by Paul Doherty
De Luce smiled. His hands dropped down. 'And now, Corbett, your penance!'
Hugh would always regret he had not watched this mad, evil priest more intently. Only when the word 'penance' was uttered did he begin to move away, but it was too late. De Luce, the smile still on his twisted lips, managed to thrust the long, thin, stiletto-like dagger through a small aperture deep into Corbett's shoulder. The clerk screamed at the red-hot pain, his hand going up to feel the blood pumping out and collapsing as de Luce moved quickly out of the screen and up the cathedral. He heard voices, Ranulf shouting, the sound of drawn swords and the whirr of a crossbow bolt. Then the darkness mercifully obliterated his agony.
Corbett woke a few days later in a lime-washed chamber of St Bartholomew's Hospital. The mattress was soft enough, slung over a low truckle bed. He glanced round and saw the black crucifix on the wall, a bench, two stools and a small table. He knew he was in St Bartholomew's because Father Thomas was standing there, his back to him, mixing some potion at the table. Corbett stirred and called out.
Father Thomas turned round, his face beaming with pleasure. 'So, Hugh, you have decided to rejoin us.'
Corbett struggled to rise, but a hot knifing pain, which shot from his shoulder all the way down his right side, forced him back on the bed. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face and body.
'You should lie still, Hugh,' Father Thomas said, a note of authority in his usually gentle voice. He bathed the clerk's head with a cloth dipped in warm, herb-strewn water and, bringing a small cup, held Corbett's head and forced the clerk to drink the dark, bitter mixture.
'This will make you sleep eventually,' the monk said.
Hugh lay back and stared up at the ceiling. 'How long have I been here?' he asked.
'Eight days.'
'What happened?'
Father Thomas patted Hugh on the head as if he was a child.
'Stay there.'
He went to the door and called down the passageway. Ranulf came in wringing his hands, his face a picture of concern and compassion. Behind him was Maeve. Corbett could hardly believe his eyes and, if he had not been warned by the pain, he would have sprung out of bed. She came quietly into the room, pulled a stool over and sat down beside him. Taking one of his hands in hers, she kissed it gently and stroked it affectionately, just looking at him. Corbett realized how beautiful she was, the bright corn-coloured hair peeping out beneath the dark blue wimple over her head. Her face, however, was paler than usual, almost alabaster, and her eyes larger and darker. He could see the dark shadows of sleeplessness around them.
'Maeve, when did you arrive?' he said huskily. 'I thought you were in Wales. The roads? How could you get through?'
Maeve smiled. 'We did not come by road but by sea.'
Corbett clasped her hand tightly until she winced. 'It is so good to see you.'
Ranulf, the clerk's servant, had been standing there, his look of concern now replaced by one of deep grievance at being ignored.
'Ranulf, what happened at St Paul's?'
Ranulf shrugged. 'I heard you yell. I saw the priest leave and come from behind the screen, the dagger still in his hand. I had brought a crossbow, and even in that light he was still a good enough target.'
'You killed him?'
Ranulf shrugged again and smiled. 'Of course. The bolt went straight into the back of his neck. He died very quickly before the high altar, just near the anker house.' Ranulf went over and sat on a bench against the far wall. 'He cursed you before he died, while the anchorite behind his wall shouted out about how God's justice had visited his temple and that the evil man would go down into the deep pit of hell, and so on, and so on.'
'And the king?'
Ranulf gave a sigh. 'He sends his thanks. I told Hervey what had happened. He wrote some of it down and gave it to the king.'
Corbett groaned. The one thing he did not want was someone reporting back, putting words in his mouth. 'Did the king seem pleased?'
'Very. As I said, he thanked you.' Ranulf thought that now was not the time to tell about the heavy clinking purse the king had tossed to him.
'Does he want to see me?'
Ranulf shook his head. 'Oh, no. He said you were to rest. He's off to Flanders, taking an army there. But he said he would see you on his return.'
Corbett nodded and again thought of his favourite verse from the psalms: 'Put not your trust in Princes.' The king was as fickle as the sun in winter. He thought back to St Paul's, again seeing de Luce's eyes glaring at him through the screen, and cursed his own stupidity and folly. He should have been more cautious. Yet Maeve had come. The only woman, indeed, the only person, he had ever really loved.
'And how long will you be here?'
'Oh, for months,' she said. 'Long enough for you to get better and for us to get married.'
Corbett could have shouted with joy. He felt the winter outside had broken, the spring had come at last and there was something to live for.
Conclusion
This novel is based on fact. Edward I brutally sacked Berwick and burned the Red House of the Flemings because they refused to surrender. Edward did hold a great assembly of the realm at St Paul's, at which Walter de Montfort had been appointed to argue vehemently against the king's right to tax the Church. His death took place as described, violently and suddenly, leaving men wondering whether God was punishing Edward of England or vindicating royal rights. The Church did eventually reach a compromise with Edward as did his barons. The king waged a successful war in Flanders, but in Scotland the sack of Berwick proved to be a point of no return and the Scots refused to submit.
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