The Devil's Hunt (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett)

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘It was only a game,’ Ap Thomas said tightly, chin up. ‘I thought you were cheating.’

  ‘But, now you realise I was not.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ap Thomas grated.

  ‘Good!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘So, next time when you meet my master, smile when he smiles. And no more cawing noises. Agreed?’ He glanced around and there was a quick murmur of assent. ‘Good!’ Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger, sauntered out of the refectory and up the stairs.

  Maltote was already on the bed, snoring like a little pig. Next door Corbett was kneeling on the floor, his rosary beads tight round his fingers, his eyes shut, his lips moving wordlessly.

  ‘Good night, Master.’

  Corbett opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Good night, Ranulf. We will not talk here,’ he added, ‘God knows that the walls have ears. But, tomorrow yes, after Mass?’

  Ranulf returned to his own chamber. He made sure Maltote was comfortable and went to the window, pulling back the shutters. He stared through the narrow arrow slit up at the starlit sky. He was pleased to be back on the King’s business, away from Leighton and its lonely fields and woods. More importantly, doors would be opened, and Ranulf’s ambition to climb the steep, slippery ladder of advancement burned as fiercely as ever. He was too proud to whine to Corbett, too grateful to leave his master and the Lady Maeve to make his own fortune. The King’s arrival at Leighton had changed all that. Just before the King had left, when Corbett had been elsewhere, Edward had plucked at Ranulfs sleeve. He had taken him away to a far comer, loudly proclaiming he had a story about a certain bishop they both knew. Once they were out of sight, in a quiet, narrow passageway, the King’s mood had changed.

  ‘Sir Hugh is well, Ranulf?’

  ‘Aye, your Grace, and as loyal as ever but he worries about the Lady Maeve and, perhaps, does not have other men’s stomach for bloodshed and war.’

  The King had grasped Ranulfs shoulder, his fingers digging into his skin.

  ‘But you, Ranulf, you are different, aren’t you, my clerk of the Green Wax?’

  ‘Each man walks his own path, your Grace!’

  ‘Aye, they do, Ranulf, and sometimes they walk alone. If Corbett will not return permanently to my services,’ the King added, ‘then you must.’ The King smiled. ‘I see ambition in your eyes, Ranulf-atte-Newgate; it burns like a flame. Skilled in French and Latin, are you now? Expert in drafting a letter and attaching the Seals? A man quick on his feet, sharp of eye, keen of wit and not averse to trapping and killing the King’s enemies?’

  ‘What Your Grace thinks, Your Grace must believe.’

  The King’s finger relaxed. He slipped an arm round Ranulf’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

  ‘Corbett is a good man,’ Edward whispered. ‘Loyal and honest, with a passion for the law. He will go to Oxford, Ranulf, and he will trap the Bellman. I know that: you, however, have a special task.’

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘I don’t want the Bellman brought south for trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster. I don’t want to provide him with a pulpit to lecture me and the people about the blessed de Montfort!’ The words were spat out. The King paused, his eyes never leaving those of Ranulf.

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘Your Grace!’ Edward mimicked back. ‘What Your Grace wants, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, is that when Corbett traps the Bellman, you kill him! Do you understand! Carry out that lawful execution on behalf of your King!’

  Edward then pushed him away gently and walked back to rejoin his companions. The meeting had only stoked Ranulf’s ambitions, yet he was worried: there was something the King had not mentioned. Ranulf tapped the hilt of his dagger: the Bellman seemed to be intent on bringing both the Crown and Sparrow Hall into disrepute. And what better way than to murder the King’s principal clerk? Ranulf closed the shutters. He took off his boots and lay down on the bed. He lay for a while quietly thinking before turning to douse the candle, his mind going back to Ap Thomas and those scholars in the refectory. One night, soon, he thought, he must find out why Ap Thomas and his cronies had blades of rain-soaked grass on their boots and leggings. There was no garden here in the hostelry and the streets of Oxford were muddy trackways. Had Ap Thomas been elsewhere, out in the countryside where those grisly corpses had been discovered? And those amulets he’d glimpsed round the scholars’ necks...?

  Corbett knelt in a side chapel, consecrated to the Guardian Angels, in the church of St Michael. At the high altar the priest was celebrating a lonely, dawn Mass. Corbett looked over his shoulder and grinned. Maltote was leaning against a pillar, eyes closed, mouth drooling; he’d still not recovered from the feasting of the night before. Ranulf sat back on his heels, eyes closed; Corbett wondered to what God his manservant prayed. Ranulf never mentioned religion but dutifully went to Mass and the sacraments without making any comment. Corbett’s gaze moved to the walls of the chapel. He was intrigued by the hunting scenes painted there: to the left, devils with huge nets hunted souls in some mythical forest, whilst above them angels, swords drawn, tried to rescue the virtuous from their snares. On the other wall, the artist, in garish vigorous strokes, had depicted a world turned upside down with the rabbit as the hunter and man as the quarry. Corbett was particularly fascinated by a huge hare, russet brown, its belly white as snow, who walked upright on its hind legs with a net slung over its shoulder, containing some hapless souls.

  Once Mass was finished, Corbett questioned Father Vincent.

  ‘Oh!’ The priest smiled. ‘So you like our paintings?’ He took off his chasuble, folding it neatly before putting it on the altar steps.

  ‘Yes, they are original,’ Corbett replied.

  ‘I did them myself,’ Father Vincent replied grandly. ‘I am afraid I am not a very good painter but, in my youth, I was a huntsman, a verderer in the King’s service at Woodstock.’ The priest finished divesting and blew the candles out on the side altar. ‘So, you are the King’s clerk, are you?’ he asked. ‘So many visitors here! But you haven’t come to admire my handiwork, you’ve come about poor Passerel, haven’t you?’

  The priest took them down the steps and pointed to the entrance to the rood screen.

  ‘That’s where the poor man fell, dead as a worm he was! His face all swollen, his body twisted in agony.’ He tapped Corbett on the shoulder and pointed to Maltote. ‘He can sit on one of the stools if he wants. He looks as if he’s not awake yet.’

  Maltote happily complied as Father Vincent took Ranulf and Corbett out of the main sanctuary. He led them behind the high altar.

  ‘That’s where I left Passerel. I gave him a jug of wine and a platter of food, after he’d sought sanctuary. He didn’t say much to me so I left him. I told the crowd of scholars who pursued him here that, if they didn’t leave God’s Acre, I’d excommunicate them on the spot. I left the side door open and went to bed.’

  ‘Stay awake!’ a voice shouted. ‘Stay awake and be ready! Satan is like a roaring lion who wanders about seeking whom he may devour!’

  Ranulf whirled round, hand on his dagger, at the sound of the voice which boomed like a bell round the church.

  ‘That’s only Magdalena our anchorite,’ Father Vincent apologised.

  Corbett stared at the strange box-like structure built over the main door. It reminded him of a nest Maeve had built and placed in the trees during wintertime so the birds could come and feast.

  ‘You know nothing of Passerel’s murder?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing whatsoever.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Magdalena have alerted you?’

  ‘Oh, she’s half-mad,’ Father Vincent whispered. ‘As I said, I gave Passerel his food and retired for the night. The side door was left open so, if he wished, he could go out to relieve himself.’

  ‘And he said nothing,’ Corbett persisted. ‘Nothing to explain his sudden flight from Sparrow Hall?’

  ‘No, he was just a frightened, little man,’ Father Vincent replied, ‘who bleated about his innocence.’

&nbs
p; Corbett looked over his shoulder to where Ranulf was trying to shake Maltote awake.

  ‘Maltote!’ he ordered. ‘Go back to Sparrow Hall and wait for us there!’

  Maltote needed no second bidding but lumbered down the church and out through the main door.

  ‘I’d like to meet the anchorite,’ Corbett said. ‘I understand she not only saw Passerel’s murderer but, many years ago, cursed the founder of Sparrow Hall, Sir Henry Braose?’

  ‘Ah, so you have heard the legends?’

  Father Vincent led them down the church and stopped before the anchorite’s makeshift cell.

  ‘Magdalena!’ the priest called up. ‘Magdalena, we have visitors from the King! They wish to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m here,’ the voice replied. ‘In the service of the King of Kings!’

  ‘Magdalena!’ Corbett called out. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s clerk. I wish you no ill. I must ask you questions, but I do not wish to shatter your privacy by entering your cell. Before I leave, I would like to make an offering, so you can light candles and pray for my soul.’

  Corbett saw the leather covering over the small window pulled slightly aside. He glimpsed a grey-haired, shabby figure shuffling along the narrow gallery, followed by the slap of sandals on stone steps. Magdalena crawled into the church. She was almost bent double, her dirty-white hair fell down to her waist. Her eyes were bright but Corbett was struck by the lurid manner in which she’d painted her face: the right cheek black, the left white. In her hands she carried a small, cracked hand mirror. She shuffled and sat down at the base of a pillar. Magdalena stared into the mirror, even as her thin, bony fingers clawed at the crude rosary wrapped round her right wrist, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer. She glanced up, her bright piercing eyes studying Corbett.

  ‘Well, dark-faced clerk? What do you want with poor Magdalena?’ Her gaze shifted to Ranulf. ‘You and your man of war. Why do you shatter my stillness?’

  ‘Because you see things.’ Corbett crouched beside her, taking a silver coin out of his purse.

  ‘Magdalena sees many things in the darkness of the night,’ she replied. ‘I have seen demons spat out from hell and the glory of God light up the sanctuary. I am the Lord’s poor sinner.’ She tapped the mirror against her face. ‘Once I was fair. Now I daub my face black and white and keep the mirror close at hand. Black is the badge of death. White the colour of my winding sheet.’

  ‘And what other things do you see?’ Corbett asked. He pointed up to her cell. ‘You kneel above the church door. Have you seen the Bellman?’

  ‘I heard him,’ she replied. ‘The night he pinned one of his proclamations on the door, breathing heavily, gasping for air. Now, says I, there’s a man pursued by demons! But it’s only right,’ she continued, her voice becoming sing-song. ‘Sparrow Hall is cursed. Built on sand.’ Her voice rose. ‘The rains will fall, the winds will blow! That house will fall and great will be the fall thereof!’

  ‘What curse?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Years ago, Dark Face.’ She touched Corbett on the side of his mouth. ‘Your eyes are hooded but gentle. You should not be with me but with your wife and child.’ She glimpsed the surprise in Corbett’s eyes. ‘I can see you are a lady’s man,’ she continued. ‘My husband had your looks. A keen man, he went and fought for the great de Montfort. He never came home - hacked and cut his body was, like collops of meat on a butcher’s slab. I and my boy were left in the house. We lived in the cellar and passageways, dark but safe.’ She blew the spittle from her lips, her rosary cracking against the mirror. ‘But then the Braose came; arrogant he was, carrying his head as if it was something sacred. Him and that beautiful bitch of a sister! Threw me out! My child died and I cursed them!’ Magdalena rattled the rosary beads. ‘Now the Bellman comes, warning of impending death and destruction.’

  ‘But you don’t know who the Bellman is?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘A demon sent from Hell! A goblin who has not done yet!’

  ‘And you saw poor Passerel die?’

  Magdalena’s head came up, a cunning look in her eyes.

  ‘I was kneeling before my window,’ she replied. ‘Eyes on God’s holy light.’ She pointed down to the sanctuary. ‘I hear the door open and a dark shape creeps in like a thief in the night. Aye, that’s how it happened. Sprung like a trap! Passerel, the stupid man, drinks the wine and dies in his sin before the All Mighty. Oh!’ She closed her eyes. ‘What a terrible thing it is for a sinful soul to fall into the hands of the living God!’

  ‘What was the shape like?’ Corbett asked.

  Magdalena was now studying the silver piece Corbett held.

  ‘I couldn’t see,’ she replied wearily. ‘Hooded and cowled, no more than a shadow.’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘I have spoken enough.’

  Corbett handed over the silver piece, and the anchorite scuttled back up the staircase. Father Vincent led them out of the church.

  ‘What happened to the jug and cup?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I threw them away,’ the priest replied. ‘They were nothing much: the like you’ll see in any tavern.’

  Corbett thanked him. They walked down the cemetery path and out under the lych-gate.

  ‘Shall we have something to eat?’ Ranulf asked hopefully.

  Corbett shook his head. ‘No, first let’s visit St Osyth’s.’

  ‘We learnt nothing back there,’ Ranulf declared.

  ‘Oh, perhaps we did.’ Corbett smiled back.

  They took directions from a pedlar and went down an alleyway and into Broad Street. The day was proving a fine one. The thoroughfares were packed: carts full of produce, barrels and casks jammed the street and strident noise dinned the air as shops and stalls opened for another day’s business. Hammers beat in one place, tubs and vats were being hooped in another, the clinking of pots and platters came from the cook shops. Men, women and children moved down the streets, in shoals, pushing and jostling. The houses on either side leaned out, their buckling walls held up by posts which impeded progress even further. Carters and barrow boys fought and cursed with each other. Porters, drenched with sweat under the burdens they carried, tried to force their way through by lashing out with white willow wands. Fat merchants, grasping money bags, moved from shop to stall. Chapmen, their trays slung round their necks by cords, tried to inveigle everyone, including Corbett and Ranulf, to buy the geegaws piled there. At one point Corbett had to stop, pulling Ranulf into the doorway of a shop. However, an apprentice, thinking they wished to buy, plucked at their sleeves until they were forced to continue on their way.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ Ranulf whispered.

  Any reply Corbett made was drowned by the strident street cries which cut the air.

  ‘Hot peas!’ ‘Small coals!’ ‘New brooms!’ ‘Green brooms!’ ‘Bread and meat for the Lord’s sake for the poor prisoners of the Bocardo!’

  Beggars grasping their flat dishes swarmed like fleas. Costermongers sold bright apples from the city orchards and, on the market cross, chanteurs were locked in bitter rivalry over giving news or singing songs. Even the whores and their pimps, the cross-biters, were out looking for business. Everywhere students, some dressed in samite, others in rags, swaggered in groups, narrow-eyed, their hands never far from the hilts of their daggers.

  Corbett stopped at the Merry Maidens tavern and told Ranulf to go in and hire a room which they might use later on. Once this was done, they continued to push across Carfax and down a narrow, foul lane to St Osyth’s Hospital, a shabby, three-storeyed tenement which stood behind its own curtain wall. The gateway was packed with beggars. In the cobbled yard a weary-looking lay brother, dressed in a brown robe with a dirty cord round the middle, was distributing hard rye bread to a group of beggars. They lined up before a wooden table where two other brothers were serving steaming bowls of meat and vegetables. Corbett and Ranulf made their way through.

  ‘I have never seen a place like this,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Not even in London.’
/>   Corbett could only agree. There must have been at least a hundred beggars there, some of them young and sprightly, most old and bent and clothed in rags. In the main they were former soldiers, still suffering the horrible wounds of war: a face scalded by boiling oil; an eye missing with the socket closed up; legs twisted and bent; a myriad of men on makeshift crutches. Corbett was struck by something he had seen in other hospitals: despite their age, wounds and poverty, these men were determined to live, to snatch whatever remained from life. In a way, he concluded, the murder of such men was much more cruel than the assassin’s work at Sparrow Hall. These were innocents: men who, despite the overwhelming odds, still fought on.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Corbett turned round. The voice was soft and gentle but the man who had spoken was tall and squat. He was dressed in a brown Franciscan robe, his head neatly tonsured but his face looked like that of a friendly toad, with constantly blinking eyes and fat lips gaped into a smile.

  ‘I am sorry I’m ugly,’ the Franciscan declared. He patted Corbett on the shoulder, his hand like that of a bear’s paw. ‘I can see the thought in your eyes, sir. I am ugly to man but, perhaps, God thinks otherwise.’

  ‘I am looking for Father Guardian,’ Corbett said. ‘And no man who works amongst the poor can be ugly.’

  The friar grasped Corbett’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  ‘You should be a bloody Franciscan,’ he growled. ‘Who the hell are you anyway?’

  Corbett explained.

  ‘Well, I’m Brother Angelo,’ the friar replied. ‘I’m also Father Guardian. This is my manor, my palace.’ He looked up, narrowing his eyes against the sun. ‘We feed two hundred beggars a day,’ he continued. ‘But you are not here to help us, are you, Corbett? And you certainly haven’t brought gold from the King?’

  He waved Corbett up the steps into the hospital and led him into his cell, a narrow, whitewashed chamber. Corbett and Ranulf sat on the bed whilst Father Angelo squatted on a stool beside them.

  ‘You’re here about the Bellman, aren’t you? We’ve all heard about that mad bastard and the deaths at Sparrow Hall.’