Paul Doherty: Angel of Death

'Sire!' Corbett saw Bassett feel the man's throat. 'I think he is dead.'

A young deacon, his gold vestments swirling around him like the dress of a woman, hurried up to Winchelsea.

'My Lord Bishop,' he stuttered, 'the priest is dead.'

Winchelsea glanced sideways at the king.

'Have his body removed,' he replied softly. 'And do not finish the service.' The man, bowing and bobbing, scurried away.

Winchelsea turned to the king. 'Your Grace,' he said wryly, 'it appears there will be no sermon,'

'And will I get my taxes, my Lord Bishop?'

'Not till this matter is resolved,' Winchelsea snapped back. He leaned over to the king. 'I must urge Your Grace to respect the rights of the Church, fought for and protected by the papacy and sealed with the blood of the martyred Becket.'

The king leaned forward, his face suffused with rage.

'Sometimes, my Lord Bishop,' he rasped quietly, 'it would appear the Blessed Becket richly deserved what he got.'

Winchelsea recoiled at such blasphemy and was about to reply when a strident, wailing cry cut across the sanctuary. Corbett, who had heard the exchange between the bishop and the king, stared around. The sound came from a slit in the far sanctuary wall, from which a scrawny, skeletal hand suddenly shot out.

'It's the anchorite,' Ranulf whispered. 'There is an anchorage over there.' Again the wailing screech, followed by a deep sepulchral voice.

'And the Lord sent out the Angel of Death over the Egyptians and he struck them. The Angel of Death, my Lords, is here, in this church! God's anger! Murder, I tell you!' The prophetic doom-laden voice silenced the hubbub of the sanctuary for a few seconds, then the hand disappeared. The king gestured to Bassett, the young household knight.

'Sir Fulk,' the king whispered quietly, 'clear the sanctuary and the church. Get rid of the populace here!'

The sanctuary was now being invaded by people, domicellae, maids of the court, knights, pages, even men-at-arms. Behind these were others: a young gallant with a hawk upon his wrist; merchants; girls with wanton looks from the streets and taverns beyond the cathedral walls. Women chattered, men talked loudly, girls whispered and laughed at the confusion which surrounded the great ones of the land.

'I will not be gaped at!' the king muttered. Across the sanctuary lay-brothers and servants of the cathedral were lifting de Montfort's body onto leather sheeting to take it out into the nearby sacristy. The king rose, turned and snapped his fingers at Corbett.

'Follow me.' He turned. 'My Lord Surrey.'

John de Warrene, Earl of Surrey, the most competent and loyal of Edward's barons, sighed and got up. The king walked across the sanctuary and past the altar, knocking aside the staring servants, priests and others still stunned by the tragedy. The king pushed under the carved-oak rood-screen, pulling aside the heavy blue velvet arras, and entered the chapel beyond, Corbett and Surrey following. The latter, white-haired and red-faced, was stroking his goatee beard. He looked as anxious and frightened as Corbett and the clerk could understand why. They had both heard the king's short but violent exchange with the archbishop and knew de Montfort's death would not help the king's cause in raising taxes from the Church. Edward walked across the empty chapel and leaned against the tomb of some long-buried bishop. Corbett, attempting to calm his mind, tried to think of the name, Erconwald, that was it! Some Saxon priest. The king, resting against the white stone sarcophagus, took deep breaths, his massive chest heaving with the strain. He glared across at his chief clerk, one of the few men he really trusted.

'I hate this church,' he rasped, looking up at the soaring roof. Corbett stared above the king at the great rose window now suffused with every colour of the rainbow as a weak sun struggled through the snow clouds.

'I hate this church,' the king whispered again. 'Here the Londoners met when they pledged their support to Simon de Montfort. Do the ghosts of Evesham dwell here?'

Corbett sensed the king's anger, taking it out on the building rather than the people it represented. Edward did have a special hatred for St Paul's, not only because of de Montfort but because it represented the lawlessness in the capital. The great bell of St Paul's would always boom out to rouse the citizens to arms, or to bring them into the great square around St Paul's Cross to hear some preacher or some rabble-rousing politician speak against the court or the king's taxes. It also had the right of sanctuary; outlaws from both sides of the river fled here from the sheriffs and other officials of the king. Edward had done his best to stop such abuses, building a huge sanctuary wall around the cathedral; but still it was more a market-place than a house of prayer. Here lawyers met their clients; servants came to be hired; merchants to arrange deals. You could buy virtually anything in this house of God.

Surrey, still stroking his beard, decided he had had enough of the king's temper.

'Are we here, Your Grace, to discuss the faults and failings of this Cathedral or,' gesturing with his head behind him to the noises behind the altar screen, 'are we here to discuss what will happen because of de Montfort's death?'

The king glared at Surrey, about to give some biting reply when he sensed he had made enough enemies, so he turned to Corbett.

'Hugh, go and see if de Montfort is truly dead. Bassett!' As Hugh turned he saw the young knight guarding the rood-screen door. Ranulf was skulking behind him, watching round-eyed at the king's anger and wondering if this would affect his fortunes and those of his master. Ranulf had been with Corbett too many times to be totally overawed by royal majesty but he sensed Edward's fickle temper and knew that if Corbett fell from favour Ranulf would also go back to the gutter from which he came. Consequently he looked after his master's happiness with an almost religious fervour. Ranulf did not want anyone to upset Corbett; he viewed that as his own prerogative.

'Basset,' the king repeated, 'go with Corbett. And Hugh,' – the king nodded to where Ranulf still skulked, 'take your watchdog with you. He should not be here.'

Corbett and Bassett bowed, pulled back the arras and went back into the hubbub in the sanctuary. Royal men-at-arms were now imposing some form of order. They had sealed the sanctuary off with a ring of steel while royal marshals and trumpeters had gone down into the nave to instruct the people to leave. Even under the noise and clamour Corbett felt the menace and threats. The people, by right, regarded the nave of the church as theirs and they resented being told to leave and so prevented from watching such an interesting spectacle. Worse, news of de Montfort's collapse and the prophetic cries of the anchorite had spread, God knows how, and the people were already muttering that de Montfort's death was a judgement against the king.

Corbett, followed by Bassett and Ranulf, walked across the now quietening sanctuary and entered the sacristy, a large oak-panelled room with an enormous table down the centre and aumbries in the walls. Someone had lit cresset torches and wheeled in charcoal braziers to ward off the oppressive cold. The main celebrants of the mass and the servers were still there.

Corbett gazed round the crowded sacristy. There were soldiers, guests from the service and other canons of the cathedral moving around, though they kept away from the great table now cleared except for the leather sheeting holding de Montfort's corpse. A young priest, a stole around his neck, was busy anointing the eyes, mouth and hands of the dead man. Corbett again looked round for someone in authority and finally saw a promising candidate. A youngish man of small stature, plump, with thick matted red hair, he still wore the gold and red chasuble, and Corbett recognized him as one of the main celebrants. The clerk went over to introduce himself and, when the man turned, Corbett was immediately struck by his comely and saintly face. There were some men who looked like priests, some who did not. This cleric looked every inch a man of God. His face was round and plump with deep-set blue eyes and a smooth olive skin. He smiled at Corbett.