Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

Behind him Ranulf laughed and Corbett looked back. The evening dusk was failing, the breeze rather cold. They had to hurry on. Corbett wished he was back in his chamber at Leighton Manor, Maeve with him. He could listen to her gentle teasing before going into his secret room and memorandising the questions which bedeviled him. He turned and smiled at Ranulf.

'Come!' he shouted. 'Let's ride a little faster to the nearest tavern. Some food and drink before we decide whether we shall continue our journey.'

They mounted and spurred their horses into a gallop, thundering along the rutted track past the crossroads where a decaying skeleton swung, the neck and head twisted, a macabre dancer against the darkening sky. Corbett fleetingly wondered if it was a portent

They stayed at a tavern that night as the weather turned foul. Heavy rain clouds gathered and the roads next morning were clogged with thick, heavy mud. Nevertheless, they were in London just before mid-day, following White Cross Street through Cricklegate. They broke their fast in a small tavern near Catte Street, Ranulf revelling at being back in London, straining like a dog on a leash, wanting to be off on his own personal business.

Corbett warned him: 'Stay with me, Ranulf, and you too, Maltote. Whoever killed Father Reynard shot at us the previous evening. He may well have trailed us back into London.'

Maltote was only too pleased to agree though Ranulf sulked for a while. They stabled their horses and pushed their way through the noisy, colourful streets. There Ranulf quickly regained his good humour he pointed to a group of Spaniards in their multi-coloured hoods, mantles and stupendous codpieces. He and Maltote quarrelled about what was genuine fur, and what the jewelled embroidered motifs and the bright hues on the cloaks of some retainers really signified. All around them were the cries of tradesmen and costers, the distant shrill braying of trumpets as the household of a noble moved majestically through the city under flapping banners down to Westminster. Ranulf, nudging Maltote, leered at the pretty ladies in their fillets and low-waisted dresses; sometimes his words were drowned by the clamour of the crowd and the mid-day peal of the bells of London tolling for prayers from their great stone-washed, stately towers.

They passed into West Chepe where the throng was greatest. This broad, cobbled area, the main market place of the city, was packed with carts bringing in wine from the vintners, lawn for the cloth guilds, and vegetables packed high for the stalls and booths in the Poultry. They went through the Shambles where the butchers, ankle-deep in blood and gore, slit open the swollen bellies of cows, pigs and sheep. They allowed the blue entrails to fall on huge platters which were scooped up by young, ragged-arsed apprentices to be cleansed in vats of scalding water. A group of chandlers stood next to a long line of gutted pigs, arguing with their owner about the price of the fat which they would buy to make tallow candles. The noise was terrible and the stench made them retch. The cobblestones were soaked by streams of black blood over which swarms of fat flies hovered.

They continued on past Newgate prison, the stench from the inmates even more revolting than that from the Shambles. A beggar, the lower part of his face eaten away by sores, did a strange dance, hopping on one leg while a small, skeletal boy clothed in rags played a haunting tune on a reed pipe. Ranulf threw him a penny, then cursed as he slipped on the decaying corpse of a rat They hurried past Fleet ditch, the corpses of dead dogs floating in the slime, and along twisting lanes which ran through the high, four-storey houses, the upper floors projecting out on wooden pillars so the rooms above could catch the sun. Here, hawkers and costermongers pushed their little handcarts, crying 'Bread!', 'Eels!', 'Fish!' and 'Meat pies!' and on every comer stood tipplers who sold drinks to passersby out of small, iron-hooped barrels.

'Master, where are we going?' Ranulf called

'Smithfield!' Corbett shouted back, pushing away an apprentice who offered him spiced hot sheep's feet At the mouth of Cock Lane a group of young prostitutes – slim-waisted and lecherous – shouted out their lies and danced with sheer delight at the prospect of mischief. One of them apparently recognised Ranulf and called out honey-phrased invitations as to what she would offer for a silver coin.

I have no stiver!' he shouted back, ignoring Corbett's warning frown.

'Nor any balls, by the look of it!' one of the whores retorted.

The ladies of the town shrieked with laughter whilst Ranulf, his face flushed, hurried on as fast as he could. They crossed the open dusty area of Smithfield to where the hospital of St Bartholomew stood. Corbett asked the others to stay at the great gate whilst he went across the open square. He relished the coolness, the raised beds of flowers and herbs, and the elaborately carved fountains splashing in the centre. He caught the tangy smell of soap, though he also sniffed the stench of corruption and the dank smell of a charnel house which stood in one comer of the grounds.

Corbett went up the great steps of the hospital, past the group of old soldiers, their limbs grotesquely amputated, who enlivened each other with stories of their past A young boy with a ladle and a stoup of water wetted their grizzled mouths. Corbett stopped a lay brother.

'Is Brother Thomas here?' he asked.

The little man nodded his bald head, his eyes simple as a child's. He beckoned Corbett to follow him along whitewashed corridors to the herb-scented chamber of Brother Thomas. The apothecary was sitting at his small desk under the open window but rose, laughing and clapping his hands as he recognised Corbett. He threw down his goose quill and grasped the clerk's hands, pumping them up and down vigorously.

'Hugh, you have returned! Come in!'

He almost pulled him into the room, dosing the door behind them. He shifted a pile of yellowing parchments from a small pallet bed and cleared a space for Corbett to sit.

'You want some wine or a cup of water?'

'The water will be best, Brother.'

Brother Thomas nodded and splashed an earthenware bowl to the brim.

'You are wise, Hugh,' he said. 'Always remember what Galen said, though Hippocrates maintained different: "Wine before sunset is not to be recommended." You are well? And the Lady Maeve?'

For a while Corbett and the apothecary discussed gossip of mutual interest, acquaintances at Westminster, at the court, as wed as the scandal of a certain physician now being investigated by the authorities at the Guildhall. The apothecary's face became serious.

'I know why you are here, Hugh,' he said sharply. 'Poison, the queen of murders. I am right, am I not?'

'You are right, Brother.'

'So what is the problem?'

'Could you sell me a poison, Brother? I mean, Belladonna or the juice of the Nightshade?'

The apothecary waved at the shelves around his room full of little phials and casks.

'They are yours for the asking, Hugh.'

'And they will kill?'

'In seconds. Ten or twenty heart-beats before the poison ices your heart and stops your breath.' Corbett stood up and stretched.

'But poisons that would only kill if taken regularly over a long period of time, do they exist?'

The brother's eyes became even more sombre.

'Oh, yes, Hugh. Such potions do exist, but not here. They are of the Italian mode. Deadly concoctions.' He paused. 'For example, five hundred years ago an Arab produced a white, odourless powder, highly poisonous, from realger, an ore found in lead mining.' Brother Thomas shrugged. 'In small quantities, it may be medicinal, but given regularly will eventually cause death.'

'Could I buy it in London?'

The apothecary nodded.