Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘You should be a bloody Franciscan,’ he growled. ‘Who the hell are you anyway?’

Corbett explained.

‘Well, I’m Brother Angelo,’ the friar replied. ‘I’m also Father Guardian. This is my manor, my palace.’ He looked up, narrowing his eyes against the sun. ‘We feed two hundred beggars a day,’ he continued. ‘But you are not here to help us, are you, Corbett? And you certainly haven’t brought gold from the King?’

He waved Corbett up the steps into the hospital and led him into his cell, a narrow, white-washed chamber. Corbett and Ranulf sat on the bed whilst Father Angelo squatted on a stool beside them.

‘You’re here about the Bellman, aren’t you? We’ve all heard about that mad bastard and the deaths at Sparrow Hall.’

‘The King has also heard about the deaths here at St Osyth’s, or rather-’ Corbett added hastily as the smile faded from the Franciscan’s face ‘- the corpses found in the woods outside the city.’

‘We know little of that,’ Brother Angelo confessed. ‘Look around, master clerk; these are poor men, decrepit, old beggars. Who, on God’s earth, could be so cruel to them? There’s neither rhyme nor reason to it,’ he added. ‘I cannot help you.’

‘You’ve heard no rumours?’ Corbett asked.

Brother Angelo shook his head. ‘Nothing except Godric’s wild rantings,’ he murmured. ‘But you see, Corbett, men come and go here as they please. They beg in the city streets. They are helpless, easy prey for anyone’s malice or hatred.’

‘Do you remember Brakespeare?’ Corbett asked. ‘A soldier, a former officer in the King’s army?’

‘There are so many,’ Brother Angelo apologised, shaking his head. He glanced at Ranulf. ‘You have the look of a fighting man.’ He pointed to Ranulf’s sword, dagger and leather boots. ‘You walk with a swagger.’ He leaned across and nipped the skin of Ranulf’s knuckle. ‘Go outside, young man, and see your future. Once they too swaggered under the sun. But come on. I’ll find old Godric for you.’

He led them out, down a white-washed passageway, up some stairs and into a long dormitory. The room was austere, yet the walls and floor had been well scrubbed and smelt of soap and sweet herbs. A row of beds stood on either wall with a stool on one side and a small, rough-hewn table on the other. Most of the occupants were asleep or dozing fitfully. Lay brothers moved from bed to bed, wiping hands and faces in preparation for the early morning meal.

Ranulf hung back. ‘I’ll not be a beggar,’ he whispered. ‘Master, I’ll either hang or be rich.’

‘Just be careful,’ Corbett quipped back, ‘that you are not both rich and hanged!’

‘Come on!’ Brother Angelo waved them over to a bed where a man was propped up against the bolsters: he was balding, his face lined and grey with exhaustion though his eyes were lively.

‘This is Godric,’ Brother Angelo explained, ‘a long-time member of my parish. A man who has begged in London, Canterbury, Dover and even at Berwick on the Scottish march. Very well, Godric.’ Brother Angelo tapped him on his bald pate. ‘Tell our visitors what you have seen.’

Godric turned his head. ‘I’ve been out in the woods,’ he whispered.

‘Which woods?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, to the north, to the south, to the east of the city,’ Godric replied.

‘And what have you seen, old man?’

‘God be my witness,’ the beggar replied. ‘But I’ve seen hellfire and the devil and all his troupe dancing in the bright moonlight. Listen to what I say-’ he grasped Corbett’s hand ‘- the Lord Satan has come to Oxford!’

Corbett laid his hand over that of the beggar.

‘What devils?’ he asked.

‘Out in the woods,’ Godric replied. ‘Dancing round Beltane’s fires! Wearing goat skins, they were!’

‘And did you see any blood?’ Corbett asked.

‘On their hands and faces. Oh yes,’ Godric continued. ‘You see, sir, when I was greener, I was a poacher. I can go out and hunt the rabbit and take a plump cock pheasant without blinking. Since early spring this year I’ve tried my luck again and twice I saw the devils dance.’

‘How many devils?’ Corbett asked.

‘At least thirteen. The cursed number,’ Godric replied defiantly.

‘And have you told anyone else?’ Corbett asked.

‘I told Brother Angelo but he just laughed.’ Godric laid his head back on the bolsters. ‘That’s all I know and now old Godric has got to sleep.’ The beggar turned his face away.

Corbett and Ranulf left the infirmary. They followed Brother Angelo out, down the stairs and into the still busy yard.

‘Have you heard such stories before?’ Corbett asked.

‘Only Godric’s babble,’ the friar replied. ‘But, Sir Hugh — ’ Brother Angelo’s lugubrious fat face became solemn ‘- God knows if he’s roaming in his wits or what?’ He lifted one great paw in benediction. ‘I bid you adieu!’

Corbett and Ranulf left the hospital and entered Broad Street. The crowd had thinned because the schools were open, and the students had flocked there for the early morning lectures. Corbett led Ranulf across the street, stepping gingerly along the wooden board placed across the great, stinking sewer which cut down the centre of the street.

Outside the Merry Maidens tavern, a butcher, his stall next to that of a barber surgeon, was throwing guts and entrails into the street. Beside the stall, a hooded rat-catcher, his ferocious-looking dog squatting next to him, was touting for business.

‘Rats or mice!’ he chanted above the din,

‘Have you any rats, mice, stoats or weasels?

Or have you any old sows sick of the measles?

I can kill them and I can kill moles!

And I can kill vermin that creep in and out of holes!’

The man hawked and spat; he was about to begin again but stood aside as Corbett and Ranulf kicked their way through the mess.

‘Do you have any rats, sir?’ the fellow asked.

‘Aye, we have,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But we don’t know where they are and they walk on two legs!’

Before the startled man could reply, Ranulf followed Corbett into the tavern. The greasy-aproned landlord, bobbing like a branch in the breeze, showed them to the garret Ranulf had rented: a stale-smelling chamber with a straw bed, a table, a bench and two stools. Ranulf stretched out on the bed only to leap up, cursing at the fleas gathering on his hose. He sat on a stool under the open window and watched as Corbett opened his chancery bag and laid out his writing implements: quill, pumice stone and ink horn.

‘What do we do now, Master?’ Ranulf asked sharply.

Corbett grinned. ‘We are in Oxford, Master Ranulf, so let’s follow the Socratic method. We state a hypothesis and question it thoroughly.’

He paused at a knock on the door and a slattern asked if they wished anything to eat or drink. Corbett thanked her but refused.

‘Now,’ he began. ‘The Bellman. Here is a traitor who writes proclamations espousing the cause of the long-dead de Montfort. He pins them up on church or college doors throughout the city. This, apparently, is always done at night. The Bellman claims also to live in Sparrow Hill. So, what questions do we ask?’

‘I cannot understand,’ Ranulf broke in, ‘why we can’t discover the identity of the Bellman by his writing and style of letters?’

Corbett dipped his quill into the open ink-horn and carefully wrote on the parchment. He handed this to Ranulf who pulled a face and passed it back.

‘The Bellman,’ he declared. ‘It’s the same letters, you’d think it was the same hand.’

‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘A clerkly hand, Ranulf, as you know, is anonymous. All the clerks of the Chancery or Exchequer are taught what quills to use, what ink, and how to form their letters and the Bellman hides behind these. Even if we did find the scribe, it does not necessarily mean he is the Bellman.’