Paul Doherty - Angel of Death

'He rents it to me.'

'What is so special about that?'

'Oh, you have never been to my house, Master Clerk, but if you did, you would notice that there are many bedrooms, all of them luxuriously furnished.'

'You mean it's a brothel,' Corbett said, immediately regretting his brusqueness as the woman's eyes flinched with pain. Corbett looked steadily at her. Undoubtedly she had once been a most beautiful woman; her face was still heart-shaped, her eyes grey and well spaced; she had a perfectly formed nose and a mouth surely created for kissing. She was quick and intelligent, in a way reminding him of Maeve, with her tart replies and her ability to hold her own in any debate.

'And de Montfort,' Corbett said slowly, 'he knew you ran his house as a brothel?'

'Of course. He took half the profits.'

Corbett threw his head back and laughed. People leaving the cathedral stared at him, laughing so loudly in his dark-coloured clothes; it rang like a bell through the twilight. The woman smiled too.

'What is so amusing?' she asked.

Corbett wiped his mouth with his hand. 'In this world,' he said, 'nothing is ever what it seems to be. Look,' he said, 'tell me about de Montfort.'

She shrugged. 'As any man, he sunned himself like a barnyard cock strutting on his dunghill. He played his roles, acted out his parts. You see it all the time, Master Corbett. De Montfort in his robes up on the high altar – I have seen him in less, how can we say, celebrated positions. And yet,' she continued, 'he is no different from others. No different from the king, who pursues justice yet squeezes taxes from his people; or a knight who wears the red cross of the Crusaders and grabs a sword to hack down people for sweet Jesus's sake; or a priest who pretends that he is better than anyone else, yet who is far worse for not practising what he preaches.' She edged a little closer so Corbett could see the pale creaminess of her skin and catch the fragrance of her perfume. 'What are you, Master Clerk?' She gazed steadily into his eyes. 'No, you are not a barnyard cock,' she said. 'You are a hawk. You sit high up in the tree and survey everything with cold detachment; functional, you carry out your tasks.'

Corbett would have retorted angrily to anyone else, but the woman's wit and strength of character had left him virtually speechless.

'Well, Master Corbett. Now you know who I am and my relationship with de Montfort.'

'One question,' Corbett said. 'Are you glad he is dead?'

He saw the hate blaze like a fire in the woman's eyes.

'Yes, I am,' she replied fiercely. 'He was a cruel villain. He cheated me, persecuted me and, unless I followed instructions to the letter, threatened me with beadles, officials and a public whipping through the streets. He was always there with his hand out, ensuring I gave him half of what I earned. Yes, I am glad he is dead. Whoever killed him performed me a favour. If they hadn't done it, Master Clerk, believe me, in time I would have.' And, spinning on her heel, her skirts billowing around her, she clattered down the steps. Corbett called after her.

'Abigail.'

The woman stopped and turned, a faint smile on her lips. 'Yes, Master Clerk?'

'There are probably only five honest people in this city and you must be one of them.'

Her smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth.

'Perhaps we may meet again, Clerk, in more comfortable surroundings.'

Corbett grinned, but the woman, not waiting for a reply, disappeared into the darkness.

Compline had been sung at St Paul's and the canons had filed out, some to the refectory, others to their own chambers; the doors were closed and locked. Outside the snow-packed earth gleamed under the light of a full moon and a wind had sprung up, its eerie noise singing around the building, making it creak and groan. Even the hardened sanctuary men, who lived amongst the graves in the derelict huts near the huge curtain wall, shivered and pulled their rags closer about them and vowed they would not go out on such a night. During the day St Paul's was a bustle of activity, but this only masked the feeling of menace, of ominous silence, which fell once the cathedral was closed.

The sanctuary men would have been even more frightened if they had got within the locked church and seen the cowled figure crouching at the base of a pillar and singing a hymn softly to himself as he glared into the darkness. The man stopped his humming and chewed his lip thoughtfully. He really should not be here, but it was the best place to think. Plots and plans, like bats, seemed to move more smoothly at night. He had not intended to kill de Montfort though he was glad the silly, pratding hypocrite was dead. The figure cursed his own mistakes: Edward of England should have collapsed in the presence of his subjects, lay and spiritual. All would have seen it as God's judgement, and his brother's death and those of his wife and little ones would have been avenged.

The man raised his head and peered deeply into the darkness. He had heard stories that the cathedral was built over the original place of a temple dedicated to Diana and he wondered if the old demons lingered still. If he could, he would call up these demons and offer them his soul in exchange for Edward's downfall. There would be other opportunities for that, however. He must first deal with that meddling clerk, Corbett. The man bit fiercely at the skin on his thumb but felt no pain. God, how he hated that interfering clerk! There was something cold and detached about him, with his long dark face, black tousled hair and those eyes, like a cat's, slanted, green, ever watchful. The man rubbed his hands and smiled. Yes, he would have to do something about Corbett and it would have to be done very soon.

Corbett spent the next three days going through de Montfort's accounts. They were really quite crude, written on pieces of parchment stitched together with heavy twine. They did not refer to the abbey but simply listed expenses, though a great deal of the money had been deposited with different bankers. Corbett idly wondered how many of these would admit to holding monies on behalf of the priest. The income fascinated him, coming as it did from several sources. One was minor: stipends, benefices, gifts from people and close relatives, nothing much, but a sharp contrast to the rest. Every quarter there were huge amounts, literally hundreds of pounds sterling in bags of silver from two places: Cathall Manor in Essex and from his property in London.

Corbett knew the secret of de Montfort's London houses but he wondered what was so special about Cathall. Corbett considered travelling there to find out but, after many journeys downstairs to inspect the weather, realized it could change again and he did not wish to be cut off in some village in Essex. Moreover, if the thaw continued, his letters would soon reach the sheriff and other officials in Essex and they would collect the necessary information on his behalf. He wondered about Ranulf's recent, fitful appearances; on one occasion to change his clothes, another to beg Corbett for some money which the clerk absentmindedly gave. He never enquired too much into Ranulf s whereabouts; he had told him blundy not to break the law and, apart from that, left him to his own conscience and confessor. Corbett had a shrewd idea, however, that Ranulf was a man totally dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh, having seen him flirt dangerously with other men's wives and daughters.

In this the clerk was correct, for Ranulf was busy pursuing the plump-haunched, arrogant young wife of a London mercer. He had wooed and pursued her for days and felt sure his quarry would be brought down. On that particular Sunday evening, however, Ranulf returned, minus one boot, to his lodgings in Bread Street. Corbett was too immersed in his own thoughts to pay much attention and Ranulf was not humble enough to admit that he had been in the lady's chamber preparing for a night of pleasure when her husband, reportedly away on business, had returned unexpectedly because of bad weather. Ranulf had had to flee, the anguished screams and the angry roars of the couple behind still ringing in his ears.