Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘But you are the King’s clerk,’ Maltote spoke up, stroking the muzzle of his horse. ‘They’ll obey the King’s writ?’

‘They couldn’t give a fig,’ Corbett replied. ‘Let’s say we were attacked now, who’d come to our assistance? Or later stand up as a witness?’ He punched Ranulf playfully on the shoulder. ‘Keep your cowl pulled, your face down and your hand well away from your dagger.’

They went along the High Street and stood aside as a church door opened: scholars, in shabby tabards tied round the waist by cords and leather straps, burst out from the noonday Mass. As Ranulf whispered, the service seemed to have had little effect on them. The scholars jostled and shoved each other, bawling raucously, some even sang blasphemous parodies of the hymns they had just chanted. Despite the wet and the jostling crowds, Corbett persisted in showing his two companions the layout of the city. At last they returned, past the Swindlestock tavern, making their way gingerly around the gaping sewer in Carfax and into Great Bailey Street, which led up into the castle.

‘Why are we going there?’ Maltote asked. ‘I thought we were for Sparrow Hall?’

‘We have to visit the Sheriff,’ Corbett explained over his shoulder. ‘Sir Walter Bullock.’ He grinned. ‘And that will be an experience in itself. Bullock is as irascible as a starving dog.’

They crossed the moat, really nothing more than a narrow ditch, its water covered with a black slime on which a cat’s corpse, soggy and bloated, floated lazily beneath the drawbridge. A guard dressed in a dirty leather sallet slouched against the wall beneath the portcullis, his sword and shield lying on the ground beside him. He hardly looked up as they entered the inner bailey. The castle yard was busy: a group of archers shot lustily at the butts; a group of ragged-arsed children, armed with wooden swords, attempted to fight a strident goose; women stood round the well, slapping cloths on the side of the great tuns which served as their bowls. No one took any notice of the new arrivals except a relic seller dressed in garish rags who’d been touting his wares and now came across, a piece of wood in his hand.

‘Buy a piece of the juniper tree.’ He pushed the blackened piece of wood almost into Ranulf face.

‘Why?’ Ranulf asked.

The fellow bared his mouth in a horrid display of crumbling teeth. ‘Because it’s the very tree,’ he whispered, ‘that protected the baby Jesus when Mother Mary took him into Egypt, away from Pilate’s fury.’

‘I thought it was Herod?’ Ranulf retorted.

‘Yes, but he was helped by Pilate,’ the relic-seller gabbled.

Ranulf took the piece of wood and studied it carefully.

‘I can’t buy this,’ he said. ‘It’s not juniper, it’s elder!’

The rascal’s mouth opened and closed. ‘God bless you, sir, I was in confusion myself. You are sure?’

‘Certainly,’ Ranulf replied, handing it back.

‘Then that’s what it is,’ the relic-seller whispered and, turning round, walked over to a group of castle scullions. ‘Buy a piece of elder!’ he shouted. ‘The very tree on which Judas hanged himself!’

Corbett grinned; he was about to ask Ranulf how he could tell the difference between juniper and elder when a prod in his back made him turn around.

‘What do you want?’

The serjeant looked Corbett over from head to toe.

‘What do you want?’ he repeated. ‘And where did you get those horses?’

Ranulf stepped between his master and the serjeant and stared at the man’s dirty, unshaven face.

‘We want the Sheriff,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Sir Walter Bullock. This is Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s principal clerk from the Office of the Secret Seal.’

The serjeant hawked and spat. ‘I couldn’t give a bugger if he was from the Holy Father!’

He bawled across at a groom to come and take their horses and, snapping his fingers, told Corbett and his companions to follow.

They found Sir Walter in his chamber above the gate house. It was a stark room with coloured cloths hung against the wall like rat banners. The fat, balding Sheriff was eating from a dish of eels, beside him on a trauncher were several apples and some cheese. Short and thickset, Bullock was dressed in jerkin, hose and shirt, his war belt and leather riding boots thrown on the straw-covered floor beside him. As the serjeant ushered Corbett and his companions in, slamming the door behind them, the Sheriff raised his clean-shaven face bright as a brass pot.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, his mouth full of eels.

‘That’s what the ignorant bastard downstairs asked me,’ Ranulf retorted.

Bullock sat back on his stool and nodded towards the arrow slit window.

‘If it was big enough, you’d leave through that!’

Corbett sighed and pulled from his wallet the King’s seal and tossed it on the table. Bullock swallowed his mouthful of food and picked it up.

‘You know what that is, Master Bollock?’ Ranulf taunted.

‘My name’s Bullock.’ The Sheriff pushed back his stool and got up, licking his fingers and wiping them on a dirty napkin. He went and stood before Ranulf, hands on hips. ‘My name is Bullock,’ he repeated. ‘And do you know why, sir? Because I am like one: stocky, addle-pated and foul tempered.’ He poked Ranulf in the stomach. ‘Now you look like a fighting boy, but that doesn’t concern me. I’ve pulled bigger things out of my nose!’ He turned abruptly to Corbett, his hand extended. ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh. The King sent a cursitor, we’ve been expecting you.’

Corbett grasped the Sheriff’s hand. He noticed how the man’s eyes were dark-ringed with exhaustion.

‘You look tired, Master Sheriff?’

Sir Walter waved to a bench near the wall. ‘If I lie down, Sir Hugh, I’d never get up. Would you like some wine? Something to eat?’ He looked slyly at Ranulf. ‘Maybe a bucket of water from the well to cool you down after your long, hot journey?’

Ranulf grinned at this little fighting cock of a man. ‘Sir Walter, I apologise.’

The Sheriff shook Ranulf’s hand then picked at his teeth. ‘Bugger this for a soldier’s life!’ he growled.

He waited until Corbett sat down then pulled his own stool across. He ticked the points off on his stubby fingers.

‘The King’s at Woodstock breathing down my neck. There’s a parliament summoned to sit at Westminster: I’m under orders to get the right man elected. There’s some charlatan selling rats’ teeth to children. The garrison hasn’t been paid for four months. I am running short of supplies. There are three felons in the Bocardo,’ he added, referring to the town gaol, ‘whose necks I am going to stretch before dusk. A tavern wench was ravished in the Chequers tavern. I’ve got a boil on my arse. I haven’t slept for two nights and my wife’s kinsfolk want to come and stay till Michaelmas.’ He sniffed. ‘Now, those are only the minor matters.’

Corbett smiled. He dug into his purse and handed two gold coins over.

‘I don’t take bribes, Sir Hugh.’

‘It’s not a bribe,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s your wages. I’ll tell the Exchequer.’

The coins disappeared in the twinkling of an eye.

‘The Bellman?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ the Sheriff replied. ‘All I know is that every so often, one of his proclamations is pinned on the doorway of some Hall or church.’

‘Didn’t you fight at Evesham for de Montfort?’ Corbett asked abruptly.

Bullock’s gaze fell away. ‘Yes, I did,’ he replied as if to himself. ‘I was young, an idealist, stupid enough to believe in dreams. Now, Sir Hugh, I am the King’s man in war and peace. I’m no traitor. I do not know who the Bellman is or where he comes from. Oh, I have trotted down to make my inquiries amongst the empty heads of Sparrow Hall, but I might as well whistle across a graveyard as expect a response!’