Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘God speed you, Ralph Maltote,’ he prayed. ‘May the angels welcome you into Paradise. I hope there is a divine intelligence,’ he added bitterly, ‘because there’s bugger all down here!’

For a while Ranulf knelt by the bed and tried to pray but found it impossible to concentrate. He kept remembering Maltote grooming the horses and his friend’s total inability to handle a weapon without hurting himself. He cried for a while and realised this was the first time he had done so since the city bailiffs had tossed his mother’s corpse into the burial pits near Charterhouse. Ranulf dried his eyes. He emptied the rest of the wine into the rushes, put the small bag of powder into his wallet and left the chamber.

Ranulf thrust the cup into Churchley’s hand.

‘He’s dead. Now, listen!’ He snapped his fingers at Tripham. ‘I speak for Sir Hugh Corbett and the King. I don’t want Maltote buried here, not in this bloody cesspit! I want his body embalmed, placed in a proper coffin and sent back to Leighton Manor. The Lady Maeve will take care of it.’

‘That will cost money,’ Tripham bleated.

‘I don’t give a fig!’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Send the bill to me. I’ll pay whatever you ask. Leave the body for a while: Sir Hugh will wish to pay his respects.’

Ranulf left the hall and crossed the lane. Corbett was in the yard talking to a horseman wearing the royal livery. The fellow was splattered in mud and dust from head to toe. Corbett took one look at Ranulf’s face and dismissed the courier, telling him that Norreys would give him refreshment and look after his horse.

‘Maltote’s gone, hasn’t he?’

Ranulf nodded. Corbett wiped his eyes.

‘God rest him.’ He thrust the letters he was holding into Ranulf’s hand. ‘I’ll meet you in my room.’

Corbett went across to the Hall. He suspected, and secretly agreed with, what Ranulf had done. For a few minutes he knelt by the corpse and said his own requiem, Tripham and Churchley standing at the door behind him. Corbett crossed himself and rose. He put one hand on the crucifix above the bed and the other on Maltote’s brow.

‘I swear by the living God,’ he declared, ‘here, in the presence of Christ and of he who was slain, that whoever did this will be brought to justice and suffer the full rigours of the law!’

‘Your manservant has already given us orders on what to do with the corpse,’ Tripham broke in, now terrified by the harsh, white face of this powerful, royal clerk.

‘Do what he asked you!’ Corbett snapped.

He pushed by them and returned to Ranulf in his chamber at the hostelry. Neither talked about what had happened. Instead, Corbett opened the letters he had received from the King and Maeve.

‘And there’s one from Simon for you.’

He handed Ranulf a large, square parchment sealed in the centre with a blob of red wax.

Corbett opened his letters. The message from the King was predictable. He had arrived at Woodstock with his entourage and would wait there until his ‘good clerk’ had resolved matters to his satisfaction. The second letter was from Maeve. Corbett sat down at the table and studied it carefully. Most of it was chatter about the manor, the prospect of a good harvest and the depredations of certain poachers who had been raiding the stew pond. Maeve then went on to say how both she and Eleanor missed him and how Uncle Morgan was still full of the King’s visit.

‘I wish he would not tease Eleanor,’ she wrote, ‘with his stories about Wales and the way we Welsh terrified our enemies by displaying heads taken in battle. Eleanor, I think, encourages him.’

Corbett read on, then glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf.

‘The Lady Maeve sends her regards. What news do you have?’

‘Oh, just gossip about the chancery,’ Ranulf refused to meet his eye and pushed the letter into his wallet.

Corbett returned to Maeve’s last paragraph.

‘I miss you dearly,’ she wrote, ‘and every day I visit the chapel and light a candle for your swift return. My deepest love to you and my good wishes to Ranulf and Maltote. Your loving wife, Maeve.’

Corbett took a piece of parchment and began to write his reply. He described Maltote’s death, then paused as he recalled the groom taking Eleanor for a ride on her pony, and how she would shriek and laugh. Maltote would lecture her on horse lore, most of which Eleanor could not understand, but she’d sit in her special saddle and nod solemnly. Corbett blinked away the tears and in terse sentences described his sense of loss. He paused.

‘Ranulf,’ he asked, ‘Maltote’s body is to be sent back to Leighton, yes?’

‘Of course, I told Tripham that I would cover any expense.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Corbett replied.

‘No, Master, let me. I had two friends, now I have only one.’

Corbett turned to face Ranulf squarely.

‘Am I guilty?’ he asked. ‘Did I cause Maltote’s death?’

Ranulf shook his head. ‘The dance we are in is a deadly one. It could happen to any of us at any time. We are like hunters,’ he concluded. ‘We hunt in the dark and it’s easy to forget that those we hunt also hunt us: a knife in the back, a cup of poisoned wine, an unfortunate accident.’

‘And who do you think was responsible?’

‘Well, it can’t be David Ap Thomas. He and his henchmen were locked up in the castle. It must be the Bellman.’

‘Which means,’ Corbett replied, ‘that either Maltote was killed as a warning to us or the Bellman was going about his business, and Maltote happened to be in his way. He was killed by the oldest trick in the book: a beggar pleading for alms.’ Corbett stood up. ‘I am going to trap him, Ranulf, I am going to catch Maltote’s murderer and, God forgive me, I am going to watch him hang!’

Ranulf glared defiantly back.

‘I mean that,’ Corbett insisted. ‘He will be caught and tried by due process of law. He’ll die on the scaffold!’

Ranulf got up, his face only a few inches away from Corbett’s.

‘Now, that’s very good, but let me tell you about Ranulf-atte-Newgate’s law which makes sure there is no slip between cup and lip or, in this case, between prison and the gallows. Eye for eye! Tooth for tooth! Life for life.’

Corbett was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Dame Mathilda stood there, with Master Moth like a shadow behind her. The old lady was leaning on a stick, breathing heavily.

‘I came to express my condolences.’

She extended her hand and Corbett raised it and kissed her fingers. She promptly snatched her hand away. Corbett looked at her in surprise.

‘I am sorry,’ she apologised. ‘But all this business …’

‘Corbett!’

He turned. There was a crashing on the stairs and Bullock came lumbering up, his face red as a plum.

‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Lady Mathilda whispered. ‘Not him.’ She turned, sniffing the air. ‘He’s a disgusting man.’

She put her arm out for Moth who took it, his eyes never leaving hers. They walked down the passageway, forcing Bullock to flatten himself against the wall. The Sheriff watched them go, narrow-eyed, his rubicund face glistening with sweat.

‘I’ve come as fast as I could!’ he bawled. He jerked his head at Dame Mathilda now going down the stairs. ‘What did that old bitch want?’

‘She came to offer her condolences,’ Corbett snapped. ‘My friend Maltote was stabbed last night. He’s dead.’

Bullock groaned, slapping the leather saddlebags he carried against his leg.

‘God have mercy on him!’ he breathed. ‘And may Christ and His Mother give him good rest!’ He followed Corbett into the chamber. ‘And who is responsible?’