Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Ah!’ The priest came closer. He lifted his hand around which was wrapped a string of polished, black rosary beads. ‘I have heard of Ascham’s death and that of the Regent Sir John Copsale. They were both good men.’

‘No man is good!’ the anchorite shouted from the back of the church.

‘Shush, shush, Magdalena!’ the priest answered. ‘Sir John Copsale gave generously to our alms box. I have heard of Ascham’s death and the doings of the Bellman.’

The priest’s voice, like every sound, echoed round the church — small wonder the anchorite could hear it.

‘The Bellman came here!’ Magdalena boomed. ‘Pinned his proclamation to the church door he did. Creeping he came: mouse-eyed and close-mouthed. A goblin of wit!’

‘Shush! Shush!’ The priest brought his hand down on Passerel’s shoulder. ‘Your pursuers have gone. I heard the bell toll and came out. Bullyboys, the lot of them.’ He added, ‘Swaggering swains, empty vessels always make the most sound.’ The priest smiled. ‘I ordered them out of God’s acre. They had no right to bring their violence here but they are keeping watch on the lych-gate and around the cemetery. If you leave, they will kill you.’ The priest drew himself up, eyes wide. ‘That’s what happened to the last man who fled here. He came and went like a thief in the night. They caught him near Hog Lane and chopped his head off.’

Passerel moaned in fear.

‘However, you are safe here,’ the priest added kindly. ‘Look.’ He grasped Passerel by the arm and led him across to a recess in the wall. ‘This is the place of sanctuary. I’ll bring a bolster, some blankets, wine, bread and cheese. You can stay here for forty days.’ He watched as Passerel clutched his stomach. ‘If you have to relieve yourself, go out at the side door. There’s a small drain near one of the graves. But mind your step.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t fall in and take no light with you.’

Passerel sat down in the recess. The priest padded away. He returned a little later with a cracked pewter cup, a jug of watered wine and a trauncher of bread, strips of dried bacon, cheese and two rather hard manchet loaves. Passerel ate hungrily, listening to the priest chatter as he returned with a roll of blankets that smelt of horse piss.

‘There!’ Father Vincent stood back and admired his handiwork. ‘Keep the sanctuary clean.’ He pointed at the red winking lamp. ‘The Lord sees you and Holy Mother Church protects you. I’ll shrive you before morning Mass and you can be my altar boy. I’m giving a sermon tomorrow. It’s a very good one, on the dangers of riches.’

‘What does it profit a man?’ Magdalena’s voice boomed down the church. ‘To gain the whole world but suffer the loss of his immortal soul.’

‘Quite, quite.’ The priest began to douse the candles. ‘I’ll leave one alight.’ He reached down and grasped Passerel’s hand. ‘Goodnight, brother.’

Father Vincent went out under the rood screen. Passerel heard the side door close and he leaned back with a sigh. What could he do? he wondered. Surely master Alfred Tripham, Vice-Regent of Sparrow Hall, would help? He would petition the Sheriff for assistance. Passerel gnawed at his lip. Nevertheless, his life was over. He had been happy at Sparrow Hall with his books and manuscripts, and studying the accounts in his little money chamber. Now it was all gone in the twinkling of an eye. What would happen to poor Passerel now? If this nonsense continued he would be given a choice: either to surrender himself to the Sheriffs bailiffs or to leave Oxford and walk to the nearest port and take ship to foreign parts. Passerel scratched his chapped legs and ruefully decided he would be dead of exhaustion before he reached the city gates. And outside? Those students would be waiting for him.

‘On your knees and pray to God!’ Magdalena’s voice echoed down the church. ‘Pray that you be not put to the test!’

‘Shut up!’ Passerel whispered.

He put his face in his hands and tried to make sense of the chaos and tragedy seething around him. He recalled Copsale being found dead in his bed. The Regent had always had a weak heart: had he died in his sleep? And Ascham? Passerel remembered opening the door to the library and finding the archivist lying there, the blood like spilled wine soaking his robes; the crossbow bolt in his chest. Yet the window had been shuttered, the door had been bolted. Why had Ascham been murdered? What had he meant by his mutterings about ‘dear little sparrows’ or something like that? What had he hoped to find amongst the writings of de Montfort’s adherents, so much rubbish from decades before? And what of Ascham’s belief that someone at Sparrow Hall wished to destroy the work of its founder, Henry Braose?

Passerel took his hands away and looked around. It was growing darker. The solitary candle wavered and bent in some draught, its flickering flame brought out the garish painting on the far wall, which portrayed a group of demons, hollering like hounds after some poor soul. Passerel saw little comfort there. He lay down on the slab, groaning at its hardness, recalling his own soft, high bed. He heard a sound. The side door opened — someone was coming in. Passerel stiffened. Someone was slithering quietly towards the sanctuary. He kept still, watching the entrance to the rood screen. He heaved a sigh of relief as he glimpsed a pair of shadowy hands place a wine jug and cup down. A friend from Sparrow Hall? The footsteps receded, and the side door quietly closed. Passerel got up and walked across. He picked up the jug and sniffed at it. The claret it contained was rich and thick. Passerel’s mouth watered. He poured himself a generous cup and drank quickly.

‘This is the House of God and the Gateway of Heaven!’ the anchorite shouted. ‘A Place of Terrors!’

Passerel, emboldened by the wine, lifted his head.

He was about to fill the cup again when pain seized his belly, as if someone had thrust a knife into his innards. Passerel staggered forward, the jug and cup falling from his hands and shattering on the ground, ringing like a bell along the deserted nave. Passerel clutched at his stomach. He opened his mouth to scream but gagged on the bile at the back of his throat.

‘It is a terrible thing indeed,’ the anchorite intoned, ‘for a sinner’s soul to fall into the hands of the living God!’

Passerel, his face soaked in sweat, eyes popping, stretched his hand out towards the anchorite’s light. The waves of pain stretched up through his belly along his gullet. Closing his eyes, William Passerel, former bursar of Sparrow Hall, slumped in death before the sanctuary screen.

As Passerel died before the high altar of St Michael’s Church, the old beggar Senex — for that was the only name by which he was known — tried to flee from the death pursuing him. He couldn’t run very fast: a suppurating ulcer on his right shin made him wince every time he brought his foot down. Senex shuffled on, staggering blindly through the darkness, straining his ears, listening for any soft footfall.

‘Oh please!’ Senex whispered.

He sat down, crouching like a dog, arms wrapped tightly round his chest. If he stayed here, silent as a statue, perhaps he would not be found. Senex recalled a rabbit pursued by a weasel he had once seen in a field. The rabbit had stayed frozen beside a tussock of grass. Senex closed his eyes: he didn’t know how old he was and he had given up trying to guess. Life was never good but nothing had prepared him for this. He should never have come to Oxford. If he had stayed in the countryside sleeping in barns and begging at cottagers’ doors, he would have been safe. Yet last winter had been severe so Senex had wandered into Oxford and made his way to St Osyth’s Priory, his hands and feet covered in burning chilblains and blisters. The good brothers had tended to his every wound except for the ulcer on his shin, which they had been unable to cure. Senex had grown accustomed to the city: the jostling noise, the arrogant, swaggering students: the grand Masters in their furred robes. Oh, he had eaten well: last Midsummer’s Day he’d even been given a shilling to buy sweetmeats for himself and his comrades at St Osyth’s. Senex opened his eyes and listened, he stared back through the darkness: all he’d wanted was a piece of cheese and a pot of ale. Senex shivered as he recalled the whispers around St Osyth’s about those other inmates who had disappeared, their headless corpses found in lonely woods. He now knew the reason why and he quietly cursed. He thought of a prayer, a short one, taught him many years ago when he and Margaret, his elder sister, had tramped the lanes begging for bread.