Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Bloody rushes!’ Morgan swore and immediately began to kick at the offending floor covering. His face was dirt-stained, and large damp patches of sweat were visible on his chest and shirt. He took his cloak off and threw it on the table. ‘Hugh, can’t you afford Turkish rugs …?’

Morgan suddenly realised whose presence he was in. He almost hurtled towards the King, going down on one knee, brushing back his sweat-soaked hair.

‘Sire, I did not know you were here,’ the Welshman gasped. ‘I was out hunting…’

Edward grasped Morgan’s hand, pulled him to his feet and embraced him.

‘I wish I had been with you.’ Edward planted a kiss on Morgan’s cheeks, then pushed him away. ‘These young dogs don’t hunt like us, Morgan. They are getting soft!’

Corbett closed his eyes and prayed for patience. The King, as usual, was being charming to people he need not be. Now he would only set Morgan off and provoke his famous lecture on how soft both Corbett and everyone else had become.

‘Sire, I have said that myself.’ Morgan lifted a stubby finger, his rubicund, friendly face breaking into a knowing smile. ‘Too soft, not like in Wales, eh, Sire? When you hunted me and I hunted you.’

Oh God, Corbett quietly prayed. Oh please, don’t start him off!

‘Listen.’ The King grasped Morgan affectionately and winked at Corbett. ‘My retinue’s outside — lazy buggers the lot of them! Ensure they have something to eat and drink, and teach them a little discipline.’

Maeve’s uncle drew himself up, chest puffing out like a wood pigeon, head going back, overjoyed to be given such a responsibility. He spun on his heel and headed like a whippet for the door.

‘Dearest Morgan,’ Edward breathed.

‘Dearest Morgan,’ Corbett whispered back, ‘is a bloody nuisance! By day he lectures me. By night he drinks and tells everyone the saga of his life!’ Corbett glanced over his shoulder, hoping Maeve had not heard. ‘But he’s a good man,’ Corbett added. ‘He loves Maeve and Eleanor — although he and Ranulf are both bred for mischief.’

Edward linked his arm through Corbett’s and walked him further down the hall.

‘A good soldier,’ Edward said. ‘Cunning and astute. He fought long and hard before he took the royal pardon. Like so many! All gone!’ Edward turned. ‘All gone, Hugh! Burnell, Peckham, my brother, Edmund …’

Now the tears will fall, Corbett thought, he’ll brush them gently from his eyes and clutch my arm.

‘I’m lonely,’ the King said hoarsely. ‘I miss you, Hugh.’ He brushed his eyes and clutched Corbett’s arm.

‘You have other clerks,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Sire, I cannot go on campaign again. I still have nightmares: the land a sea of fire; towns full of screaming women and children.’

Corbett had decided to play the King at his own game but Edward’s eyes became bright with pleasure.

‘The war in Scotland is over, Hugh. Wallace has been captured. The Scottish lords are suing for peace. I don’t want you in Scotland, I want you in Oxford.’ The King turned and looked up the hall where de Warrenne and de Lacey had returned to their teasing of Maeve. ‘You have heard the news?’

‘Aye,’ Corbett replied. ‘A journeyman came here last week bringing parchment and vellum. You refer to the rumours about corpses being found? About the traitorous proclamations from someone calling himself the Bellman?’

‘Beggars,’ the King interjected. ‘Poor beadsmen. Many of them gather at St Osyth’s Hospital near Carfax. Four have been found with their heads sheared off their shoulders and tied like rotting apples to the branches of a tree.’

‘In the city itself?’

‘No, outside. Sometimes to the north, sometimes to the west.’

‘Why should someone kill a poor beadsman?’ Corbett asked.

He noticed how Ranulf, at Maeve’s invitation, had now joined her on the dais. Corbett said a quick prayer: Ranulf was as attracted to baiting de Warrenne as a bee to honey and the old earl was famous neither for his good looks nor his patience.

‘I don’t know,’ Edward retorted. ‘Although the last one was Adam Brakespeare. You remember Adam, Hugh?’

The King gestured Corbett over to sit on a bench. The clerk recalled a thin whippet of a man with tawny hair and a nut-brown face. A master-of-arms, Brakespeare had been with them in Wales. On one occasion, when the elusive Welsh led them into ambush, Brakespeare had pulled Corbett from a stinking marsh as the arrows fell like rain around them.

‘Adam was a soldier.’ Corbett played with the ring on his finger. ‘He was one of your favourites. There was even talk of knighting him?’

‘When the army of Wales disbanded,’ Edward replied, ‘Adam returned home. He gambled rather stupidly and lost everything. He drifted, a landless man, until he became ill and petitioned the Chancery for help. By the time the petition reached me, Brakespeare was dead. His was the third corpse they found outside Oxford.’

‘And the Bellman?’ Corbett asked.

Edward’s face tightened. ‘Ah, yes, the Bellman.’ The King’s lips curled like a snarling dog. ‘He’s a writer, our Bellman. He issues proclamations and letters from Sparrow Hall invoking the ghost of the dead de Montfort.’ Edward’s voice rose, silencing the cheerful chatter at the top of the hall.

Corbett slowly edged away as the King plunged into his own nightmare.

‘De Montfort! De Montfort!’ The King’s fist came smashing down on the table. ‘Always bloody de Montfort! He’s dead! Don’t they understand that? I trapped him at Evesham, Hugh. I cut his army to bloody ribbons. I saw him die.’ Froth bubbled on the King’s lips. ‘He’s not even buried,’ the King rasped. ‘There was nothing left of him.’ He turned his red-flecked eyes to Hugh. ‘I killed him, Corbett, him and his entire, traitorous family. I cut his body to ribbons and fed it to the dogs. Now the bastard’s back.’ He thrust his hand inside his gown and drew out a scroll of parchment and tossed it at Corbett. ‘I’ve threatened Sparrow Hall,’ he said. ‘Even though it was founded by my good friend Braose. They are to put their own house in order or I’ll close it down myself. I sent a letter to Copsale, the Regent of the hall. He died in his bed. I sent a similar request to Ascham, the librarian and archivist, and he was murdered. I’ll burn the place down!’ the King swore.

Corbett played with the parchment.

‘Don’t do that, Sire,’ Corbett advised. ‘Don’t lash out. Oxford has its own way of retaliation. They’ll think you are frightened, trying to hide something. Moreover, although the Bellman says he dwells at Sparrow Hall, you don’t know if that’s true.’

The King grasped Corbett’s hand. ‘Go back there, Hugh,’ he begged. ‘You are my best hunting dog. Get in there and search him out. Avenge Brakespeare’s death. Find me the Bellman!’

‘I have left the royal service.’

The King dug into his pouch. He brought out the secret seals and ring of office and pushed them into Corbett’s hand.

‘Here’s your fresh commission. Do this for me, Hugh. I’ll stand godfather to your next child.’

Corbett knew he could not refuse. The King was no longer play-acting. He was begging and, if refused, would turn vindictive. Uncle Morgan, Maeve, Eleanor, Ranulf and Maltote would all feel the full lash of his fury.

‘I’ll go.’

‘Good!’ Edward beamed and brought his hand down heavily on Corbett’s shoulders. ‘That’s my good lurcher, my sharp-eyed mastiff! That’s what they call you, Corbett, do you know that?’ Edward’s sudden pleasantness was shot through with a touch of malice. ‘They call you the King’s dog.’

‘I am the King’s loyal subject,’ Corbett replied.