Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

A servant brought up two pewter bowls and jugs of water. Corbett returned to his own chamber. He washed his face and hands, rested for a while and was drifting off to sleep when he was roused by the harsh ringing of a bell. He rose, put his sword belt on and decided to wander around the hostelry. The sprawling mansion immediately reminded Corbett of the maze in Queen Eleanor’s garden at Winchester: there were passageways and galleries, stairways and steps leading hither and thither, past chambers, offices, store rooms — a veritable warren. It was none too clean, reeking of burnt oil and boiled cabbage. He went down to the refectory, a long, white-washed chamber with tables and benches placed along the walls. A few students lounged there, arguing loudly, whilst others lay fast asleep on the rushes in the corner. A servant came over and asked if he wished something to drink but Corbett refused. He went along a passageway and stopped before a great, iron-studded door. He tried the handle but the door was locked.

‘Can I help you?’ Norreys came running up, a bunch of keys jangling in his hand.

‘I’m fascinated by your hostelry, Master Norreys. It’s a veritable warren.’

‘It could be better,’ Norreys replied. ‘But the Masters of the Hall are reluctant to spend more silver.’ He pointed to the door. ‘That leads to the cellars and store rooms. It is kept firmly locked, otherwise the students would steal wine and beer and help themselves to the stores. Do you want to go down? I must warn you, it’s no better than the hostelry itself and you’ll need a candle.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘What were these houses before?’

‘They belonged to a wine merchant. One of the houses was used for storage, and the merchant and his company lived in the other two. And there’s the yard and the cellars beneath.’

‘No gardens?’

‘Oh no, the price of land is rising, Sir Hugh. Five years ago Master Copsale sold the garden plots to the City Council.’

Corbett thanked him and returned to his own chamber. Ranulf and Maltote were awake. After they had unpacked their belongings, they dressed and followed Corbett out of the hostelry into the lane. They paused as a friar hurried by pushing a wheelbarrow, with a sheeted corpse lying in it. Beside the friar went a young boy, struggling to keep a candle alight: at every step the altar boy took, a bell, slung on a cord round his waist, tinkled as a warning. Corbett blessed himself and stared up at the windows of the Halls opposite. The sky was still overcast and he glimpsed the glow of candles. Three debtors, chained together and released from the city prison, hobbled along, begging bowls in their hands. A drunken bailiff swayed behind them; he cursed and yelled as a group of children knocked against him in pursuit of a little monkey dressed in a small jacket and a bell cap. They were throwing sticks and stones and, in turn, were chased by the relic-seller whom Corbett had met earlier at the castle. Corbett tossed a coin into one of the beggars’ bowls and waited for the melee to pass before making his way across and up the lane. He pulled hard at the bell outside the main door of the Hall: this was swung open, and a smiling Master Moth beckoned them in. Corbett was immediately struck by the contrast between the Hall and the hostelry: here, bright oaken wainscoting covered most of the walls, above this hung coloured cloths and tapestries; rush matting lay across the paving stones; candles glowed in brass holders and small, tin pots, full of fragrant herbs, were placed on shelves or in comers.

Moth led them silently into the parlour, which was a comfortable, cosy chamber. Tripham and Lady Mathilda were sitting in box chairs before the fire. Moth, helped by a servant, brought stools for Corbett and his companions. Greetings were stiffly exchanged, the offer of wine and small portions of toasted cheese made and taken. Tripham must have caught Ranulf’s sardonic glance at the luxuries round the room: the tapestries, Turkish rugs, pewter and silver pots glistening on shelves; the small, metal coffers and three long chests standing under a table in one corner.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Tripham apologised, sipping from his wine, ‘I appreciate that the hostelry is, perhaps, not the best or most luxurious of quarters.’

Corbett quietly kicked Ranulf before he could reply.

‘I’ve slept in worse,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Master Norreys does his best!’

‘You see,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up, ‘the statutes of Sparrow Hall make it very clear. My brother, God bless his memory, decreed this was a house of study and, apart from myself, no other visitors can be lodged here.’

‘You are not a visitor,’ Tripham declared tactfully.

Lady Mathilda just sniffed and looked away.

‘How long has the college been founded?’ Corbett asked.

‘Thirty years,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘The year after King Edward’s coronation. My brother — ’ her eyes brightened ‘- wanted a place of scholarship, of books and manuscripts. Sparrow Hall has produced clerks, scholars, priests and bishops,’ she continued proudly. ‘My brother would have been pleased, though,’ she added darkly, ‘perhaps his contribution to the hall and its founding have not been fully recognised.’

‘Lady Mathilda,’ Tripham sighed. ‘We have been down this path many a time. Our resources are few.’

‘I still believe,’ Lady Mathilda sniffed, ‘that the Hall could find new resources to found a Chair in the University in my brother’s name.’ She pulled at the skin of her throat. ‘Soon all those who knew my brother will be dead and his great achievements forgotten.’ She glanced at Corbett. ‘The King, too, is ungrateful: a grant of monies…’

‘His Grace cannot grant,’ Corbett replied, ‘what he has not got.’

‘Ah yes,’ Lady Mathilda agreed. ‘The war in Scotland. It’s a pity.’ She picked up her wine cup and stared at the fire. ‘It’s a pity Edward has forgotten my brother and the day he defended the royal standard at Evesham when de Montfort fell.’

‘No one forgets,’ Tripham interrupted tactfully.

‘No, and neither do I,’ Lady Mathilda retorted. ‘Perhaps the Hall’s accounts should be examined more carefully.’

‘What are you implying?’ Tripham’s scraggy neck tensed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in a pond.

Ranulf and Maltote sat bemused at the rancour between two of their hosts. Corbett, embarrassed, stared at the sparrow carved above the motto on the stone mantelpiece. He translated the Latin, a quotation from the Gospel, ‘Are you not worth more than many sparrows?’ Lady Mathilda must have noticed Corbett’s distraction for she sighed, gesturing at Tripham that these matters would have to wait.

‘Sir Hugh, do you make any sense of Passerel’s death? Could he have been the Bellman?’ Tripham asked. ‘I mean, the attack by the students was unforgiveable. But-’ He pulled a face. ‘Ascham was a well-loved master, child-like in his innocence. He did scrawl most of Passerel’s name on a piece of parchment before he died.’

‘It would be tempting,’ Corbett replied, ‘to claim Passerel as the Bellman; to think that he murdered Ascham because the librarian had discovered his secret identity and that Passerel later fled to St Michael’s where he was murdered out of revenge.’ Corbett put his cup down on the floor. ‘If that was the truth, and I could prove it, the King would dismiss Passerel’s death as a mere nothing. He’d declare that the Bellman had been silenced, that justice had been done and I could leave Oxford.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Who knows, we could even build a case that Passerel may be behind the deaths of these old beggars who have been found in the woods outside the city.’

‘But would your logic be so flawed?’ a voice called out from behind him.