Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

Such domesticity, however, was shattered by Maltote’s return from Winchester. He looked ashen-faced and highly nervous when Corbett and Ranulf met him in the clerk’s private chancery office.

‘You gave the King my news?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘And his reaction?’

‘He drew his dagger and, if the Lord de Warrenne hadn’t been there, he would have thrown it at me!’

‘What happened then?’

‘Most of the furniture in the chamber was ruined. The King took a great mace from the wall and smashed everything in sight. Master, I thought he had fallen into a fit! He cursed and ranted. He said he would hang every bloody monk in the abbey.’

‘And me?’

‘You’ll be exiled to the Island of Lundy, stripped of all offices and made to fast on bread and water.’

Corbett groaned and sat down on the chair. The King’s rages were terrible and Edward probably meant every word he uttered, at least until he calmed down.

‘And what now?’

‘I left Winchester the same evening. The King was in the palace yard screaming at the porters, grooms, men-at-arms and household officials. The chests were to be packed, sumpter ponies to be loaded and messengers sent out. He will be at Sheen tomorrow morning and demands your presence there.’

Corbett caught Ranulf’s evil grin.

‘You will be with me, Ranulf!’ he snapped. ‘Sweet Lord!’ Corbett muttered. ‘Tomorrow the King; the next day Lord Morgan! Believe me, Ranulf, Holy Mother Church is right when she says marriage is a state only the foolish will rush into!’

‘What shall we do, Master?’

Ranulf’s glee at hearing about the consternation amongst the great ones of the land faded now. Moreover, he always kept a wary eye on the King and, if he thought ‘Master Long Face’s’ career might be in jeopardy, became ever so solicitous. Corbett stared out of the window. The sun was setting and he could hear the bells of the city faintly tolling for vespers.

‘We shall go out,’ he said. ‘We shall act like three roisterers, drink ale and sack and come home singing. For, as they used to say in ancient Rome, when you are about to die you should enjoy yourselves.’

Ranulf glanced at Maltote and pulled a face. They both had plans to visit Lady Mary in Farringdon but Corbett was insistent so, seizing cloaks and belts, they slipped out of the house and up into a now deserted Cheapside. Corbett walked fast as if the exercise would clear the foreboding in his mind about his imminent meeting with the King. They entered the Three Roses tavern in Cornhill and, whilst Ranulf and Maltote talked about everything under the sun, Corbett drank as his mind probed the problems which faced him. The more he drank the greater grew his despair as he realised he had only proven two things. Firstly, the monks at Westminster had broken their vows and, secondly, the royal treasury had been plundered by the greatest thief in the kingdom.

Three hours later, a fully depressed Corbett, aided and abetted by Ranulf and Maltote, staggered out of the tavern and began the long walk home through the black, deserted streets. Ranulf believed ‘Master Long Face’ was not drunk but slightly in his cups for he had spent the last hour lecturing Ranulf: how marriages between social unequals were never successful; how the Lady Mary Neville may be playing with him, just teasing his affections. Now Corbett had fallen silent for he suddenly remembered de Craon and was trying to recall what had been amiss when he visited the Frenchman. They reached the bottom of Walbrook and turned up Budge Row. They crossed the stream covered by a loose grating and were preparing to go down a narrow alleyway which ran alongside St Stephen’s church. Maltote was ahead of them, singing some silly song when the hooded men launched their attack. They had expected Corbett and Ranulf to be walking alongside the young messenger and, because they weren’t, Maltote bore the first brunt of their surprise attack and the scalding fistfuls of lime. Maltote screamed in agony as the burning fire turned his eyes to searing pain and he collapsed into the mud. The rest of the lime hit Corbett’s hair and the side of his face as it did that of Ranulf but it missed both their eyes. Now the hooded men, four in number, each carrying shield and sword, slipped further out of the shadows towards the surprised clerk and his companions. They ignored Maltote, screaming on his knees that he couldn’t see. Surprised and befuddled, both Corbett and Ranulf stepped back. Then the savagery of the attack dawned on Ranulf and, drawing both sword and dagger, he hit his assailants like a berserker. These were rifflers and roaring boys, used to the strange dance of street fights, not Ranulf’s foolish courage. He smashed into their leader, sending him winded and sprawling to the ground. Another took Ranulf’s dagger in his shoulder, he clutched the hot spurting wound and staggered back up the alleyway, whilst Ranulf attacked the third. By the time the fourth attacker regained his wits, Corbett, his mind cleared of the wine fumes, also joined the fray. The fight swirled to and fro. Corbett and Ranulf edged closer, fighting back to back, their swords and daggers flickering out until the dark alleyway rang with the clash of metal, the scrape of boots and the gasping grunts of struggling men. Once again Ranulf launched himself furiously into the fray, aware that Maltote, still clutching his eyes, desperately needed their aid. The attackers had enough and, like shadows, just faded away. Ranulf re-sheathed his sword whilst Corbett staggered after their wounded but still active opponents. Cursing and yelling at them, the clerk suddenly realised the futility of his temper and returned to where Ranulf sat squatting in the mud, cradling Maltote in his arms as he struggled to take the young man’s fingers away from his eyes.

‘The poor bugger’s blinded!’ Ranulf yelled. ‘It’s your fault, you bloody clerk! You and your maudlin moods. We should have gone to Farringdon!’

‘Shut up!’ Corbett rasped back.

Corbett knelt beside Maltote and dragged the young man’s hands away from his face. In the poor light of the alleyway he could see how the skin round the eyes looked as if it had been marked by falling cinders, whilst the eyes themselves were inflamed and running with water. Corbett ran back up the Walbrook, banging on the doors until a householder, braver than the rest, opened up. Maltote was dragged into a lighted doorway, the damage to his eyes now more apparent as Corbett desperately poured jug after jug of cold water to clear the lime from them. The watch, four soldiers and an alderman, alerted by the noise of the commotion, entered the Walbrook. Corbett told them to piss off and not be officious unless they wanted to help. The alderman managed to secure two horses. Maltote was helped up and, with Ranulf trotting behind him, Corbett rode as fast as his wounded companion would allow, up Budge Row into West Cheap and along the Shambles to Newgate. The city guards let them through a postern gate, Maltote moaning and groaning, Ranulf running beside him, screaming at him not to touch his eyes.

They never stopped until they arrived at St Bartholomew’s, bathed in sweat and covered in dirt as they banged on the gate, screaming for Father Thomas. They were given entrance and lay-brothers helped Maltote down from the saddle. Father Thomas, who had been in church, hurried out and took the young messenger away. Corbett and Ranulf were left to kick their heels in the long, empty corridor. Behind the sturdy, locked door they could hear Maltote’s screams interspersed with Father Thomas’s calm voice and the quiet reassurance of lay-brothers who hurried in carrying bowls of water and trays of herbal remedies and ointment. Corbett grew tired of Ranulf’s lectures and lay down on the bench to snatch an hour’s sleep whilst his servant paced restlessly up and down. The clerk awoke, revived and refreshed. He sent a lay-brother with messages to Bread Street and waited for Father Thomas to finish working on Maltote’s eyes. Just after dawn the physician came out.