Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Let me introduce Boletus,’ Sir Walter said. ‘They call him that because it’s the Latin for mushroom.’

Boletus stared unblinkingly at Corbett who noticed that the verderer had no eyelashes.

‘Boletus patrols the royal hunt runs in the forest between here and Woodstock. He can move amongst the trees as quietly and as swiftly as a sunbeam. Isn’t that right, Boletus?’

‘I was born in the forest,’ the verderer replied, his voice hardly above a whisper. ‘The trees are my friends. Better a wooded glade, eh, than the dirty streets of the city?’

‘Boletus,’ Bullock explained, ‘will watch Sparrow hostelry like a hawk. If David Ap Thomas and his henchmen leave, and I suspect they will after dark, Boletus will pursue like the Angel of Death and come back to inform us. In the meantime — ’ the Sheriff smacked his lips ‘- I intend to fortify the inner man. Sir Hugh, you are welcome to join me.’

Corbett excused himself but Ranulf and Maltote followed the Sheriff and his sinister companion out of the room. Corbett waited until they had gone. He would have liked to sleep, the night would be a long one, but he could not get Barnett’s meeting with that beggar out of his mind. He left the castle and made his way through the emptying streets and alleyways towards St Osyth’s Hospital. The sun was beginning to set: houses and shops were now closing, lamps being lit and hung on the hooks outside each door. The dun-collectors were out with their stinking carts, continuing their unequal battle to clear the sewers and sweep up the offal and mounds of rubbish left after a day’s trading. The taverns were beginning to fill and, because the evening air was warm, windows and doors were flung open. A young man was singing the ‘Flete Viri’ which Corbett recognised as a lament on the death of William the Norman. Further down, on the steps of a church, a small choir sweetly carolled Goliard songs and Corbett recognised his favourite, ‘ Iam Dulcis Amica ’, so he stayed and listened before walking on.

On the corner of a street, just opposite the hospital, four scholars danced wildly to the sound of rebec and pipe. Corbett dropped a coin into their dish and crossed the street and into the main gateway of St Osyth’s. The yard was packed with beggars thronging there for an evening meal of broth, rye bread and a stoup of watered wine. Brother Angelo stood in the centre shouting orders, greeting many of the beggars by name. He glimpsed Corbett and his smile faded.

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I appreciate you are busy so I’ll be blunt. Do you know Master Barnett of Sparrow Hall?’

‘Why, yes.’ Angelo turned to roar at a beggar who had taken two pieces of bread. ‘Put that back, Ragman! You greedy little bugger!’

Ragman jumped, dropped the offending piece of bread and scurried off.

‘Do you want something to eat, Corbett? You look pale-faced.’

‘No, just information about Barnett.’

‘Well, he’s a strange one,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘He likes the wine and the wenches, does Master Barnett, yet he also comes here, and brings money for the hospital. Sometimes he helps with the distribution of food. Some of the beggars talk highly of him, a kindly man.’

‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, on reflection, I suppose I do,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘But, there again, he does no harm and who am I to refuse any help? And that’s all I know.’

Corbett prepared to leave.

‘Master clerk!’

Corbett came back. Brother Angelo’s eyes had grown soft.

‘Sir Hugh, you probably think I am just a suspicious Franciscan. However, I have heard the confessions of many men, and sometimes, when I shrive them, I detect an air of menace. Last time you were here, I felt that.’

‘You mean from us, Brother?’

The Franciscan shook his head. ‘No, not the stink of sin. More of danger.’ He clasped Corbett’s shoulder. ‘Be careful.’ Brother Angelo smiled. ‘Keep your faith — and your backs to the wall!’

Corbett, the friar’s dire warning still chilling him, returned to the castle. Ranulf and Maltote were playing a desultory game of dice, Ranulf showing Maltote the finer points of cheating. Corbett sat in a window seat. He daydreamed about Leighton and quietly prayed that Maeve would be well. He felt agitated so he made his way up to the castle chapel, a simple, narrow chamber with the wooden altar at the far end. In a niche to the left of this was a statue of the Virgin and Child; with Mary smiling, showed the Baby Jesus to an oblivious world. Corbett took a taper and lit one of the candles. He knelt and said a Pater Noster, an Ave Maria and the Gloria. He heard Ranulf calling his name so he hurried down. Bullock was there with Boletus jumping in the air like a frog beside him. The Sheriff waved Corbett back into the solar.

‘Shut up!’ Sir Walter yelled at the verderer. ‘Shut up and stop dancing about!’

Ranulf and Maltote gathered round.

‘Your information was correct, Sir Hugh.’ Bullock’s face widened into a smile. ‘I’m going to enjoy this. Master David Ap Thomas and his henchmen have left the city by stealth. They’ve broken the curfew, climbed over part of the wall and made their way to the forest south-west of the city.’

‘Tell him the rest! Tell him the rest!’ Boletus screeched.

‘They have company,’ the Sheriff continued, glaring at his verderer. ‘They are accompanied by a cross-biter, a pimp called Vardel, and half a dozen whores from a city brothel.’

‘And I know where they are!’ Boletus yelled triumphantly.

‘Get your cloaks!’ Bullock ordered. ‘Boletus, I want four of your companions, six hobelars, fully armed, and about ten archers. We’ll go by foot.’

A short while later the party of armed men, Boletus running ahead like a hunting dog, left the castle. As they tramped through the narrow streets, the beggars and tricksters saw the glint of chain mail, heard the clash of sword and drew back into the alleyways. Tavern doors were abruptly shut. Whores, their bright orange wigs like beacons in the darkness, saw them coming and fled like the wind. Now and again a shutter would open wide and a voice shouted abuse. Bullock, thoroughly enjoying himself, bawled back.

They left the city by a postern gate, following a dry, dusty path out past a straggling line of cottages and vegetable gardens. The darkness gathered round them. Soon all the noise and clamour of the city was left behind. The evening was cool, the sky clear and there was little sound, except the clink of arms or the odd flurry of some animal in the hedgerow or ditch. Some of the soldiers began to complain, but when Bullock turned, fist raised, they fell silent. At length they left the path and followed a trackway into the forest. The trees closed round them. The sounds of the forest became more intense: the hoot of a screech owl, the cry of a night hawk, quick thrusting rustles from the undergrowth. Corbett and Ranulf, with Maltote hobbling behind them, tried to keep up with Bullock’s striding gait. The forest grew deeper, branches extending like stark fingers to catch the ghostly moonlight. Boletus came hopping back, moving soundlessly. He held his hand up and whispered to Bullock who ordered his soldiers to fan out. The line of men moved forward slowly. Corbett sniffed the air. He smelt wood smoke, the rather unsavoury smell of burning meat, and glimpsed the glow of fire amongst the trees. The beat of a drum came faintly through the night air. As they drew closer, the trees thinned, the ground dipped and they looked down into a glade. Corbett watched fascinated as Bullock whispered rebukes to his men who were beginning to laugh and make obscene remarks. The glade was full of dancing, naked figures. Four fires had been lit and around these naked men and women cavorted. The musicians couldn’t be seen, though Corbett glimpsed a group cooking meats over another fire at the far end of the glade.