Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Never trust a Plantagenet,’ he whispered. ‘Drink the poison. Go down to hell and tell the Lord Satan that I, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, sent you there!’

He drew his hand back. Lady Mathilda let the cup fall to her lap, the remains of the wine splashing out in a sinister stain. She rose to her feet, a hand to her throat.

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Ranulf declared. ‘There’ll be no comfortable nunnery, no escape.’

Even as he went to the door, Lady Mathilda, hands clutching her stomach, sank to the floor. Ranulf looked round and he saw her jerk once or twice as he turned the key.

Corbett, Bullock and others were in the gallery outside. Ranulf stood aside and let them in. Corbett crouched by Lady Mathilda, feeling for the blood beat in her neck. He shook his head.

‘She was the King’s prisoner,’ Bullock declared softly.

‘You shouldn’t have done it!’ Corbett gripped Ranulf’s shoulder.

‘I carried out royal justice,’ Ranulf retorted. He drew a parchment from the pocket of his doublet and handed it to Corbett. ‘I received this from Simon the clerk,’ Ranulf explained. ‘I have done nothing but what the King has ordered though, I must admit, I enjoyed it.’

Corbett read the commission.

To the Sheriff and Bailiffs of the town and our city of Oxford and to the proctors of the University, Edward the King sends greetings. Know you that, what our beloved and trusted clerk, Ranulf-Atte-Newgate, has done in and around the city of Oxford, he has done for the wellbeing of the Crown and the good governance of our realm. Given under our own hand, Teste me ipso, Edward the King.

The writ bore the imprint of the royal Privy Seal. Corbett handed it to Bullock.

‘So be it,’ the Sheriff murmured. ‘What the King wants, the King must have.’ He handed the parchment back.

Corbett grasped Ranulfs elbow to lead him out of the room.

‘What shall I do with her?’ Bullock shouted.

‘Bury her,’ Corbett replied. ‘Bury her fast. Let the priest sing a Mass.’

‘And Master Moth?’ Bullock got to his feet. ‘I read your postscript, my men are holding him downstairs.’

‘Take him to the castle,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s not to be manhandled or abused. You are to await the King’s pleasure.’

He led Ranulf further down the corridor.

‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’ Corbett faced him squarely. ‘Do you remember when I first met you? Dirty, starving and ready for the hangman’s cart?’

‘I remember it every day, Master. In my life I have had two friends: one I met that day, the other was poor Maltote. So, before you object, Sir Hugh, remember Maltote. That bitch,’ he spat out, ‘really had planned to spend the rest of her days in some comfortable nunnery! Justice has been done. Not according to your likes but, as Father Luke said when he hanged Boso, it’s what God wanted. She had killed and she would have killed again. Do you think she would have forgotten you, Master? Do you really think she’d have let you walk away? ’

Corbett nodded. ‘Let’s go Ranulf,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go back to the Merry Maidens. Let’s drink some wine and toast Maltote. Tomorrow we will make final arrangements for the transport of his corpse, and then go to Woodstock and thence to Leighton.’

They went downstairs, out into the lane. It was deserted but for Bullock’s men guarding both entrances. Ranulf was still justifying what he had done when they heard a cry from behind them. Corbett turned. Master Moth, hair flying, had broken free from his captors and was speeding silently towards them. He’d grabbed a crossbow from somewhere. Corbett stared in horror as he brought it up: he pushed Ranulf aside but, even as he did, he heard the catch click, saw the hatred in Moth’s face and knew he had miscalculated. Too late. The crossbow bolt took him high in the chest. Corbett’s body exploded in pain and he staggered back. Ranulf was now running forward, dagger drawn. Corbett collapsed to his knees. He watched Ranulf moving quickly, the macabre dance of the street fighter. He was heading for Moth. He suddenly switched the dagger from one hand to the other, swerved and, as he did, drove the blade deep into Moth’s stomach. Ranulf then whirled round, sword drawn, bringing it down in a sweeping cut, slicing into Moth’s neck. Corbett didn’t care: the pain was terrible. He could taste the blood at the back of his throat. People were running towards him, slowly, as if in a dream. Maeve was there, with little Eleanor clutching her skirts.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he whispered. ‘But, there again,’ he added, ‘neither should I.’

And, closing his eyes, Sir Hugh Corbett, the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, collapsed on to the mud-strewn cobbles of Oxford.