Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

Corbett nodded and knelt down beside the chests. He smiled as he recalled his own experience as a clerk of the Chancery court, having to travel to some manor house or abbey to approve a will or order the release of monies and goods. He began to sift through the belongings. Churchley mumbled something about other duties and left Corbett to his own devices. Once Churchley’s footsteps faded away, Corbett realised how quiet the Hall had become. He controlled a shiver of unease and went across to close and bolt the door before returning to his task. He then searched both chests, sifting through clothes, belts, baldrics, a small calf-skin-covered Books of Hours, cups, mazers, pewter dishes and gilt-edged goblets that each man had collected over the years. Corbett was experienced enough to realise that what was not actually listed in Ascham’s or Passerel’s will would have already been removed. He was also sure the Bellman would have also scrutinised the dead men’s possessions to confirm that nothing suspicious remained. Ascham’s belongings provided little of interest and Corbett was about to give up on Passerel’s when he found a small writing bag. He opened this and tossed the fragments and scraps of parchment it contained on to the floor. Some were blank, others scrawled with different lists of provisions or items of business. There was a roll listing the expenses Passerel had incurred in travelling to Dover. Another listed the salaries of servants in both the hostelry and Hall. A few were covered with graffiti: one in particular caught Corbett’s attention. Passerel had scrawled the word ‘ Passera ’, ‘ Passera ’, many times.

‘What is this?’ Corbett murmured, recalling the message left by the dying Ascham. Was Passerel playing some pun on his name? Did ‘Passera’ mean something? Corbett put the pieces of parchment back, tidied up both chests and pushed down the clasps. He went back into the hall and along the passageway to the library. The door was half open. Corbett pushed it aside and walked quietly in. The man seated at the table with his back to him was so engrossed in what he was reading that Corbett was beside him before he turned, the cowl falling back from his head, his hands moving quickly to cover what he was reading.

‘Why, Master Appleston,’ Corbett smiled his apologies. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

Appleston closed the book quickly, turning on his stool to face Corbett.

‘Sir Hugh, I was… er… well, you remember what Abelard said?’

‘No, I am afraid I do not.’

‘He said there was no better place to lose one’s soul than in a book.’

Corbett held his hand up. ‘In which case, Master Appleston, may I see the one you are so engrossed in?’

Appleston sighed and handed the book over. Corbett opened it, the stiff, parchment pages crackling as he turned them over.

‘There’s no need to act the inquisitor,’ Appleston declared.

Corbett continued to turn the pages.

‘I have always had an interest in the theories of de Montfort: “Quod omnes tangent ab omnibus approbetur”.’

‘What touches all should be approved by all,’ Corbett translated. ‘And why the interest?’

‘Oh, I could lie,’ Appleston replied, ‘and say I am interested in political theory, but I am sure the court spies or city gossips have told you the truth already.’ He stood up, pulling back his shoulders. ‘My name is Appleston, which was my mother’s name. She was a bailiffs daughter from one of de Montfort’s manors. The great Earl, or so she told me, fell in love with her. I am their child.’

‘And are you proud of that?’ Corbett asked. He studied the square, sunburnt face, the laughter lines around the eyes and wondered if this man, in some way, was a fair reflection of his father. ‘I asked a question.’

‘Of course I am,’ Appleston retorted, touching the sore on the comer of his mouth. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t pray for the repose of my father’s soul.’

‘Concedo,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was a great man but he was also a traitor to his King.’

‘Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis,’ Appleston quipped.

‘No, I don’t believe that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Just because the King wants something does not mean it’s law. I am not a theorist, Master Appleston, but I know the gospels: a man cannot have two masters — a realm cannot have two kings.’

‘And if de Montfort had won?’ Appleston asked.

‘If de Montfort had won,’ Corbett replied, ‘and the Commons, together with the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, had offered him the crown, then I and thousands of others would have bent the knee. What concerns me, Master Appleston, is not de Montfort but the Bellman.’

‘I am no traitor,’ the Master replied. ‘Although I have studied my father’s writings since I was a boy.’

‘How is it — ’ Corbett asked ‘- that a member of the de Montfort family is given a benefice here at Sparrow Hall? A college founded by de Montfort’s enemy?’

‘Because we all feel guilty.’

Master Alfred Tripham entered the library, a small folio under his arm.

‘I have just returned from the schools,’ Tripham explained. ‘Master Churchley told me you might be here.’

Corbett bowed. ‘You walk as quietly as a cat, Master Alfred.’

Tripham shrugged. ‘Curiosity, Sir Hugh, always has a soft footfall.’

‘You spoke of guilt?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ah, yes.’ Tripham put the folio down on the table. ‘That prick to the conscience, eh, Sir Hugh?’ He looked round the library. ‘Somewhere here, amongst these papers, there’s a copy of Sir Henry Braose’s will but I am too busy to search for it.’ Tripham went and sat on a stool opposite Appleston. ‘However, in his last years, Braose became melancholic. He often had dreams about that last dreadful fight at Evesham and how the King’s knights desecrated de Montfort’s body. Braose believed he should make reparation. He paid for hundreds of chantry Masses for the dead Earl’s soul. When Leonard here applied for the post…’

‘He knew immediately,’ Appleston broke in. ‘He took one look at my face, paled and sat down. He claimed he was seeing a ghost. I told him the truth,’ Appleston continued. ‘What was the use in denying it? If I had not told him, someone else would have.’

‘And the post was offered to you?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, yes, it was, on one condition: I was to retain my mother’s name.’

‘We all have secrets.’ Tripham laced his fingers together. ‘I understand, Sir Hugh, that you have been through Ascham’s possessions.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You are no fool, Corbett. I am sure you know that items have already been removed?’

Corbett stared back.

‘You might wonder,’ Tripham continued, ‘why Ascham was so beloved of scholars like Ap Thomas and his cronies. What would an old man, an archivist and librarian, have in common with a group of rebellious hotheads?’

‘Nothing seems what it should be here,’ Corbett replied.

‘And the same applies to Ascham!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Oh, he was venerable, amusing, a scholar but — like many of us — ’ he let his gaze fall away ‘-he had a weakness for handsome youths, for a narrow waist and firm thighs, rather than a lady’s eyes or swelling bosom.’

‘That is not uncommon,’ Corbett declared.

‘In Oxford it certainly isn’t.’ Tripham rubbed the side of his face. ‘Ascham also hailed from the Welsh march — or rather Oswestry in Shropshire. He was skilled in pagan lore as well as knowledgeable about the traditions of the Welsh. He used all this knowledge to establish a close friendship with many of our young scholars.’