Paul Doherty: Angel of Death

They found Plumpton in the sacristy. The priest looked surly and exclaimed in anger at Corbett's request,

'What do you mean, man? That I lay out the entire altar as it was.' The priest looked as if he was about to refuse. 'Again,' Corbett wearily added, 'I must remind you that I do not do this out of any sense of power or pleasure. I am simply following His Grace's request. I would be grateful, Sir Philip, if you would see it done, now.'

Corbett went out and sat in the sanctuary chair whilst Plumpton, aided by a number of servants, pulled back the green gold-embroidered covering cloth and laid the altar as it was after mass.

'Sir Philip,' Corbett called out, 'I would not like it arranged as if mass was beginning, but as you remember it when you cleared the altar after it was finished.'

Sir Philip glared at him and nodded. It took some time, but Plumpton, now warming to his task, brought on the cruet dish which held the water and wine, two long, glass-stemmed jugs with a cluster of golden grapes on the caps, each set in a pure silver dish. He laid out the white linen cloths the priests used to clean the chalice and their fingers; even a few unconsecrated hosts were scattered about.

Once he pronounced himself satisfied, Corbett went up and inspected the altar. He ordered the candles to be lit to give the right reflection, positioning himself where de Montfort would have stood and where he himself had been when examining the altar on behalf of the king. De Montfort's chalice was there, the wine winking in the light, the cruets to the far side, one containing the water three-quarters filled, the wine cruet completely empty.

'You have forgotten to put wine in this?' Corbett asked.

Plumpton shook his head. 'No, it was empty after the mass. I remember, because there was no wine to throw away.'

Corbett nodded. There was something missing, something he had not grasped. He could feel his stomach churning with excitement. He looked again, putting the altar scene firmly in his mind. He imagined he was staring at a picture, some stained-glass window he found impressive or beautiful and always wanted to remember.

'Sir Philip,' he said eventually, 'I thank you. I cannot find the solution. Perhaps you may.' He then turned on his heel and walked out of St Paul's.

It was early afternoon, the mist had not lifted during the day and was now thickening as evening drew in. The play in the cathedral courtyard had finished and in Cheapside the markets were closing early, the merchants setting the obligatory lantern-horns outside their houses. Only the beggars and scavengers, those looking to cull what they could from a day's trading, were there. A group of horsemen rode by, the hooves of their mounts breaking and scattering the ice. Corbett nearly slipped and suddenly realized Ranulf was missing. He had been with him when he went into the cathedral but, as was customary, he had once again slipped away to his own private pleasures. Corbett shrugged. He felt hungry and bought a pie from a baker but, after two bites, tossed it away, for he could taste the rancid meat beneath the spices. He went into the tavern on the corner of Bread Street and sat near the fire warming himself with a bowl of soup. He tried to ignore the globules of fat bobbing about amongst the pieces of meat and vegetable by drinking three tankards of London ale, specially spiced and warmed to keep off the chill. Afterwards, he went outside, relieved himself in the gutter and, turning the corner, made his way down to his lodgings.

Corbett was used to violence; he had fought in Scodand and Wales and been the victim of ambush but the attack that evening was as sudden and savage as he had ever experienced. He was gingerly trying to avoid the open sewer, at the same time keeping his feet on the ice, when a figure in black stepped out of a doorway. If Corbett hadn't seen the glint of steel, the sword would have taken his head off in one chopping curve. Corbett instead swerved and sprang away. He slipped on the ice and fell, squirming as his assailant, his eyes glaring through holes in the black hood, brought his sword up for a crashing blow. Corbett, his legs caught in his cloak, his sword slewed round making it impossible for him to draw, scurried backwards like a child facing an irate parent. He felt his hand slip into the sewer, as the assassin-cum-executioner, still advancing, held up the sword and searched where to give the death blow. Corbett could not even think of what to do. He sat transfixed, watching those dreadful eyes and the curve of the sword behind the man's shoulder. He knew this was no alley bully or common felon but an assassin; the man was calm, rhythmic in his movements, like a dancer taking his time. And why not? The streets were empty, it was dusk and who would care that a man stupid enough to go out on his own was now being attacked? Corbett tried to call for help but his mouth was dry and the sound stuck like a piece of unchewed food in his throat. He found the dagger in his belt and pulled it out, but that only made him slip further on the icy ground. He looked up in desperation as the man, legs now apart, prepared to bring the sword down for the killing blow. The assassin came forward. Suddenly, he threw his head back and, crumpling like a loose piece of cloth, slumped onto his knees, his sword slipping out of his hand, his head falling forward onto his chest. Corbett saw the blood dribble out of his mouth. The assassin coughed and, gently toppling over to one side, curled up like a child going to sleep. Corbett looked up. Ranulf stood there, grinning broadly, feet apart, in his hand a long dagger bloodied right up to the hilt.

'For God's sake, man,' Corbett said testily, 'I never heard you arrive!'

Ranulf shrugged and squatted down to wipe the dagger on the dead assassin's cloak.

'I'll never understand, Master Corbett,' he said drily, 'when I'm around, you hardly talk to me. When I am here you have only criticisms. Do you wish I had come later?'

'Where have you been? It was a miracle that you did come.' Corbett spoke snappily with fright.

'I was outside the cathedral,' Ranulf said, his voice rising in protest. 'I went to watch the stage, I saw you disappear round the corner and I followed. I was going to catch you up but I saw this character.' Ranulf nudged the dead body with his foot. 'He seemed to appear from nowhere. He followed you so I decided to stay back to see what would happen. The rest you know.'

Corbett smiled.

'I am grateful, Ranulf. I am sorry I was angry with you.'

Ranulf, however, refused to be mollified. 'I waited. Once his back was turned it was easy. He never,' he added with pride, 'heard me. Neither did you. Did you?'

Corbett grinned. 'No, I did not, Ranulf. But I have never been so pleased to see you. Here, help me up.'

Ranulf helped the clerk back to his feet, solicitously dusting the back of his cloak off, smacking hard as if relishing every brush with his hand.

'Thank you, Ranulf. That will do.'

Corbett squatted down again beside the assassin, turned him over on his back and pulled off the hood. He had never seen the man before, the staring eyes, the thin sallow face, the greasy hair, the pock-marked skin. A professional assassin. London was full of them, ex-soldiers, veterans from the wars, men prepared to carry out a murder for a bag of silver.

Corbett rose. 'I'll be fine now, Ranulf. It's best if you go and see the alderman. Tell him what happened. Tell him if he has any questions to direct them to the king, but ask him to send men for the body.'

Ranulf needed no second bidding. Any opportunity to lecture the portly, pompous alderman, whose young wife

Ranulf had long lusted after, could not be resisted. In spite of the slippery ice, he ran down Bread Street and back into Cheapside. The sooner the task was done, the sooner he could visit his son.