Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘We don’t know. Reportedly a beggar — but probably the work of the Bellman.’

Bullock nodded at Ranulf who stood up to greet him.

‘Well, this is also the work of the Bellman.’

The Sheriff opened the saddlebags and threw on to the floor the faded, battered corpse of a crow, a piece of twine round its neck. Ranulf picked it up and, before anyone could object, pushed it out through the arrow slit window.

‘What else has the bastard done?’ he asked.

Bullock handed Corbett a scroll of parchment.

‘Two of these were posted last night,’ he replied. ‘One on the door of an Oxford Hall, the other at the Vine. I had two bailiffs patrolling the city just before dawn. They found these and the dead crow.’

Corbett undid the scroll and read the words which seemed to leap from the page:

‘So the King’s crow has come to Oxford. Caw! Caw!

Caw!

So the King’s crow, La Corbiere, sticks his yellow

beak

In the midden heap of the city. Caw! Caw! Caw!

The Bellman says this: cursed be Corbett in his sleeping.

Cursed be Corbett in his waking.

Cursed be Corbett in his eating.

Cursed be Corbett in his sitting.

Cursed by Corbett in his shitting.

Cursed be Corbett in his pissing.

Cursed be Corbett naked. Cursed be Corbett clothed.

Cursed be Corbett at home. Cursed be Corbett

abroad.’

‘I don’t think he likes you.’ Ranulf remarked, peering over Corbett’s shoulder. He pointed to the last few lines:

‘When the crow comes,’ the proclamation shrilled, ‘it is to be driven away by stones. The crow has been warned! Signed the Bellman of Sparrow Hall.’

Corbett looked at the vellum. The ink and the writing were the same as before, with a crude bell painted at the top where a pin had been driven through to attach it to a door.

‘So the Bellman was out last night?’ Corbett remarked, tossing the scroll on the bed. ‘That’s why Maltote died. Sir Walter, as of tonight, from curfew till dawn, I want your best archers to guard all the approaches to and from Sparrow Hall. I order that on the King’s authority.’

Bullock agreed.

‘Do you have anything else to report?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, our prisoners at the castle are not as bold and brave as they were last night,’ the Sheriff replied, mopping his face and slumping down on a stool. ‘But I think you should question them.’

‘And have you told anyone at Sparrow Hall about Ap Thomas?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, yes, on my way up. I left Tripham looking as white as a sheet.’ Bullock slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘I’m enjoying this. I am going to take you back to the castle, Sir Hugh. Once we are done, I’m off like a whippet to lodge a formal complaint with the Proctors of the University and then I’m back to Sparrow Hall. I am going to rub their arrogant faces into the growing shame of their so-called college.’

Bullock ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Firstly, they house a traitor who is also a murderer. Secondly, someone there has slain a royal servant. Thirdly, a group of their so-called scholars are guilty of debauchery and God knows what else. Finally, somehow or other that damnable place is linked to the deaths of these beggars on the roads outside Oxford.’

‘Don’t tell them about the button,’ Corbett warned. ‘Though, I have seen so many buttons on the gowns and clothing of the masters and scholars, it would be difficult to trace,’ he added ruefully.

‘What will happen to Ap Thomas and the others?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Oh, they’ll appear before the Justices,’ Bullock replied. ‘They will be fined, and maybe given a short stay in the stocks, and then the University will probaby tell them to piss off for a year to face the fury of their families in Wales.’

‘Are you sure they are innocent of the activities of the Bellman or the deaths of these beggars?’ Corbett asked.

‘I am certain,’ Bullock replied. ‘But, as I have said, Ap Thomas is more amenable now. He may answer further questions.’ The Sheriff lumbered to his feet and tapped Corbett gently on the chest. ‘Sir Hugh, you’re the King’s clerk. When I post my guards not a mouse will be able to fart in Sparrow Hall without our permission.’ He pointed to the scroll lying on the bed. ‘But the Bellman is a vicious bugger. I would heed his warning. Now, you’ll come back with me to the castle?’

Corbett agreed. Bullock put his hand on the latch then turned.

‘I’m sorry about the lad,’ he said softly. ‘I am sorry he died. Do you know what I’d do?’ The Sheriff stuck his thumbs in his sword belt, puffing his chest out. ‘If I were you, Sir Hugh, I’d get on my horse and go out to the King at Woodstock. I’d have this bloody place closed down and the Masters taken into the Tower for questioning.’

‘You don’t like Sparrow Hall, do you?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, I don’t, Sir Hugh. I never liked Braose. I don’t like to see a man profit from the pain and humiliation of others. I don’t like his bloody sister either — constantly petitioning me to ask the King whether her brother’s memory could be more hallowed. Braose was no saint but a bloody warlord who turned to religion and study in the twilight years of his life.’

Corbett watched fascinated as this fat, little man let his anger flow.

‘I don’t like the Masters either!’ he spat out. ‘Either here or elsewhere in the city. I resent their so-called scholars swaggering around, who are responsible for more crime than any horde of outlaws.’

‘I was a scholar once.’

Bullock relaxed and smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I’m in a temper. Many Masters and their scholars are good men, dedicated to a life of study and prayer.’

‘It’s Braose you don’t like, isn’t it?’ Corbett asked.

Bullock raised his head — there were tears in his eyes.

‘When I was young,’ the Sheriff replied, ‘a mere lad, a stripling, I was my father’s squire in de Montfort’s army. Did you ever meet the great Earl?’

Corbett shook his head.

‘He spoke to me once,’ Bullock replied. ‘He got down off his horse and clapped me on the shoulder. He made you feel important. He never stood on ceremony and, when he talked, it was like listening to music — your heart skipped a beat and the blood began to pound in your veins.’

‘And yet you are now the King’s good servant?’ Corbett asked.

‘Some of the dream died,’ Bullock replied. ‘Part of the vision was lost but the good of the commonality of the realm is still a worthwhile idea. Of course, there’s Edward our King — well, that’s the tragedy, isn’t it?’ Bullock continued. ‘In his youth, the King was like de Montfort. But come, I’m gossiping like an old crone — we should go.’

Corbett and Ranulf followed Bullock down and out of the hostelry. The lanes and streets were thronged but Bullock marched purposefully, the people parting like waves before a high-prowed ship. The Sheriff looked neither to the right nor the left. Corbett was amused at how quickly scholars, beggars, even the powerful tradesmen, kept well out of the little Sheriffs path. They paused on the corner of Bocardo Lane where the bailiffs were putting street walkers into the stocks. Corbett seized Ranulf’s sleeve.

‘Maltote? He died peacefully?’

‘I did what was necessary, Master.’ He glanced sideways at Corbett. ‘And, when that happens to me, I expect you to do the same.’

They continued, following Bullock out of the town, across the drawbridge and into the castle. Sir Walter led them into a hall, and told them to sit behind the table on the dais whilst he waddled off into a corner where he filled cups of white wine.

‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ he apologised, bringing the wine back and clearing away the chicken bones and pieces of bread from in front of them. ‘Bring the prisoners up!’ he bawled at a soldier on guard just inside the door. ‘And tell them I want no insolence!’ Bullock sat down between Corbett and Ranulf. He picked up a napkin and started cleaning his fingers. He saw Corbett watching him. ‘It’s the grease,’ he explained, gesturing at the mess on the table.