Paul Doherty - Satan in St Mary

"I can stop this, " Corbett said. "I can stop it as soon as you tell the truth. What is the Pentangle? Who ordered Duket's death? Who killed the boy Simon? Who ordered the attacks on me?" The priest's eyes, however, slid away and Corbett sensed he was still secretly laughing at him. Flushed with rage, he grabbed the priest by his chin, wrenching his face round so he could look into his eyes.

"Tell me, " he urged. "Tell me now! "The only response he got was a stream of abuse and spittle. Then the priest's body twitched, went rigid like a man going into a fit and suddenly relaxed, the head slumping forward on his chest.

Neville came closer, pushing Corbett aside as he felt the chest and neck of the priest. "The man is dead, " he said. "It is now finished. " He looked at Corbett. "What shall we do with the body?" he asked.

Corbett shrugged. "Wrap it up in a shroud, " the clerk replied, "and bury it among the paupers. " He then left the dungeon and the gruesome figures standing there in the flickering obscure light of the braziers. He felt no remorse at what had happened to Bellet. He knew the man was guilty. He was evil and had played no small part in the murder of Duket and, by his own confession, was deeply involved in treasonable sinister activities against the King.

Across the black misty river the hooded figures of the Pentangle met once more and crowded round their leader, the Hooded One. They sat quiet but were gripped by an air of expectancy, almost fear. "So, a member of this group is destroyed?" one asked. The speaker to the right of the Hooded Leader's chair, nodded in agreement. "We understand that he has been taken, " he replied. "He is probably dead and we have Corbett to thank for that! Our spy in the Chancery also reports that Corbett knows a great deal about us. "

"Then why not kill him?" another asked, an edge of fear to his voice. "Why not kill him?" he repeated insistently. "When he meets his doxy in The Mitre, I have often seen him there… " his voice trailed off as a deathly, cold silence fell upon the group.

"We cannot kill him there and you know you should not have said that!" the speaker replied slowly. "You know the pact. None of us ever say what we are, male or female, what we do, or even what part of the city we frequent. However, " the speaker's eyes glittered behind his mask as he scanned the group. "We will execute Corbett, and take vengeance for our dead comrade, but the important thing is that we continue with our Grand Design. Each of us must prepare our groups, collect arms and wait for the sign to rise in rebellion!"

"And Corbett?" came the insistent interruption.

"We have someone special assigned for him, " the speaker firmly replied. "You may consider Corbett already dead!"

Sixteen

The next day Corbett went to Saint Mary Le Bow leaving orders for Ranulf to join him there. The church and house were deserted, Neville had given him Bellet's keys but Corbett, surprisingly, found the door unlocked and carefully pushed it open. The main room looked as it had the night Corbett had visited the priest so many weeks ago. The charcoal brazier was full of dead spent ash; a cup half full of wine and slivers of stale cheese, rat-gnawed, lay upon the top of the room's only chest. He knocked them off and opened the heavy wooden lid. There was a smell of must mingled with stale sweat as Corbett began to pull out clothes; a dirty robe, hose, a pair of leather boots. There was nothing else. Corbett looked around the deserted room. There must be more. He suddenly realized that there was something missing.

This was a priest's house and yet there was no cross or crucifix. He scanned the wattle-daubed walls, the crumb-strewn table, but looked in vain for signs of any religious worship. He kicked the dirty rushes with his boot and then went into the small room at the back which served as both a kitchen and buttery. It was filthy and contained a dirt-stained table, a low stool, a shelf of cracked cups and soiled wooden plates. "The man must have lived like an animal, " thought Corbett. He went back into the main room and stared at the loft at the far end which must have served as a bedroom. There was a screen of polished wood which protected the bedchamber from prying eyes and it could only be approached by a dangerous-looking wooden ladder slung against the wall.

Corbett propped the ladder up against the rim of wood which ran along the base of the partition and carefully climbed up. He expected to see the same dirt and chaos he had met below but the reality was much different. The bed-chamber was small, with a little window made of horn high in the wall, letting in sufficient light. The floor was polished with beeswax and thick velvet drapes hung from the whitewashed walls which depicted the most lascivious love scenes. A huge bed, covered in a sea-green silken cover, occupied most of the room. Corbett climbed over the wooden partition and sat on the bed, feeling the rich, feather-filled mattress and bolsters beneath him. On the near side of the bed was a wooden stool with a pure wax candle in a silver-plated holder, while on the other, a small, richly carved, wooden chest. Corbett leaned across the bed to open the lid.

Perhaps it was a sound, a slight shadow, but he suddenly rolled to the right and avoided the evil edge of the sword as it came crashing down where he had been lying. Corbett saw a tall dark figure dressed completely in black. A pair of glittering eyes stared at him through the holes of the black hood as the secret assassin lifted the sword for a second blow. He did not wait but flung himself under his attacker's upraised sword arm and both went crashing against the wooden partition. At such close quarters the assassin could not use his sword but brought its pommel brutally down on Corbett's unprotected back. The pain was excruciating and all he could do was keep tight hold of his assailant's waist and force him back against the partition. Corbett hoped

Ranulf had arrived and would hear the noise, when suddenly the partition cracked and he and his attacker tumbled off the edge and went crashing to the floor below.

Corbett was lucky for his fall was cushioned by the body of his assailant who was not so fortunate. A large pool of blood seeped out from beneath the black mask and Corbett, after massaging his arms and wrists and stretching his back to relieve the soreness there, leant over and lifted the mask from his attacker's face just as Ranulf came belatedly crashing through the door, shouting at the top of his voice.

"You're too late!" Corbett snapped. "Why did you not hear the noise earlier?"

Ranulf scratched his chin. "I wandered over to the church and only heard the sound of a scuffle as I came back. " He pointed down to the assassin lying on his back, one arm and leg curiously twisted. "Who is he?" Ranulf asked.

Corbett forced the man's hood off and looked down at the smooth young face, white, eyes stony beneath a fringe of black hair. A trickle of blood seeped out of the corner of the dead man's mouth and ran down to join the pool of blood caused by the skull caving in.

"I don't know, " Corbett replied softly. "But he was waiting for me. They sent him. They knew mat I was coming here. " He stared at the anxious face of Ranulf.

"Who are they?" Corbett asked. "For God's sake what do they want from me?" He got up and dusted himself down, trying to ignore the pain in his back and arms. "Come on, " he pointed to the fallen ladder. "Hold this, Ranulf, while I finish my search. "

Ranulf held the ladder secure whilst Corbett went back up into the dead priest's sleeping quarters to search the carved wooden chest. It was packed with clothes, hose, jackets, robes and shirts of the highest quality, taffeta, velvet and silk, pure woollen wraps, lush fleeces, jewel-encrusted belts, soft leather boots and velvet gloves. The priest had evidently lived a double life of public poverty and private wealth. There were no documents or scraps of parchment, the only book being a leather bound copy of a bible with a gold clasp. The pages were beautifully written and adorned with small intricate drawings, a feast of colours, Corbett could appreciate the skill of the calligrapher who had carefully written the words and then brought them to life with scarlet, gold, green and other colours. He turned the pages over, there was nothing amiss except that he was surprised that even a man such as Bellet should have a bible, let alone such a costly one. Corbett carefully leafed through the pages but there was nothing there. He turned to the back of the book where the man who put the manuscript together would leave blank pages for its future owner to write reflections or meditations.