Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Sir Hugh is well, Ranulf?’

‘Aye, your Grace, and as loyal as ever but he worries about the Lady Maeve and, perhaps, does not have other men’s stomach for bloodshed and war.’

The King had grasped Ranulfs shoulder, his fingers digging into his skin.

‘But you, Ranulf, you are different, aren’t you, my clerk of the Green Wax?’

‘Each man walks his own path, your Grace!’

‘Aye, they do, Ranulf, and sometimes they walk alone. If Corbett will not return permanently to my services,’ the King added, ‘then you must.’ The King smiled. ‘I see ambition in your eyes, Ranulf-atte-Newgate; it burns like a flame. Skilled in French and Latin, are you now? Expert in drafting a letter and attaching the Seals? A man quick on his feet, sharp of eye, keen of wit and not averse to trapping and killing the King’s enemies?’

‘What Your Grace thinks, Your Grace must believe.’

The King’s finger relaxed. He slipped an arm round Ranulf’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

‘Corbett is a good man,’ Edward whispered. ‘Loyal and honest, with a passion for the law. He will go to Oxford, Ranulf, and he will trap the Bellman. I know that: you, however, have a special task.’

‘Your Grace?’

‘I don’t want the Bellman brought south for trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster. I don’t want to provide him with a pulpit to lecture me and the people about the blessed de Montfort!’ The words were spat out. The King paused, his eyes never leaving those of Ranulf.

‘Your Grace?’

‘Your Grace!’ Edward mimicked back. ‘What Your Grace wants, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, is that when Corbett traps the Bellman, you kill him! Do you understand! Carry out that lawful execution on behalf of your King!’

Edward then pushed him away gently and walked back to rejoin his companions. The meeting had only stoked Ranulf’s ambitions, yet he was worried: there was something the King had not mentioned. Ranulf tapped the hilt of his dagger: the Bellman seemed to be intent on bringing both the Crown and Sparrow Hall into disrepute. And what better way than to murder the King’s principal clerk? Ranulf closed the shutters. He took off his boots and lay down on the bed. He lay for a while quietly thinking before turning to douse the candle, his mind going back to Ap Thomas and those scholars in the refectory. One night, soon, he thought, he must find out why Ap Thomas and his cronies had blades of rain-soaked grass on their boots and leggings. There was no garden here in the hostelry and the streets of Oxford were muddy trackways. Had Ap Thomas been elsewhere, out in the countryside where those grisly corpses had been discovered? And those amulets he’d glimpsed round the scholars’ necks…?

Corbett knelt in a side chapel, consecrated to the Guardian Angels, in the church of St Michael. At the high altar the priest was celebrating a lonely, dawn Mass. Corbett looked over his shoulder and grinned. Maltote was leaning against a pillar, eyes closed, mouth drooling; he’d still not recovered from the feasting of the night before. Ranulf sat back on his heels, eyes closed; Corbett wondered to what God his manservant prayed. Ranulf never mentioned religion but dutifully went to Mass and the sacraments without making any comment. Corbett’s gaze moved to the walls of the chapel. He was intrigued by the hunting scenes painted there: to the left, devils with huge nets hunted souls in some mythical forest, whilst above them angels, swords drawn, tried to rescue the virtuous from their snares. On the other wall, the artist, in garish vigorous strokes, had depicted a world turned upside down with the rabbit as the hunter and man as the quarry. Corbett was particularly fascinated by a huge hare, russet brown, its belly white as snow, who walked upright on its hind legs with a net slung over its shoulder, containing some hapless souls.

Once Mass was finished, Corbett questioned Father Vincent.

‘Oh!’ The priest smiled. ‘So you like our paintings?’ He took off his chasuble, folding it neatly before putting it on the altar steps.

‘Yes, they are original,’ Corbett replied.

‘I did them myself,’ Father Vincent replied grandly. ‘I am afraid I am not a very good painter but, in my youth, I was a huntsman, a verderer in the King’s service at Woodstock.’ The priest finished divesting and blew the candles out on the side altar. ‘So, you are the King’s clerk, are you?’ he asked. ‘So many visitors here! But you haven’t come to admire my handiwork, you’ve come about poor Passerel, haven’t you?’

The priest took them down the steps and pointed to the entrance to the rood screen.

‘That’s where the poor man fell, dead as a worm he was! His face all swollen, his body twisted in agony.’ He tapped Corbett on the shoulder and pointed to Maltote. ‘He can sit on one of the stools if he wants. He looks as if he’s not awake yet.’

Maltote happily complied as Father Vincent took Ranulf and Corbett out of the main sanctuary. He led them behind the high altar.

‘That’s where I left Passerel. I gave him a jug of wine and a platter of food, after he’d sought sanctuary. He didn’t say much to me so I left him. I told the crowd of scholars who pursued him here that, if they didn’t leave God’s Acre, I’d excommunicate them on the spot. I left the side door open and went to bed.’

‘Stay awake!’ a voice shouted. ‘Stay awake and be ready! Satan is like a roaring lion who wanders about seeking whom he may devour!’

Ranulf whirled round, hand on his dagger, at the sound of the voice which boomed like a bell round the church.

‘That’s only Magdalena our anchorite,’ Father Vincent apologised.

Corbett stared at the strange box-like structure built over the main door. It reminded him of a nest Maeve had built and placed in the trees during wintertime so the birds could come and feast.

‘You know nothing of Passerel’s murder?’ he asked.

‘Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Wouldn’t Magdalena have alerted you?’

‘Oh, she’s half-mad,’ Father Vincent whispered. ‘As I said, I gave Passerel his food and retired for the night. The side door was left open so, if he wished, he could go out to relieve himself.’

‘And he said nothing,’ Corbett persisted. ‘Nothing to explain his sudden flight from Sparrow Hall?’

‘No, he was just a frightened, little man,’ Father Vincent replied, ‘who bleated about his innocence.’

Corbett looked over his shoulder to where Ranulf was trying to shake Maltote awake.

‘Maltote!’ he ordered. ‘Go back to Sparrow Hall and wait for us there!’

Maltote needed no second bidding but lumbered down the church and out through the main door.

‘I’d like to meet the anchorite,’ Corbett said. ‘I understand she not only saw Passerel’s murderer but, many years ago, cursed the founder of Sparrow Hall, Sir Henry Braose?’

‘Ah, so you have heard the legends?’

Father Vincent led them down the church and stopped before the anchorite’s makeshift cell.

‘Magdalena!’ the priest called up. ‘Magdalena, we have visitors from the King! They wish to speak to you.’

‘I’m here,’ the voice replied. ‘In the service of the King of Kings!’

‘Magdalena!’ Corbett called out. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s clerk. I wish you no ill. I must ask you questions, but I do not wish to shatter your privacy by entering your cell. Before I leave, I would like to make an offering, so you can light candles and pray for my soul.’

Corbett saw the leather covering over the small window pulled slightly aside. He glimpsed a grey-haired, shabby figure shuffling along the narrow gallery, followed by the slap of sandals on stone steps. Magdalena crawled into the church. She was almost bent double, her dirty-white hair fell down to her waist. Her eyes were bright but Corbett was struck by the lurid manner in which she’d painted her face: the right cheek black, the left white. In her hands she carried a small, cracked hand mirror. She shuffled and sat down at the base of a pillar. Magdalena stared into the mirror, even as her thin, bony fingers clawed at the crude rosary wrapped round her right wrist, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer. She glanced up, her bright piercing eyes studying Corbett.