Paul Doherty - Angel of Death

Corbett stopped. The woman knew Norman French. Once she may have been a lady, someone of quality, a discarded mistress who had begun to fall from the ranks of the city's caste system and was now at the bottom, here in the sewers and shambles of Newgate and the Fleet.

'Ayez pitie!' she repeated.

Corbett dug into his purse and handed over two silver coins. The woman smiled and turned away. As she did so, Corbett realized the bundle she carried was not an infant but a small cat. The woman was a professional beggar; she had disguised her face with horrific sores and presented herself as a true object of pity.

Corbett smiled wryly at Ranulf. 'Isn't it strange? Even when you want to show compassion, things go wrong.'

Ranulf shrugged, he did not understand his master, nor his fitful gesture of generosity; they seemed ill-placed for a man who, only a few hours earlier, had dragged him from his bed and thrown him into the ice-cold snow. They walked on, turning left to go down Old Dean's Lane and into Bowyer's Row, south along Fleet Street, past the ditch, its filth frozen in ice, then passing White Friars, the Temple, Gray's Inn and the rich, timbered gilt-edged houses of the lawyers, before joining the main thoroughfare to the palace and abbey of Westminster.

Scenes of frenetic business greeted them: lawyers in striped hoods, judges in their red, ermine-lined gowns, preceded by tipstaffs, bailiffs, officials and the occasional knight banneret of the royal household. All carried themselves with that hurried air of importance with which notables endow themselves to emphasize their rank and make the exercise of their own authority so much easier.

Corbett and Ranulf jostled their way through them, past the Clock Tower and up the broad, sweeping staircase into the main hall of Westminster. Corbett had been here many times. Usually his work was in the Chancery offices of the king's chamber which were situated wherever the king decided to hold court: sometimes south of the river at Eltham, or the Tower or the Palace of Sheen, or one of the royal manors in a distant shire. But always they came back to Westminster. Here, in the alcoves of the great hall, were the different courts, the exchequer, the Common Pleas and, on the dais, the King's Bench, where the Chief Justice, aided by other royal judges, dispensed justice in the king's name. Leading off from the hall were a warren of passageways, small chambers and offices: the royal messengers, the king's comptrollers and conveyors, the surveyor of works, the controller of the royal household, the chamberlain; each had their own little empire.

Corbett was pleased to be temporarily free of the bureaucratic politics which dominated each and everyone who worked here, for, as chief clerk to the Chancery, he was moved around from one department to another. Usually he was present when the king sealed charters with the Great Seal of England, with other barons present being there to ratify the document. On a few occasions only he and the king were present as letters were despatched under the Secret or Privy Seal to officials, sheriffs, bailiffs or Commissioners of Array in the shires. Corbett enjoyed his work. He liked writing, the study of manuscripts, the preparation of vellum, the joy of inscribing a fresh, pumice-rubbed piece of high quality parchment, the smell of the dried ink and sharpened quills. There was excitement when letters were brought in to be transcribed and satisfaction in seeing suitable replies despatched.

Now, for the third or fourth time, the king had asked him to take up special duties. Corbett, if he was honest with himself, would admit he was frightened. His previous tasks had taken him abroad and pitted him against powerful figures in shadowy, lawless areas of London. He had faced charges of treason in Wales and Scotland as well as murderous attempts on his life. Corbett had few illusions: he knew it was only a matter of time before either he failed disastrously and incurred the royal wrath of Edward or suffered some serious accident. Then what? The king might well discard him like one would an old rag or a useless piece of parchment, to be swept away like the leaves of the previous summer to be forgotten and not counted. And who would miss him? In his own way he loved Ranulf but he also had no illusions about his servant. There was only Maeve in Wales. Corbett stopped and squinted up at one of the great bay windows of the hall. It was now the middle of January and the last time he had seen her was the previous autumn. The lapse of time only increased his aching longing for her. If he thought about Maeve's serene face and long blonde hair, her perfect rounded figure, any feeling of pleasure would be replaced by a deep black depression. He knew he could not go to Wales and the weather made it impossible for her to travel to London. He would have to see this matter through and take what came.

Perhaps that was why he was frightened; he wanted to live now more than he ever did before. He was frightened of dying, of something happening which would stop him meeting Maeve, prevent them from being married and living as man and wife. For if he died what then? What use the tenements in Bread Street or Aldermanbury, or his other possessions – the little brown padlocked chest in the goldsmith's house in Cheapside or the empty, derelict manor in Sussex? What good would all these do if his body was rotting away in some pauper's grave or in some lonely London ditch?

Corbett pulled back his cloak and, without thinking, touched the long dagger which swung from his belt. Immediately he was accosted by an important official dressed in scarlet and blue doublet and hose, with his hair neatly coiffed. He carried a white wand of office which marked him as a Steward of the Great Hall. He placed his hand on Corbett's chest as a gesture he should go on further. The man's self-important face beamed with pleasure at being able to exercise power and his chest puffed out like some little cock-sparrow. In other circumstances Corbett would have laughed but now he glared into the man's pig-like face.

'You stop me, sir?'

'I stop you, sir,' the pompous fool replied, 'because you are armed, here near The King's Bench and that is an offence!' He clicked his fingers at a watching group of men-at-arms to come and arrest Corbett when suddenly, the clerk brought both hands firmly down on the man's shoulder with a resounding thwack.

'What is your name?'

The official's eyes became guarded. Corbett was not drunk nor did he seem deranged; only a man sure of himself would make such a gesture in the face of royal authority.

'What is your name?' Corbett repeated sternly.

'Edmund de Nockle,' the pompous idiot replied.

'Well Edmund,' Corbett said, pressing his hands deeper into the man's shoulders until he saw the fellow wince, 'my name is Hugh Corbett. I am senior clerk in the king's Chancery, a special emissary in matters of the secret seal. Now, if you wish me arrested that is your privilege, but I assure you before the day is out, I will be back in this hall wearing my sword and dagger and you, you arrogant fool, will be shackled in the Marshalsea Prison.'

The man was about to apologize but Corbett would not let him go. 'Now, Master de Nockle. You will lead us to where the king is.'

The man, pink-faced with embarrassment, chose to ignore Ranulf's snigger and, turning smartly on his heel, led them out of the hall, down some stairs and along a winding corridor. Corbett knew full well where the king was. The royal chamber was off the writing-room near where the letters and seals were kept. De Nockle approached a huge, iron-barred door and knocked gendy, but Corbett, deciding that he had had enough, pushed him aside and rapped more loudly. He heard the king's voice calling entry so he opened the door and went in with Ranulf close behind.