Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

Corbett dropped his hand. ‘Which means, my dear Ranulf, that they must have been killed inside Oxford and then transported out by different routes to be later disposed of. However, if the murders occur within the city, surely someone would notice? The only conclusion we can draw is that, perhaps, they are killed outside the city at one particular spot but the remains deliberately displayed elsewhere. What else?’

‘I am just thinking about Maltote. We shouldn’t leave him alone too long.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, if you are correct, the Bellman will hunt the King’s dog or crow. Maltote is safe — except, perhaps, from the teasing of Ap Thomas and others.’ He picked up his quill. ‘Concentrate on the problem. What other questions can we ask about the murders of these poor beggars?’

‘Why?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Why are they killed in such a barbaric way?’

Corbett stared at a wine stain on the far wall. ‘Godric may indeed have seen something in the woods around Oxford: the activities of a coven or a group of warlocks, and this group must be based here in Oxford. We know there’s some connection with Sparrow Hall, because of the button we took from the last corpse. Now, I can’t see any of the Masters engaged in some devilish activity. However, our scholars, under David Ap Thomas, might have something to answer.’

‘Do you think Ap Thomas could be the Bellman?’ Ranulf asked. ‘After all, scholars can move round Oxford at night? David Ap Thomas is a rebel by nature: he might enjoy baiting the King.’ He paused. ‘Have you forgotten Alice atte-Bowe and her coven?’

Corbett closed his eyes. So many years ago, he thought. It had been the first task entrusted to him by Chancellor Burnell, the rooting out of a coven of witches and traitors around the church of St Mary Le Bow in London. Corbett recalled Alice’s dark, beautiful face. He opened his eyes.

‘I shall never forget,’ he replied. ‘I think I have but then — a sound, a smell and the memories come tumbling back.’ He packed away his writing equipment. ‘There’s always the library,’ he added. ‘We have yet to search for what Ascham was studying, although that might be an impossible task: there are so many books and manuscripts! We don’t even know if the book is still there. We could waste days, even weeks, playing a game of Blind Man’s Buff!’ Corbett rose. ‘It’s time we left for Sparrow Hall.’

They left the chamber and went downstairs. The landlord was waiting for them, a battered leather bundle in his hands.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

The landlord thrust the small bundle into Corbett’s hands.

‘A beggar child came in.’ He pointed to the doorway. ‘A man, cowled and hooded, was standing behind. The child gave me this for you.’

Corbett wrinkled his nose at the foul smell and the greasy scrap of parchment, with his name scrawled on it, tied on a string round the leather bundle. He walked out into the street, stood in the mouth of an alleyway and cut the cord. He crouched down and gingerly tipped the contents into the muddy street. His stomach clenched and he gagged at the sight of the tattered, foul remains of a crow, its body slit from throat to crotch, the innards spilling out. Corbett swore, kicked the dead bird away and went back into the street.

Ranulf stayed behind. He examined the bird carefully and then the tattered, leather bag.

‘Leave it, Ranulf!’ Corbett called.

‘A warning, Master?’

‘Aye,’ Corbett breathed. ‘A warning.’

He stared across Broad Street. The crowd had thinned: it was well past noon: the Angelus bell had tolled and the cookshops and taverns were now full, the traders enjoying a slight lull in the day’s frenetic activities. Corbett and Ranulf walked back towards Sparrow Hall. Now and again Ranulf would turn, staring up a narrow alleyway or glancing at the windows on either side, but he could detect no sign of pursuit. They entered the lane; the door to Sparrow Hall was closed so they crossed the street, went down an alleyway and into the yard of the hostelry. Norreys, assisted by some porters, was rolling great barrels out of a cart to be lowered through an open trap door into the cellar below.

‘Provisions,’ Norreys called out as they walked across. ‘Never buy in an Oxford market, it’s cheaper and fresher from outside.’

‘Have you just returned?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes, I left well before dawn,’ Norreys replied, his face flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. ‘I’ve made a handsome profit.’

Corbett was about to continue when a group of students burst into the yard, led by David Ap Thomas. The Welshman, stripped to his waist, flexed his muscles and swung a thick quarterstaff in his hand, much to the admiration of his henchmen. Ap Thomas was well built, his chest and arms firm and muscular; he played with the staff as a child would a stick, skilfully and effortlessly turning it in his hands.

‘An accomplished street brawler,’ Corbett murmured.

‘I’d ignore them and go in,’ Norreys warned.

Corbett, however, just shook his head. The Welshman was now staring across at them. Corbett glimpsed the amulet round his neck.

‘I think this is meant for our entertainment and amusement,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘As well as a warning.’

Suddenly the door was flung open and a garishly dressed figure came bounding out. One of Ap Thomas’s henchman, clothed in black tattered rags, a yellow beak stuck to his face, with boots of the same colour on his bare legs. He, too, held a staff and, for a while, jumped about flailing his arms, cawing like the crow he was so aptly imitating.

‘I’ll cut the bastards’ throats!’ Ranulf said hoarsely.

‘No, no,’ Corbett warned. ‘Let them have their laugh.’

The ‘crow’ stopped its antics and squared up to Ap Thomas, and both scholars began a quarterstaff fight. Corbett decided to ignore the insult. He stood, admiring the consummate skill of both men, Ap Thomas particularly. The quarterstaffs were thick ash-poles wielded with great force, and a blow to the head would send any man unconscious. Nevertheless, both Ap Thomas and his opponent were skilled fighters. The staffs whirled through the air, as both men ducked and leapt. Now and again the sticks would clash as a blow to the head or stomach was neatly blocked or there would be a jab at the legs in an attempt to tip the opposing fighters over by a vicious tap to the ankles. Ap Thomas fought quietly with only the occasional grunt as he stepped back, chest heaving, face and arms coated in sweat, waiting for his opponent to close in once again.

The fight lasted for at least ten minutes until Ap Thomas, swiftly moving his pole from hand to hand, stepped back and, with a resounding thwack to the shoulder, sent his opponent crashing to his knees.

Corbett and Ranulf walked across the yard, ignoring the raucous crowing. Ranulf would have gone back but Corbett plucked at his sleeve.

‘As the good book says, Ranulf, “there’s a time and place under heaven for everything: a time for planting and a time for plucking up, a time for war and a time for peace.” — Now it’s time to rouse Maltote, he’s slept long enough!’

Ranulf shrugged and followed. He also recalled a phrase from the Old Testament: ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life’, but he decided to keep his own counsel.

They found Maltote had just woken up. He was sitting, scratching his blond, tousled hair. He blinked owlishly at them, then winced as he stretched out his leg.

‘I came back here half asleep,’ he explained, ‘and caught my shin on a bucket Norreys had left out after he’d been cleaning the cellars.’ Maltote limped to his feet. ‘I heard the noise from below,’ he said. ‘What was happening?’