Paul Doherty: Angel of Death

'Oh, you are, Clerk,' de Luce replied, his eyes glittering with malice behind the screen.

'Only one problem remains, de Luce,' Corbett snapped – 'why?'

De Luce cocked his head to one side as if this was a real problem. 'Oh, it is quite easy,' he said in a sing-song whisper. 'You see, I did not intend de Montfort to die, though I did not mourn his death, but our beloved king was a different matter. You see, Corbett, have you ever lost someone you loved? I did. I had a brother. I loved him more than any other person in the world. I do not know if you have studied my background, Corbett. Perhaps you will and will find I was born in Flanders. I came here and was promoted in the English king's service. Edward himself offered me the benefice here and, in doing so, I extended the royal favour to my own brother. A merchant, he came over to England, expanded his business and, because of Edward's involvement in Scodand, went to Berwick. He was there, in the Red House, when Edward put it to the sack as if he was some new Attila or Genghis Khan. My brother died, so did his pleasant-faced, innocent wife,' de Luce's voice cracked under the strain, '… their lovely children. You see, Corbett, the king had to pay for these murders. No one gave him the right to sack cities. No one gave him the right to slay an innocent man, a beloved brother, his wife and young children just because the burgesses of Berwick were stupid enough to hold out longer than they should have done. When I heard the news I resolved that Edward should die. Not quietly. But in the open. In the sight of the Church, of Edward's parliament, and in the eyes of God, if there is one. Edward would fall dead and my brother's death would be avenged.' De Luce picked at the screen absent-mindedly with his finger, a half smile on his lips, a faraway look in his eyes. Corbett felt afraid. The man was completely mad but hid it under a mask of cold reasonableness.

'You see, Corbett, I had forgotten that de Montfort would drink from the chalice again. If that fool Ettrick had not reminded him, my plan would have worked and de Montfort would have been blamed. Men would have seen it as proof that the de Montfort family had not forgotten their persecution at the hands of King Edward. But,' he shrugged as if it was a matter of little importance, 'de Montfort did drink it again and my plan was thwarted. But then I saw further possibilities. If I wanted men to believe that de Montfort had killed the king, why should not the king kill de Montfort during the sacrifice of the mass? The scandal, the blasphemy, the sacrilege, would weaken Edward in the eyes of everyone in Western Christendom, not only in England.'

Corbett watched de Luce intently and saw the madness in the priest's eyes.

'You are right,' the priest continued smoothly. 'Everything was confusion after de Montfort collapsed. It was simply a matter of going to the altar, as if to arrange certain items, and pick the chalice up. I lifted my chasuble and dashed what was left of the wine against my alb, rubbing it clean before refilling it. Nobody would notice and, if they did, I would have some satisfactory explanation. I thought it would work until your interfering questions began but, even then, I thought I was safe. After all no one loved de Montfort. His whore had been present at mass. Blaskett and de Eveden feared him, Plumpton envied him and, of course, dear Ettrick, the Scotsman, he was the one who reminded de Montfort to drink the wine a second time.' De Luce now looked directly at Corbett. 'And you, with your meddling ways! And your half-finished questions. By all rights you know,' de Luce continued conversationally, 'you should be dead now. I knew Plumpton had deduced something. The fat fool's excitement last night convinced me that the farce you made him go through yesterday morning had awakened his usually dormant brain and fitful memory. So I killed him.'

De Luce smiled. His hands dropped down. 'And now, Corbett, your penance!'

Hugh would always regret he had not watched this mad, evil priest more intently. Only when the word 'penance' was uttered did he begin to move away, but it was too late. De Luce, the smile still on his twisted lips, managed to thrust the long, thin, stiletto-like dagger through a small aperture deep into Corbett's shoulder. The clerk screamed at the red-hot pain, his hand going up to feel the blood pumping out and collapsing as de Luce moved quickly out of the screen and up the cathedral. He heard voices, Ranulf shouting, the sound of drawn swords and the whirr of a crossbow bolt. Then the darkness mercifully obliterated his agony.

Corbett woke a few days later in a lime-washed chamber of St Bartholomew's Hospital. The mattress was soft enough, slung over a low truckle bed. He glanced round and saw the black crucifix on the wall, a bench, two stools and a small table. He knew he was in St Bartholomew's because Father Thomas was standing there, his back to him, mixing some potion at the table. Corbett stirred and called out.

Father Thomas turned round, his face beaming with pleasure. 'So, Hugh, you have decided to rejoin us.'

Corbett struggled to rise, but a hot knifing pain, which shot from his shoulder all the way down his right side, forced him back on the bed. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face and body.

'You should lie still, Hugh,' Father Thomas said, a note of authority in his usually gentle voice. He bathed the clerk's head with a cloth dipped in warm, herb-strewn water and, bringing a small cup, held Corbett's head and forced the clerk to drink the dark, bitter mixture.

'This will make you sleep eventually,' the monk said.

Hugh lay back and stared up at the ceiling. 'How long have I been here?' he asked.

'Eight days.'

'What happened?'

Father Thomas patted Hugh on the head as if he was a child.

'Stay there.'

He went to the door and called down the passageway. Ranulf came in wringing his hands, his face a picture of concern and compassion. Behind him was Maeve. Corbett could hardly believe his eyes and, if he had not been warned by the pain, he would have sprung out of bed. She came quietly into the room, pulled a stool over and sat down beside him. Taking one of his hands in hers, she kissed it gently and stroked it affectionately, just looking at him. Corbett realized how beautiful she was, the bright corn-coloured hair peeping out beneath the dark blue wimple over her head. Her face, however, was paler than usual, almost alabaster, and her eyes larger and darker. He could see the dark shadows of sleeplessness around them.

'Maeve, when did you arrive?' he said huskily. 'I thought you were in Wales. The roads? How could you get through?'

Maeve smiled. 'We did not come by road but by sea.'

Corbett clasped her hand tightly until she winced. 'It is so good to see you.'

Ranulf, the clerk's servant, had been standing there, his look of concern now replaced by one of deep grievance at being ignored.

'Ranulf, what happened at St Paul's?'

Ranulf shrugged. 'I heard you yell. I saw the priest leave and come from behind the screen, the dagger still in his hand. I had brought a crossbow, and even in that light he was still a good enough target.'

'You killed him?'

Ranulf shrugged again and smiled. 'Of course. The bolt went straight into the back of his neck. He died very quickly before the high altar, just near the anker house.' Ranulf went over and sat on a bench against the far wall. 'He cursed you before he died, while the anchorite behind his wall shouted out about how God's justice had visited his temple and that the evil man would go down into the deep pit of hell, and so on, and so on.'

'And the king?'

Ranulf gave a sigh. 'He sends his thanks. I told Hervey what had happened. He wrote some of it down and gave it to the king.'

Corbett groaned. The one thing he did not want was someone reporting back, putting words in his mouth. 'Did the king seem pleased?'