Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl

by Paul Doherty

  Yet Ranulf had decided that the day’s business was still unfinished. He walked back into the city, visiting a fletcher’s shop just off West Cheap, before hurrying as fast as he could down to Thames Street and the barges waiting at Queenshithe. He would have liked to have stopped at Bread Street or even visited Maltote in St Bartholomew’s but Ranulf was determined to carry through what he had decided. If his master knew, or even suspected, Corbett would use all his power to hinder and impede his plans. Ranulf drew his cowl over his head, wrapped his cloak more tightly about him and clambered into a two-oared wherry. He kept his face hidden, curtly informing the boatman to drop him in Southwark just beneath London Bridge. So, whilst a powerful oarsman pulled his little craft across a choppy Thames, Ranulf clutched his sword and carefully plotted how to carry out his plan. He only hoped the Fitzwarren hag had told the truth. Ranulf had threatened that if she did not give him the information, he would tell every whore in London about her. Yet her confession was the easy part. Southwark at night was regarded as London’s own entrance to Hell and Ranulf knew that The Wolfshead tavern had a worse reputation than the devil himself.

  The wherryman, intrigued at Ranulf’s silence, thought his passenger was going to visit one of the notorious Southwark brothels and refused to let him land until he had given him stark advice on how to get his money’s worth at The Golden Bell tavern where the bawds rutted like stoats for a penny and would do anything for two. Ranulf thought of the poor pathetic corpses he had seen, smiled bleakly and, once ashore, headed into the warren of alleyways which led off from the riverside. No lamps or torches flared here. The tenements and hovels huddled together and Ranulf felt he was picking his way through a darkened maze. Yet he knew Southwark came to life at night: cut-throats, pickpockets, pimps, vagabonds and outlaws roamed the alleyways looking for prey amongst the weak and unarmed. The runnels were cluttered with filth of every kind which reeked like the rotting decay of a charnel house. As Ranulf moved deeper into the darkness, dark forms emerged from narrow doorways but then slunk back as soon as they saw the hilt of Ranulf’s dagger and sword.

  At last he found The Wolfshead, a small, dingy tavern with narrow slit windows out of which poured the sounds of violent roistering. Ranulf pushed the rickety door open and stepped into the stale, noisy half-light. As he entered, the din fell away. Ranulf pulled his cloak aside, the sword and dagger were noted and the hum of conversation continued. A greasy, fat-faced tapster hurried up, bobbing and curtseying as if Ranulf were the King. His greedy little eyes took in the fine fabric of Ranulf’s cloak and the leather, well-heeled boots.

  ‘Some ale? Some wine, Master?’ he whined. ‘A girl? Perhaps two?’

  Ranulf beckoned him closer and grabbed the man by his food-stained jerkin.

  ‘I want Wormwood!’ he muttered. ‘And don’t lie, you slob of lard! He and his companions always meet here. They can be hired, yes?’

  The fat tapster licked his lips, his eyes darting like those of a trapped rat. ‘Don’t look!’ he hissed. ‘But in the far corner, Wormwood and his companions. They are here. What is it you want, Master? A game of hazard?’

  Ranulf pushed him away. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he muttered. ‘A game of hazard.’

  He shoved the man aside, walked over to the corner and stared down at the four gamblers rolling cracked dice from a dirty cup. At first they ignored him but then the one-eyed man in the corner looked up; his face was narrow, thin and made all the more vicious by the rat-trap mouth and the dagger wound under his good eye; his greasy hair was parted in the middle and fell in straggling locks down to his shoulders.

  ‘What is it you want, bucko?’

  ‘You are Wormwood?’

  ‘I am. And who are you?’

  ‘Someone recommended you!’

  ‘For what?’ Wormwood’s hands went beneath the table as did those of his three companions.

  Ranulf beamed at all of them. They looked what they were: footpads, cut-throats, men who would slit a baby’s throat for a groat. Unshaven faces, sly glittering eyes; Ranulf saw that one of them nursed a wound in his shoulder and knew that he had found his prey.

  ‘I want to hire you,’ Ranulf announced. ‘But first I’d like to gamble some of my gold.’

  Wormwood’s hands, as did those of his companions, came back from under the table. Ranulf noticed the rags tied round their fingers and saw the lime stains. He knew how professional assassins had their own hallmark. Some would use the garrotte, others the crossbow, whilst these beauties used lime to blind their victim before striking with dagger and sword. Wormwood spread his rag-covered hands.

  ‘So, you wish to hire us but first you want to dice?’ He smirked at his companions. ‘Mother Fortune, my dear brothers, is smiling on us tonight. Landlord!’ he called out. ‘Bring a stool for our friend. A jug of your best wine and five cups! He’ll pay!’

  The landlord hurried up but kept his face hidden as if he suspected what was to come. A stool was brought and the wine served. Wormwood shook the dice in the cup.

  ‘Come, Master, guests first!’

  Ranulf shook the dice and threw a ten then passed the cup to the fellow sitting to his left. Each had their throw and, slurping their wine and shouting abuse, they all threw less than Ranulf. The dice cup came round again.

  ‘The best of three!’ Wormwood announced angrily. ‘And we’ll see the colour of your gold just in case you lose!’

  Ranulf slipped a piece on to the table and his companions gazed greedily at it. Ranulf picked up the dice cup.

  ‘Strange!’ Wormwood exclaimed.

  ‘What is?’ Ranulf smiled back.

  ‘We have seen your gold but what are we gambling for?’

  Ranulf put the cup back down on the table. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ He smiled sweetly. ‘Your lives!’

  Wormwood’s hands fell away but, before the rest could regain their wits, Ranulf leapt to his feet, kicking the stool behind him. The small crossbow concealed beneath his cloak was brought up and a barbed-edged quarrel hit Wormwood in the chest even before the footpad’s hand could reach his dagger. His companions were too slow or fuddled with drink. One sprang up and almost fell on Ranulf’s dagger. He backed away, screaming, his hands clutching the blood-spurting split in his belly. The other two fared no better, Ranulf, moving lithely, pushed the table with his boot, wedging one against the wall. He stepped back and drew his sword as another footpad, clutching his dagger and mouthing drunken curses, lurched towards him. Ranulf feinted, the man tottered by him then screamed in pain, crashing to the floor as Ranulf brought his sword back, slashing deep into the small of the man’s back. The fourth assassin, still jammed between table and wall, struggled to free himself. Ranulf picked the small sack from the belt tied to one of the fallen. He opened its neck, poured the lime into his hands then threw it into the seated man’s face. The fellow shot back, screaming, drumming his feet on the floor. Ranulf turned and stared round the now silent taproom.

  ‘Justice has been done!’ he bellowed. ‘Is there any man here who wishes words with me?’

  No one answered. Ranulf plucked his dagger out of the dead assassin and edged towards the door. The only sound was the scraping of stools and the muttered curses of Wormwood’s remaining companion moaning for water. Ranulf slipped into the night and hurried back along the darkened alleyways to the riverside. There he cleaned his weapons, re-sheathed them and walked along the quayside to hire a wherry. He paid his coin and clambered in. As the oarsman pulled away, Ranulf gazed across the fast-flowing river. He felt no scruples about what he had done. Those men had attacked him for no cause except they had been hired by the Fitzwarren bitch. They had almost killed him and his master and caused God knows what damage to poor Maltote’s eyes. Ranulf leaned back in the stern. When the time was right, he would tell Corbett what he had done. Ranulf thought of the Lady Mary Neville and smiled. Perhaps it was time that he told a little more to Master ‘Long Face’? Above him a gull shrieked but Ranulf hardly stirred. He recalled his boa
st to Corbett: he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, was as good a man as any; he would kneel before the King, be dubbed knight, be given high office and bed the Lady Mary Neville as his wife. And what could Master ‘Long Face’ do about that? Ranulf closed his eyes and dreamed of future glories.

  By the time he reached the steps of Fish Wharf, Ranulf was so lost in his reverie that the boatman had to shout and give him a vigorous shake. Absent-mindedly, Ranulf tossed a few coins into the fellow’s hands and stood looking along the quayside, remembering Corbett’s conversation with Puddlicott. The trickster, now lodged in the Fleet, had failed to resolve one small mystery; something Master ‘Long Face’ Corbett had overlooked, a minor detail which had puzzled Ranulf. He recalled his ambitious dreams and wondered if now was the time to take the first step to realise them. Or should he just go home? He looked up the alleyway towards Thames Street. A wet-tailed rat scurried across his boot. Ranulf lashed out angrily but also took it as a sign. He was growing tired of scampering around in the dark on his master’s errands. Yes, he concluded, now it was time Ranulf-atte-Newgate took care of his own future. As he walked briskly up the alleyway, two dark forms slipped out of a doorway. Ranulf threw back his cloak and drew his sword.

  ‘Piss off!’ he shouted.

  The figures slipped away and Ranulf strode on, threading his way along the alleyways until he reached Carter Lane then across Bowyers Row and up Old Deans Lane which ran under the darkened mass of St Paul’s. Ranulf, his curiosity whetted, stopped and edged his way up the cathedral’s high cemetery wall. As usual, the old graveyard beyond was a hive of activity; Ranulf caught the smell of cooking and saw dark figures huddled around the fires and battered stalls selling trinkets and other gewgaws which, even at night, never closed. St Paul’s was the refuge of the sanctuary men, the wolfs-heads, who fled there beyond the jurisdiction of the city officials or the King’s law officers. Ranulf stood, silently staring into the night; if his master had not plucked him from Newgate prison, then this would have been the best his future could have offered him. More determined than ever, he climbed down, cleaned his hands and went up into Newgate. He bribed a sleepy-eyed guard to let him through the postern door and made his way across Smithfield Common to St Bartholomew’s Priory. He stopped near the scaffold; the rotting, dangling cadavers did not concern him.

  ‘Are you there, Ragwort?’ he called softly.

  ‘Old Ragwort’s not there and he’s not here either,’ the mad beggar replied angrily.

  Ranulf smiled, flicked a penny in the direction of the gibbet and went to hammer on the priory door. A few minutes later a lay-brother ushered him into the hospital. For a while Ranulf stood in a draughty passageway wondering what news awaited him.

  ‘Ranulf, Ranulf,’ Father Thomas came hurrying towards him. ‘You come about Maltote?’

  ‘I was passing this way, Father. I hate to bother you.’

  ‘No trouble, Ranulf. I do my best work at night.’

  ‘Well,’ Ranulf asked hastily, ‘is Maltote blind?’

  Father Thomas took him gently by the arm and guided him to a bench.

  ‘Maltote will be fine,’ Father Thomas answered, sitting down beside him. ‘His eyes will hurt and smart for some time but the lime was either washed or cleaned out very quickly. The side of his face will be slightly pitted but he is young and his body will mend quickly.’

  Ranulf stared at him anxiously. ‘So, what’s the problem, Father?’

  ‘It’s his spirt I’m worried about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He might have a horror of violence, particularly weapons.’

  Ranulf bit his lip. ‘Go on, Father.’

  ‘Well, we gave him a knife to cut his meat. He did more damage to his fingers than he did to his food.’

  Ranulf leaned back and laughed in sheer relief, patting Father Thomas gently on the hand. The apothecary sat puzzled by Ranulf’s outburst.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Father. I must apologise. Didn’t you know?’

  Father Thomas shook his head.

  ‘Never give Maltote a knife, a spade, anything which will cut. He will only harm himself and everyone else in St Bartholomew’s! Yet, Father, I do thank you for your care.’

  ‘Don’t you wish to see him?’

  ‘He’s sleeping?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he is.’

  ‘Then let him be, Father. I have other business to tend to.’

  Once outside St Bartholomew’s, Ranulf strode back across the common and, covering his face against the terrible smells from the city ditch, followed the winding cobbled alleyway down to the entrance to Fleet prison. The porter was not too accommodating; only after silver had changed hands was Ranulf allowed into the grim, stinking entrance hall. A burly gaoler with greasy spiked hair and a drink-drenched face accosted him.

  ‘What do you want?’ the fellow asked, wiping his hands on a stained leather jerkin.

  ‘A word with Puddlicott.’

  The gaoler’s thick lips parted in a smile.

  ‘Ah, the plunderer of the King’s treasure! We have orders to allow no one near him.’

  ‘Whose orders?’

  ‘Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal.’

  Ranulf fished in his wallet and took out a warrant bearing Corbett’s seal. ‘My master sent me! Do as I say!’

  Naturally, the fellow could not read but he was impressed by the seal and even more so by the silver piece Ranulf placed on top of the warrant.

  ‘You’d better come with me. He’s nice and safe now. Comfortable lodgings he has, well away from the rest of the scum.’

  The gaoler led him through a cavernous chamber where the common felons crouched, chained to the wall. The manacles were long enough for the prisoners to stand up and walk about but now they huddled under threadbare blankets, moaning and whimpering in their sleep. Ranulf looked with distaste at the long common table covered in greasy dirt where mice, impervious to their presence, still gnawed at the dirty scraps of food and globules of fat strewn there. A few of the prisoners woke and staggered towards them; dirty, fetid men and women clothed mostly in rags, their bare skin showing terrible sores and purple bruises. A guard shouted at them and the prisoners slunk away.

  Ranulf and the gaoler left the hall, crossed a stone-flagged corridor past grated windows where felons awaiting the death cart shook begging bowls through the bars, cried or shouted abuse. They climbed slimy, cracked steps into a long, torch-lit corridor containing a number of cells. Ranulf immediately knew where Puddlicott was lodged, by the two guards crouching outside. They hardly stirred as the gaoler unlocked the door and ushered Ranulf in.

  ‘Puddlicott, my lad!’ the gaoler shouted. ‘You poor benighted bastard! You’ve got a visitor!’

  Ranulf peered through the gloom. The cell was a perfect square, clean and swept. There was a privy in the corner, which evidently drained down to the city ditch, and even some furniture: a small table, a broken stool and a long bed with a straw-filled mattress on which Puddlicott now half sat, his face heavy with sleep. At last he shook himself awake, stretched and yawned. Ranulf had to admire his coolness. The prisoner smiled at him.

  ‘There’s a candle on the table but I have no flint.’

  Ranulf took his own and the candle sparked into light. Puddlicott went to piss in the privy, plucked up his cloak and came back to sit on the edge of the bed.

  ‘So, Corbett has sent you again, eh? Has he missed something out?’

  Ranulf sat on the table. ‘Not really, we now know what happened. You apparently slipped in and out of the country when you wished, and moved sacks of coin to Gracechurch Street down to the docks by using a dung cart.’

  Ranulf leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He and Corbett had made one mistake: never once had they asked why an important envoy like de Craon had not chosen a better lodgings. Yet, there again, accredited envoys had every right to choose where they stayed.

  ‘Didn’t you wonder,’ Ranulf abruptly asked, ‘why some of the whores invite
d to the abbey were murdered? Some of your girls must have been amongst the victims?’

  Puddlicott shrugged his shoulders and pulled his gown tighter. ‘You know the way of the world. It’s Ranulf, isn’t it?’

  His visitor nodded.

  ‘Men die violently, as do women and children, so why shouldn’t whores.’ Puddlicott stretched his legs. ‘Your master will keep his word about my brother?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ranulf answered. ‘And if you tell me more, you have my oath that twice a year I shall go to St Anthony’s to make sure all is well.’

  Puddlicott got to his feet and went to stand over Ranulf. ‘Corbett didn’t send you. You’ve come here on your own. I have told you what I know and, although I think all law officers are bastards, you are not here to gloat. So what is it? The slayer of the prostitutes?’

  ‘No,’ Ranulf answered defensively. ‘We have our own thoughts on that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Information!’

  ‘For Corbett?’

  ‘No, for myself.’

  Puddlicott roared with laughter and went back to sit on his bed. ‘So, that’s your game, Master Ranulf? The servant competing with the master? Why do you think I have more information?’

  Ranulf leaned forward. ‘I accept,’ he began, ‘that de Craon would come to England to take the treasure home. I also understand why he would hide away but, what I can’t understand, Master Puddlicott, is why you, digging away at the foundations of the crypt, had to leave such an important task and go back and forth to France!’ Ranulf looked at the prisoner. ‘That’s the only loose thread. Why didn’t you stay in London? What was so important that you had to journey backwards and forwards to Paris. We know you did; your accomplices stated how you would disappear for weeks. So, what else were you up to?’

  Puddlicott waggled a finger at him. ‘You’re very sharp, Master Ranulf. Corbett didn’t ask me that.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought you were going back for fresh instructions.’