Paul Doherty: Satan in St Mary

Corbett shook his head.

"Good, " the Chancellor smilingly concluded. "Then we wish you every success. " Burnell would have left it at that but was annoyed at the young clerk's imperviousness. "It is a dangerous task, " he added warningly. "These are dark pools you search and the mud and weeds could well drag you down and choke you!"

Three

Corbett spent the greater part of the afternoon taking leave of his colleagues in the court of King's Bench. He knew well that he would not be missed. A stranger, he had many acquaintances but few friends and his temporary referral to a new assignment prompted little or no questioning. It was quite common for clerks to be reassigned to different tasks, a diplomatic mission abroad or, not so popular, an audit of one of the royal manors, or tramping the shires with the King's Justices in Eyre. Corbett removed certain of his belongings from a small leather trunk he kept in one of the record offices and wrapped them in a bundle; a few coins, the ring belonging to his dead wife, a lock of his child's hair, a spoon made out of cow's horn, and certain writing materials.

Burnell had instructed him to begin his assignment immediately and Corbett did not delay. He thought of using his writ to draw monies from the Exchequer but he knew this would be a laborious task. The Exchequer clerks were suspicious of everyone, particularly other clerks. They would make him wait, examine the writ and then sparingly dole out the money. No, he decided, wrapping his cloak round him, he would draw some of his own money from a goldsmith in Cheapside, and then submit his account direct to Burnell. After all, money was no problem to him, he was

paid good fees and the property in Sussex had been sold. Why keep a house when you have no home? Corbett tried to clear the depression from his mind as he left the Palace of Westminster. An hour candle fixed in an iron socket on one of the benches of the court told him it was three in the afternoon. The crowds were dispersing. The litigants with their pile of documents, lawyers elated or depressed, the serjeants, in their multicoloured robes, led lines of prisoners chained together out of the courts to be marched under guard to the Tun, Marshalsea or Newgate Prison.

Corbett threaded his way through them all out of the palace and down to the river bank. He decided to brave the weather and hired a wherry sculled by the ugliest boatman Corbett had ever seen, who insisted on regaling him with the finer parts of his visit to the stews of the city the night before. Eventually, damp and cold, his ears ringing with the waterman's vivid description of his sex life, Hugh reached Queenshithe Wharf and made his way up towards St. Pauls. It was already dark. The last desperate tradesmen, eel-sellers and water carriers, were trying to squeeze as much trade as possible out of the day. The streets were emptying. Children pulled indoors, apprentices putting up the boards and setting out the horn lanterns, as ordered by the City Fathers to give some poor light to the streets at night.

Corbett felt a gloom over the city and recalled Burnell's words about old quarrels festering like pus in the streets and alleyways of the city. He bought a penny loaf from a baker's last batch and snatched mouthfuls of it as he walked up Fish Street, picking his way around the puddles and heaps of rubbish, trying to block out the rank smell from the fish stalls. An empty charcoal wagon clattered past, its driver as black as the devil but evidently pleased at a good day's trade. Corbett drew in under the porch of a house to let it pass, noticing that across the street, a solitary figure sat locked by the hands in the stocks, a rotten fish dangling round his neck. Some crafty fishmonger, Corbett thought, caught by his own guild or the ever inquisitive city authorities for selling bad produce and so sentenced to public ridicule.

Corbett walked on and turned into Cheapside, a broad avenue which cut east to west across the city and the focal point of London's trade. The houses were bigger and grander here. Two or three storeys high, with windows glazed with horn, the wattled daub clean and the umbers and gables brightly painted, most of them displaying the arms of the Guild of Goldsmiths. At one of these houses, Corbett stopped and knocked at the heavy wooden door. There was a rattle of chains and locks and the door swung slightly open on its thick stout leather hinges. A burly porter, carrying a cresset torch of spluttering pitch, brusquely asked Corbett's business. The clerk curbed his anger at the man's rudeness and asked to speak with the merchant, John de Guisars. The porter was set to slam the door in Corbett's face when a small, rotund figure appeared, standing on tiptoe to see him.

"Why, " he exclaimed, almost pushing his retainer aside. "It is Hugh Corbett. Come to deposit more monies, Master Clerk?"

Hugh grinned at the fat, generous face. He had always liked de Guisars, who made little attempt to hide his acquisitiveness.

"No, Master Goldsmith, " he replied. "I have come to check your stewardship and draw monies from you. " The goldsmith's disappointment was almost laughable. He regarded Corbett as a good customer who always deposited money and rarely drew on his stock. A mysterious man really, the goldsmith thought, looking at the clerk's dark, gaunt face and hooded eyes. The clerk was quite wealthy but lived sparsely in some garret in Thames Street.

The goldsmith's shrewd little eyes saw a mystery in the man but he was too polite to ever comment. He sighed, beckoned the clerk into the blackness of the inner shop and ordered the now submissive doorkeeper to light candles and bring his visitor some wine. De Guisars led Corbett by the arm deeper into the house and bade him sit on a small stool. The doorkeeper, taper in hand, lit the tallow and wax candles which stood in iron holders placed judiciously around a room which exuded wealth and comfort. The floor was polished wood, thick, gilt-edged tapestries depicting richly woven scenes from the Bible covered the walls. At the far end was a large oak table, a chair and, above them, racks and shelves full of scrolls or sheaves of parchment all neatly ordered and indexed. On each side of the table were leather and wooden chests reinforced with iron strips and heavily padlocked. The wine was eventually brought, two cups of what Corbett recognized as the best of Gascony, warmed and lightly spiced. He and de Guisars toasted each other and, when the porter withdrew, the goldsmith sat on a trunk opposite Corbett.

"How much?" he asked.

Corbett smiled. "Ten pounds but don't worry, Master de Guisars, most of it will comeback. It's the King's business. "

The goldsmith nodded in pleasure. With the cup clasped between his hands he looked like some ancient child. "And the business?" he asked hopefully.

Corbett knew that de Guisars would ask that question and had carefully planned his response. "Well, " he answered slowly. "Yes, I can tell you. It's Duket. A member of your guild who hanged himself in Saint Mary Le Bow. I have been asked to investigate… " His voice trailed off as he noticed de Guisars's reaction. Fear? Terror? Even guilt? Corbett could not decide but the transformation in the little merchant was astonishing. His face went white and he became visibly flustered.

De Guisars rose swiftly from his seat and crossed to one of his leather trunks. Within minutes he had counted out Corbett's money and, crossing over, almost threw it into Corbett's hand as if anxious to be rid of him. "Your money, Master Clerk. " He opened the door. "It is late and… " he waved airily towards the back of his house.

Corbett rose, slid the coins into his purse and moved towards the open door. "Goodnight, Master de Guisars, " he murmured. "Perhaps I will be back. "

In the cold, dark street, Corbett heard the door slam behind him, aware that already his commission had stirred troubled waters. He looked up through the narrow gaps between the projecting houses. The sky was clear, the stars distant and very bright. Corbett knew that the night would be freezing cold and began to walk briskly down the almost deserted Cheapside. He saw shadows move in an alleyway so he drew the long dagger from beneath his cloak and the shadows receded into the darkness. Corbett stopped outside a tavern, its long ale stake and the warmth and light beckoning him in. He was cold and hungry, and he suddenly realized how little he had eaten that day, but he looked down Cheapside to the dark mass of St. Mary Le Bow and regretfully decided that the tavern would have to wait.