Paul Doherty: Angel of Death

Corbett let the questions swirl round his mind until he returned to the nagging half-memory of what he had seen on the altar. He had to concentrate on this matter, try and resolve it and perhaps some progress would be made. Accordingly, when Ranulf returned, Corbett asked him to go to St Paul's to seek out Sir Philip Plumpton and ask the canon, on the king's orders, to meet Corbett on the high altar once nones were completed. After that Corbett penned a short letter to the king describing what he had done and admitting that he had made little progress in the matter. He hoped the king would not be at Westminster when the message arrived. This would give him more time; for, if the king was displeased, he would simply send a curt order instructing Corbett to show some fruits of his hard labour.

The clerk spent the rest of the afternoon in his chamber thinking over the details and the facts he had garnered about de Montfort's death. He became resdess and would have gone out if it had not been for the cold mist seeping in through the chinks and cracks of the shutters. So he stayed inside, warming himself by the brazier. Corbett wrote a short message to Maeve, saying how much he missed her and hoped that spring would soon come so that he could see her again. He tried to joke about warming his heart and soul on the fires of her love and hoped it wouldn't read as clumsily as it sounded.

Ranulf returned and announced that he was going to the city. Corbett nodded absent-mindedly and let him go. Once his servant had clattered down the stairs, Corbett took up his flute, but only played a few notes before throwing it onto his bed. He opened the trunk at the bottom of his bed and took out a small leather pouch. Inside was Maeve's letter, now some four months old. The ivory-white vellum was beginning to turn slighdy yellow but the handwriting was still as firm, curved and well formed as any scribe's. The halting phrases seemed to reflect the passion which existed between them.

My dearest Hugh [it began],

Affairs in Wales and around the castle of Neath are still not setded. My uncle says he is ill and has taken to his bed. He is as good an actor as any in a mummer's play. The countryside around is turning a golden yellow as summer fades and autumn begins. Strange that at such times of the year, partings from loved ones are all the more bitter. I miss you now more than ever. Every day, every waking moment, I think of your face, and would love to kiss your eyes and mouth. You must smile more, my serious clerk, the sun does rise and set without your leave. The shadows in your mind are nothing but dust on the leaf or wind through the trees. Yet I know you constantly live on the edge of darkness. Soon the night will be over, I shall be with you and the sun will always shine. I long for your touch. God keep you safe.

Your lover, Maeve.

Corbett sighed as he rolled the letter up again and placed it in his pocket. Then he smiled, for he must have read the letter at least twice a day. He heard the wind howl outside and wished the iron-hard winter would break and Maeve would come. A knock on the door made him jump. He slid his hand under the bolster of the bed, his fingers touching the ice-cold handle of the dagger which lay there.

'Come in,' he snapped. The door swung open; Ranulf stood there, his hair wet, a bruise under his left eye. In his arms he held a bundle, cradling it clumsily like a bulky parcel.

'Come in!' Corbett repeated peevishly.

Ranulf, his face white with shock, his eyes glazed as if he had seen some terrible vision, walked slowly into the room like some sleep-walking dreamer. Wordlessly, he stretched out his hands, offering Corbett the bundle. The clerk took it apprehensively as the bundle stirred.

'It's a boy,' Ranulf murmured. 'A boy.'

Corbett pulled aside the edge of the tattered shawl and stared dumbstruck at what he saw, before bursting into peals of laughter and slumping on the bed. The baby, angry at being so rudely woken, flickered open his eyes and extended his mouth for one great bellow. The small pink face crumpled into a red mask and the tiny fists clenched on his chest, as the baby gave full vent to his fury. The cry seemed to shake Ranulf from his trance. He stood, arms dangling by his side, hopping from one foot to another, a look of abject horror on his face. Corbett controlled his laughter and gendy cradled the baby in his arms. The infant, lips pursed, stopped his bawling and looked up speculatively at the clerk as if expecting some reward for its silence. Corbett rapped out a few instructions to Ranulf, who clattered downstairs to the buttery to bring back a bowl of warmed milk and a clean linen cloth. Corbett took the cloth and dipped it into the milk for the lusty infant to suck noisily.

'You are not,' the clerk began, 'to claim this is not yours,

Ranulf.' He looked down at the baby, the wisps of sandy hair, the small cleft chin, the dimple in the left cheek. If Corbett had found the baby in the street, he would have immediately recognized it as Ranulf's. Corbett made his servant pour two goblets of wine whilst the baby began positively to gnaw at the milk-soaked rag. After a few gulps of wine, the bemused father was calmer, more prepared to explain. He had gone out for a night's pleasure but, unfortunately, the father and elder brother of one of his earlier conquests had been waiting for him. A furious altercation ensued. Ranulf received a sharp blow to the face and his offspring was unceremoniously dumped into his arms. He gazed fearfully at his master.

'What, Master,' he muttered, 'are we going to do?' Corbett noted the word 'we' and glared at his servant. Some time soon, he really must have a quiet but very firm talk with this young man, who threatened to turn the house into a home for foundlings. The 'younger Ranulf, now angry at the cloth being drained of its milk, was beginning to look dangerously round the room trying to seek out the cause of his discomfort. Corbett hastily soaked the rag again and popped it into the infant's small extended mouth. 'Ranulf the younger' gripped it firmly and began to chew as vigorously as a young puppy.

The father, now beaming with smug pride at his young offspring, edged closer.

'What are we to do, Master Corbett?'

Corbett gently handed Ranulf his new-found son and, rising, went across to the trunk. He opened it, pulled out a clinking bag of coins and placed them gently into his servant's hands. He then took a writing tray and scribbled a hasty note, sealed it and handed it over to Ranulf.

'Look,' he said quietly, 'neither of us can care for this child. It has been baptized?'

Ranulf beamed and nodded.

'You,' Corbett continued wearily, 'are unable to look after yourself let alone an infant. God knows, you would probably lose the child the first time you took it out the door. You are to take this note to Adam Fenner, a cloth merchant in Candlewick Street. He and his wife have been longing for a child. They will look after this one, provide it with every necessity and positively spoil it with love and affection. They will let you see the child whenever you so wish.' He smiled sadly at Ranulf. 'Am I not right?'

Ranulf nodded, blinking vigorously to hide the tears welling up in his eyes. He scooped up the soft bundle.

'I am going to rename him Hugh,' he announced and quietly left the room.

Corbett heard his heavy footfalls on the stairs and silently despaired at Ranulf's innate penchant for mischief, shuddering to think that both father and son were now his responsibility. He then grinned at the thought for, once Maeve heard the news, she would shriek with laughter and tease Ranulf mercilessly.

Corbett wished he could look after the child, or return to his place at the Chancery, until Maeve arrived, and continue the work he did there every day, instead of walking in the sewer of human ambitions, greed, lechery and murder which surrounded de Montfort's death. Eventually, tired and weary, Corbett removed his boots and lay on his bed. He looked up into the darkness and waited for his servant to return, pretending to be asleep when Ranulf lifted the latch to his chamber and stealthily entered. His servant, taking a cloak from a bench, placed it carefully over his master and, extinguishing the candle, tiptoed out. Corbett smiled ruefully. He knew Ranulf and Ranulf knew him. His servant would know his master would never fall asleep with the candle lit but they both pretended. Corbett wondered how much more of his life would be pretence. Would it always go on like this? At last, his mind tired of whirling round, chasing shadows, dredging up memories, fell into an uneasy sleep.