Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett struck his breast. ‘We all have it in us, mistress, a desire for power, to lord it over others, to make our presence felt. Ah well,’ he gave a deep sigh, ‘Ranulf, have the corpse removed to some death house at a local church. Tell the priest to bless the corpse, arrange for a requiem Mass to be said, bury his body in the poor man’s lot. That’s the best I can do.’

‘And you, Sir Hugh, you will go to Westminster?’

Corbett picked up the priest’s belt and placed it on the chair he’d just vacated. ‘You’ll come with me, Ranulf. We must have words with the King.’

‘First I’ll remove the corpse, I’ll even say a prayer for him. He did us all a favour, certainly the King. His grace will be pleased at such a silent death, no scandal, no public outcry, no trial. But before I join you at Westminster, I have certain business to complete.’

‘What business?’ Corbett asked sharply.

Ranulf refused to meet his gaze. ‘Master, you have your tasks and I have mine.’

Ranulf-atte-Newgate entered the Bowels of Hell, a tavern deep in the labyrinth of the needle-thin alleyways and runnels around White Friars. He paused just within the doorway, threw back his cloak and adjusted his war belt so that all could see the sword and dagger in their brocaded scabbards. Then he glanced around and smiled.

‘Home from home,’ he murmured, ‘sweet memories of my youth.’

The taproom of the Bowels of Hell was spacious and dark, a true hiding place for the counterfeits, cranks, cunning men, forgers, outlaws and wolfsheads from the nearby Sanctuary. They all clustered here in the juddering light of the squat, rancid-smelling tallow candles, a garish, motley gang of London’s underworld, all dressed in their tawdry finery, consorting with the bawds in their strumpet rags and shiny cheap jewellery. No one looked directly at Ranulf. They all recognised Corbett’s fighting man, his dagger-boy, a dangerous character made even more so by the ring he wore and the chain around his neck. They glanced quickly at him, then returned to their business, quietly praying that they weren’t his.

The clerk stood for a while, then moved over to the counter, a long board laid over a row of casks. Minehost, a former pirate in the Thames estuary who, as he often boasted, had escaped the scaffold on at least two occasions by murmuring the first line of Psalm 50, moved to present him with a tankard of his finest ale.

‘Brewed with pigshit,’ Ranulf murmured, pushing it away. ‘You’ll not have me fuddled, sir.’ He plucked at Minehost’s bloodstained apron. ‘I’ve talked to Mouseman. He’s lodged in a chamber at Westminster. He awaits his pardon being sealed by the chancellor.’

‘And?’ Minehost’s fat, sweaty face creased into a smile.

‘He mentioned a dog-man, a dagger-lad with a war hound.’

‘Never heard of him.’

Ranulf plucked at the apron again. ‘Very good,’ he hissed, ‘then I’ll be gone, but. .’ His smile faded and he paused at the screeching of some whore as she was thrown to the floor and her skirts pulled back.

‘But what?’ Minehost asked.

‘I’ll be back with a comitatus.’ Ranulf pulled a face, moving his head from side to side. ‘I’m not too sure when, but late one night we will break in here. We’ll arrest all law-breakers and those who shelter them. I’ll try to be fair and careful.’ He moved his arm swiftly, knocking over one of the candles. ‘Sorry!’ He picked it up. ‘I’ll really try and make sure we are careful. I mean that no fire breaks out, that the bailiffs don’t plunder here or the treasure you’ve undoubtedly hidden away in the cellars below.’ Ranulf shrugged. ‘And, of course I’ll do my best to protect you personally.’

‘Over there.’ Minehost supped from the tankard he’d just offered. ‘In the far corner. He’s sitting facing you. He has a scar across his face.’

Ranulf smiled and swaggered across the ill-lit taproom, shoving aside bawds and pimps, boots scuffing the strewn rushes now turned to a mushy mess. From the cellar below echoed the raucous shouts of gamblers wagering on the cock fight about to begin. He reached the corner, picked up a fallen stool and pushed his way through to the great squat tun that served as a table. He took out his own dice and cup from his wallet and grinned cheekily at the gamblers.

‘Good evening, my lords,’ he intoned, ‘and a finer collection I’ve not seen, even on the execution cart bound for the Elms.’

The gamblers, their unshaven faces betraying their nervousness, peered back warily from hoods and cowls. The man sitting opposite, with a greyish scar running from his left eye right across his face, hastily scooped up the few silver coins, hands disappearing beneath the table. Ranulf just shrugged and shook his own dice.

‘Call a number.’ He smiled at the dog-man. ‘You go first!’

‘I don’t want to gamble. I have no silver.’

‘You have a war hound. Choose a number.’ Ranulf rolled the dice. ‘Seven!’ he exclaimed and rolled again. ‘Eight.’ He picked up the dice. ‘My number’s higher. I’ve won your dog.’

‘I didn’t wager it.’

‘Why, where is it?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘You did have,’ Ranulf grinned, ‘but you had to kill it in St Botulph’s cemetery. .’

The dog-man’s knife hand came out above the table. Ranulf was swifter, a clean straight thrust into his opponent’s throat. The dog-man choked, gagged and spluttered, hands beating the air.

‘You tried to kill my friend, my master,’ and pressing again on the dagger, Ranulf watched the soul-light in those dark eyes fade before withdrawing his blade. The dog-man, coughing blood, collapsed over the table, sending tankards and platters hurtling to the floor. The hubbub in the tavern immediately stilled. Ranulf rose, leaned over, wiped his blade on the shoulder of the dead assassin, pocketed his dice and stared down at the other gamblers, who sat hands gripping whatever weapons they carried.

‘ Pax et bonum .’ Ranulf smiled and leaned down. ‘You’ll agree, sirs, won’t you, it was self-defence?’

‘As clear as day,’ agreed a gaunt-faced rogue to Ranulf’s right. ‘I’ll take any oath that it’s the truth. We all would, wouldn’t we?’ His companions, eager to plunder their dead companion, nodded vigorously in agreement.

‘So it is.’ Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger. ‘There truly is honour amongst thieves. Gentlemen, I bid you good night.’

Edward the King considered it to be a very good night as he lounged in front of the great hearth-fire in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster. The King gulped his claret and stared appreciatively at Corbett, who sat on a chair opposite. Edward was about to smile but stiffened. Corbett was looking at him strangely. He recognised that look, unblinking, as if the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal was trying to probe the royal soul, demand an answer to some nagging question.

‘Hugh,’ the King lifted his goblet in toast, ‘you are indeed a good and faithful servant. I listened to your report and my heart leapt with joy. Evesham and Engleat are gone — no prattling there — Waldene and Hubert dispatched to hell, their gangs broken, a warning to those Great Ones in the Guildhall. Arrogant peacocks with a host of kites and ravens at their beck and call.’ Edward loosened the braids of his quilted jerkin. ‘All gone,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll confiscate Evesham’s house and his treasures. More importantly, Parson John. Thank God, thank God for what he did. There’ll be no trial, no scandal, no trumpeting abroad.’ Edward wanted Corbett out. He felt uncomfortable. ‘Now, Hugh, there’s a strange business in Kent, a haunted manor house where-’