Paul Doherty - Satan in St Mary

His attacker tottered on the balls of his feet and then, with almost a sigh, slumped to his knees and pitched forward onto his face. His companion was stunned and by the time he resumed his fighting stance, Corbett had picked up the sword of the fallen assassin and was preparing to meet him. But he lacked his companion's mettle and when a casement above them opened and a raucous voice asked what was happening, he turned and fled into the mist even as the casement shut with an angry bang.

Corbett waited for a while before turning over the corpse of the fallen attacker with his foot. His knife had torn a huge gaping wound in the chest, made even worse by the man's fall. Corbett withdrew his dagger, wiped it clean on the dead man's tunic and pulled the hood from his dead assassin's face to reveal staring eyes, close-cropped hair and pox-pitted cheeks. Corbett had never seen him before, though he guessed that the man was an ex-soldier turned professional murderer. He felt nauseous at his escape, sheathed his dagger and, leaving the corpse for the scavengers, continued warily to his lodgings.

His banging awoke his sullen landlord, who looked surprised when Corbett demanded a jug of wine and a cup, and brought them without demur. Corbett grabbed them, muttered his thanks and climbed the stairs to his garret. There, he sat on his bed and poured himself a generous cupful of the wine but only drank when he was certain his trembling had ceased. He considered the danger he had just come through, recognizing that the attack was planned and wondering who had the resources to mount it. Corbett sat, chin in hand, his tired brain going round and round like a stupid dog chasing his tail. Burnell was wrong.

Corbett felt out of his depth in the murky, treacherous depths of city politics. This was not the Chancery, white-walled clean-smelling redolent of wax, ink and freshly scraped vellum with everything neatly filed and ordered. He knew that world and was at home in it. Now, he was out of his depth even with Alice. He was still deeply attracted to her but even there he felt something was wrong, threatening, though did not know what. He needed someone to rely on, someone to protect his back, someone to lead him safely through the maze of the city's underworld.

The next morning Corbett, refreshed, turned once more to the problem, but it was not until early in the afternoon that an idea had formed in his mind. He returned once more to Westminster and sought an urgent audience with Burnell. The Chancellor was preparing to travel to meet the King at his palace of Woodstock, outside Oxford. The carriage and carts were being organized and marshalled in the palace courtyard and, though on the point of departure, the Chancellor stayed to hear Corbett's request and, despite his puzzlement, immediately granted it. A clerk was called, the required letter was written out, hot wax poured on it, the Chancellor even had his own seal brought back to validate the document and so silence any questions it may provoke. Corbett then bowed, muttered his thanks, and, after requisitioning a horse from the palace stables, rode north along Fleet Street to Newgate Prison

The prison was really a collection of buildings, small towers along the old city walls bounded by the odiferous city ditch. Their overall command was under the nominal custody of a keeper and other officials often no better and sometimes much worse than the prisoners within. In theory, the city granted money and alms towards the upkeep of the prisoners but in actual practice, very little of this money reached the inmates. Not that any of them were there long enough to experience the people's generosity. Justice was swift and the phrase 'tried on Wednesday, hanged on Thursday' was correct. The prison was divided into debtors, aliens and felons. The latter experienced the worst conditions, cramped, two or three to a cell, or the many pits beneath ground. Every week these pits were emptied, the prisoners drawn up, shackled and put into carts to be taken to The Elms or Smithfield to be hanged.

The prison officials were engaged in just such an exercise when Corbett arrived. The carts were already half full, the greasy, black-garbed gaolers impatient to be off. The prisoners, young and old, stood like stunned oxen, listless, dirty, frightened, yet eager to get on, to be through with the nightmare and so be done with it. Corbett immediately used his warrant from Burnell to halt the proceedings while he walked amongst them, a living man amongst the dead. He looked at their faces, the evil, the bland, the good, the innocent and, above all, the young. He felt a terrible compassion for them all and used his influence to get the young taken back to the cells, abruptly informing the keepers that the Chancellor himself would review their cases. Then he continued his scrutiny until he found the person he was looking for, a youth of about sixteen or seventeen summers, black tousled hair, with a filthy face and clothes, though there was a mark of defiance and sardonic amusement in the clear blue eyes.

"What is your name?" Corbett asked.

"Ranulf. And what is yours?" came the quick reply. The voice was sharp with a city accent.

"I am Hugh Corbett, Clerk in the Court of the King's Bench and I may have a pardon for you!" The blue eyes shifted and the boy turned and spat.

Corbett shrugged. "So, let it be. Hang if you wish!"

"Wait!" Corbett turned back. "I am sorry, " the boy's face was suddenly young and frightened. "But what do you want?"

"I need your help, " Corbett replied. "I need you to lead me through the sewers of this city, and I am not talking about those that run beneath our feet. " Corbett looked around; "But those we stand in. "

Ranulf grinned. "Then I am your man. "

"Good!" Corbett turned to the gaoler who was hovering nervously behind him. "There, " Corbett said, handing him the document that Burnell had drawn up. "Fill in the blank space. This is a pardon for all crimes past and present of Ranulf… " Corbett stared questioningly at the boy.

"Just Ranulf, " the youth replied.

"Ranulf atte Newgate" – Corbett concluded. The keeper nodded and barked a few commands which soon had the boy released from his chains and the rope removed from his neck.

Corbett immediately seized the boy by the shoulder, put his arm around him and almost ran him out of the prison yard. He hurried his new-found assistant into the street, then turned into a dark alleyway strewn with offal and reeking of stale blood from the nearby slaughterhouses. Here, Corbett put Ranulf up against the urine-stained wall and, drawing his dagger, held it so close to the boy's throat that a small jewel-pinprick of blood appeared on his skin. Corbett watched the surly arrogance be replaced by fear, then spoke softly and slowly:

"Master Ranulf, I have just saved you from hanging for what?"

"Theft, housebreaking, " the boy croaked. "It was the third time. "

"Then, " Corbett said, "it will be the last. Stay with me. Help me and you will be a free man. Betray me and I will see you die very slowly. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded, his eyes mesmerized by the long steel blade of the dagger so close to the neck he too thought he had just saved. Corbett smiled, released his grip and walked back into the main street, his faithful shadow sidling behind him.

Corbett spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon ensuring that Ranulf was clean and tidy to sit with. He look him into the same tavern where he had earlier stabled his horse, made him strip off his dirty rags, wash himself down in a tub of water purchased from a bemused landlord and then left him there wrapped in a blanket, hungrily eating while he went out and bought him clothes, a plain tunic with a green capuchon, hose, boots, a belt, purse and a small evil-looking dagger in a leather sheath.