Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Justice has been done!’ he bellowed. ‘Is there any man here who wishes words with me?’

No one answered. Ranulf plucked his dagger out of the dead assassin and edged towards the door. The only sound was the scraping of stools and the muttered curses of Wormwood’s remaining companion moaning for water. Ranulf slipped into the night and hurried back along the darkened alleyways to the riverside. There he cleaned his weapons, re-sheathed them and walked along the quayside to hire a wherry. He paid his coin and clambered in. As the oarsman pulled away, Ranulf gazed across the fast-flowing river. He felt no scruples about what he had done. Those men had attacked him for no cause except they had been hired by the Fitzwarren bitch. They had almost killed him and his master and caused God knows what damage to poor Maltote’s eyes. Ranulf leaned back in the stern. When the time was right, he would tell Corbett what he had done. Ranulf thought of the Lady Mary Neville and smiled. Perhaps it was time that he told a little more to Master ‘Long Face’? Above him a gull shrieked but Ranulf hardly stirred. He recalled his boast to Corbett: he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, was as good a man as any; he would kneel before the King, be dubbed knight, be given high office and bed the Lady Mary Neville as his wife. And what could Master ‘Long Face’ do about that? Ranulf closed his eyes and dreamed of future glories.

By the time he reached the steps of Fish Wharf, Ranulf was so lost in his reverie that the boatman had to shout and give him a vigorous shake. Absent-mindedly, Ranulf tossed a few coins into the fellow’s hands and stood looking along the quayside, remembering Corbett’s conversation with Puddlicott. The trickster, now lodged in the Fleet, had failed to resolve one small mystery; something Master ‘Long Face’ Corbett had overlooked, a minor detail which had puzzled Ranulf. He recalled his ambitious dreams and wondered if now was the time to take the first step to realise them. Or should he just go home? He looked up the alleyway towards Thames Street. A wet-tailed rat scurried across his boot. Ranulf lashed out angrily but also took it as a sign. He was growing tired of scampering around in the dark on his master’s errands. Yes, he concluded, now it was time Ranulf-atte-Newgate took care of his own future. As he walked briskly up the alleyway, two dark forms slipped out of a doorway. Ranulf threw back his cloak and drew his sword.

‘Piss off!’ he shouted.

The figures slipped away and Ranulf strode on, threading his way along the alleyways until he reached Carter Lane then across Bowyers Row and up Old Deans Lane which ran under the darkened mass of St Paul’s. Ranulf, his curiosity whetted, stopped and edged his way up the cathedral’s high cemetery wall. As usual, the old graveyard beyond was a hive of activity; Ranulf caught the smell of cooking and saw dark figures huddled around the fires and battered stalls selling trinkets and other gewgaws which, even at night, never closed. St Paul’s was the refuge of the sanctuary men, the wolfs-heads, who fled there beyond the jurisdiction of the city officials or the King’s law officers. Ranulf stood, silently staring into the night; if his master had not plucked him from Newgate prison, then this would have been the best his future could have offered him. More determined than ever, he climbed down, cleaned his hands and went up into Newgate. He bribed a sleepy-eyed guard to let him through the postern door and made his way across Smithfield Common to St Bartholomew’s Priory. He stopped near the scaffold; the rotting, dangling cadavers did not concern him.

‘Are you there, Ragwort?’ he called softly.

‘Old Ragwort’s not there and he’s not here either,’ the mad beggar replied angrily.

Ranulf smiled, flicked a penny in the direction of the gibbet and went to hammer on the priory door. A few minutes later a lay-brother ushered him into the hospital. For a while Ranulf stood in a draughty passageway wondering what news awaited him.

‘Ranulf, Ranulf,’ Father Thomas came hurrying towards him. ‘You come about Maltote?’

‘I was passing this way, Father. I hate to bother you.’

‘No trouble, Ranulf. I do my best work at night.’

‘Well,’ Ranulf asked hastily, ‘is Maltote blind?’

Father Thomas took him gently by the arm and guided him to a bench.

‘Maltote will be fine,’ Father Thomas answered, sitting down beside him. ‘His eyes will hurt and smart for some time but the lime was either washed or cleaned out very quickly. The side of his face will be slightly pitted but he is young and his body will mend quickly.’

Ranulf stared at him anxiously. ‘So, what’s the problem, Father?’

‘It’s his spirt I’m worried about.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He might have a horror of violence, particularly weapons.’

Ranulf bit his lip. ‘Go on, Father.’

‘Well, we gave him a knife to cut his meat. He did more damage to his fingers than he did to his food.’

Ranulf leaned back and laughed in sheer relief, patting Father Thomas gently on the hand. The apothecary sat puzzled by Ranulf’s outburst.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Father. I must apologise. Didn’t you know?’

Father Thomas shook his head.

‘Never give Maltote a knife, a spade, anything which will cut. He will only harm himself and everyone else in St Bartholomew’s! Yet, Father, I do thank you for your care.’

‘Don’t you wish to see him?’

‘He’s sleeping?’

‘Yes, yes, he is.’

‘Then let him be, Father. I have other business to tend to.’

Once outside St Bartholomew’s, Ranulf strode back across the common and, covering his face against the terrible smells from the city ditch, followed the winding cobbled alleyway down to the entrance to Fleet prison. The porter was not too accommodating; only after silver had changed hands was Ranulf allowed into the grim, stinking entrance hall. A burly gaoler with greasy spiked hair and a drink-drenched face accosted him.

‘What do you want?’ the fellow asked, wiping his hands on a stained leather jerkin.

‘A word with Puddlicott.’

The gaoler’s thick lips parted in a smile.

‘Ah, the plunderer of the King’s treasure! We have orders to allow no one near him.’

‘Whose orders?’

‘Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal.’

Ranulf fished in his wallet and took out a warrant bearing Corbett’s seal. ‘My master sent me! Do as I say!’

Naturally, the fellow could not read but he was impressed by the seal and even more so by the silver piece Ranulf placed on top of the warrant.

‘You’d better come with me. He’s nice and safe now. Comfortable lodgings he has, well away from the rest of the scum.’

The gaoler led him through a cavernous chamber where the common felons crouched, chained to the wall. The manacles were long enough for the prisoners to stand up and walk about but now they huddled under threadbare blankets, moaning and whimpering in their sleep. Ranulf looked with distaste at the long common table covered in greasy dirt where mice, impervious to their presence, still gnawed at the dirty scraps of food and globules of fat strewn there. A few of the prisoners woke and staggered towards them; dirty, fetid men and women clothed mostly in rags, their bare skin showing terrible sores and purple bruises. A guard shouted at them and the prisoners slunk away.

Ranulf and the gaoler left the hall, crossed a stone-flagged corridor past grated windows where felons awaiting the death cart shook begging bowls through the bars, cried or shouted abuse. They climbed slimy, cracked steps into a long, torch-lit corridor containing a number of cells. Ranulf immediately knew where Puddlicott was lodged, by the two guards crouching outside. They hardly stirred as the gaoler unlocked the door and ushered Ranulf in.