by Paul Doherty
'None of your watered stuff!' he shouted. 'Or I'd have the ale-masters down here!'
The landlord, a thin ashpole of a man, completely bald except for a stray lock of hair which constantly drooped over his eyes, wiped his greasy hands on a dirty apron, served them and scurried off. Corbett tasted the thick heady ale, pronounced himself satisfied and leaned forward.
'Thank God we are free of Godstowe,' he murmured.
'Do you know what happened, Master?' Ranulf asked anxiously. 'Which one of those well-fed bitches is the murderess?'
'It's more complex than that, Ranulf.' Corbett sipped from his blackjack. 'On Sunday the eighth of September, Lady Eleanor Belmont was murdered in her chamber. Her neck was broken without any sign of a struggle and there are no reports of any intruders. The good sisters,' he looked sardonically at Ranulf, 'whom you just referred to, were all in church. Lady Eleanor was seen alive when the Nuns of Syon were all in public view of each other, just before Compline.' Corbett paused. 'This includes all those who knew her well: the Lady Prioress, the two Sub-prioresses, and our comely Dame Agatha. They all sang their psalms and went to the refectory. Afterwards, the Prioress, anxious about Lady Eleanor, went to her chamber but found the woman murdered.' He threw a quizzical look at Ranulf. 'The corpse was then moved to the foot of the stairs to make it look like an accident.'
Ranulf swilled the beer around in his tankard.
'So, the murderer or murderess must have been an outsider?'
'Yes,' Corbett answered. 'Father Reynard was a suspect but I now know he was busy riding to Woodstock. Anyway, the poor man's dead and beyond suspicion.'
'Gaveston could have sent assassins.'
'True. But as I have said, any outsiders would have been noticed. The porter, drunk as he always is, would have raised the alarm. Anyway, why should Gaveston or the Prince do that? I have just discovered that Gaveston was probably poisoning the Lady Eleanor with a slow but subtle potion.' Corbett rubbed his chin against the palm of his hand. 'Yet that too, raises problems. If Gaveston was sending these powders, killing the Lady Eleanor by degrees, surely the poison should eventually have worked? So if Gaveston was already trying to murder Lady Eleanor, why would he abruptly change his methods?'
'But,' Ranulf interrupted, 'if the Lady Eleanor was not murdered by any of the good sisters… if she was not murdered by Gaveston, if no one stole across the priory walls, what did happen?'
Corbett shook his head.
I don't know. Riders were seen in the forest the day Eleanor Belmont died.' He shrugged. 'But I can see no connection between their presence and the lady's death.' He grinned at Maltote, who was staring at him open-mouthed. 'There are other mysteries,' he continued. 'What were the identities of the young man and woman killed near Godstowe some eighteen months ago?'
Ranulf smacked his lips and placed his tankard on the table.
I can help you there,' he said. 'The tavern wench at The Bull told me how the landlord glimpsed the young lady and her companion riding through Godstowe.'
Corbett nodded.
'Yes, you told me that. Did he see anything else?'
'One further tiring I have learnt from the wench. The landlord claimed a well-dressed young man also passed through the village about the same time. He walked his horse outside the tavern but left Godstowe just before the young woman and man were seen.
'Didn't you learn anything more?' Corbett snapped. 'A description, further details?'
'Master, I went back time and again.' Ranulf shrugged. 'It was the same story, glimpses, nothing else.'
He looked at Corbett's troubled face.
'Master, let's go back to Lady Eleanor's death. If the murderer was not from Godstowe, and any normal outsider would have been noticed, perhaps there's a third possibility?'
'Such as?'
'A professional assassin who climbed the walls and murdered the woman without anyone catching sight of him.'
Corbett leaned back on the bench and stared up at the smoke-blackened beams. Ranulf was right If all the nuns were in Compline, if no one was spotted stealing over the convent walls, then the only logical conclusion was a professional assassin. Was this the de Montfort murderer, killing Lady Eleanor to embarrass the English crown? Or was the assassin sent by the King, his son, Gaveston, or even the French?
Ranulf coughed.
'Of course, Master, there is one final explanation.' 'Which is?'
'That the Lady Amelia is a liar. She could have gone to Lady Eleanor, murdered her, and then moved the body downstairs.'
Corbett nodded. Ranulf's theory made sense. Lady Eleanor would have opened the door to her Prioress.
'Or,' Ranulf grinned, 'perhaps the ancient ones, Dame Elizabeth and Dame Martha – maybe they are not as innocent as you think. The same could apply to one of the Sub-prioresses.'
Corbett smiled. Ranulf was correct So many suspects, yet so few answers. He let the conversation drift. Ranulf teased Maltote about his love life while Corbett ordered the evening meal: roasted capons stuffed with herbs, hare cooked in wine, and a dish of vegetables, leeks and onions smattered with garlic and thyme. They were half-way through their meal when the landlord appeared in the middle of the room, shouting: 'Master Corbett! Is there a Hugh Corbett here?'
The noise in the taproom stilled for a moment, even the fanners in the comer drunkenly arguing about the price of wheat; two harridans from the town shrieking at each other over an upturned barrel; and a group of young bloods, garishly dressed in costly silks, noisily roistering before a night out on the town. Corbett rose and beckoned the fellow over.
'There's a boy outside,' the landlord said. 'He has a message for you.' 'From whom?'
The fellow wiped his dripping nose on the back of his hand.
'By St Paul's, I'm a taverner not a messenger! The urchin simply said he had a message which he must give only to you.'
'Then bring him in.'
'He says he's afeared.' The landlord turned and spat into the dirty rushes. 'For God's sake, man, he's just outside the door!'
Corbett shrugged, told Ranulf and Maltote to keep the flies off his food and went out. In the gathering dusk he saw the boy, his back to him, staring down the darkening street
'What is it, lad?'
The boy turned. Corbett couldn't make his features out because of the hood pulled over his head. He saw the pig's bladder lying at the boy's feet, very similar to the one he had seen two children playing with on Holborn thoroughfare. The boy turned and Corbett suddenly sprang back. The long, thin stiletto missed his stomach by inches.
'Who are you?' Corbett whispered, backing away. 'What is it, boy?'
He was defenceless. He had left his sword belt and dagger in the tavern. He could hardly believe a young boy of no more than ten or eleven could be playing such a deadly game. The small, cowled figure shuffled towards him. Again the knife snaked out Corbett caught the boy by the wrist and gasped in surprise at his strength. He shoved his would-be assassin away and, as he did so, the hood fell back and Corbett stood transfixed in fear. No boy but a manikin, a midget of a man. Corbett had never seen such evil in someone so small: black hair slicked back against the head like the ears of a wet rat; tiny, soulless eyes and a face as twisted and as sour as a rotten apple. To his left Corbett heard a slithering on the cobbles. He glanced over and his heart jumped into his throat. A second small figure now crept out of the darkness and started to edge towards him. Corbett glimpsed the arbalest in the midget's hand and, in the poor light, the shimmering sharpness of the lethal bolt waiting to be tired.
'Oh, Christ!' he murmured.
He heard a click and stepped back quickly as the bolt thudded into the wall of the derelict house behind him. Corbett lost his footing and went down, his flailing hands seeking something to grip. He touched a lump of rotting offal and, scooping it up, throwing it at the first assassin now tripping towards him. The handful of dirt caught the dwarf in the face, making him gag and drop his guard. He stopped to wipe away the excrement which
blinded his eyes and coated his lips. Corbett rose swift as an arrow.
'Aidez moi!' he shouted. 'Ranulf!'
And, using all his force, he ran and crashed into the second assassin, who was winching back the arbalest for another bolt. Both clerk and dwarf roiled and scrabbled in the mud. Corbett felt as if he was in a nightmare; the very smallness of the man made him a false opponent, almost cutting off Corbett's blood lust and desire to protect himself. The dwarf strained against him as they rolled and struggled in the mud. Corbett, determined the dwarf wouldn't reach the dagger in his belt, was trying to tighten his grip round his assailant's throat He looked up desperately as he saw the other assassin now approach, his dagger raised, waiting to strike.
'Ranulf!' Corbett yelled.
The dagger began to descend. Corbett heard the whirr of a crossbow. Was there another attacker? But when he looked up, the dwarf above him was standing, arms limp like a ragged doll, staring dully down at the crossbow bolt buried in his stomach. Corbett regained his strength and scrambled to his feet, dragging the dwarf in his grasp with him as the latter's accomplice slumped wordlessly to his knees. He heard the patter of feet behind him and turned, his captive slid from his hands like an eel. The manikin threw a malevolent look at Corbett and fled into the darkness. Maltote came running up, Ranulf behind him. The manservant dropped to one knee, brought the crossbow up, again the death-bearing click, and the whirring crossbow bolt caught the second assassin just before he slipped into the darkness. It caught him full in the middle of his back, throwing him into the air before he crashed down on the cobbles.
Corbett went over and examined the bodies, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he turned each of the corpses over. He still felt strange, as if he was bending over the bodies of children, but one look at the dead faces calmed such scruples. They were almost identical in looks and equally steeped in depravity. Even in death their lips were curled in a snarl; their wizened faces and staring, blank eyes seemed to gloat over the evil they had planned. Professional assassins, Corbett thought. He recognised the type. They could come in many guises; a beautiful woman, a troubadour, a pedlar, even a priest or monk. Something stirred in his memory but he was too tired and disturbed to concentrate. Ranulf came up and expertly went through their wallets and pockets but there was nothing except a few coins.
'The mark of a true assassin,' Corbett observed drily. 'They carry nothing and wear nothing to identify them, where they come from or who sent them.'
'Except this, Master!'
Ranulf returned from the corpse of the second dwarf, some stiver in his hands. He sifted through it with his fingers.
'Some English pennies,' he observed. 'But the silver's French.'
Corbett stared at the coins.
'De Craon!' he muttered. 'That bastard of a Frenchman sent them!'
He suddenly remembered Father Reynard's corpse and stooped down to examine the leather-heeled boots of the assassins.
'Well,' he said, 'at least I know how Father Reynard died. Remember the boot marks in the cemetery?'
'But there was only one set!'
Corbett rose and gulped the cool night air.
'But both these were there. Remember the angle of the crossbow bolt in the priest's body? An assassin's ruse: one would knock on the door, the other would be waiting in the darkness. It's an old trick played in many ways. Sometimes it's a beggar stretching out a hand for coins whilst the other conceals the knife. Or, in my case,' he added wearily, 'a dwarf pretending to be a boy. I almost walked on to the bastard's knife!'
Corbett looked back at the tavern doorway now thronged with onlookers. Doors were opening up and down the street, casement windows were flung wide and shouts were heard. A small portly figure swathed in robes waddled out of the darkness.
'My name's Arrowhead!' he bellowed. 'John Arrowhead, alderman of this ward.' He pointed a finger at Corbett. 'You, Sir, are under arrest until the watch arrive!'
Corbett leaned against the corner of the house, trying to stop the trembling in his legs.
'And you, Sir,' he retorted, 'are a pompous fool who acts before he thinks. My name is Hugh Corbett, I am senior clerk in the King's Chancery and his special emissary. The two corpses are Frenchmen. They were assassins. Now, if you still wish to arrest me, do so – but tomorrow I will be free and you will be in prison!'
Corbett dusted himself down, and with as much dignity as he could muster, walked back to the tavern.
They sat and finished their meal, Corbett chewing his food carefully and downing two cups of heady claret to calm his nerves. Ranulf was full of himself, rather peeved that his master did not thank him properly for his rescue, making sly references to his own archery.
'You took your time,' Corbett muttered ungraciously.
Maltote coughed and looked away.
'Master Corbett,' he said, 'that was my fault. One of the customers heard the fight We took the crossbow from the landlord. I shot a bolt' He looked away and swallowed hard. 'It completely missed.' His eyes flickered nervously at Corbett I just hope it didn't hit anyone else. Ranulf snatched it from me. You know the rest.' Corbett stared at his bold-faced servant. 'How many times, Ranulf?' 'How many times what. Master?' 'How many times have you saved my life?' Ranulf shrugged.
'It's my duty,' he replied so piously that Corbett leaned back and roared with laughter. He took his purse and emptied the coins on to the table.
'They are for you, Ranulf. My regards to your son. Maltote, you had better go with him.'
He put his hand over the young messenger's.
'Just promise me you'll never handle a crossbow whenever I am anywhere near you.'
Maltote smiled nervously and, led by Ranulf, left the tavern for a night of revelling.
Corbett sat muttering to himself, going over the questions which still vexed him. He realised that in his discussions with Ranulf he had not mentioned old Martha's death. Why did she die? What was so important about the phrase 'Sinistra non dextra'. Corbett stared down at his hands gripping the table edge. He had thought of it before. Was the old nun referring to hands? But whose? What did she mean by the phrase? He shook his head.
'On the left, not the right!' he muttered.
The landlord, passing by the table, stopped and looked strangely at Corbett but the clerk smiled and shook his head so the fellow wandered off. Corbett remained sitting for hours following various trains of thought whilst Ranulf, having seen his son, was bouncing about on the broad, silk-canopied bed of Mistress Semplar. The young merchant's wife, her old husband away at a Guild meeting, had been delighted to see her amorous gallant. How pleased Ranulf was now finding out, whilst outside the front door a drunken Maltote kept watch.
A day later, Corbett sat on the edge of his own bed in Leighton Manor watching Maeve busy herself round the room. He had returned earlier in the day and Maeve was as ecstatic to see him as he had been hungry for her. A hollow-eyed Maltote had taken a strangely exhausted Ranulf off to their own lodgings so the clerk and his wife had dined by themselves in the small hall below and spent the rest of the time here in their bedchamber. As usual Maeve had been full of questions. Whom had he met? Where had he been? How long would they stay?
Corbett had tried to give her reasonable answers, deliberately omitting any reference to the attack in Catte Street or the murder of Father Reynard. Nevertheless, Maeve's sharp eyes had missed nothing; her husband looked exhausted, troubled, and now she felt agitated. Hugh had referred to de Craon and Maeve knew enough about the Frenchman to realise he meant nothing but ill for her husband. However, she had kept a brave face, telling him about the affairs of the manor, assuring him that the child growing in her belly was as well as could be expected. She kept her own bad news to the last
'Hugh…' Maeve straightened up and pulled her shift around her. 'There's a letter for you. It came earlier this morning. It's from the King. He's coming south, he's at Bedford.'
'Bedford! He should be on the Scottish march. Maeve, the letter!'
His wife went over to a casket and took out a small roll of parchment.
I broke the seal, Hugh.' She stared coolly at him. 'What concerns you, concerns me.'
He undid the scroll carefully. The King's message was sharp and cool: he was both sad and angry that his 'beloved clerk, Hugh Corbett, has failed to report any progress on our business at Godstowe'. The letter continued in a taunting, angry fashion, insults thinly veiled, about how the King's trust had not been repaid. The King was so concerned, the letter concluded, he had left his army under the command of others and was journeying south to resolve the matter himself. Corbett crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it angrily at the wall. He glared at his wife.
'Hell's teeth, Maeve! St Bernard was right. The Plantagenets come from the Devil, and to the Devil they will surely go! Is it my fault if the King has spoilt his son and made him a laughing stock in Europe? What does he know about bloody-mouthed dogs, silent assassins and…' His voice faltered off at the frightened look on Maeve's face.
'You didn't tell me!' she accused, and took her husband by the hand.' But now you will.'
Corbett had no choice but told her from the beginning of the events at Godstowe. Maeve heard him out, quiedy holding his hand.
'This Dame Agatha,' she asked pointedly, 'is she beautiful?'
'Yes, almost as beautiful as you.'
'Is she fair of face?'
'Yes.'
'Did you like her?'
Corbett knew Maeve would sense any lie and, when angry, his wife could be frightening.
'Yes, I did,' he replied slowly. 'But that does not matter. Everything I have seen, Maeve, is what I am supposed to see. It may be real but it is not the truth.'
'Do you have any suspicions?'
Corbett haltingly told her what he had discovered. Maeve agreed that the old nun had probably been referring to Lady Eleanor's hands.
'That's the key, Hugh,' she observed.
'What is?'
'The old nun's death. Tell me about it.' Corbett shrugged.
'Dame Elizabeth came up and found the door unlocked. She went in behind the screen and discovered the old lady's body half immersed in a tub of water. There were no marks on the corpse. It could have been a seizure or the falling sickness.' He paused. 'There was also a trail of water on the floor, but would an assassin be so clumsy as to leave that?'