Paul Doherty - Satan in St Mary

Five

Corbett slept late that morning and, when he awoke, returned to the document he had drawn up the previous evening, studying it carefully and making corrections until he was satisfied. He then washed, dressed and, after a quick meal, took his cloak and left his lodgings to walk briskly towards the river. A bright winter sun seemed to add to his mood of quiet expectancy about his mission. He was quite confident about what had happened in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow, though he was baffled as to why and how. These questions perplexed him throughout his short walk to the east Watergate where he hired a boat to take him to Westminster. The journey was cold, quick and noisome. At Westminster he disembarked, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to avoid recognition and pushed through the crowds, taking a path around the Great Hall to the buildings beyond. Here he went towards one of the small outbuildings, knocked on the door and demanded entrance. When a querulous voice told him to go away, he knocked again and eventually the door swung open to reveal a tall, ascetic man dressed in a long brown robe. His face was pale, long and lined, and his watery eyes squinted at the daylight. "Master Couville. It is I, Hugh Corbett. Are you so blind you cannot see me or just so senile you cannot recognize me?" The old man's drawn face broke into a smile and thin

blue-veined hands clasped Corbett by the arms.

"Only you, Hugh, would dare insult me, " he murmured. "My best pupil! Come in. Come in. It's cold outside. "

Hugh entered the room, the light was poor and the air was musty with the smell of tallow, charcoal and the lingering perfume of leather and old parchment. There was a trestle table and a huge stool, the rest of the room being taken up with leather and wooden chests of all sizes. Some were open with rolls of parchment spilling out onto the floor; around the walls on shelves stretching up to the blackened ceiling were more rolls of parchment. It all looked very disorganized but Corbett knew that Couville could accurately pick out any manuscript he wanted. This was part of the records office of the Chancery and Exchequer dating back centuries. If a document was issued or received, it would be filed in the appropriate place and this was Nigel Couville's kingdom. Once a principal clerk in the Chancery, he had been given this assignment as a benefice or sinecure, a reward for long faithful service to the Crown. Couville had been Corbett's master and mentor when Hugh first became a clerk and, despite the gap of years and experience, they became close friends.

There were questions, comments, but Corbett deftly fended off the old man's solicitous enquiries until Couville laughed. "Come, Hugh, " he asked. "What do you want? You're here for a purpose besides teasing an old man?" Corbett grinned, nodded and described his mission as quickly as he could and detailed what he was looking for. The old man sat and listened patiently. When Corbett finished, Couville rose and, one hand covering his mouth, stared around the room, his eyes flickering from one chest to another. He shook his head. "I am sorry, Hugh I cannot help you here. What you are looking for will be in one of the depository rooms at the Tower. " Corbett's heart sank at the prospect of another long journey and days, even weeks, searching through the thousands of records at the Tower under the watchful if obstructive eye of some strange clerk. Couville sensed the young man's bitter disappointment. He put one scrawny hand on his young friend's shoulder. "Do not worry, Hugh. I will get what you want. I still have some authority. It may take a day or even two but I will get it and send it to you. "

Corbett embraced the old man. "Thank you, " he said. "That will at least be part reparation for being such a hard taskmaster!" He turned and left with the old man shouting affectionate abuse and insisting that Corbett's next visit be longer.

Corbett, however, was already striding through the mud, muffled and hooded, slightly disappointed with his visit to Couville but determined to get to St. Mark's Lane and the tavern of Alice atte Bowe. He knew the area well, a small lane off Paternoster Row near the Cathedral Church of St. Paul's. Corbett walked some of the way but then hitched a lift from a carter on Fleet Street who was taking produce in from the country to the stalls and markets of the city. Along Paternoster Row, Corbett left the carter and went down Ivy Lane into the square bounded by the monastery of Greyfriars at one end and the soaring church of St. Paul's at another. There were more stalls and shops here and, though late afternoon, it was still very busy. Corbett, however, was cautious, securing his purse and keeping his hand on his dagger as he passed through the great west gate into the church of St. Paul's. The area was a well-known haunt of 'Wolfsheads', outlaws and members of the city's murky underworld, who lived in and around the church ready to bolt for sanctuary should the forces of the law appear.

Corbett walked through the main door of St. Paul's into the main meeting place under its vaulting nave. It was still

busy. At the west end sat twelve scribes ready to prepare documents, indentures, letters, bonds for anyone willing to hire their services. Serjeants-at-law in their ermine-lined robes stood in the aisles, meeting clients or discussing the finer points of law with each other, while around one pillar, anxious serving-men waited to be hired. Corbett searched about until he saw the person he was looking for, a scrivener with his writing trays seated on a stool in a small alcove. He looked almost like a human bird, fine small claw-like hands and a small round head tilted to one side with a cheerful ruddy face under a shock of white hair. Corbett walked over.

"Matthew!" he called out. "How's business?"

The scribe looked up, spread his hands and shrugged. "Fair, it comes and goes. But what can I do for you?"

"Alice atte Bowe, " Corbett replied. "She owns a tavern in St. Mark's Lane. Which one and what do you know of her?"

Corbett knew that Matthew was an incorrigible gossip with a genius for picking up the scandal of the city. He was surprised to see the man's eyes flicker sideways and the fear emanate from him like a perfume. Matthew looked nervously around and beckoned Corbett to crouch beside him.

"Is this about Crepyn's death and Duket's suicide at Saint Mary Le Bow?" he asked. Corbett nodded and Matthew bit his lower lip nervously.

"Be careful, " he whispered. "They say that Alice is a dangerous woman. She was, according to common report, Crepyn's mistress. She has connections with the powerful Lanfor family. She married a vintner, Thomas atte Bowe, an old man who died soon after the marriage leaving her the family business. The tavern she owns is called 'The Mitre'. It is a large place. It is also a dangerous one. Now, please go. "

Corbett obeyed the scribe, surprised at his reaction and concerned that this gregarious scrivener should be frightened of a mere name.

Corbett found 'The Mitre' tavern in St. Mark's Lane, an elaborate two-storeyed affair with the upper floor jutting out over the central door. A large ale stake, and the sign of a bishop's mitre against a black background, made it the most obvious building in the street. As he entered, Corbett noted the bishop's face on the sign was a mocking caricature of a churchman, pompous, cruel and greedy. Inside, it was dark but comfortable, much cleaner than many such establishments. A long room with whitewashed walls, clean rushes on the floor sprinkled with crushed herbs. The ceiling was quite high with timbered rafters black from the hearth in the centre of the room with a flue above it to allow the smoke to escape. Along the walls there were stools, rough benches and trestle tables.

A huge, bald-headed man stood before the hearth, his small piggy eyes scrutinized Corbett before sliding away to look at the customers scattered round the room. There were the usual drunks, fast asleep at the tables, a few solitary individuals totally involved in their own thoughts or cups and a group of men lazily tossing dice watched by a bawd in a scarlet gown and head-dress. Pot-boys and drawers served the groups, both with wine and ale under the severe scrutiny of the bald-headed giant. No one else noticed Corbett's entrance except for a small group of men in the far corner who studied him for a while and then turned back to their own conversation.