Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘What do you want from the Hall?’ Corbett asked.

‘A book,’ Ranulf replied abruptly, becoming offhand.

‘What book, Ranulf?’

‘The …’ Ranulf stammered.

‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘The Confessions of St Augustine,’ Ranulf replied in a rush.

‘Augustine of Hippo? What interest do you have in him?’

Ranulf sighed in exasperation and leaned against the door.

‘When I was at Leighton Manor, Master, I often spoke to Father Luke. He heard my confession and told me about St Augustine.’ Ranulf closed his eyes. ‘Father Luke gave me a quotation from the Confessions: “Late have I loved thee, Lord.” And again: “Our hearts are never at peace until they are at rest with Thee.” They are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.’ Ranulf opened his eyes.

Corbett sat, mouth open, eyes staring.

‘I suppose you think it’s funny?’ Ranulf retorted.

Corbett just shook his head. ‘Can I ask why?’ he stuttered.

‘As a young man,’ Ranulf answered, ‘Augustine was a scapegrace, a rascal, who consorted with whores and courtesans. Father Luke told me he even had an illegitimate son. But then he converted, and became a priest and a bishop.’

Corbett nodded, fascinated. ‘And you think you can do the same?’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Master.’

‘Ranulf, I have cursed you, I have complained about you, I have prayed for you, I have even had the urge to shake you warmly by the neck,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I have never laughed at you and I never will.’

His manservant let his arms fall to his sides.

‘During our long stay at Leighton,’ he stammered, not meeting Corbett’s eyes, ‘I started to think about the future.’

‘And you wish to become a priest?’ Corbett asked.

Ranulf nodded. ‘If that’s what it means…’

‘Means to do what?’

‘I am not too sure, Master.’

‘But you are Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The terror of maidens from Dover to Berwick. A street fighting man! My bullyboy!’

‘So was Augustine,’ Ranulf replied hotly. ‘So was Thomas a Beckett. And Father Luke said that, even amongst Jesus’s followers, there was a knife man.’

Corbett held his hand up. ‘Ranulf, God forgive me, I don’t doubt what you say but you must admit it comes as a surprise.’

‘Good!’ Ranulf lifted the latch. ‘Father Luke said that when Augustine changed, it surprised everyone.’ He opened the door and went out.

Corbett sat as if poleaxed. ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’ he whispered. ‘Who has lifted more petticoats than I have had hot dinners.’

Corbett closed his eyes and tried to think of Ranulf as a priest. At first he found it amusing but, the more he thought, the less surprised he became. Corbett lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering about the vagaries of the human heart. Ranulf was no longer a stripling. He was a man with a mind of his own and a steely determination to do what he wanted. He’d applied himself ruthlessly to his studies and his recent questions about the doings at Sparrow Hall showed a sharp mind as well as a quick wit. Somehow, Corbett realised, Ranulf’s questions lay at the heart of the mystery. Why was the Bellman doing what he did? And why proclaim himself as a Master or scholar at Sparrow Hall?

He dozed for a while. When Ranulf returned, the manservant pushed open the door.

‘The Vice-Regent gave me a copy,’ he called in.

‘Good,’ Corbett murmured.

A short while afterwards Maltote limped back.

‘The Sheriff will see you now,’ he declared, still nursing his bruised shin. ‘Oh, by the way, Master, they’ve got some fine horses in the castle stables.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they have.’ Corbett swung his legs off the bed, put his war belt on and went to tell his companions to do the same.

They took their cloaks and walked out into the lane. They crossed Broad Street, taking the road which led up to the castle. At the corner of New Hall Street and Bocardo Lane they had to stop: the street markets and shops were closing. Peasants pushed handcarts and barrows, the wealthier ones leading ox-drawn carts, out towards the city gates. All had stopped before the open space before the gallows; a hideous, three-branched scaffold against which ladders had been placed. Bailiffs were tightening nooses round the necks of three felons whilst the town crier loudly proclaimed ‘the horrible homicides, depredations and rapes of which these three had been found guilty’. He finished bawling and clapped three times. The red-masked executioners slid down the ladders as nimble as monkeys. The ladders were pulled away and all three felons danced and jerked at the end of their ropes. A collective sigh rose from the crowd, as a bailiff shouted that the King’s justice had been done. Corbett glanced away. The crowd dispersed and they were allowed through up a lane that skirted the old city wall and led into the castle. The bailey was deserted. A groom told them the garrison was preparing for the evening meal. Only a little boy with a chicken under his arm staggered about, the bird squawking raucously. The stables and outhouses were quiet as the groom led them across and up outside stone stairs into the castle solar. This was a soldier’s room: the walls white-washed, the roof beams blackened by numerous fires. A few shields and rusting swords hung on either side of a battered crucifix, placed slightly askew, whilst the rushes on the floor were dry and crisp, and smelt rather stale.

Bullock was sitting in a window seat with a large, beautiful peregrine falcon on his wrist, its jesses tinkling like bells. The Sheriff was tenderly feeding it succulent pieces of meat; every so often he would murmur quietly to the bird, stroking the ruffled plumage under its throat.

‘A beautiful bird, Master Sheriff!’

‘I love hawks,’ Bullock replied. ‘Corbett, when I see this peregrine fly I truly believe in God and all his works. There, there, Raptor.’ He spoke softly to the bird. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps, amongst the marshes.’

Bullock sighed, got up and put the falcon back on its perch. He then led Corbett and his companions into a small adjoining chamber where he offered them stools whilst he leaned against the table, looking down at them.

‘Your messenger said you needed my assistance?’

Corbett explained what Ranulf had told him. Bullock rubbed his chin.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Ideally, Sir Walter, I would like a cordon of steel around Sparrow Hall and the hostelry. On second thoughts-’ Corbett paused. ‘Perhaps just around the Hall itself; at least it will keep the Bellman under careful surveillance.’

‘And the hostelry?’

‘As I said, Ap Thomas is a leader of a coven. He may, or may not, be connected with the murder of the beggar men. If he leaves Oxford tonight, and we try to follow him, he will lead us a merry dance like some will-o’-the-wisp.’

Sit Walter sighed and loosened the belt round his ponderous girth.

‘The King has arrived at Woodstock,’ he explained. ‘Half of my garrison has gone there. The few horsemen I have will be sent out to patrol the roads. I can’t help you with Sparrow Hall. It has a garden, windows, postern gates and rear doors. It would take a small army to watch every bolt hole.’ He sensed Corbett’s anger. ‘However,’ Bullock added hastily, ‘as regards Master David Ap Thomas, we have some verderers attached to the castle garrison. Sturdy buggers who like nothing better than a brawl — their leader is just the man to help.’

And, without a further word, Bullock left. He was gone for some time and when he returned a small, nut-brown man, dressed in shabby Lincoln green, accompanied him. The fellow entered the room so quietly Corbett hardly knew he was there.