Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘No, no,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir Walter, you’ve …’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It’s nothing, just something I have seen.’

He glanced up as the doors were flung open and Bullock’s soldiers dragged a line of sorry-looking scholars into the hall.

‘I’ve released the whores,’ Bullock whispered. ‘Smacked them on the bottom and let them go. They were causing dissension amongst my men.’

The scholars were lined up; their faces were dirty, and some bore red, angry bruises on the cheek or round the mouth.

‘Well, you’re sober now, are you? David Ap Thomas, step forward!’

The Welshman, still dressed in a grey, shabby gown, his hands tied securely before him, shuffled forward. He had lost his arrogance, and there was a cut on the side of his mouth, whilst his left eye was half-closed and beginning to bruise. Nevertheless, he began with a protest.

‘I am a scholar at Sparrow Hall,’ he declared. ‘I am also a clerk. I can recite the psalm, I claim benefit of clergy. You have no right to try me before a secular court.’

‘Shut up!’ Bullock growled. ‘You are not being tried.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘When I have finished with you, I am handing you over to the Proctors’ court. It’ll be back to Wales for you, my lad!’

Ap Thomas’s bluster faded. Corbett snapped his fingers and beckoned him forward.

‘Master Ap Thomas,’ he began quietly. ‘Last night one of my men was murdered by the Bellman. That’s treason and you know the sentence for a traitor?’

Ap Thomas licked his lips. ‘I know nothing about the Bellman,’ he muttered. ‘Put me on oath.’

‘After having watched you last night, I know that would mean nothing!’ Bullock snapped.

‘Put me on oath,’ Ap Thomas repeated. ‘I know nothing.’

‘But you hounded poor Passerel to death?’

‘That’s because we thought he’d killed Ascham.’

‘And why, oh why — ’ Ranulf jibed ‘- did David Ap Thomas care for a poor old librarian?’

‘Asham favoured us,’ Ap Thomas replied.

‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘He told you about the ancient lore?’

‘He also gave us money,’ Ap Thomas replied. ‘He gave us silver for our festivities.’

‘Why should he do that?’ Corbett asked. ‘Ascham wasn’t a wealthy man.’

Ap Thomas shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much. Just after he died, I received a purse of silver coins with a short note stating that Ascham wished it to be mine.’

‘Where’s the note?’

‘I destroyed it. It was in a scrawled hand.’

‘But who delivered it?’

‘Actually, Passerel himself did.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suppose the letter was sealed?’

‘Yes, it was. Passerel handed it over with the small purse of silver; he claimed to have found it amongst Ascham’s possessions.’

‘You realise, of course,’ Corbett asked, ‘that the money probably came from the Bellman and you fell directly into his trap? Your favourite Ascham, the source of knowledge for your pagan rites, had been brutally murdered, and then even in death proves his generosity with his gift of money. The Bellman knew exactly how you’d react: you’d drink, you’d mourn and then you’d look for a scapegoat. Passerel was no more guilty of Ascham’s murder than I am,’ Corbett continued remorselessly.

‘Did you leave the poison for Passerel?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Of course not. The night he died we were…’ Ap Thomas’s voice trailed off.

‘Out in the woods?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I am sorry,’ Ap Thomas mumbled.

‘You’ll be sorrier yet,’ Bullock spoke cheerfully. ‘Do you know anything about the murders of these poor beggar men?’

Ap Thomas flailed his bound hands. ‘Nothing,’ he protested. ‘Brakespeare and Senex were sometimes seen near Sparrow Hall but I know nothing of their murders.’

‘Oh, take them to the stocks!’ Bullock shouted to the captain of his guard.

‘Sir Walter,’ Corbett intervened, ‘Master Ap Thomas has been helpful. His crimes are due more to foolishness than treason or any malice. Let him and his companions be handed over to the University Proctors.’

Bullock sipped from his cup. ‘Agreed. Take the buggers away!’ he bawled. ‘I’ve had enough of them!’

The guards pushed Ap Thomas and his companions through the door. The Sheriff got to his feet and drained his cup.

‘I’ll have the guards around Sparrow Hall by tonight. Sir Hugh?’

Corbett looked up. ‘I apologise, Master Sheriff. My mind was elsewhere.’ He got to his feet. ‘I was thinking,’ Corbett looked down at his boots. ‘You could tell from their clothing that Ap Thomas and his companions had been out in the countryside.’ He paused. ‘But these corpses which were brought in, Sir Walter — did you notice any mud, soil or grass on them?’

Bullock shook his head.

‘Now these beggars,’ Corbett added, ‘were old but I doubt if they would give up their lives lightly. Moreover, if a man was pursued through a wood, his legs, hands and certainly his face would be scored by brambles and gorse.’

‘I never saw any of that,’ Bullock replied. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, Ranulf, I still have the clothes and belongings of these beggars: they are kept in the store room next to my private chamber.’

The Sheriff led Corbett out of the hall and up a narrow, winding, stone staircase. Now and again Bullock grasped the ropes alongside, stopping to catch his breath. At last they reached a broad stairwell and Bullock took a ring of keys from his belt and opened the chamber on the right. Corbett fought to hide his surprise. The Sheriff’s private chamber was clean and spacious: the floor was scrubbed and covered with woollen rugs. Above the diamond-shaped window was a triptych of Christ’s Passion, with Mary and St John on either side. A four-poster high bed dominated the room; there was a desk under the window with a large box chair, and stools and covered chests. However, what caught Corbett’s gaze were the shelves from floor to ceiling on either side of the window, all well stocked with books.

‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ Bullock joked. ‘You are looking at my pride and joy, Sir Hugh. Some of the books I have bought myself but quite a few were a legacy from my uncle, who was Prior of Hailes Abbey.’ He went to a bookshelf and pulled out a tome, dusting it carefully before handing it to Corbett.

The clerk recognised the title: Cur Deus Homo — Why God Created Man; a work by the great Norman scholar Anselm.

‘The jewel of my collection,’ Bullock breathed, coming up beside him. He pointed to the cursive calligraphy and beautiful small pictures which marked the beginning of each paragraph. ‘Copied direct from the original,’ the Sheriff whispered. ‘Those bastards at Sparrow Hall know I own it. Tripham offered me gold by the ounce but I refused to sell.’

He put the book back on the shelf, took a key from a hook on the wall and led Corbett to the store room, which was a long, narrow place, full of chests and wooden boxes. It was dark and musty. Bullock grabbed a box and pulled it out on to the stairwell.

‘If you don’t mind,’ he explained, ‘I prefer if these are kept out of my room.’ He stirred the contents, raising a cloud of stale dust.

The Sheriff went back to his chamber whilst Corbett began to take out the pathetic rags.

‘I ordered the bodies to be stripped,’ Bullock shouted. ‘Those poor bastards could not afford coffins but I made sure they were buried in proper shrouds.’

Corbett laid the different pieces of clothing on the ground: some battered, old boots; torn and patched hose; a leather jerkin; a jacket, rather moth-eaten, the mole fur on its edge eaten away; a woollen shirt, holed and dirty. Corbett tried to ignore the smell as he carefully examined the boots and hose.