Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

Corbett turned as Master Leonard Appleston picked up a stool and came across to join them. He introduced himself, giving Corbett and his companions a vigorous shake of the hands.

‘You are skilled in logic?’ Corbett asked.

Appleston’s square, sunburnt face creased into a smile; his eyes took on a rather shy look. He scratched at an angry sore on the corner of his mouth, like some schoolboy wondering whether he should be praised or not.

‘Leonard is a master in logic,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up. ‘His lectures in the schools are most popular.’

‘I heard what you said,’ Appleston declared. ‘It would be neat and tidy if poor Passerel was cast as the assassin, the “fons et origo” of all our troubles.’

‘Do you believe that?’ Corbett asked.

‘If a problem exists,’ Appleston said, smiling at Ranulf and making more room, ‘then a solution must exist.’

‘Aye, and that’s the problem,’ Corbett replied. ‘But what happens if the problem is complex but the solution so simple that you wonder if a problem existed in the first place?’

‘What do you mean?’ Appleston asked, taking a goblet from Master Moth.

Corbett paused to collect his thoughts.

‘Master Appleston, you lecture in the schools on the existence of God?’

‘Yes, my lectures are based on Aquinas’s Summa Theologica.’

‘And you comment on his proofs of God’s existence?’

‘Of course.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘wouldn’t you agree that, if I could prove God exists, God would cease to exist?’

Appleston narrowed his eyes.

‘I mean,’ Corbett continued. ‘If I, who am finite and mortal, can prove, beyond a doubt, that an infinite and immortal being exists, then either I am also infinite and immortal, or that which I am proving can’t exist in the first place. In other words, such slight proof for the existence of God is too simple, and is, therefore, not logical. It’s a bit like me saying I can put a gallon of water into a pint tankard: if I could then it is either not a gallon or the tankard can hold more than a pint.’

‘Concedo,’ Appleston said grudgingly. ‘Though I would have to think about what you said, Sir Hugh.’

‘The same applies to Passerel,’ Corbett added quickly. ‘If he is the Bellman, the assassin of Robert Ascham and John Copsale, not to mention the old beggars, then I would say the solution is simple, too tidy, too neat and, therefore, totally illogical.’

‘I agree,’ Ranulf declared, pulling a face at Maltote.

‘So, who did kill Ascham?’ Tripham asked quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s why I am here.’ He turned to Tripham. ‘I would like to visit the library tonight, perhaps after dinner?’

‘Of course,’ the Vice-Regent replied. ‘We can take our sweet wine down there: it’s a comfortable chamber.’

Master Moth came over. He tapped Lady Mathilda on the shoulder, making strange signs with his fingers.

‘Dinner will be served soon,’ she declared, getting to her feet. She grasped her cane which stood in the corner of the fireplace. ‘Gentlemen, I shall meet you later.’ She hobbled out, one hand resting on the cane, the other on the arm of her silent servant.

The conversation continued in a rather desultory fashion. Appleston and Tripham asked questions about the court and the price of corn at Leighton Manor. They were joined by other Masters: Aylric Churchley, a Master of the Natural Sciences, thin as an ash pole, with a waspish face and grey tufts of hair standing high on a balding head. He spoke in such a high, squeaky voice Corbett silently had to warn Ranulf and Maltote not to laugh. Peter Langton, a small, wrinkled-browed, narrow-faced man with rheumy eyes, who deferred to everyone, especially Churchley, whom he hailed as Oxford’s greatest physician. Bernard Barnett was the last to arrive, fat-faced with a high forehead; a tub of a man with his startling eyes and protruding lower lip. He had a pugnacious look as if ready to dispute, at the drop of a coin, how many angels could sit on the edge of a pin.

Lady Mathilda returned and Tripham led them out, along the passageway into the dining hall. This was a luxurious, oval-shaped room, cosy and warm. The table down the centre was covered in white samite cloths which shimmered, in the light of the beeswax candles, on the silver and pewter cups, jugs and cutlery. Beautiful hangings and tapestries, depicting scenes from the life of King Arthur, hung above the dark-brown wainscoting. Small rugs covered the floor; sweet-scented braziers stood in each corner while large pots of roses had been placed on the cushioned window seats, their sweet, fragrant smell mingling with the cloying and mouth-watering odours from the buttery at the far end. Tripham sat at the top, Lady Mathilda on his right, Corbett on his left. Ranulf and Maltote were placed at the far end with Richard Norreys who had been supervising the cooks in the kitchen. Tripham said Grace, sketched a hasty blessing and the meal was served: quail soup followed by swan and pheasant in rich wine sauces, and roast beef in mustard. All the time the wine flowed freely, served by silent waiters who stood in the shadows. Corbett tasted every dish and drank sparingly but Ranulf and Maltote fell on the delicious dishes like starving wolves.

Most of the Masters drank deeply and quickly, their faces becoming flushed, their voices rising. Tripham was unusually silent whilst Lady Mathilda, whose rancour against the Vice-Regent was apparent, only nibbled carefully at her food and sipped from her wine cup. Now and again she’d turn and make those strange finger gestures to Master Moth.

Tripham leaned across. ‘Sir Hugh, you wish to talk to us about your presence in Oxford?’

‘Yes, Master, I do.’ Corbett looked down the table. ‘Perhaps now is as good a time as any.’

Tripham rapped the table and asked for silence.

‘Our guest, Sir Hugh Corbett,’ he announced, ‘has certain questions to ask us.’

‘You all know,’ Corbett began brusquely, ‘about the Bellman and his treasonable publications.’

All of the Masters refused to meet his eyes but stared at each other or toyed with their cups or knives.

‘The Bellman,’ Corbett continued, ‘proclaims he is from Sparrow Hall. We know the handwriting to be a clerkly hand, albeit anyone’s, and the parchment expensive; consequently the writer is a man of some wealth and learning.’

‘It’s none of us!’ Churchley screeched, running his fingers round the collar of his dark-blue robe. ‘No man here is a traitor. Satan could claim that he lives in Sparrow Hall but, whether he does or not, is another matter.’

His words were greeted with a murmured assent, even the soft-spoken Langton nodding his head vigorously.

‘So, no one here has any knowledge of the Bellman?’

A chorus of denials greeted his question.

‘He writes and posts his proclamations at night,’ Churchley explained. ‘Sir Hugh, we are all eager for our beds. Even if we wanted to wander abroad, Oxford, after dark, is a dangerous place. Moreover, our doors are locked and bolted. Anyone who left at such a late hour would certainly provoke attention.’

‘Which is why,’ Appleston spoke up hurriedly, ‘the writer may well be a student. Some scholars are poor but others are rich. They have a clerkly hand and, amongst the young, de Montfort still has the status of a martyr.’

‘Is there a curfew at the hostelry?’ Corbett asked Norreys.

‘Of course, Sir Hugh, but proclaiming one and enforcing it on hot-blooded youths is another matter — they can come and go as they wish.’

‘Let us say,’ Corbett said, ‘causa disputandi, that the Bellman is neither a member of Sparrow Hall nor the hostelry — why then should he say he is?’