left the dungeon and the gruesome figures standing there in the flickering obscure light of the braziers. He felt no remorse at what had happened to Bellet. He knew the man was guilty. He was evil and had played no small part in the murder of Duket and, by his own confession, was deeply involved in treasonable sinister activities against the King.
Across the black misty river the hooded figures of the Pentangle met once more and crowded round their leader, the Hooded One. They sat quiet but were gripped by an air of expectancy, almost fear. "So, a member of this group is destroyed?" one asked. The speaker to the right of the Hooded Leader's chair, nodded in agreement. "We understand that he has been taken, " he replied. "He is probably dead and we have Corbett to thank for that! Our spy in the Chancery also reports that Corbett knows a great deal about us. "
"Then why not kill him?" another asked, an edge of fear to his voice. "Why not kill him?" he repeated insistently. "When he meets his doxy in The Mitre, I have often seen him there… " his voice trailed off as a deathly, cold silence fell upon the group.
"We cannot kill him there and you know you should not have said that!" the speaker replied slowly. "You know the pact. None of us ever say what we are, male or female, what we do, or even what part of the city we frequent. However, " the speaker's eyes glittered behind his mask as he scanned the group. "We will execute Corbett, and take vengeance for our dead comrade, but the important thing is that we continue with our Grand Design. Each of us must prepare our groups, collect arms and wait for the sign to rise in rebellion!"
"And Corbett?" came the insistent interruption.
"We have someone special assigned for him, " the speaker firmly replied. "You may consider Corbett already dead!"
Sixteen
The next day Corbett went to Saint Mary Le Bow leaving orders for Ranulf to join him there. The church and house were deserted, Neville had given him Bellet's keys but Corbett, surprisingly, found the door unlocked and carefully pushed it open. The main room looked as it had the night Corbett had visited the priest so many weeks ago. The charcoal brazier was full of dead spent ash; a cup half full of wine and slivers of stale cheese, rat-gnawed, lay upon the top of the room's only chest. He knocked them off and opened the heavy wooden lid. There was a smell of must mingled with stale sweat as Corbett began to pull out clothes; a dirty robe, hose, a pair of leather boots. There was nothing else. Corbett looked around the deserted room. There must be more. He suddenly realized that there was something missing.
This was a priest's house and yet there was no cross or crucifix. He scanned the wattle-daubed walls, the crumb-strewn table, but looked in vain for signs of any religious worship. He kicked the dirty rushes with his boot and then went into the small room at the back which served as both a kitchen and buttery. It was filthy and contained a dirt-stained table, a low stool, a shelf of cracked cups and soiled wooden plates. "The man must have lived like an animal, " thought Corbett. He went back into the main room and stared at the loft at the far end which must have served as a bedroom. There was a screen of polished wood which protected the bedchamber from prying eyes and it could only be approached by a dangerous-looking wooden ladder slung against the wall.
Corbett propped the ladder up against the rim of wood which ran along the base of the partition and carefully climbed up. He expected to see the same dirt and chaos he had met below but the reality was much different. The bed-chamber was small, with a little window made of horn high in the wall, letting in sufficient light. The floor was polished with beeswax and thick velvet drapes hung from the whitewashed walls which depicted the most lascivious love scenes. A huge bed, covered in a sea-green silken cover, occupied most of the room. Corbett climbed over the wooden partition and sat on the bed, feeling the rich, feather-filled mattress and bolsters beneath him. On the near side of the bed was a wooden stool with a pure wax candle in a silver-plated holder, while on the other, a small, richly carved, wooden chest. Corbett leaned across the bed to open the lid.
Perhaps it was a sound, a slight shadow, but he suddenly rolled to the right and avoided the evil edge of the sword as it came crashing down where he had been lying. Corbett saw a tall dark figure dressed completely in black. A pair of glittering eyes stared at him through the holes of the black hood as the secret assassin lifted the sword for a second blow. He did not wait but flung himself under his attacker's upraised sword arm and both went crashing against the wooden partition. At such close quarters the assassin could not use his sword but brought its pommel brutally down on Corbett's unprotected back. The pain was excruciating and all he could do was keep tight hold of his assailant's waist and force him back against the partition. Corbett hoped
Ranulf had arrived and would hear the noise, when suddenly the partition cracked and he and his attacker tumbled off the edge and went crashing to the floor below.
Corbett was lucky for his fall was cushioned by the body of his assailant who was not so fortunate. A large pool of blood seeped out from beneath the black mask and Corbett, after massaging his arms and wrists and stretching his back to relieve the soreness there, leant over and lifted the mask from his attacker's face just as Ranulf came belatedly crashing through the door, shouting at the top of his voice.
"You're too late!" Corbett snapped. "Why did you not hear the noise earlier?"
Ranulf scratched his chin. "I wandered over to the church and only heard the sound of a scuffle as I came back. " He pointed down to the assassin lying on his back, one arm and leg curiously twisted. "Who is he?" Ranulf asked.
Corbett forced the man's hood off and looked down at the smooth young face, white, eyes stony beneath a fringe of black hair. A trickle of blood seeped out of the corner of the dead man's mouth and ran down to join the pool of blood caused by the skull caving in.
"I don't know, " Corbett replied softly. "But he was waiting for me. They sent him. They knew mat I was coming here. " He stared at the anxious face of Ranulf.
"Who are they?" Corbett asked. "For God's sake what do they want from me?" He got up and dusted himself down, trying to ignore the pain in his back and arms. "Come on, " he pointed to the fallen ladder. "Hold this, Ranulf, while I finish my search. "
Ranulf held the ladder secure whilst Corbett went back up into the dead priest's sleeping quarters to search the carved wooden chest. It was packed with clothes, hose, jackets, robes and shirts of the highest quality, taffeta, velvet and silk, pure woollen wraps, lush fleeces, jewel-encrusted belts, soft leather boots and velvet gloves. The priest had evidently lived a double life of public poverty and private wealth. There were no documents or scraps of parchment, the only book being a leather bound copy of a bible with a gold clasp. The pages were beautifully written and adorned with small intricate drawings, a feast of colours, Corbett could appreciate the skill of the calligrapher who had carefully written the words and then brought them to life with scarlet, gold, green and other colours. He turned the pages over, there was nothing amiss except that he was surprised that even a man such as Bellet should have a bible, let alone such a costly one. Corbett carefully leafed through the pages but there was nothing there. He turned to the back of the book where the man who put the manuscript together would leave blank pages for its future owner to write reflections or meditations.
Bellet had certainly written but not spiritual aphorisms or moral axioms. There were pages of closely written Norman French or dog Latin which refuted the existence of Christ, alongside spells and incantations, as well as drawings of a man with a goat's head sitting on an altar dripping with blood under which there was an inverted cross. Another drawing showed a church full of people with the empty vacuous faces of sheep, all turned attentively towards a figure in prie
st's garb but with the fierce head and slavering jaws of a wolf.
The last drawing, which Corbett judged as most recent, was completely different. It showed a tower, square-shaped and on its turreted top was an archer, bow in hand, the arrow was in the air, directed along a road or pathway, on which there was a man seated on a horse with a crown on his head. The drawing was crude, almost child-like, yet it had a vigour and realism of its own. Underneath were the words Hac Die libertas nostra de arcibus veniat. Corbett translated it aloud. "On that day our freedom comes from the bows". He studied the drawing and the words. He remembered the riddle of the dead squire, Savel, about a bow which cannot be bent being more dangerous than one that could for it included all weapons.
The image of the freshly turned graves in the nearby cemetery became clear in his mind and, almost shouting out loud, he turned and scrambled down the ladder, the bible still in his hand which he thrust into the hands of the astonished Ranulf.
"Quick, " he urged. "Take this to the Chancellor! Tell him to study the drawings at the back, particularly the last one. Tell him to stop the King coming in from Woodstock and order a search in all the fresh graves here at Saint Mary Le Bow!" Corbett made Ranulf repeat the message until he had it perfect by rote and dismissed him.
Corbett calmed himself and, after looking around the house, left, making his way across the muddy yard to the church. The main door was unlocked and he cautiously opened it and went in. He stood just inside, breathing deeply, while listening with all his being for strange or threatening sounds, trying to feel the atmosphere and determine if there was danger. Satisfied that there was none, but still shaken by the attack he had just survived, Corbett walked up the nave of the church and sat in the Blessed Chair. He looked down into the shadows of the entrance, realizing that this must have been about the same time of day that Duket had fled to the church. Once again he probed at the question of how the assassins had got into the church, murdered Duket and then escaped without notice.