Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘It’s like some mummers’ play,’ Ranulf whispered.

‘In God’s name, what is that?’

A cowled, masked figure walked forward, dressed in a grey robe on which had been painted a large human eye.

‘Master,’ Ranulf had to stop himself laughing, ‘I don’t think this is what we thought it was.’

Beside Corbett, Bullock rose, drawing his sword.

‘I don’t give a bugger!’ he said. ‘I’m hungry: there’s wine down there and some of those young ladies are very attractive.’

Bullock began to run forward, his men following. They were into the glade before the dancing stopped.

Corbett, who had motioned Ranulf and Maltote to stay behind, realised Bullock had underestimated his opponents. The dancers may have been drunk and caught unawares but they were well armed. Swords and daggers were drawn, staves produced and the glade became a battleground. Even the women joined in: Corbett saw one burly lady, a quarterstaff in her hand, send two of Bullock’s men crashing to the ground.

‘I suppose we had better help,’ Ranulf whispered.

Corbett reluctantly agreed. However, by the time they had reached the glade, the masked figure had been knocked to the ground and his crudely fashioned satyr mask pulled off his face. David Ap Thomas glared up at Corbett.

‘You bloody, snooping crow!’

He vainly kicked out at the two archers now lashing his thumbs together behind his back.

All round them the sound of fighting began to die. There were about fourteen scholars and two whores; the rest, including the pimp Vardel, having decided that discretion was the better part of valour, had fled deeper into the forest. Some of Bullock’s men were complaining of cuts and bruises. Nevertheless, they helped themselves to roasted strips of meat and drank greedily from the jugs of wine. Once they were finished, they led their prisoners off in single file back along the forest path.

Bullock was a cruel captor. Most of the prisoners had been allowed to don some form of dress but boots and shoes had been thrown into a bag and the night air was riven by curses, oaths and a stream of filthy abuse from the ladies of the town. The soldiers shoved and taunted back. Ap Thomas was loud in his protests.

‘There is no law against it!’ he cried.

‘What exactly were you doing?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, kiss the Devil’s arse!’ Ap Thomas snarled.

They entered Oxford by a postern gate and made their way up into the castle. Bullock, now full of himself and eager to tell the University authorities of what he had found, declared they were all his prisoners and must spend time in the castle dungeon. The students, led by Ap Thomas, loudly protested; the whores, more pragmatic, began to smile and wink at their captors. Bullock led his line of prisoners away. Corbett and his companions watched them go, listening to the shouts fade on the night air, before they made their way back to Sparrow Hall.

The doorkeeper let them into the hostelry, loudly grumbling at the late hour. Corbett ignored him. He knew the fellow had probably been bribed by Ap Thomas to wait up to let the scholars back in so he let the man remain innocent of what had happened.

Once back in Corbett’s chamber, Ranulf washed and bathed the bruise on his right hand. Maltote sat on the floor, nursing his shin, grumbling at how the night march had aggravated the injury.

‘It was a waste of time,’ Corbett declared, pulling off his cloak and unbuckling his war belt. ‘Our good friend Ap Thomas is probably guilty of nothing more than being involved in petty pagan rites which are, I suppose, as good an excuse as any for debauchery.’

‘There was nothing remarkable in the glade,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘Bread, wine, some meat: a yellowing skull which probably belonged to someone who was long in his grave when my grandfather was born.’ He shook his head. ‘And I thought Ap Thomas might have been guilty of more serious crimes.’

‘I wonder?’ Corbett sat down on the bed. ‘I wonder if the Bellman knows what happened tonight because, if he does, I think he’ll strike. He knows we are tired and weary after our wild-goose chase. Our good Sheriff, on the other hand, will spend the night thoroughly enjoying himself interrogating Ap Thomas and the other scholars whom he detests.’

‘Shouldn’t we watch Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Or, at least, the alleyways at the back? See who comes and goes? We could draw lots,’ he suggested.

‘I’ll go.’ Maltote, face pulled long, clambered to his feet.

‘But your ankle?’ Corbett said.

‘I slept well this morning,’ Maltote replied. ‘And I don’t think I can sleep now, not with this pain. What hour do you think it is?’

‘About midnight, perhaps a little earlier.’

‘I’ll take the first watch.’

Maltote hobbled out of the room, his war belt slung over his shoulder.

‘Should one of us go with him?’ Ranulf asked.

‘He’ll be safe,’ Corbett replied. ‘Go after him, Ranulf. Tell him to stand and watch, keeping deep in the shadows and, if he gets tired, to return. Our doorkeeper will think he is one of Ap Thomas’s companions.’

Ranulf left and Corbett lay down on the bed. He meant to keep awake but his eyes grew heavy and he slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Ranulf returned and pulled off his master’s boots. He placed the cloak over him, blew out the candle and went to his own chamber. He struck a tinder, the meagre oil lamp flaring into light, and opened the Confessions of St Augustine.

‘Thou has made us, O Lord, for Thyself and our hearts can find no rest until they rest with Thee.’

Ranulf closed his eyes. He would remember that. He would quote it the next time that Master Long Face entertained some pompous prelate or knowledgeable priest. Oh yes, everyone would shake their heads in silent wonderment at the change in Ranulf-atte-Newgate.

In the alleyway behind Sparrow Hall, Maltote squatted and wondered how long Sir Hugh would keep them in Oxford. Unlike Ranulf, Maltote could have lived and died at Leighton. Up at dawn, Maltote would happily stay in the stables until darkness fell and he dropped with exhaustion. He glanced up at the dark mass of Sparrow Hall and saw the faint pinpricks of candlelight. The wall around the hall garden was high and Maltote kept his eye on the postern gate. If anyone left, he was certain it would be through that door. A hunting cat slipped by. Maltote watched it climb the midden-heap next to the wall: a furry shape shot out, and both that and the cat disappeared into the darkness.

Maltote stared up at the stars and grinned. He’d enjoyed this night’s foray into the forest. He could not believe his eyes at the sight of some of those ladies! Maltote licked his lips. He’d not told even Ranulf that he was still a virgin. He’d once loved a girl, a miller’s daughter, who lived near Leighton Manor, and he’d taken some flowers to her but she had laughed when Maltote became red-faced and tongue-tied. Perhaps, when he returned, he’d go and visit her again? Maltote heard a sound and opened his eyes. The postern door was still firmly shut. He got to his feet, narrowing his eyes at the dark shape shuffling towards him: his hand fell to the dagger on his belt.

‘Who’s there? Who are you?’ Maltote called.

A clack dish rattled, and Maltote relaxed. The beggar drew near, dish out. Maltote fished in his purse — he had a coin somewhere. Perhaps the man would be company to while away the night hours? He looked up and the dish hit him straight in the face. Maltote staggered back, hitting his head against the wall. He lurched forward but his assailant was too quick, the dagger came up, sharp and cruel, ripping into Maltote’s belly. The groom screamed at the pain, one hand clutching his stomach, the other clawing the air. He fell, his head smashing against the cobbles, as the beggar shuffled off into the darkness.