Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

Two hours later, as the rain clouds began to gather, Corbett and his party arrived at Sparrow Hall in Pilchard Lane. The college itself was a gracious, three-storeyed building with a grey slate roof capping yellow sandstone bricks; it boasted a fine main door with a large oriel window above it. The other windows were square and broad, with coloured glass filling the mullions. The hostelry on the other side of the lane was more nondescript. Apparently, its founder had bought three four-storey mansions, each with a brick base, the upper storeys of plaster and wooden beams, and had connected the houses by makeshift wooden galleries. The hostelry lacked the grace of the Hall; some of the windows were shuttered, and others were covered by horn paper.

Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote went down a side lane and into the rear yard, its chipped cobbles covered in mud. This housed stables, forges and store rooms. Scholars, in various forms of dress, lounged in the open doorways. An ostler came across to take their horses. As Corbett dismounted, the scholars took a deeper interest in them, clustering together, whispering and pointing. A brick flew well above their heads and a voice in a Welsh accent shouted, ‘The royal dogs have arrived!’

Ranulf’s hand went to his dagger. The yard fell silent. More students now thronged about. A tall, thickset, young man, languidly pushing back a mop of hair from his ruddy face, sauntered across. He was dressed in the garb of a commoner: tight-fitting hose, soft leather boots, a white cambric shirt covered by a robe which fell just above a protuberant codpiece. He wore a broad leather war belt round his waist, from which a sword and dagger hung, pushed through rings. As he sauntered over, others followed.

The ostler hastily led the horses away, whilst the students ringed Corbett and his companions.

‘It’s a fine day,’ Corbett declared, throwing his cloak back over his shoulders so the students could see his sword. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your studies? The Trivium, the Quadrivium, Grammar and Logic? In the immortal words of Aristotle: “Seeking truth and turning the will to good”.’

The leader of the scholars stopped, nonplussed. He would have liked to have quipped back in the time-honoured fashion. Corbett wagged a finger at him.

‘You have been neglecting your horn book, sir.’

‘That’s correct,’ the young man replied languidly, his voice betraying a soft, Welsh accent. ‘Hall life has been disturbed by the comings and goings of inquisitive, royal clerks.’

‘In which case,’ Ranulf spoke up, stepping forward, ‘you can join us at Woodstock to debate the matter in front of His Grace the King.’

‘Edward of England does not concern me,’ the fellow replied, grinning over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Llewellyn and David are our Princes.’

‘That’s treason,’ Ranulf retorted.

The student leader took a step forward. ‘My name is David Ap Thomas,’ he declared sternly. ‘What’s the matter, clerk, don’t you like the Welsh?’

‘I love them,’ Corbett replied, putting a restraining hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I am married to the Lady Maeve Ap Llewellyn. Her Uncle Morgan is my kinsman. Yes, I have fought the Welsh; but they were resolute fighters — not bullyboys.’

The scholar stared at him, surprised.

‘Now,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Either stand out of my way, sir…!’

‘Leave him be, ap Thomas!’ a voice shouted.

Richard Norreys shouldered his way through the crowd. The scholars dispersed, not because of Norreys’s arrival, but due to Corbett’s claim to kinship with one of the leading families of South Wales. Norreys was apologetic as he led them across the yard into the downstairs parlour of the hostelry. The passageway was rather dirty, its whitewashed walls marked and stained, but the parlour itself was comfortable. The sandstone floor was scrubbed, and tapestries, shields and weapons hung on the walls. Norreys ushered them across to a table, flicking his fingers at a servitor to bring goblets of white wine and a dish of sugared almonds.

‘I must apologise for Ap Thomas.’ He breathed heavily as he sat down at the table beside Corbett. ‘He’s a Welsh noble and likes to play the part of the swaggart.’

‘Are there many Welsh here?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A good number,’ Norreys replied. ‘When Henry Braose founded the Hall and bought this hostelry, special provision was made in the Foundation Charter for scholars from the shires of South Wales.’ Norreys smiled. ‘Henry felt guilty about the Welsh he killed but… don’t we all, Sir Hugh?’

For a while they discussed the King’s campaigns in Wales. Norreys recalled the mist-filled valleys, treacherous marshes, sudden ambuscades and the soft-footed Welsh fighters, who would steal into the King’s camp at night to cut a throat or take a head.

‘You served there long?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye, for some time,’ Norreys replied. He spread his hands. ‘That’s how I received preferment here. A benefice for services rendered.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its nook beside the fireplace. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, we are expected at the Hall at seven o’clock and Master ‘Tripham’s a stickler for punctuality.’ He got to his feet. ‘I have chambers for you,’ Norreys continued. ‘Two chambers on the second floor.’

He led them out and up a wooden staircase. Now and again they had to pause as students rushed by, horn books in their hands, sacks or bags slung over their shoulders.

‘The afternoon schools,’ Norreys explained. He then began to describe how Braose had bought three great mansions with cellars and chambers and united them to form the hostelry.

‘Oh yes, we have everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘Garrets for the commoners, dormitories for the servitors, chambers for the bachelors. All those who have the money to pay.’ He glimpsed Maltote perspiring under the weight of the heavy saddle bags he carried. ‘But come on, come on.’

Norreys led them up to the second gallery. The passageway was dull and damp, the walls mildewed. He pushed open the doors of two rooms; both were no more than austere monastic cells. The first had two truckle beds; the other, Corbett’s, a mattress on the floor. It also possessed a table, chair, chest, two candlesticks and a crucifix on the wall.

‘It’s the best we can do,’ Norreys mumbled. He glanced shamefacedly at Corbett. ‘Sir Hugh, you are not really welcome here, you must know that.’ He hastened on, ‘If it grows cold, I can have braziers brought up. For heaven’s sake, watch the candles, we live in mortal fear of fire. The refectory and tap room are on the ground floor, though Master Tripham will probably invite you to eat at the Hall.’

‘If we could have some water?’ Corbett asked. ‘My companions and I would like to wash.’

Norreys agreed and left them.

Muttering and cursing under their breath, Ranulf and Maltote made themselves as comfortable as possible. Corbett placed the few possessions he had brought in a small battered chest under the arrow slit window. His writing bag he hid under the bolster of his pillow before he went to see Ranulf and Maltote. He stood in the doorway and grinned: Maltote was already fast asleep on his bed, curled up like a child; Ranulf squatted to the side of him, glowering at the wall.

‘Don’t say you wish you were back at Leighton,’ Corbett teased.

‘I can see why you told us to bring little or nothing of value,’ Ranulf replied without turning his head.

‘At Oxford,’ Corbett said, ‘students are not thieves, they are like jackdaws. If they want something, they take it. I began my first Trinity term here in one set of clothes and finished it in another.’