Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

The next morning Corbett was awakened by a pounding on the door. He pulled it open, to find Norreys standing there. Ranulf also came out of his room, tugging his boots on.

‘Sir Hugh!’ Norreys swallowed hard. ‘You have got to come to the Hall, it’s Maltote!’

Corbett cursed.

‘He never came back,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘I was supposed to take over.’

‘He’s dying,’ Norreys declared. ‘Sir Hugh, your servant is dying. Master Churchley has him in the infirmary but there’s nothing we can do.’

Corbett gaped at him. He crossed his arms against the cold he felt. Ranulf, however, had already pushed by them, pounding down the stairs. Corbett put his boots on, grabbed his cloak and went down with Norreys across the lane to Sparrow Hall.

Churchley was waiting for them in the parlour, the other Masters grouped around him. He opened his mouth to explain but then beckoned at them to follow and led them up the stairs to a white-washed chamber. Maltote was lying on a bed just inside the door. His face was as white as the sheet tucked under his chin, his eyes were half-closed and a faint trickle of blood snaked out of the corner of his mouth. Ranulf pulled the blankets down and groaned at the sight of the soggy, bloody mess of bandages Churchley had tied round Maltote’s stomach.

‘I did my best,’ the physician explained.

Maltote turned, his eyes flickering open. He spluttered, his arms flailing feebly beside him. Corbett leaned down to hear the words he gasped.

‘I’m thirsty. Master, the pain …’

‘Who did it?’ Corbett asked.

‘The beggar. No face. Silent as a shadow.’

Corbett fought back the tears of rage.

‘I’m dying, aren’t I?’

Corbett grabbed Maltote’s hand, which was icy cold to the touch.

‘Don’t lie,’ Maltote whispered. ‘I am not frightened or, at least, not yet.’ His face tightened as a spasm of pain caught him.

‘I have given him an opiate,’ Churchley declared. He beckoned Corbett away from the bed. ‘Sir Hugh, you must have seen such belly wounds on battlefields. The opiate soon wears off and when it does the pain will be terrible and he’ll have a raging thirst.’

‘Is there anything you can do?’

Churchley shook his head. ‘Sir Hugh, I am a physician not a miracle worker. He will literally bleed to death and do so in great agony.’

Corbett closed his eyes, breathing in slowly. He went back to Maltote.

‘Do you want a priest?’ he asked.

Maltote struggled to answer. ‘Father Luke shrived me before I left Leighton but if I could have the sacrament?’

Tripham came into the room. ‘Sir Hugh, I apologise for disturbing you but there’s a royal messenger waiting for you at the hostelry with messages from the King at Woodstock. I have already sent for Father Vincent,’ he added. ‘He’s on his way.’

Corbett went back to the bed. He squeezed Maltote’s hand and kissed him gently on the forehead. He then wiped the tears from his own face and hurried out, whispering at Ranulf to stay.

A short while later Father Vincent arrived, a little boy walking in front of him carrying a lighted candle and bell. Over the priest’s shoulders hung a gold-fringed silver cope with an Agnus Dei in the centre. Churchley left the room but Ranulf remained. The service was short: Father Vincent gave Maltote the final absolution and administered the small Eucharistic wafer from a silver pyx. He then took a golden phial out of his pocket and anointed with holy oil Maltote’s eyes, mouth, hands, chest and feet. The little boy stood like a waxen statue. The priest never even looked at Ranulf but, immersed in the sombre liturgy for the dying, finished the anointing. Afterwards he knelt by the bed and recited the De Profundis: ‘Out of the depths, O Lord, have I cried unto Thee.’

Ranulf found himself echoing the words. Only when this was finished did Father Vincent turn and acknowledge Ranulf’s presence.

‘I am sorry.’ He grasped Ranulf’s hand and looked back at the bed where Maltote, the opiate now wearing off, was beginning to twist and turn in pain. ‘Is there anything more I can do?’

Ranulf blinked back his own tears. He took off his boot and pulled out a gold piece from the hidden flap.

‘Say Masses for him,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Say Masses until Michaelmas.’

The priest would have given the coin back but Ranulf insisted he took it.

Father Vincent, with the little boy ringing his small hand-bell, made his way down the passageway and out of the hall. Others came — Appleston and Dame Mathilda — but Ranulf turned them away, bolting the door behind them. He crouched by the bed and grasped Maltote’s hand. The groom turned. Ranulf’s heart lurched at the agony in the cornflower-blue eyes.

‘Will there be horses in heaven?’ Maltote asked.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf replied hoarsely. ‘Of course there will be!’

Maltote opened his mouth to laugh but the pain was too intense, and his body arched.

‘I’m frightened, Ranulf. In Scotland … remember?’ he gasped. ‘That archer who had a spear thrust in the belly? He took days to die!’

‘I’m here,’ Ranulf replied.

He pulled back the blankets. Maltote’s stomach was now a vast red puddle, blood soaking into the sheets and mattress beneath. Ranulf closed his eyes. He recalled one of Augustine’s maxims, when the philosopher had been quoting from the Gospels: ‘Judge all others, treat all others as you would want them to judge and treat you.’ Ranulf got up, walked to the door and beckoned Churchley in.

‘You are a physician, Master Aylric,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘I’ll be blunt. I have heard of apothecaries who can distil a powder which gives eternal sleep.’

Churchley glanced at Maltote who was now thrashing about on the bed, moaning softly.

‘I can’t do that!’ he declared.

‘I can,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘There’s no dignity in bleeding to death.’ Ranulf’s hand fell to his dagger.

‘Don’t threaten me!’ Churchley snapped.

‘I never make threats, only promises!’ Ranulf snarled. He took off his boot, plucked out a gold piece and pressed this into the Master’s hand. ‘I want you to bring it now!’ he ordered. ‘A small cup of wine and the powder I need. I know you must have it.’

Churchley was about to refuse but then he scuttled off. Ranulf went back and knelt by the bed, holding Maltote’s hand, making soothing noises as he would to a child. Churchley returned, a pewter cup in one hand, a small pouch in the other.

‘No more than a sprinkling,’ Churchley whispered. He thrust both into Ranulf’s hand and fled from the room.

Ranulf bolted the door. He opened the pouch and poured half the contents into the wine, swirling it round. He went back to the bed and lifted Maltote up by the shoulders.

‘Don’t say anything,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Just drink.’

He put the cup to Maltote’s lips. Maltote sipped, coughing and retching. Ranulf brought the cup back and his friend drank greedily. Ranulf lowered him back on the bed. Maltote grinned weakly.

‘I know what you have done,’ he whispered. ‘And I would have done the same. Ranulf …?’ he paused, tightening his lips. ‘Ranulf, yesterday when I went to the castle…’ he gasped. ‘I passed a group of scholars … They were arguing … one of them asked if there was a divine intelligence?’

‘People without intelligence always ask that,’ Ranulf replied smoothly.

He bent down and stroked Maltote’s cheek. The young man’s eyes were already becoming glazed, his face slack. Maltote grasped Ranulf’s hand and held it. Maltote shuddered once and closed his eyes, his face turned away and his jaw fell slack. Ranulf leaned down and felt for the blood pulse in his neck but it was gone. He turned Maltote’s face, kissed him on the brow and then pulled the blanket up over the corpse.