Paul Doherty - Satan in St Mary

They were joined by students and clerks from across the river, openly mocking a pedlar, a crafty-eyed, sharp-nosed man who had a tray slung around his chest which, he proudly claimed, bore the wonders of the world; one of Charlemagne's teeth, a feather from the wing of the Angel Gabriel, a phial of the Virgin Mary's milk, straw from the manger at Bethlehem, porcupine quills and the molar tooth of a giant. Corbett, grinning at the man's patter, pushed his way through the crowd towards the far end of the room where a red-haired, white-faced man in a leather jerkin and apron stood guard over the huge barrels used by the servants who rushed back and forth with dirty pots brimming with the rich brown London ale.

Corbett introduced himself and the man stared back with watery-blue eyes. "Yes, Master Clerk, what can I do for you?"

"Robert Savel?" Corbett replied. "He worked here?"

The man's eyes slipped away before he answered. "Yes, he worked here. Why? What is it to you?"

"I am, was related to him, " lied Corbett. "I want to know how, even why he died?"

The man nodded to a small table in the corner. "You want my custom? Then sit down, drink, and pay for it. "

Corbett shrugged, moved over and sat down, the owner later joined him with a dish of beef sprinkled with pepper, garlic, leeks and onions. A large pot of ale in his other hand. "Eat, " he commanded, "and I will talk. "

Corbett did as he was told; the ale was strong and tangy but the food was hot and well spiced. The landlord sat opposite and watched him. "Who Robert Savel really was, " he began, "I do not actually know. He seemed well bred. I know people. I watch them and I saw through his disguise. But, he was a good stableman, he knew horses, so I gave him a job here. "

"What did he do? I mean, apart from his job?" Corbett asked.

The man grimaced. "Like you, Master Clerk, he asked a lot of questions, and also went to places I would never dream of going. " He leaned forward, his breath a gust of stale onions and garlic. "I am an honest man, " he confided. "I liked Savel, but we all know what is going on in the city. The unrest, the plotting. I am an innkeeper, people talk and chatter in their cups, I just listen and keep my mouth shut. I want no trouble. "

"So, whom did Savel meet?" Corbett queried.

"I don't know, except that he used to go out at night. Sometimes he used to talk about the Populares, the dead de Montfort and the unrest in the city. Savel tried to question people here but I put a stop to that. " The man shrugged wearily. "It was only a matter of time before something happened. "

"So, you know nothing about him really?" Corbett asked. The innkeeper looked around the now noisy and crowded room.

"Yes, " he muttered, "one thing. He used to go and talk to an old hag who lived in a hovel down near an old, disused church by the river. This aged crone boasted that she could talk to demons and tell fortunes with her magic bones. "

"Is she there now?" Corbett impatiently interrupted.

The innkeeper shook his head. "I doubt it. She was found sewn in a sack a few days ago, her magic bones thrust in her mouth and her throat slashed from ear to ear, trussed and tied she was, like a hog at Michaelmas. "

"And Savel left nothing?"

"A change of tunic, that is all. "

Corbett leaned across the table. "And he said nothing to you?" he asked anxiously. "Surely there was something?"

The innkeeper rubbed his mouth and concentrated on a point beyond Corbett's head. "Only a riddle, " he replied. "He came back early one morning, in fact the very day he went missing. He was excited and he told me a riddle. What was it now?" The man paused, eyes screwed up in concentration.

"Oh, yes, " he continued. "When is a bow which cannot be used, stronger than a bow which can?"

"And the answer?" Corbett interjected.

"Savel's answer, " the innkeeper flatly replied, "was another riddle – 'when it includes all other weapons'. " The innkeeper rose. "That is all. Now I must go, and so should you!" He wandered off while Corbett sat thinking about what he had learnt.

First, Savel must have stumbled on some truth, probably through the old hag who was murdered. Secondly, judging from the short note sent to Burnell, it must be connected with a secret coven of witches and rebels. But what about the riddle? Was the bow somehow connected with Saint Mary Le Bow? If it is, Corbett thought, then it's a tenuous link between a secret coven and Duket's death. His mind probed at the riddle but concluded it could mean anything. If it was a reference to Saint Mary Le Bow then it was not, at this time, worth pursuing; his task was to find the murderers and an explanation of how they so effectively carried out the assassination.

Corbett looked round the tavern, now more noisy and packed with people. The pedlar, drunk, was offering a phial containing, so he said, the Virgin Mary's tears. Corbett looked hard at some of the customers and realized it was time that he was gone. He felt uneasy as if someone evil was watching him, a malevolent presence, but it could be anyone, any of the eyes which weighed him up and then slid away when they met his. Corbett was suddenly frightened. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl and he fought down the urge to rise and run from the tavern. The strong ale made him sleepy and he tensed, realizing that he had to make his way back to the river bank. A woman, a whore with a blonde wig and a scarlet, loose flowing dress, came up and leaned against the table: a young girl with a sweet face and eyes a thousand years old, she lisped and promised him delights for a drink and a few coins. Corbett panicked. He rose, shoved her aside and, ignoring her stream of rich profanities, pushed through the crowd to the door. Was this, he thought, how Savel was trapped? A blow on the head, then dragged away? Corbett opened the door, entered the cold silence of the night and almost screamed as the black-haired monster approached him. Corbett stepped back against the door and watched the evil, satanic masked figure come closer.

He scrabbled for his dagger but the grotesque mask was suddenly lifted and a young, boyish face smiled at him. Corbett, weak-kneed, breathed a sigh of relief and stood aside to let the youth, Satan from the mummers' play he had seen earlier, enter the tavern.

Corbett composed himself, rearranged his cloak and withdrew his long Welsh dagger. Holding this against his chest, he began to walk through the winding rutted streets, avoiding the heaps of ordure outside each door and the open sewer which ran down the centre of the street. There were shadows deep within other ones but they saw the knife and let him pass unmolested. Corbett breathed deeply and turned into the street he knew led down to the river bank and then suddenly stopped. He was sure he had heard footsteps behind him, something quiet, slithering across the cobbles. He whirled round but there was nothing. He continued on his way, the river bank was before him.

There was torch light, a group of boatmen, the sound of voices. Corbett walked on. The sound behind him re-occurred, almost like the patter of children's feet but Corbett sensed it was something evil pursuing him through the darkness. He gathered his breath, sheathed his knife and burst into a sudden run, the night wind whipping his cheeks, his cloak flapping behind. Corbett reached the bank and almost fell into one of the barges. An astonished boatman jumped in after him, Corbett gabbled his instructions, scanning the bank for any signs of pursuit. There was none, only the silent baleful darkness of Southwark, soon hidden by a mist as the barge nosed its way across the cold, black river.

Ten

It was dark when Corbett turned into Thames Street where the fog from the river had curled inland obscuring every recognizable landmark. He was so tired and exhausted after his meeting with Burnell and the journey to Southwark, that he never even saw where the attackers came from. They were just there, muffled and hooded, stepping sideways like dancers towards him. He instinctively knew that these were not the 'roaring boys', bullies or cutthroats from the gutter but professional assassins. There were two of them, almost indistinguishable in the misty darkness, silent and dangerous, armed with long swords and short wicked daggers. Corbett unclasped his robe, rolled it around one arm and drew the long Welsh dagger from his belt. He remembered the advice of an old mercenary who had chatted about the macabre dance-like routine of professional street-fighters and, before the advice was clear of his brain, had acted upon it, sending the dagger straight into the chest of the nearest assassin.