by Paul Doherty
'Are you from God or the Devil?' it whispered through the slit of light.
'From God! From God!' Corbett shouted back, trying to compose himself. He had forgotten about the anchorite. The man must have heard him enter the sanctuary and Corbett had blundered into his trap. Was this man the murderer? he thought wildly.
'Let go of my hand!' he yelled. 'By God, if you do not let me go, I will stab you.'
'I heard your dagger fall,' the voice whispered in reply. 'But I wish you no ill. I will let your hand go.'
Corbett suddenly felt his fingers free. He jumped away from the wall, felt for his dagger and retreated slowly backwards.
'Who are you?' he asked, addressing the thin ray of light which beamed down from behind the stonework.
'I am a man of God,' the voice replied. 'My name is Thomas. I have dwelt here, oh, ten, fifteen years. You are the clerk,' he stated.
'How do you know?'
'I saw you this morning when the priest died, scurrying backwards and forwards across the sanctuary. Oh, a man of the world, deep in its affairs. Do you know how the priest died?'
Corbett sheathed his knife and tried to control the trembling in his limbs.
'The priest was murdered. You know that.' Corbett taunted. 'Was it not you who cried out the Angel of Death was visiting this place? How did you know that?'
The ray of light seemed to fade and Corbett, squinting through the darkness, could just make out a pair of eyes smiling behind the slit in the wall.
'There was no vision,' the voice chuckled. 'If you had seen, Master Clerk, what I have seen in this place, then it was only a matter of time before God sent his angel to wreak vengeance.'
'Why?' Corbett asked.
'Why?' the voice rose. 'These canons, these priests, they gabble through the mass; the Devil must collect what they miss out from the Divine Service and put it into his bag, so that when these priests die they will spend an eternity going through the services they have missed, the prayers they have omitted, the sermons they have forgotten. God's word is hurried, hurled away like one throws rubbish into a pit. And the lives they lead! You saw the whores?'
Corbett remembered the woman he had seen at the foot of the sanctuary steps.
'Yes,' he replied. 'I saw the woman.'
'A whore,' the voice retorted. 'De Montfort's whore.'
'You mean the priest who died.'
'The priest who was murdered,' the anchorite's voice was firm. 'You know that, Master Clerk. Oh, I have heard the gossip. I may dwell here, a prisoner of stone, and I do so willingly to atone for my own sins, but I see the sins of others and de Montfort was a sinner. The woman was his whore.'
'Do you know her name?'
'Her name is Legion,' the anchorite replied, 'for she has many devils in her. Ask around. De Montfort was a wealthy, acquisitive man.'
'The king,' Corbett said, suddenly trusting the anchorite, 'has told me to investigate the reasons behind this priest's death.'
The anchorite laughed, the sound pouring out of the stonework. 'There are as many reasons for de Montfort's death as stars in the heavens. Surely he had many enemies!'
'How do you know that?'
'Where do you think, Master Clerk, men come to conspire and plot? Where safer than in the sanctuary of God's own house? De Montfort was no different. But I tell you this most solemnly, Clerk, then I will not speak again to you. De Montfort was killed by his own brethren, here, in the cathedral of St Paul's. In this stewhouse, you will find men more evil than de Montfort, priests who have sold their souls to the Devil. I wish you luck!'
Suddenly the ray of light was extinguished. Corbett realized the anchorite had blown out the candle and would speak no more to him. He heard a rattling in the wall as the anchorite placed a piece of wood or rock in the gap, sealing himself off from the world.
Corbett walked away from the anchorage, back into the centre of the sanctuary and up the broad steps to the high altar. Once again he felt the dreadful stillness return. He placed his hands on the altar, bowed to the crucifix which hung above it and stared around. He tried to picture what de Montfort must have felt. He was standing here above the sanctuary stone; on either side of him stood those concelebrating the mass. The Agnus Dei was over and the host elevated. Other particles of sacred bread, which each of the officiating priests ate, passed along the altar on silver patens; then the chalice was passed around. Did this hold the poison? Corbett had seen Plumpton drink it himself. There had been nothing there. Others had drunk from it as well with no ill effects. But, if there was no poison in the chalice, how did de Montfort die? Was Plumpton correct? Was he looking in the wrong place?
Corbett felt the wineskin beneath his cloak; he had fastened it to his belt where it swung lightly against his leg. Was de Montfort poisoned before the service began? Corbett bit his lip and looked down towards the sacristy door: heavy, wooden, padlocked. Behind that lay de Montfort's body, now rigid and stinking in death, soaked in the poison he had drunk. Corbett thought back. The service had ended just before midday, before the great bell of St Paul's pealed out for nones. It had begun two hours beforehand. If de Montfort had drunk the poisoned wine before mass, it would have been at what hour, nine, ten o'clock in the morning? But would it take so long?
Perhaps Surrey was right; perhaps the matter should be left alone. Was he following some will-o'-the-wisp across a treacherous marsh? But surely there was an answer. Perhaps somebody, some rival had poisoned the wine the king had sent to de Montfort to get rid of this priest, the poison not acting immediately but later during the service?
Corbett sat on the top sanctuary step and thought quickly. There were three things wrong with this. First, despite his many distractions during the service, never once had he seen de Montfort falter or stumble. Nothing strange had been noticed during the mass. Surely a man who was being slowly poisoned would complain of pains? But no such thing had happened. Secondly, if this poison was given before mass, it must have been a very slow-acting one. Yet Corbett, in all his experience, had never heard of this. Most poisons were deadly swift. As a clerk in the King's Bench, he had attended the trial of many accused of poisoning; such poisons acted within minutes. Indeed, that was how the culprit was often apprehended: he or she could never leave the place of the crime quickly enough. Thirdly, and here Corbett was glad he knew a little of Canon Law, any priest who was saying mass and receiving the sacrament, could not eat or drink after midnight. It would be ridiculous to think de Montfort had drunk the wine the evening before, the poison not acting until many hours later.
Corbett frowned in concentration, baffled at the mystery. Whoever had planned de Montfort's murder had plotted it carefully. But why here? Why, if someone wanted to kill de Montfort, do it in the open before the eyes of the king, his court, the chief officers of the crown, and most of the leading dignitaries of London? Indeed, the same mystery surrounded any would-be assassin's attempt to kill the king. Why here in St Paul's at the sacrifice of the mass? Corbett rubbed his eyes; he was exhausted, weary of this matter. He got up and walked back down the nave. He heard a sound, a faint scuffling in the transept. Corbett stopped, feeling the panic and fear return. If he went out there, anyone, virtually a whole army, could hide in the darkness. Yet if someone had wanted to kill him they could have struck when he sat in the pool of light in the sanctuary. Was it just a trick of his imagination? Corbett strode quickly on, almost shouting with relief as he opened the door and stepped into the snowy whiteness outside the cathedral.
6
The next morning Corbett was awake long before the bells of the city churches began to toll for prime. It was a grey, misty morning and more snow had fallen during the night. Corbett, who could now afford to have his windows glazed, was glad he had fitted new wooden shutters, a second barrier against the ever piercing wind. His chamber was simple, albeit spacious and the plaster walls were covered with worsted hangings of red, green and blue. A large oaken cupboard kept cups and a collection of plate. There was a tabl
e-board over a pair of trestles, a bench, a stool, a heavy carved high-backed chair with arms and scarlet cushion. Corbett had cleared the floor of rushes and straw, those harbourers of dirt and disease, and spent precious gold on a thick heavy Persian carpet, an object of envy to his few visitors. Most of the room was taken up with the broad oak-carved bed, now draped with a dark blue coverlet and surrounded by heavy serge curtains, there not only to maintain privacy but also a protection against the biting cold.
Corbett had already lit the charcoal brazier, ever anxious lest a spark escape and start a fire. He took the same care with a chafing-dish set on a table to heat the room and a silver candelabra which bore four candles, each of which now flickered, giving off some meagre warmth and light. From beneath the bed Corbett pulled an iron-studded trunk and, undoing the locks, pulled out his warmest shirts, robes, leggings and a stout pair of walking boots. He also took out a belt he had owned since the Welsh wars and, pulling out another trunk, slipped a long wicked Welsh dagger and a thin rapier into two sheaths. He crossed to the laver stand holding a basin and towels and washed his face and hands, quietly cursing the cold. Once finished, he secured the trunk, pushing it back under the bed, extinguished the fire and lights and, looking once more around his chamber, left, going up a further flight of stairs to a small room beneath the roof where Ranulf slept.
His servant's garret was totally disordered and Corbett grinned mirthlessly. He remembered the previous night, tramping round most of St Paul's looking for his servant, only to find him drunk as a stoat in one of the outer kitchens. Ranulf had gorged himself on the leavings of the feast and drunk flagon after flagon of wine, openly boasting about his own greatness and the silver he might give to a pretty kitchen maid he was inveigling into spending the night with him. Cursing and yelling he had been dragged by Corbett out into the cold, along the dark narrow alleyways back to Bread Street. Ranulf had threatened his master, accusing him of being a summoner and refusing him any pleasures. Corbett had dragged him along, brutally ignoring his protestations. Only twice did he stop: once to allow Ranulf to be sick; the other to douse him in a horse trough. The icy-cold water had helped to bring Ranulf to his senses, though by the time they had reached Bread Street, Ranulf had fallen into a stupor and his master had to drag him up the stairs and toss him onto his trestle bed.
Corbett had warned him time and again not to drink to excess and to watch his tongue. Now he would emphasize the lesson. He picked up an ewer of ice-cold water and poured it slowly over Ranulf s tousled head. The servant woke gasping, spluttering, cursing and, if it had not been for the look in Corbett's eyes, Ranulf would certainly have struck the clerk full in the face.
'You are, Master Clerk,' he rasped through clenched teeth, 'a most cruel man.'
'And you Master Ranulf,' Corbett jibed in reply, 'are a most stupid man. I have ordered you on a number of occasions, whenever we are on the king's business to watch what you drink, because if your tongue wags when it shouldn't, it may well cost us our lives, not to mention being arrested by Serjeants of the king's court on some charge of treason!'
Corbett jerked Ranulf roughly out of bed. The fellow was still fully dressed except for his boots, and Corbett made his servant sit on the edge of the bed and threw them at him.
'Put them on!' he ordered. 'Go downstairs. Relieve yourself in the street. Your stomach must be a cesspit now. I will not have you stinking the house out with your stale humours.'
Ranulf pulled on his boots, glared at the dark, tense face of his master and the narrow green cat-like eyes, and decided that revenge could wait. He would bide his timeand wait for his ever-sombre master to become maudlin-drunk in some tavern and serve back the same medicine. Ranulf clattered downstairs.
A little later, rather pleased he had followed Corbett's advice, Ranulf returned; but his master had not yet finished. He ordered Ranulf back up to his room to strip and wash and put on a fresh change of clothing. Only then, when both of them were dressed in woollen hose, long high boots, surcoat and hood, did they venture downstairs into the street.
Corbett had decided not to take their horses, stabled at a tavern further down Bread Street. Instead they would walk, for in some places the snow was knee-deep. The whole city looked as if it was under a carpet of white damask; underfoot the snow was frozen hard, while the ice, in huge jagged icicles, hung like tear-drops from the intricate gabled tiers of the houses. They turned into Cheapside. The busy thoroughfare, usually filled with stalls and shops, was deserted. The huge-framed merchant houses, built of strong thick oak and folded in with plaster three to four stories high, were all shuttered and covered in white except for those which bore the arms of the city shields of bright vermilion with a figure of St Paul in gold, the head, arms and feet of the saint in silver. The snow had slipped off these shields, making them blaze all the more fiercely against the whiteness. A friar, ghost-like, hurried by; his white robe would have made him blend with the snow but for the exquisite cope he wore round his shoulders which concealed the viaticum he carried to some sick person. Two tired boys, desperately attempting to keep their candles alight, preceded him.
To the left of Corbett, towering above the city, the huge sombre mass of St Paul's, snow still packed on its vaulted dome, made the clerk concentrate on his problems until, near exhausted by the snow, they reached the Shambles. Here carts took the offal, fat and other refuse from the butchers to be dumped in the Fleet River. One or two cartloads had already departed, leaving pools of red blood, and not even the snow could hide the terrible stench of the place. Faces turned against the biting wind, they passed the now open, double-barred gates of Newgate. Ranulf ceased his cursing for here, in the buildings around the gate, was the terrible prison where he had spent a night preparing to be hanged at Tyburn so many years ago. He felt his anger against Corbett ebb and, putting his head down to shield his face against the biting wind, he plodded on behind his master, wondering how long this terrible journey would last. They passed through the city gates; on the right the huge ditch, six feet deep and, in some places, seven yards wide, where the refuse of the city was dumped. In the summer, it would reek to high heaven but now, packed with ice, it served as a play area for a number of boys who, with shinbones fastened to their feet, were busy skating onto the ice. Beneath its frozen surface, Ranulf could see the corpses of dogs and cats and, he was sure, the perfectly formed body of a child.
Corbett and Ranulf moved across the open fields of Smithfield, past the charred execution block and towards the lofty pointed archway of St Bartholomew's hospital. The gate was open so they went in, following the immense walls; stables, smithies and other storehouses. The hospital itself, a long and huge hall, was approached by a flight of steps. Here, Corbett stopped a lay brother and asked to see Father Thomas. The old man nodded, gave a gap-toothed smile, the saliva drooling out from one corner of his mouth, and shuffled away. They waited at the top of the steps. Corbett could smell crushed herbs, spices and other substances he could not name. At last, a lanky, stooping figure came out of the doorway, hands extended, his face wreathed in smiles when he saw Corbett.
'Hugh, it is good to see you.' He put his arms round the clerk's shoulder, towering above him, as he gave Corbett a vice-like hug.
'Father Thomas,' Corbett said, 'may I introduce my servant and comrade,' he added caustically, 'Ranulf-atte-Newgate.'
Father Thomas bowed, his thin, narrow, horse-like face now solemn and courteous as if Corbett had just introduced him to the King of England. Father Thomas and Hugh had known each other since their student days at Oxford. The clerk had always admired this tall, ugly man with his friendly eyes and ever-smiling mouth. He had studied abroad in the hospitals of Paris and Salerno, and his knowledge of drugs and herbs could not be equalled.
Father Thomas ushered them into the long hall. It was clean and well swept; thick woollen coverings decorated the walls; the windows were boarded up with shutters and over these, to soften the austere look of the place, large multi-coloured drape
s had been hung. On either side of the hall was a row of beds; beside each a stool, and at the foot a small leather trunk. Lay brothers and other priests moved quietly from bed to bed administering what remedies they could. Corbett believed most doctors did not relieve sickness, but at least, here, the brothers of St Bartholomew's made death comfortable and afforded it some dignity. Father Thomas led them through the hall to a small, white-washed chamber beyond, sparsely furnished with two tables, a bench, a few stools and a chafing-dish to warm the room. Along the walls were shelves filled with pots of crushed herbs, their fragrant smells even more delightful on such a cold wintry morning. Father Thomas made them sit, serving them mulled wine in wooden beakers. Ranulf found the wine hard to keep down although he was grateful for the hot spicy liquid. Once they were comfortable, Father Thomas went behind the table and, sitting down, leaned over, his face creased with concern.
'So, Hugh? Why do you wish to see me? Are you well?'
'I want to talk about poisons, Father Thomas,' Corbett replied, enjoying the shocked look in the priest's eyes.
He leaned over and tapped the priest's long bony fingers. 'Come now, Father,' he said, 'I am not here to make any confession. Nor do I normally discuss poisons, but tell me about the various types.'