Paul Doherty - Angel of Death

To the left of Corbett, towering above the city, the huge sombre mass of St Paul's, snow still packed on its vaulted dome, made the clerk concentrate on his problems until, near exhausted by the snow, they reached the Shambles. Here carts took the offal, fat and other refuse from the butchers to be dumped in the Fleet River. One or two cartloads had already departed, leaving pools of red blood, and not even the snow could hide the terrible stench of the place. Faces turned against the biting wind, they passed the now open, double-barred gates of Newgate. Ranulf ceased his cursing for here, in the buildings around the gate, was the terrible prison where he had spent a night preparing to be hanged at Tyburn so many years ago. He felt his anger against Corbett ebb and, putting his head down to shield his face against the biting wind, he plodded on behind his master, wondering how long this terrible journey would last. They passed through the city gates; on the right the huge ditch, six feet deep and, in some places, seven yards wide, where the refuse of the city was dumped. In the summer, it would reek to high heaven but now, packed with ice, it served as a play area for a number of boys who, with shinbones fastened to their feet, were busy skating onto the ice. Beneath its frozen surface, Ranulf could see the corpses of dogs and cats and, he was sure, the perfectly formed body of a child.

Corbett and Ranulf moved across the open fields of Smithfield, past the charred execution block and towards the lofty pointed archway of St Bartholomew's hospital. The gate was open so they went in, following the immense walls; stables, smithies and other storehouses. The hospital itself, a long and huge hall, was approached by a flight of steps. Here, Corbett stopped a lay brother and asked to see Father Thomas. The old man nodded, gave a gap-toothed smile, the saliva drooling out from one corner of his mouth, and shuffled away. They waited at the top of the steps. Corbett could smell crushed herbs, spices and other substances he could not name. At last, a lanky, stooping figure came out of the doorway, hands extended, his face wreathed in smiles when he saw Corbett.

'Hugh, it is good to see you.' He put his arms round the clerk's shoulder, towering above him, as he gave Corbett a vice-like hug.

'Father Thomas,' Corbett said, 'may I introduce my servant and comrade,' he added caustically, 'Ranulf-atte-Newgate.'

Father Thomas bowed, his thin, narrow, horse-like face now solemn and courteous as if Corbett had just introduced him to the King of England. Father Thomas and Hugh had known each other since their student days at Oxford. The clerk had always admired this tall, ugly man with his friendly eyes and ever-smiling mouth. He had studied abroad in the hospitals of Paris and Salerno, and his knowledge of drugs and herbs could not be equalled.

Father Thomas ushered them into the long hall. It was clean and well swept; thick woollen coverings decorated the walls; the windows were boarded up with shutters and over these, to soften the austere look of the place, large multi-coloured drapes had been hung. On either side of the hall was a row of beds; beside each a stool, and at the foot a small leather trunk. Lay brothers and other priests moved quietly from bed to bed administering what remedies they could. Corbett believed most doctors did not relieve sickness, but at least, here, the brothers of St Bartholomew's made death comfortable and afforded it some dignity. Father Thomas led them through the hall to a small, white-washed chamber beyond, sparsely furnished with two tables, a bench, a few stools and a chafing-dish to warm the room. Along the walls were shelves filled with pots of crushed herbs, their fragrant smells even more delightful on such a cold wintry morning. Father Thomas made them sit, serving them mulled wine in wooden beakers. Ranulf found the wine hard to keep down although he was grateful for the hot spicy liquid. Once they were comfortable, Father Thomas went behind the table and, sitting down, leaned over, his face creased with concern.

'So, Hugh? Why do you wish to see me? Are you well?'

'I want to talk about poisons, Father Thomas,' Corbett replied, enjoying the shocked look in the priest's eyes.

He leaned over and tapped the priest's long bony fingers. 'Come now, Father,' he said, 'I am not here to make any confession. Nor do I normally discuss poisons, but tell me about the various types.'

Father Thomas grimaced and haltingly gave a list of poisons, the drugs from plants such as belladonna and foxglove. As he warmed to his subject, he provided detailed descriptions of each poison: how they were made; how they were to be administered; their side effects and possible antidotes. As he spoke, Ranulf, who found most of the terms difficult to understand, realized one thing: his secretive master believed the priest who had collapsed in St Paul's the previous day had been poisoned; he also understood that whoever had administered the poison had done so during the sacrifice of the mass, for all the deadly poisons Father Thomas described acted within minutes.

At last Father Thomas finished and Hugh nodded.

'You probably know why I have come?' Father Thomas shook his head and spread his hands.

'Here we have our own tasks, Hugh. I hear very little of what is going on,' he grinned, 'except your promotions. It's a long time, Hugh, since we were at college together. Oxford seems so far away. Strange,' he looked through the narrow-slitted window at the icy fields beyond, 'when you look back, how everything seems to have taken place at the height of summer? Do you know, I can never remember studying during the winter or when it was cold? The sun always seemed to shine.'

Hugh smiled, he quietly agreed. Whenever he thought back to his days at Oxford, or to his marriage to Mary, each day, each memory was always against a background of summer, of warm suns, lush green grass, trees moving gently in a soft breeze; the chatter of his little girl, the serene influence of his wife. Perhaps that was what the memories were for: to warm, bolster and strengthen you for the future.

Corbett shrugged, rose and, extending both hands towards Father Thomas, cupped the man's head in his hands, kissing him gently on the brow.

'Father Thomas,' he said, 'believe me. The paths I walk now, even though bounded by a wickedness you could not even comprehend, are made easier because of my friendship with you and the memories we share.'

Father Thomas rose, clasped Hugh's hand and, mildly protesting that the clerk did not come to see him often enough, led them back to the main gateway of the hospital.

Corbett, followed by a now grumbling Ranulf, began the long walk across Smithfield, back through Newgate. By now the city had come to life; booths were open and shop fronts, overhung with canvas to protect them against the inclement weather, were let down. A line of prisoners being taken from Newgate down to the King's Bench at Westminster passed them; they were shackled together with iron gyves around their ankles, wrists and necks, and made to trot through the snow. Some of them, young boys and girls, had no shoes or leg coverings and their cries were piteous as they scarred their feet on the hard ice and the rocky filth hidden beneath. A group of bawds, hauled in by the city bailiffs for walking the streets the previous evening, was being taken into the prison; their scarlet gowns and hoods were ripped and torn and white hats had been placed on their heads. A solitary bagpiper preceded them, whilst alongside shambled files of tired-looking soldiers who returned the obscene jokes or jests of the women with the occasional slap or coarsened oath. A beggar rushed out to Corbett, one eye missing, her nostrils eaten away by some terrible disease; she had a mewling infant clasped tightly to her breast. 'Ayez pitie! Ayez pitie!'