Paul Doherty: Satan in St Mary

Corbett slid his hand in but found nothing, breathed slowly to hide his excitement and almost screamed aloud as someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled round, his hand going beneath his cloak for the dagger but it was only the old monk, his drooling lips parted in a toothless smile, his vacant eyes searching for companionship. Corbett hastily sketched a Benedicte and the old man bowed and shuffled off mumbling to himself. Corbett watched him go, rose and glanced furtively around. There was still no one about. Had he come too late for that particular day? He decided to stay and, climbing over the low wall, made his way to the far corners of the cloisters and a weed filled clump of bushes. He pushed through them, ignoring the cold, wet, overgrown leaves and the water which soaked his gown with its icy droplets. Corbett concealed himself, certain he was hidden from view and so began his vigil.

The cloisters remained deserted, the monks of the abbey were either in the scriptorium or involved in their various tasks. The old monk wandered back for a while and others also passed; servants, domestics and officers of the abbey but none stayed. It was too cold and Corbett wondered how long he could stay; his legs and feet were now freezing, the cold gripping his body like an icy mailed fist. The bells of the abbey were beginning to toll for early evening prayer when a cowled figure suddenly entered the cloisters and walked quickly to the same spot where Corbett had sat earlier. After looking around, the stranger stopped to remove the brick and searched the gap. The figure then straightened and hastily walked back the way he had come. Hugh had not been able to glimpse the face hidden deep in the cowl so he waited until the man left the cloisters before following in pursuit.

Corbett re-entered the now darkening abbey and saw the figure ahead of him skulking across the nave towards a small door in the north wall, and, without looking around, disappeared through a half-open door. He stopped to regain his breath before following, turned and realized that he was in a deserted area which stretched between the abbey and the palace, strewn with scaffolding and brick kilns left by workmen putting finishing touches to the outside wall on the abbey's north side. He sensed that his quarry might escape in the gathering dusk and so strode silently but swiftly towards him. The figure, alarmed by some sound, was half turning as Corbett grasped him tightly by the shoulder. The man shrugged off Corbett's hand and backed away.

"What is it? What do you want?" The voice was slightly fearful.

Corbett pulled back his own cowl to reveal his identity. "Why, Master Hubert Seagrave, " he said. "It is only Hugh Corbett. I thought I recognized your voice. " Corbett peered closer. "It is Master Hubert of the Chancery is it not?" A pair of soft, plump, white hands pulled back the cowl and Hubert, prim-lipped and cold-eyed, stared back at Corbett.

"Master Corbett, " he murmured. "Why are you floundering around in the dusk?" Hubert rolled his eyes coyly like some innocent maid. "Did you think that I was someone else?"

"Where have you been?" Corbett snapped.

"At my prayers. Why, what business is it of yours?"

"Prayers!" Corbett felt the rage pounding in his head. "No prayers, Master Hubert. I doubt you ever pray. You have just been to see if your friends in the Pentangle have left you any money or a message. You are a traitor, Master Hubert, and I shall prove that!"

Hubert narrowed his eyes speculatively and Corbett sensed that his opponent, beneath his puppy fat and the elegant mannerisms of a court clerk, was a very dangerous man.

"You have no proof, Master Corbett, " Hubert said mockingly.

"You did not even ask who the Pentangle is, " Corbett bitingly interrupted. "In fact you may be one of them. "

"No, " Hubert shrieked in a high-pitched voice. "Not the Pentangle, Corbett, but the Populares, yes. The people's party. My father fought and died at Evesham, my uncles and cousins at other battles, while those who were left adorned the gibbets around London. " Hubert stopped speaking, his eyes glaring at Corbett, his mouth half open in rage as he struggled to control himself. He leaned against a brick kiln.

"You have no proof, Master Corbett, " he said again.

Corbett smiled and shook his head. "Oh, yes I do. I know The Hooded One. I know who she is. She has told me that you were the Pentangle's spy in the Chancery but I had to catch you red-handed!"

"She!" Hubert whispered hoarsely.

"Never mind that, " Corbett jibed. "You told them about me. You told Bellet when I was going to the church of Saint Mary Le Bow. You told the assassins where I lived and what time I returned. Above all, you told them about my past life, about my dead wife and young child, about my love of the flute. You gathered information, you collected it like some rat scurrying around the Chancery collects bits of wax, anything to chew on, information to be sold at a profit. I can prove this. After all, there are not many clerks in the Chancery. I suspect that the King's torturers will begin with you!"

Corbett leaned closer and watched the fear start in Hubert's eyes. "The Pentangle is finished, " he whispered. "And so are the Populares. Probably while you are outlooking to see if your masters left money for information received, the Chancellor is already issuing orders for the arrest of people all over the city. You may be one of them! You are betrayed, Hubert, by no less a person than The Hooded One. She told me where and when the Pentangle's spy in the Chancery left his information. I would tell you her name but what does it matter, I am going to see you die!"

Hubert gnawed at his lips with fear and looked anxiously around.

"I can give you gold, " he replied huskily. "Look!" He opened his cloak and Corbett thought he was scrabbling for his purse but jumped back when he saw the faint glint of steel and Hubert drew the sword he had hidden there.

Corbett now knew that his adversary was no longer the soft, effete clerk for Hubert held his sword like any trained soldier or street fighter. He advanced towards Corbett, the cruel point of his sword not wavering. Corbett hastily drew his own long Welsh dagger, stepping back carefully searching for a foothold, and all the time watching Hubert's face.

"Master Corbett, " Hubert snapped. "I am going to kill you and then I will disappear. '

Corbett was about to reply when he realized his mistake for Hubert suddenly lunged towards him, the sword's point searching for his heart. He struggled backwards, his feet hit some wood and he crashed on his back on the ground. Hubert stood between his legs and laid the sword point to Corbett's throat, gently pushing until Corbett felt a pinprick of pain and a faint trickle of blood.

"Well, Corbett?" Hubert cocked his head to one side as if meditating on what to do next. Corbett's fingers were flailing, searching on the ground where he lay. There was nothing. He grasped what he thought was some sand and, as Hubert brought the sword back, flung it into the man's face, while he rolled to one side.

Hubert fell to his knees, screaming with pain. "I am blind! I am blind!" he shrieked. Corbett smelt his own hand and realized that he had thrown lime straight into his opponent's face. He picked up Hubert's fallen sword and, without a flicker of remorse, brought it down in one sweeping curve to bite deep into Hubert's neck. A great fountain of blood spurted out and with a long sigh the body simply toppled to one side and lay still. Corbett felt no regrets or sorrow at what he had done. He wiped the bloody sword on his dead enemy's cloak and carefully searched around the ground. Eventually, near the place he had fallen, he found the lime pit and, dragging Hubert's corpse by the heels, pulled him to the side and pushed him gently in. The body bobbed for a while on the surface before slowly sinking from view.