Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

Corbett left the library, Master Moth pushing by him in his haste to return to his mistress. Ranulf tapped the side of his head.

‘Take no offence, Master. Moth is only a child. Lady Mathilda is both his mother and his God. He was fair scratching at the door to get in.’

‘I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘She’s frightened. She believes the Bellman has a list and that her name is on it.’

A servitor was waiting to escort them out. Corbett excused himself and went out through a small postern door which led into the garden. A full moon bathed the lawns, flower beds and raised herb patches in its silvery light. On the left and far side was a curtain wall, to the right a line of buildings. Corbett glanced towards the library window.

‘Yes, it’s possible,’ he murmured. ‘Look, Ranulf. There are two small buttresses on either side, not to mention the hedge in front: these would conceal the assassin.’ Corbett indicated the small path which ran between the hedge and the wall of the building. ‘Provided no one saw him come out, he’d be almost invisible.’

Corbett walked down gingerly; the hedge was prickly and sharp and the soil underneath wet and slippery after the recent rain. He stopped outside the library window: it was fastened shut, the shutters behind betraying faint chinks of light. He walked back to his companions. Maltote was leaning against the door, falling asleep.

‘So the assassin could have shot from there?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Pulled back the shutters then closed the window over?’

‘I think so,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘But I’m not as clever as I think. We know the window was closed and shuttered. We also know Ascham was in the library looking for something which would unmask the Bellman, or at least we think he was. Imagine him sitting at the table. He hears a tap on the window so he goes and opens the shutters.’

‘And then the window?’ Ranulf added helpfully.

‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s where my clever theory fails. Tell me, Ranulf — if you had an inkling of who the Bellman was and you’d sealed yourself in the library to hunt for the necessary evidence. You hear a tap on the window, open the shutters and, through the window, see the face of the very person you suspect — would you open the window? Bearing in mind this Bellman may have also murdered the Regent, John Copsale?’

‘No,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I wouldn’t. But maybe Ascham was not sure and had more than one suspect?’

‘Perhaps… ah well!’ Corbett shook Maltote’s arm. ‘It’s well after midnight and time we were in our beds.’

They walked back into the hall and out, through the main door, into the lane. Only the faint glow of candles from windows high in the hostelry provided any light. A beggar, his legs shorn off at the knees, came out from an alleyway, pushing himself on a small barrow, waving his clacking dish.

‘A penny!’ he whined. ‘For an old soldier!’

Corbett crouched down and stared at the man’s rotting face: one eye was half-closed, and there were large festering sores around his mouth. Corbett put two pennies in the earthenware bowl.

‘What do you see, old man?’ he asked. ‘What do you see at night? Who leaves the hall or hostelry?’

The beggar opened his mouth, in which only one tooth hung down, sharp and pointed like a hook.

‘No one bothers poor Albric,’ he replied. ‘And I sees no one. But there again, sirs, rats have always got more than one hole.’

‘So, you have seen people sneak out at night?’

‘I see shadows,’ Albric replied. ‘Shadows, cowled and muffled, slip by poor Albric, not a penny offered, not a penny given.’

‘Where do they go?’ Corbett asked.

‘Into the night like bats.’ The beggar pushed his face closer. ‘A coven they are.’ Albric fluttered his fingers before Corbett’s eyes. ‘Albric can count; I went to the abbey school I did, as a child. Thirteen go by, thirteen come back: a warlocks’ coven! That’s all I know.’

Corbett pushed another penny into the dish: he glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf who was now supporting Maltote. They continued across the lane. After a great deal of knocking the ostarius or porter pulled back the bolts, locks screeching as the keys were turned. They entered the gloomy passageway. Corbett made towards the stairs but Ranulf, having shaken Maltote awake, pulled at his sleeve and pointed at a door under which candlelight seeped out. Corbett paused and heard the faint murmur of conversation and laughter: he opened the door and went into the refectory. David Ap Thomas, his hair even more tousled than ever, was holding court round one of the tables, surrounded by other scholars. Corbett smiled a greeting. Ap Thomas put down his dice and scowled back. Corbett shrugged and started to leave.

‘No, no, Master,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘You take Maltote up to our chamber. I wish to have words with our Welshman.’

‘No trouble!’ Corbett warned.

Ranulf smiled, pushed by and sauntered down the refectory. He threw his cloak over his shoulder so the long stabbing dagger sheathed in his belt could be clearly seen. As he approached, one of the group began to caw like a crow, making fun of La Corbiere, the crow, the Norman origin of Corbett’s name. Ranulf grinned. He pushed his way through, taking his own loaded dice out. He kept his eyes on Ap Thomas and threw, the dice rattling on the table.

‘Two sixes!’

Ap Thomas shook his dice but only managed to raise a four and a three. Ranulf, whose dice had been fashioned by the best trickster in London, threw again. Ap Thomas had no choice but to follow but, each time, his throw was less than that of Ranulf’s. Ranulf sighed, picked up his dice and slipped them into his purse.

‘You’ve lost, Welshman,’ he said. ‘But, there again, could you ever win?’

Ap Thomas pushed back his stool and stood up, his hand going to his knife. Ranulf moved sideways and, suddenly, the point of his dagger was pressing at the softness of the Welshman’s throat.

‘I am sure,’ the clerk declared, ‘that none of your friends will move or my hand might slip. But you, sir, if you wish, can pull your dagger.’

‘It was only a game,’ Ap Thomas said tightly, chin up. ‘I thought you were cheating.’

‘But, now you realise I was not.’

‘Of course,’ Ap Thomas grated.

‘Good!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘So, next time when you meet my master, smile when he smiles. And no more cawing noises. Agreed?’ He glanced around and there was a quick murmur of assent. ‘Good!’ Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger, sauntered out of the refectory and up the stairs.

Maltote was already on the bed, snoring like a little pig. Next door Corbett was kneeling on the floor, his rosary beads tight round his fingers, his eyes shut, his lips moving wordlessly.

‘Good night, Master.’

Corbett opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Good night, Ranulf. We will not talk here,’ he added, ‘God knows that the walls have ears. But, tomorrow yes, after Mass?’

Ranulf returned to his own chamber. He made sure Maltote was comfortable and went to the window, pulling back the shutters. He stared through the narrow arrow slit up at the starlit sky. He was pleased to be back on the King’s business, away from Leighton and its lonely fields and woods. More importantly, doors would be opened, and Ranulf’s ambition to climb the steep, slippery ladder of advancement burned as fiercely as ever. He was too proud to whine to Corbett, too grateful to leave his master and the Lady Maeve to make his own fortune. The King’s arrival at Leighton had changed all that. Just before the King had left, when Corbett had been elsewhere, Edward had plucked at Ranulfs sleeve. He had taken him away to a far comer, loudly proclaiming he had a story about a certain bishop they both knew. Once they were out of sight, in a quiet, narrow passageway, the King’s mood had changed.