Paul Doherty: Angel of Death

'So, His Grace the king has sent you,' he said.

'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'I have to find out about Master de Montfort.'

The priest turned and nodded towards where the corpse lay. 'De Montfort has gone to a different court, Master Corbett.'

'What is that priest doing?' Corbett asked. 'Anointing him.'

'I thought that only happened when a man was dying, not when he was dead.'

The priest shrugged his shoulders.

'You have read your theology, Master Clerk? Aquinas and Bonaventure say the soul may not leave the body till hours after the heart has stopped beating. For de Montfort's sake let us hope that this is so and his soul has been cleansed of sin.'

Corbett was about to go towards the table but the priest put his hand gently on the clerk's arm.

'Let the priest finish, Master Clerk,' he said. 'Then you can look.'

'And who are you?'

'I am Sir Philip Plumpton, canon of St Paul's,' the fellow replied.

Corbett nodded.

The young priest, who must also have been a celebrant at the fateful mass, had finished the anointing and now began the Psalm for the Dead: 'De Profundis Clamavi ad Le'. Once that was ended, the young priest, head bowed so that his complete tonsure was showing, began the final invocation, telling the dead man's soul to go out, invoking the Archangels Michael and Gabriel to meet him with the heavenly host, praying the dead man's soul would not fall into the hands of the Evil One, the Son of Perdition.

Corbett shivered. Here in the house of God, surrounded by priests, he felt a malevolence, a deep-seated malice. He already half suspected that de Montfort's death was no accident and, strangely, remembered stories he had heard about St Paul's: how it was often a den of iniquity, many of the canons not following the rules of their order or the vows they made at ordination. Some people claimed it was because the cathedral had been built over an ancient temple once used by the Romans in their sacrifices to Diana, goddess of the hunt. Corbett shivered again. With evil came chaos and chaos cried out for order to be imposed. If de Montfort's death was no accident, then the king would certainly assign him to find out why.

Corbett did not relish the commission. He had already seen the king's anger and believed a great deal of it was pretence. Did Edward have a hand in de Montfort's death? The clerk had no illusions about his royal master. King Edward was a pragmatist, the means always justifying the end. In the universities of Europe there were political theorists who claimed a king was above the law; indeed, even what he wished became law. Was the corpse lying on the table proof of this? A man who came from a family hated by the king, who was preparing a speech denouncing the king's taxation. Did Edward have a hand in his death? Is that why the king himself had not come into the sacristy? Did Edward believe that the body of a murdered man always bled in the presence of his assassin?

Corbett gently removed Plumpton's hand from his wrist and walked over to the table as the young priest, his face white and lined with fear, rose and walked quietly away. The corpse, still dressed in priestly garb, had a gauze veil over its face. Corbett, now aware of the growing silence around him as people watched what he would do, removed the gauze. De Montfort's face, never handsome in life, looked tragic, almost grotesque, in death. The muscles in the face were still rigid, the eyes half open, and Corbett saw two pennies lying on either side of the head, proof that the officiating priest had attempted to lay two coins there to keep the eyes closed. Instead, they seemed to glare malevolently at Corbett: the nostrils were dilated, the lips drawn back in the awful rictus of death. Corbett, who knew a little of medicine, bent down and sniffed at the man's mouth. He detected garlic, wine and something else, a bitter-sweet smell. Steeling himself, he forced two fingers into the man's mouth and, despite the low moans of protest from the people surrounding him, gently forced the jaws open and stared in. As he suspected, the man's mouth had failed to close because the tongue had swollen and the gums round the rotting teeth were black. Corbett at once knew the truth. De Montfort had not collapsed or died; there had been no failure of the heart or sudden rush of blood to the head. De Montfort had been poisoned.

Corbett replaced the gauze veil, bowed to Plumpton and walked out of the sacristy. Bassett and Ranulf were waiting outside for him.

'What is it?' Bassett asked.

Corbett just glanced at him and walked back across the sanctuary.

Ranulf, wiping his nose noisily on the sleeve of his jerkin, relished the future; mischief was afoot and soon he and his master would be involved. They would be summoned by that high and mighty king and told to go about their secret task. If that was the case, and so far his master had never failed the king, it would mean more money, wealth and status and Ranulf would share in the reflected glory. Ranulf basked in a glow of smug self-satisfaction; the rest of London had been cleared from the nave but he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, a former felon, a man who had been condemned to swing by the neck at the Elms, could stay. Corbett had once secured a pardon for him and, due to his master's secretive ways and sharp, clever brain, Ranulf had grown wealthy. His master, though taciturn and quiet, was always generous and Ranulf had begun to salt away a sizeable amount of gold with a goldsmith just off the Poultry. Not that Ranulf really cared for the future. He took each day as it came, his two aims being to look after Corbett and to enjoy himself as much as possible.

Ranulf's relationship with the clerk was not an easy one: he often found his master morose and withdrawn. Sometimes Corbett would sit for hours in the corner of a tavern, sipping a cup of wine or flagon of beer, lost in his own thoughts and, if Ranulf tried to draw him, all he received were black looks. The only time Corbett seemed to come to life was in the record room amongst the piles of vellum, parchment, sealing wax, inkhorns and quills. He seemed to take as much enjoyment out of that as Ranulf did pursuing the wives and daughters of various London merchants. Of course, there was always music. In their lodgings in Bread Street, Corbett would often sit in the evening playing his flute quietly to himself, devising new tunes. There was one other reason for the clerk's quiet moods. The Welsh woman, Maeve, Corbett's betrothed, a sweet wench Ranulf thought, though he was frightened of her sharp ways and clear blue eyes. In fact, she was the only woman ever to frighten Ranulf and he half suspected Corbett himself was afeared of her. She had declared her love for his master but, so far, had refused to give a wedding date, saying affairs in Wales were still not settled following the collapse of the revolt in which her fat, wicked uncle had been deeply involved. Yes, the Welsh woman was making life arduous. Ranulf glared at his master's retreating back and, as loudly as possible, blew his nose once again on the sleeve of his jerkin. Bassett grinned, Corbett stopped mid-stride, turned and glared at his servant.

'This time,' he snapped, 'stay outside!' Ranulf smiled and nodded whilst his master, followed by Bassett, pulled back the arras of the altar-screen and rejoined the king. Edward now sat slumped in a rather unregal fashion at the foot of St Erconwald's tomb. Surrey, leaning against the wall, was busy picking his teeth, staring up at the light pouring through the rose window as if seeing it for the first time. Corbett knew his royal master was in the middle of a deep sulk. The king's long, lined face was morose, his eyes half closed as if pondering some private matter. He glanced up as Corbett entered.

'Well, clerk?'

Corbett spread his hands and shrugged. 'It is as I feared, Your Grace. Murder.'