Paul Doherty - Satan in St Mary

"No, " he lied. "I was simply studying the place where Duket died. "

"Ah, yes, Duket. I understand you have been very busy on this matter. "

Corbett caught the sarcasm in the priest's voice and saw the smirk on his pale thin lips. He hated this man who was staring at him as if he was some sort of conspirator, as if this priest knew something unpleasant. A joke at Corbett's expense. "Yes, Master Priest, " Corbett said deliberately. "I have been very busy reading a report about William Fitz-Osbert and the abominable rites he committed in this church. " He felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched Fitz-Osbert's name wipe the smirk as well as any colour from the priest's face.

"Oh, have I frightened you, Master Priest?" he asked. "Surely you know about Fitz-Osbert? He can do little harm now being burnt to death over a hundred years ago. " The priest's nervousness was almost tangible. A fine sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead and he kept wiping the palms of his hands along the dirty black robe he wore. Corbett watched him closely. "What is it, Master Priest?"

The rector turned slightly, looking around as if he expected someone in the far shadows of the church to be listening. "Nothing, " Bellet whispered. "There is nothing the matter. I just cannot see that Fitz-Osbert's death has anything to do with the suicide of Lawrence Duket. "

Corbett patted the man gently on the shoulder. "Oh, Priest, " he said softly. "Duket did not commit suicide. He was murdered and I intend to see the perpetrators suffer for their crime. "

He walked round the priest and strode out of the church leaving the rector in the cold darkness behind.

Corbett intended to go straight to The Mitre but, just as he turned out into Cheapside, he felt a hand grasping his arm. He turned quickly, instinctively going for the knife in his sheath, only to find himself staring into the round bland face and cornflower-blue eyes of Hubert Seagrave, a leading Chancery clerk. Corbett had always disliked Hubert with his spiteful tongue and vicious way of hindering anyone who might oppose his preferment in the royal service. He was the last person he expected to see in Cheapside and Seagrave was clearly enjoying his astonishment and dismay.

"Master Corbett, " he lisped. "How good to find you here. You have led us quite a dance. You were not at your lodgings, nor even at The Mitre. " The slight sarcasm in his voice swilled through his words like dirt through clear water.

Corbett bowed in mock deference. "And you, Master Seagrave? I never thought you had legs. The only time I see you, you are either on a stool or on your knees licking the boots of some great man!"

Seagrave's fat face flushed with annoyance as he jabbed a stubby finger into Corbett's chest. "It is you, Master Corbett, who are going to need to lick a few boots! Our master, Lord Chancellor Burnell, is rather tired of sending you letters and is very angry that you have not approached him. Consequently, " he continued ever so sweetly, "he has entrusted me with the task of bringing you to him. "

"And if I do not come?" Corbett could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words were uttered, for he saw the quick movement of Seagrave's eyes and knew that was the answer this fat pompous fool had wanted.

"Master Corbett, " Seagrave replied. "I will not take you. That is why the Chancellor sent the gentlemen who are standing behind you. ''

Corbett turned and saw a group of royal Serjeants in the livery of the King's own household standing behind him and another standing a little far off holding a group of tethered horses. Corbett brought his hand as hard as he could upon Seagrave's shoulder and watched the pain quickly remove his opponent's supercilious expression. "Then, Sir Messenger Boy!" Corbet exclaimed, "if the Chancellor wishes to see me, then we had best waste no time. "

Corbett mounted the horse the Serjeants had brought for him and then, in the middle of the group, was led along Cheapside through the shambles where the butchers' stalls and the slaughterhouses polluted the air with their rank smells. They turned left to go down Old Deans Lane, then into Bowyers Row, south along Fleet Street, passing Whitefriars, the Temple, Gray's Inn and the rich timbered houses of the lawyers, before joining the main approach to the palace and abbey of Westminster. Once they had arrived there, the Serjeants, taking their mission seriously, pushed their way through the crowds, accompanying Seagrave and Corbett into the main hall, past the courts on either side and into the same small chamber where Corbett, a few weeks earlier, had received his assignment.

Burnell was waiting for him, sitting behind his desk. He continued to examine a document and allowed Corbett and his escort to stand waiting for a while before he groaned, sprang up and tossed the document onto the floor to join an ever-increasing pile of parchments there. The Chancellor then sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together while he looked thoughtfully and rather sadly at Corbett.

"Master Clerk, " he said slowly. "How good it is to see you. How kind of you to come. " Then he brought one hand slamming down on the table. "How stupid and how irresponsible of you, a trained clerk, to tarry so long over the King's own business! Who, Master Corbett, do you think you are?"

The object of his anger simply stared back at him, so Burnell turned to Seagrave. "Where did you find him?"

"In Cheapside, " came the smug reply. "I think he was on his way to see his mistress at the tavern. "

Burnell turned back to Corbett. "Were you?" Corbett swallowed his anger and shrugged.

"Seagrave could never tell the truth, my Lord, " he replied. "Even if it meant it curing the pox he undoubtedly has!''

Burnell cut short Seagrave's yelp of outraged innocence. "Thank you, Master Seagrave, " the Chancellor said softly. "You have done your task well. Now you may go. " The offended clerk turned and glared at Corbett and gracelessly left the room. The royal serjeants-at-arms followed him, doing their best to conceal their satisfaction at seeing such a pompous clerk deflated.

Once they were gone, Burnell gestured to a stool. "You had better sit down, Corbett, " he muttered. "From what I can gather, you must be exhausted from your labours, though so far I have seen very little fruit of them. " Corbett sat and braced himself for the coming storm but, instead, Burnell got up from his chair and walked across to close the chamber door. He turned and hoisted himself up to sit on the corner of his table and looked down at the clerk.

"Master Clerk, " he said softly. "You may believe that the task I set you was a minor one. You may well ask yourself, and probably have, why the death of a stupid runt like Duket should concern me. " He stopped and stared at a point above Corbett's head before continuing:

"It concerns me because it concerns the King. We are not talking about a stupid feud or paltry brawl but treason against the Crown, against the very person of the King!" The Chancellor fiddled with a ring on one of his stubby fingers and then stared hard at Corbett. "You do know the law of treason covers those who do nothing to prevent treason being carried out? You, Master Clerk, fall into this category and you do know what happens to traitors?"

Impervious to many threats, Corbett could only shudder at the menace in the Chancellor's words. Edward I had devised a new punishment for those guilty of treason. A defeated Prince David of Wales had been the first to experience it only a few years before. The Prince had been captured and brought to London. He had claimed he had fought against a foreign invader but the Royal Justices had ruled that Edward I was King of Wales, so David had been guilty of rebellion against his liegelord. He had been sentenced to be dragged by the heels through the mire and mud of the London streets to the scaffold at The Elms. There he had been hanged by the neck until half dead, his body then being cut down and cut open. The heart being plucked out before his head was struck off and his corpse quartered as a warning to all others who might think of plotting against the Crown.