Paul Doherty: Murder Wears a Cowl

Corbett studied the man’s skeletal face. Was a madman such as this, he wondered, responsible for the murder of whores, like those whose red wigs he could glimpse in the crowds ahead of him?

‘Shall we arrest him, Master?’ Ranulf joked.

The clerk stared at the fanatic. The fellow was as lean and lithe as a cat and as he screeched, his eyes bounced from his head like the very devil. His cheeks and jaw were as bare of flesh as any recluse who lived on bread and ditch water. Suddenly the preacher stopped his litany of denunciation, jumped down and did a strange, fantastical dance.

Corbett looked at Ranulf and shook his head. ‘I doubt if that fellow could walk straight,’ he commented. ‘Never mind struggle with some sturdy wench and wield a sharp cutting knife.’

They passed on down an alleyway, dismounting to lead their horses around a group of ragged-arsed children who were dancing round the corpse of a yellow mongrel which had been crushed by a cart, the blue innards bursting from its sagging belly. On the corner the beadles had caught a man who had drained water illegally from the Great Conduit. They were now forcing him to carry a leaking bucket of water on his head which they gleefully refilled.

Corbett grinned at Ranulf. ‘It’s good to be back in London,’ he commented sourly.

Ranulf nodded his head vigorously, staring round at the mass of colour: hoods, mantles and tunics of every hue. The murrey and mustard of the city officials, the golden silk of high-born ladies, the merchants’ woollen cloaks thrown back to display heavy purses and broad, jewelled belts. A group of Templars rode by, the great cross on the shoulders of their cloaks, their pennants and banners snapping in the breeze. Corbett and Ranulf continued across Cheapside, forcing their way through a throng of young noblemen who were admiring a pack of slender, lean-ribbed hunting dogs for sale.

At last they entered Bread Street. They left their horses at the Red Kirtle tavern and crossed the street, stepping carefully over the slopping sewer, towards Corbett’s town-house. Ranulf, carrying the heavy saddle-bags, wished his master would walk on, but Corbett stopped to admire the freshly painted front door, which now shimmered under the gloss, noting how the craftsman had also placed heavy steel bolts in serried rows to reinforce it. For the rest, Corbett grinned, Maeve had hired painters to refurbish the three-storied building and, being contrary as Maeve could be, instead of the plaster being painted white and the beams black, Maeve had ordered the plaster to be painted black and the beams white whilst above the door was a vigorous depiction of the Llewellyn coat-of-arms next to the Red Dragon Rampant of Wales.

They slipped down the alleyway at the side of the house and in through the back door. Two old servants greeted them. The Welshman Griffin and his wife Anna. The latter had served Maeve in Wales and faithfully followed her mistress into the ‘Land of the foreigners’, as she termed it, when Maeve moved to London after her marriage to Corbett. Both Griffin and his wife viewed England as alien as Outremer, and the inhabitants of London as demons in human flesh. Corbett, however, they accepted and now greeted him ecstatically, both gabbling away in Welsh. Corbett just smiled and kissed each of them on the cheeks, indicating by signs that he did not wish them to announce his arrival to Maeve. He turned to speak to Ranulf but his manservant had dropped the saddle-bags on the floor and promptly had disappeared. Ranulf was rather frightened of Maeve, considerably in awe of a woman who was not only beautiful but had the wit to match his own and a tongue which could cut like a razor. Griffin looked askance at Corbett and pointed to the bags.

‘Yes, yes,’ the clerk commented. ‘I would be grateful if you would move them in. Ranulf will be back. He’s probably gone to see his baby son.’

The old man shook his head and screwed up his eyes as if he could not understand what Corbett was talking about, though the clerk suspected different. He was sure Griffin understood every word he said but the old man insisted on his Welshness and quietly enjoyed the confusion it caused. Suddenly, Anna, Maeve’s old nurse, grasped him by the hand, her face became serious and she kept repeating words, of which the only one Corbett could understand was ‘Llewellyn’. The clerk just shook his head, clasped each of his servants affectionately by the hand, and crept quietly upstairs towards the solar.

At the top he stood peering through the half-open door. Across the room sat Maeve in a russet dress, fastened closely at the neck, with a blue belt round her waist and a white veil secured by brooches to her blonde hair. She was sitting on a stool next to the fire. Corbett quietly groaned, for his wife was stabbing furiously at a piece of embroidery — a sure sign that the Lady Maeve was not in the best of moods. She detested sewing, hated embroidery but liked to take her temper out on the nearest piece of cloth to hand. Nevertheless, she was singing softly to herself, some strange Welsh lullaby, whilst rocking the small cradle beside her with the tip of her slippered foot.

Corbett, fully aware of the furies to come, stood and admired the peaceful domestic scene. He gazed round the room, admiring how Maeve had turned the solar into a luxurious, even opulent chamber. Carpenters had placed wooden panelling around the room which stretched half-way up the high walls whilst the brickwork above it had been covered in a thick white paint. Some of this was hidden by brilliant-hued tapestries or carefully painted shields depicting the armorial bearings of both Corbett’s and Maeve’s families. Red woollen rugs not rushes covered the floor and at the end of the solar, the windows had been filled by glass, some of it tinted in brilliant, contrasting hues. Stonemasons had refurbished the old hearth with an intricately sculpted fire mantel resting on two huge pillars with dragons, scorpions and wyverns carved there. Corbett leaned against the doorway and smelt the sweet warmth from the herb packets Maeve must have thrown on the small log fire. His wife suddenly raised her head as if she knew she was being watched.

‘What is this, woman?’ Corbett shouted, pushing open the door. ‘To come home and find my wife sitting amongst the ashes!’

Maeve gave a cry, dropped the embroidery and fairly ran across the room, the white veil round her head floating out like a banner.

‘Hugh! Hugh!’ She threw her arms round Corbett’s neck and pressed closely against him, clasping his face between her hands and kissing him passionately on the lips.

‘You should have announced yourself,’ she cried, stepping backwards. ‘A gentleman recently knighted should observe such courtesies!’

‘So, you have heard the news?’

‘Of course, Maltote told me.’

Corbett swallowed hard. ‘And the other news?’

Maeve made a wry smile. Corbett clasped her hands and pulled her back to him. He was surprised she did not seem angry; the smooth, unblemished skin of her face was not drawn tight nor was there any furrow on her brow or round her lips — sure signs that his wife had lost her fiery temper. The lips he had just tasted were soft and warm and her eyes held a teasing look.

‘You are not angry, Maeve?’

‘Why should I be? My husband has returned.’

‘About the news?’

‘Sir,’ Maeve answered in mock surprise. ‘You have been knighted.’

‘Madame,’ Corbett rasped. ‘We are not going to Wales. You will not see your uncle!’

Maeve slipped her arms round his waist.

‘True, true,’ she mocked. ‘We will not be going to Wales.’ Her face became serious. ‘But I will see my uncle.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He is coming here. I have already despatched Maltote with the invitation.’