‘Boletus,’ Bullock explained, ‘will watch Sparrow hostelry like a hawk. If David Ap Thomas and his henchmen leave, and I suspect they will after dark, Boletus will pursue like the Angel of Death and come back to inform us. In the meantime -’ the Sheriff smacked his lips ‘- I intend to fortify the inner man. Sir Hugh, you are welcome to join me.’
Corbett excused himself but Ranulf and Maltote followed the Sheriff and his sinister companion out of the room. Corbett waited until they had gone. He would have liked to sleep, the night would be a long one, but he could not get Barnett’s meeting with that beggar out of his mind. He left the castle and made his way through the emptying streets and alleyways towards St Osyth’s Hospital. The sun was beginning to set: houses and shops were now closing, lamps being lit and hung on the hooks outside each door. The dun-collectors were out with their stinking carts, continuing their unequal battle to clear the sewers and sweep up the offal and mounds of rubbish left after a day’s trading. The taverns were beginning to fill and, because the evening air was warm, windows and doors were flung open. A young man was singing the ‘Flete Viri’ which Corbett recognised as a lament on the death of William the Norman. Further down, on the steps of a church, a small choir sweetly carolled Goliard songs and Corbett recognised his favourite, ‘Iam Dulcis Amica’, so he stayed and listened before walking on.
On the corner of a street, just opposite the hospital, four scholars danced wildly to the sound of rebec and pipe. Corbett dropped a coin into their dish and crossed the street and into the main gateway of St Osyth’s. The yard was packed with beggars thronging there for an evening meal of broth, rye bread and a stoup of watered wine. Brother Angelo stood in the centre shouting orders, greeting many of the beggars by name. He glimpsed Corbett and his smile faded.
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I appreciate you are busy so I’ll be blunt. Do you know Master Barnett of Sparrow Hall?’
‘Why, yes.’ Angelo turned to roar at a beggar who had taken two pieces of bread. ‘Put that back, Ragman! You greedy little bugger!’
Ragman jumped, dropped the offending piece of bread and scurried off.
‘Do you want something to eat, Corbett? You look pale-faced.’
‘No, just information about Barnett.’
‘Well, he’s a strange one,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘He likes the wine and the wenches, does Master Barnett, yet he also comes here, and brings money for the hospital. Sometimes he helps with the distribution of food. Some of the beggars talk highly of him, a kindly man.’
‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, on reflection, I suppose I do,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘But, there again, he does no harm and who am I to refuse any help? And that’s all I know.’
Corbett prepared to leave.
‘Master clerk!’
Corbett came back. Brother Angelo’s eyes had grown soft.
‘Sir Hugh, you probably think I am just a suspicious Franciscan. However, I have heard the confessions of many men, and sometimes, when I shrive them, I detect an air of menace. Last time you were here, I felt that.’
‘You mean from us, Brother?’
The Franciscan shook his head. ‘No, not the stink of sin. More of danger.’ He clasped Corbett’s shoulder. ‘Be careful.’ Brother Angelo smiled. ‘Keep your faith - and your backs to the wall!’
Chapter 9
Corbett, the friar’s dire warning still chilling him, returned to the castle. Ranulf and Maltote were playing a desultory game of dice, Ranulf showing Maltote the finer points of cheating. Corbett sat in a window seat. He daydreamed about Leighton and quietly prayed that Maeve would be well. He felt agitated so he made his way up to the castle chapel, a simple, narrow chamber with the wooden altar at the far end. In a niche to the left of this was a statue of the Virgin and Child; with Mary smiling, showed the Baby Jesus to an oblivious world. Corbett took a taper and lit one of the candles. He knelt and said a Pater Noster, an Ave Maria and the Gloria. He heard Ranulf calling his name so he hurried down. Bullock was there with Boletus jumping in the air like a frog beside him. The Sheriff waved Corbett back into the solar.
‘Shut up!’ Sir Walter yelled at the verderer. ‘Shut up and stop dancing about!’
Ranulf and Maltote gathered round.
‘Your information was correct, Sir Hugh.’ Bullock’s face widened into a smile. ‘I’m going to enjoy this. Master David Ap Thomas and his henchmen have left the city by stealth. They’ve broken the curfew, climbed over part of the wall and made their way to the forest south-west of the city.’
‘Tell him the rest! Tell him the rest!’ Boletus screeched.
‘They have company,’ the Sheriff continued, glaring at his verderer. ‘They are accompanied by a cross-biter, a pimp called Vardel, and half a dozen whores from a city brothel.’
‘And I know where they are!’ Boletus yelled triumphantly.
‘Get your cloaks!’ Bullock ordered. ‘Boletus, I want four of your companions, six hobelars, fully armed, and about ten archers. We’ll go by foot.’
A short while later the party of armed men, Boletus running ahead like a hunting dog, left the castle. As they tramped through the narrow streets, the beggars and tricksters saw the glint of chain mail, heard the clash of sword and drew back into the alleyways. Tavern doors were abruptly shut. Whores, their bright orange wigs like beacons in the darkness, saw them coming and fled like the wind. Now and again a shutter would open wide and a voice shouted abuse. Bullock, thoroughly enjoying himself, bawled back.
They left the city by a postern gate, following a dry, dusty path out past a straggling line of cottages and vegetable gardens. The darkness gathered round them. Soon all the noise and clamour of the city was left behind. The evening was cool, the sky clear and there was little sound, except the clink of arms or the odd flurry of some animal in the hedgerow or ditch. Some of the soldiers began to complain, but when Bullock turned, fist raised, they fell silent. At length they left the path and followed a trackway into the forest. The trees closed round them. The sounds of the forest became more intense: the hoot of a screech owl, the cry of a night hawk, quick thrusting rustles from the undergrowth. Corbett and Ranulf, with Maltote hobbling behind them, tried to keep up with Bullock’s striding gait. The forest grew deeper, branches extending like stark fingers to catch the ghostly moonlight. Boletus came hopping back, moving soundlessly. He held his hand up and whispered to Bullock who ordered his soldiers to fan out. The line of men moved forward slowly. Corbett sniffed the air. He smelt wood smoke, the rather unsavoury smell of burning meat, and glimpsed the glow of fire amongst the trees. The beat of a drum came faintly through the night air. As they drew closer, the trees thinned, the ground dipped and they looked down into a glade. Corbett watched fascinated as Bullock whispered rebukes to his men who were beginning to laugh and make obscene remarks. The glade was full of dancing, naked figures. Four fires had been lit and around these naked men and women cavorted. The musicians couldn’t be seen, though Corbett glimpsed a group cooking meats over another fire at the far end of the glade.
‘It’s like some mummers’ play,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘In God’s name, what is that?’
A cowled, masked figure walked forward, dressed in a grey robe on which had been painted a large human eye.
‘Master,’ Ranulf had to stop himself laughing, ‘I don’t think this is what we thought it was.’
Beside Corbett, Bullock rose, drawing his sword.
‘I don’t give a bugger!’ he said. ‘I’m hungry: there’s wine down there and some of those young ladies are very attractive.’
Bullock began to run forward, his men following. They were into the glade before the dancing stopped.
Corbett, who had motioned Ranulf and Maltote to stay behind, realised Bullock had underestimated his opponents. The dancers may have been drunk and caught unawares but they were well armed. Swords and daggers were drawn, staves produced and the glade became a
battleground. Even the women joined in: Corbett saw one burly lady, a quarterstaff in her hand, send two of Bullock’s men crashing to the ground.
‘I suppose we had better help,’ Ranulf whispered.
Corbett reluctantly agreed. However, by the time they had reached the glade, the masked figure had been knocked to the ground and his crudely fashioned satyr mask pulled off his face. David Ap Thomas glared up at Corbett.
‘You bloody, snooping crow!’
He vainly kicked out at the two archers now lashing his thumbs together behind his back.
All round them the sound of fighting began to die. There were about fourteen scholars and two whores; the rest, including the pimp Vardel, having decided that discretion was the better part of valour, had fled deeper into the forest. Some of Bullock’s men were complaining of cuts and bruises. Nevertheless, they helped themselves to roasted strips of meat and drank greedily from the jugs of wine. Once they were finished, they led their prisoners off in single file back along the forest path.
Bullock was a cruel captor. Most of the prisoners had been allowed to don some form of dress but boots and shoes had been thrown into a bag and the night air was riven by curses, oaths and a stream of filthy abuse from the ladies of the town. The soldiers shoved and taunted back. Ap Thomas was loud in his protests.
‘There is no law against it!’ he cried.
‘What exactly were you doing?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, kiss the Devil’s arse!’ Ap Thomas snarled.
They entered Oxford by a postern gate and made their way up into the castle. Bullock, now full of himself and eager to tell the University authorities of what he had found, declared they were all his prisoners and must spend time in the castle dungeon. The students, led by Ap Thomas, loudly protested; the whores, more pragmatic, began to smile and wink at their captors. Bullock led his line of prisoners away. Corbett and his companions watched them go, listening to the shouts fade on the night air, before they made their way back to Sparrow Hall.
The doorkeeper let them into the hostelry, loudly grumbling at the late hour. Corbett ignored him. He knew the fellow had probably been bribed by Ap Thomas to wait up to let the scholars back in so he let the man remain innocent of what had happened.
Once back in Corbett’s chamber, Ranulf washed and bathed the bruise on his right hand. Maltote sat on the floor, nursing his shin, grumbling at how the night march had aggravated the injury.
‘It was a waste of time,’ Corbett declared, pulling off his cloak and unbuckling his war belt. ‘Our good friend Ap Thomas is probably guilty of nothing more than being involved in petty pagan rites which are, I suppose, as good an excuse as any for debauchery.’
‘There was nothing remarkable in the glade,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘Bread, wine, some meat: a yellowing skull which probably belonged to someone who was long in his grave when my grandfather was born.’ He shook his head. ‘And I thought Ap Thomas might have been guilty of more serious crimes.’
‘I wonder?’ Corbett sat down on the bed. ‘I wonder if the Bellman knows what happened tonight because, if he does, I think he’ll strike. He knows we are tired and weary after our wild-goose chase. Our good Sheriff, on the other hand, will spend the night thoroughly enjoying himself interrogating Ap Thomas and the other scholars whom he detests.’
‘Shouldn’t we watch Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Or, at least, the alleyways at the back? See who comes and goes? We could draw lots,’ he suggested.
‘I’ll go.’ Maltote, face pulled long, clambered to his feet.
‘But your ankle?’ Corbett said.
‘I slept well this morning,’ Maltote replied. ‘And I don’t think I can sleep now, not with this pain. What hour do you think it is?’
‘About midnight, perhaps a little earlier.’
‘I’ll take the first watch.’
Maltote hobbled out of the room, his war belt slung over his shoulder.
‘Should one of us go with him?’ Ranulf asked.
‘He’ll be safe,’ Corbett replied. ‘Go after him, Ranulf. Tell him to stand and watch, keeping deep in the shadows and, if he gets tired, to return. Our doorkeeper will think he is one of Ap Thomas’s companions.’
Ranulf left and Corbett lay down on the bed. He meant to keep awake but his eyes grew heavy and he slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Ranulf returned and pulled off his master’s boots. He placed the cloak over him, blew out the candle and went to his own chamber. He struck a tinder, the meagre oil lamp flaring into light, and opened the Confessions of St Augustine.
‘Thou has made us, O Lord, for Thyself and our hearts can find no rest until they rest with Thee.’
Ranulf closed his eyes. He would remember that. He would quote it the next time that Master Long Face entertained some pompous prelate or knowledgeable priest. Oh yes, everyone would shake their heads in silent wonderment at the change in Ranulf-atte-Newgate.
In the alleyway behind Sparrow Hall, Maltote squatted and wondered how long Sir Hugh would keep them in Oxford. Unlike Ranulf, Maltote could have lived and died at Leighton. Up at dawn, Maltote would happily stay in the stables until darkness fell and he dropped with exhaustion. He glanced up at the dark mass of Sparrow Hall and saw the faint pinpricks of candlelight. The wall around the hall garden was high and Maltote kept his eye on the postern gate. If anyone left, he was certain it would be through that door. A hunting cat slipped by. Maltote watched it climb the midden-heap next to the wall: a furry shape shot out, and both that and the cat disappeared into the darkness.
Maltote stared up at the stars and grinned. He’d enjoyed this night’s foray into the forest. He could not believe his eyes at the sight of some of those ladies! Maltote licked his lips. He’d not told even Ranulf that he was still a virgin. He’d once loved a girl, a miller’s daughter, who lived near Leighton Manor, and he’d taken some flowers to her but she had laughed when Maltote became red-faced and tongue-tied. Perhaps, when he returned, he’d go and visit her again? Maltote heard a sound and opened his eyes. The postern door was still firmly shut. He got to his feet, narrowing his eyes at the dark shape shuffling towards him: his hand fell to the dagger on his belt.
‘Who’s there? Who are you?’ Maltote called.
A clack dish rattled, and Maltote relaxed. The beggar drew near, dish out. Maltote fished in his purse - he had a coin somewhere. Perhaps the man would be company to while away the night hours? He looked up and the dish hit him straight in the face. Maltote staggered back, hitting his head against the wall. He lurched forward but his assailant was too quick, the dagger came up, sharp and cruel, ripping into Maltote’s belly. The groom screamed at the pain, one hand clutching his stomach, the other clawing the air. He fell, his head smashing against the cobbles, as the beggar shuffled off into the darkness.
The next morning Corbett was awakened by a pounding on the door. He pulled it open, to find Norreys standing there. Ranulf also came out of his room, tugging his boots on.
‘Sir Hugh!’ Norreys swallowed hard. ‘You have got to come to the Hall, it’s Maltote!’
Corbett cursed.
‘He never came back,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘I was supposed to take over.’
‘He’s dying,’ Norreys declared. ‘Sir Hugh, your servant is dying. Master Churchley has him in the infirmary but there’s nothing we can do.’
Corbett gaped at him. He crossed his arms against the cold he felt. Ranulf, however, had already pushed by them, pounding down the stairs. Corbett put his boots on, grabbed his cloak and went down with Norreys across the lane to Sparrow Hall.
Churchley was waiting for them in the parlour, the other Masters grouped around him. He opened his mouth to explain but then beckoned at them to follow and led them up the stairs to a whitewashed chamber. Maltote was lying on a bed just inside the door. His face was as white as the sheet tucked under his chin, his eyes were half-closed and a faint trickle of blood snaked out of the corner of his mouth. Ranulf pulled the blankets down and groaned at the sig
ht of the soggy, bloody mess of bandages Churchley had tied round Maltote’s stomach.
‘I did my best,’ the physician explained.
Maltote turned, his eyes flickering open. He spluttered, his arms flailing feebly beside him. Corbett leaned down to hear the words he gasped.
‘I’m thirsty. Master, the pain ...’
‘Who did it?’ Corbett asked.
‘The beggar. No face. Silent as a shadow.’
Corbett fought back the tears of rage.
‘I’m dying, aren’t I?’
Corbett grabbed Maltote’s hand, which was icy cold to the touch.
‘Don’t lie,’ Maltote whispered. ‘I am not frightened or, at least, not yet.’ His face tightened as a spasm of pain caught him.
‘I have given him an opiate,’ Churchley declared. He beckoned Corbett away from the bed. ‘Sir Hugh, you must have seen such belly wounds on battlefields. The opiate soon wears off and when it does the pain will be terrible and he’ll have a raging thirst.’
‘Is there anything you can do?’
Churchley shook his head. ‘Sir Hugh, I am a physician not a miracle worker. He will literally bleed to death and do so in great agony.’
Corbett closed his eyes, breathing in slowly. He went back to Maltote.
‘Do you want a priest?’ he asked.
Maltote struggled to answer. ‘Father Luke shrived me before I left Leighton but if I could have the sacrament?’
Tripham came into the room. ‘Sir Hugh, I apologise for disturbing you but there’s a royal messenger waiting for you at the hostelry with messages from the King at Woodstock. I have already sent for Father Vincent,’ he added. ‘He’s on his way.’
Corbett went back to the bed. He squeezed Maltote’s hand and kissed him gently on the forehead. He then wiped the tears from his own face and hurried out, whispering at Ranulf to stay.
A short while later Father Vincent arrived, a little boy walking in front of him carrying a lighted candle and bell. Over the priest’s shoulders hung a gold-fringed silver cope with an Agnus Dei in the centre. Churchley left the room but Ranulf remained. The service was short: Father Vincent gave Maltote the final absolution and administered the small Eucharistic wafer from a silver pyx. He then took a golden phial out of his pocket and anointed with holy oil Maltote’s eyes, mouth, hands, chest and feet. The little boy stood like a waxen statue. The priest never even looked at Ranulf but, immersed in the sombre liturgy for the dying, finished the anointing. Afterwards he knelt by the bed and recited the De Profundis: ‘Out of the depths, O Lord, have I cried unto Thee.’
The Devil's Hunt (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 14