Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt (22 page)

‘Are you the Bellman?’ Corbett asked.

‘Bellman!’ Norreys sniggered. ‘Bellman! I couldn’t give a fig about de Montfort or those fat lords across the lane. I was happy here and the dreams became less frequent ... but then the Welsh came.’ He closed his eyes but abruptly opened them as Corbett stirred. ‘No, no, Sir Hugh, you have got to listen. As I had to - to those voices. Do you remember, Sir Hugh, how the Welsh used to call out in the darkness? They’d get to know our names, and as we hunted them they hunted us. And, if they took one of our company, they’d call out: “Richard has gone! Henry has gone! Tell John’s wife she’s a widow!” Norreys’s voice rang through the vaults. He looked round. ‘I’ll have to go soon,’ he whispered. ‘The scholars will be back from the schools. They’ll be knocking on my door for this or that.’

‘The old men?’ Corbett asked quickly.

‘It was an accident,’ Norreys replied, shaking his head. ‘Mere chance, Sir Hugh. An old beggar came here, wanting work so I sent him down to the cellar to collect a tun of wine. Of course, the stupid, old man had to broach a cask. Quite drunk he was when I came down. He was frightened and ran away. I followed.’ Norreys chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Here,’ he whispered leaning forward, ‘here in the darkness, Sir Hugh. It was like being in Wales again. I was hunting him. He’d call out, saying he was sorry. I caught up with him and he struggled so I slit his throat. I left his corpse here but that night I had a dream.’

‘So you cut his head off, didn’t you?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘You put the corpse and the head in a barrel, and took it out of Oxford by this gate or that to dispose of.’

‘That’s right,’ Norreys agreed. ‘I’d throw the corpse into the woods and tie the head to a branch. Do you know, Sir Hugh, it was like being exorcised or shriven in church? The dreams stopped. I felt purified.’ Norreys smiled, a gleaming look in his eyes. ‘I felt like a boy jumping off a rock into a deep, clear pool: washed clean.’ He paused, staring at a point above Corbett’s head.

Corbett breathed in deeply, straining his ears. Oh God, he prayed, where’s Ranulf? He looked down the passageway behind Norreys but he could see nothing.

‘Then you killed again?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course I did,’ Norreys smirked. ‘It’s like wine, Sir Hugh. You drink it, you taste and feel the warmth in your belly. The days passed and I needed that warmth again. And who cared? The city is full of beggars - men with no past and no future: the flotsam and jetsam of this world.’

‘They had souls,’ Corbett replied, wishing Norreys wouldn’t press so hard with the sword. ‘They were men and, above all, they were innocent: their blood cries to God for vengeance,’

Norreys shifted and Corbett knew he had made a mistake.

‘God, Sir Hugh? My God died in Wales. What vengeance? What are you going to do, Sir Hugh? Cry out? Beg for mercy?’

‘I’ll be missed.’

‘Oh, of course you will be. I’ll take your corpse out. I promise I’ll do it differently. There are marshes deep in the woods. The fires of hell will have grown cold by the time your corpse is found. I have thought it all out. Your death will be blamed on the Bellman. The King’s soldiers will come into Oxford and those pompous, arrogant bastards across the lane will take the blame. Sparrow Hall will be closed but the hostelry will continue.’ He saw Corbett shift his gaze. ‘Oh, what are you waiting for? Your cat-footed friend? I locked the cellar door. You are alone, Sir Hugh.’ He cocked his head sideways. ‘But what made you suspect me?’

‘My servant, the one who died, is his blood on your hands?’

Norreys shook his head.

‘He said he’d knocked his shin against a bucket,’ Corbett continued as he glimpsed a shadow move further down the passageway. ‘I wondered why the Master of the hostelry, a place not known for its cleanliness, should be washing the cellar floor. You were removing the blood stains, weren’t you? And then I began to reflect how the corpses bore no mark of being hunted through the forest, how beggars might come here seeking alms, bread and water, how the cellars were deep; and I recalled your work as a speculator in Wales. Of course, as a steward, you had every right to go out in your cart to buy produce in the surrounding villages. No one would be suspicious, no one would stop you.’

Norreys pointed a finger at him. ‘You are a good hunting dog!’

‘You took the corpses out and left them with the heads dangling from branches. No one would notice the dark stain in a barrel built to contain wine, the lid firmly nailed down. Whilst I, the King’s hunting dog, was here, you stopped your slaughter. You knew I was curious so you washed the killing places and Maltote hit his shin against a bucket.’

‘Anything else?’

‘You dropped a button ...’

‘Ah! I wondered ...’

‘And there’s thin gravel here. I found traces of it on the beggar’s clothing.’

‘I thought you had found something,’ Norreys jibed. ‘I followed you down here ...’

‘I will make you an offer,’ Corbett interrupted, for Ranulf was not very close.

Norreys’s eyes widened.

‘In the passageway behind you,’ Corbett continued, ‘is my servant, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. Before he became a clerk, Ranulf was a night stalker. He can open any lock and move like a ghost.’

Norreys shook his head, his sneer dying at the click of a crossbow behind him.

‘You can take your sword away,’ Corbett said softly, ‘and stand trial before the King’s justices.’

‘I could kill you.’ Norreys smiled but his gaze faltered.

Corbett brought his hand up slowly, pressing against the sword blade: he relaxed - it wasn’t sharp, merely a sticking iron.

‘You can accept my offer,’ Corbett remarked.

Norreys, however, was more concerned at Ranulf behind him.

‘Or Ranulf can kill you!’

Corbett suddenly knocked the sword away, rolling forwards. Norreys was up. Ranulf came into the light. Corbett heard the whirr of a crossbow bolt and Norreys staggered, dropping his sword, clutching at the bolt in his chest. The look of surprise was still on his face even as Ranulf seized his hair, pulled back his head and, with one swift slash, cut his throat. Ranulf knocked Norreys to the ground and crouched down beside Corbett. The clerk closed his eyes and drew nearer to the wall, drawing deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding of his heart.

‘I came as quickly as I could,’ Ranulf grinned. ‘The lock was rusty and stiff and, for a few moments, I lost my way.’ He helped Corbett to his feet. ‘Do you know what I would do, Master? I’d leave this bloody place!’ He kicked Norreys’s corpse with his boot. ‘I’d ride like the wind to Woodstock and obtain the King’s warrant to arrest everyone in both the hostelry and the Hall until this matter is finished.’

Corbett pushed him gently away and leaned against the wall.

This is a nightmare, he thought, glancing around. Dark, slimy passageways, flickering candlelight, the blood-soaked corpse of a murderer. Was this how it would end? Would Ranulf, one day, not be at hand? Or would he meet an assassin unlike the others, who killed silently and speedily, not bothering to boast about his exploits? Corbett picked up his dagger and re-sheathed it. Ranulf wiped his own blade on Norreys’s jerkin, picked up the crossbow and helped Corbett down the passageway. At the foot of the steps Corbett paused. He felt calmer though very cold.

‘You are right,’ he murmured. ‘Pack our bags, Ranulf. We’ll leave here and go to the Merry Maidens. Hire a chamber but don’t tell anyone where we are.’ He staggered up the steps and pulled open the door. ‘I’m not going back to that room.’

For a while Corbett sat on a bench, his face in his hands. A servitor came to ask if all was well, and whether Sir Hugh knew where Master Norreys was ...

Corbett lifted his head and the man took one look at the clerk’s pale, angry face and hurried off. Ranulf came down, saddlebags over his shoulder and arms. They walked out into the lane. Corbett felt as if he was in a dream. He allowed Ranulf to guide him through streets, pushing away beggars. On one occasion Corbett had to stop because the sound and smells made him feel dizzy. However, by the time they reached the Merry Maidens, Corbett had regained his wits. Still cold and tired he sat in front of a weak fire in the taproom whilst Ranulf hired a chamber, and some food, roast pheasant in an oyster sauce. Ranulf remained silent and just watched as Corbett ate sparingly, drank two bowls of claret and told him about Norreys.

‘I’ll sleep for a while,’ Corbett concluded. ‘Go back to Sparrow Hall, Ranulf and tell Master Tripham what has happened. Wake me just as the bells ring for Vespers.’

Corbett went up to his chamber. A tapster went before him carrying the fresh sheets and bolsters Ranulf had ordered. The room was a simple, whitewashed cell with a rickety table and two stools, but the beds were comfortable and clean. Once the tapster had changed the sheets, Corbett bolted the door, crawled into the bed, pulling the blankets over him, and fell into a deep sleep.

Corbett slept for an hour. When he woke, his hand went to the dagger on the floor until he remembered where he was. He tossed the blankets off, got up and washed. He felt better and, going down to the taproom, found Ranulf engaged in a game of hazard. His servant winked at him, pocketed his winnings and followed Corbett out into the small herb garden behind the inn.

‘Do you feel better?’

‘Aye.’ Corbett stretched. ‘It happened so quickly, Ranulf. You are hunting a murderer and, before you know it, the bastard’s hunting you. You have told Tripham?’

‘There’s chaos at Sparrow Hall,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Chaos!’

‘Bullock has removed Norreys’s corpse to the market cross in Broad Street. He’s hung it on a gibbet as a warning to other would-be murderers.’

‘And what are the rest of the Masters doing?’

‘They are virtually prisoners in their own Hall. They remind me of sparrows caught in a cage.’

Corbett smiled at the pun.

‘If I had my way ...!’ Bullock bellowed as he strode out into the garden.

‘I told him where we were,’ Ranulf whispered.

‘If I had my way,’ the Sheriff repeated, hitching his great, leather belt further up his ponderous girth, ‘I’d have all the buggers arrested and thrown in the dungeons!’ He stared at Corbett. ‘That was stupid, Sir Hugh. You could have ended up pickled in a barrel!’

‘I needed to search for proof and I suspected Norreys would follow me.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘But that’s over now and we must concentrate on Sparrow Hall.’

‘Once the curfew sounds,’ Bullock retorted, ‘there’ll be more soldiers round Sparrow Hall and that hostelry than flies on a dung heap. I’m also leaving men in the street outside; I thought I’d tell you.’ The Sheriff spun on his heel and walked back to the tavern.

‘What now, Master?’

‘I don’t know, Ranulf.’

Corbett looked up at the sky, which was still shot red from the setting sun. He wafted his hand against the gnats which had begun to swarm despite the bowls of vinegar that had been placed along the garden path.

‘The Bellman will not strike again, at least not against us. Old beggars will no longer be slaughtered in the cellars of the hostelry.’ He heard laughter, followed by the sound of a young boy breaking into a carol in a chamber high in the tavern. ‘You were playing hazard?’

Ranulf threw the dice from hand to hand. ‘Yes, and I wasn’t cheating.’

Corbett placed his hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I owe you my life.’

His servant glanced away.

‘How are you finding the
Confessions of Augustine?’

‘Difficult but thought-provoking.’

‘So, we’ll see a new Ranulf, eh?’ Corbett steered him back towards the tavern door. ‘No more maidens in distress. And the aged goldsmiths of London will sleep more peacefully in their beds, eh?’

They entered the taproom and Corbett called across for wine. Ranulf thought Corbett would go up to his chamber but, surprisingly, the clerk joined a group of scholars sitting in the far corner. One of them had a tame badger and was busily feeding it drops of mead which the creature greedily guzzled.

‘Have you had it long?’ Corbett asked.

The scholar looked up. ‘Since it was a cub. I found it wandering in Christ Church meadows. They say it brings luck.’

‘And has it?’ Corbett asked, sitting down.

‘Well, it’s drinking my mead.’ The scholar looked enviously at Corbett’s brimming cup so the clerk called the tapster over.

‘The same for my companions!’ he ordered.

‘You are not interested in badgers, are you?’ the scholar asked slyly.

‘No, I’m not,’ Corbett replied. ‘Tell me, have you heard of the Bellman and his proclamations?’

‘I have heard a lot of things, sir: of deaths at Sparrow Hall and in the hostelry.’

‘But you have read the Bellman’s proclamations?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I’ve glanced at them.’ The scholar waved round to his companions. ‘As have we all.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

The fellow gathered the tame badger into his arms and sat stroking him gently.

‘It’s much ado about little, sir. What do we care for de Montfort? It’s the work of some trickster or madman. You’ll not get the scholars arming themselves and marching on Woodstock.’

‘And that’s the general feeling?’

‘I read the proclamations only because they were posted on the door of Wyvern Hall,’ the scholar replied. ‘But, to answer you bluntly, sir, I couldn’t care whether the Bellman lives or dies.’

Corbett thanked him, placed a coin on the table to buy more mead for the badger and, followed by a curious Ranulf, returned to his chamber.

‘What was all that about?’ Ranulf asked, slamming the door.

‘It’s something we’ve overlooked,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Let’s go back to that day at Leighton Manor. Edward arrives full of rage at the Bellman’s proclamations, all the nightmares about de Montfort springing fresh in his soul. The King cares so we have to care - after all we are the King’s most faithful servants, his royal clerks. We come to Oxford and we make the mistake of entering the Bellman’s world. However, as I was standing out in the garden, staring up at the sky, I recalled something you said at the hostelry. What does it really matter? Who really cares? And the scholar downstairs, the young man with the badger, proves it.’ He glimpsed the look of puzzlement in Ranulfs eyes. ‘Read your Augustine: reality is only what we perceive. Augustine perceived God, and suddenly all his former realities - lechery, revelry, drinking and women - disappeared.’ Corbett settled further back on the bed. ‘Who knows, the same might happen to Ranulf-atte-Newgate. It is the same with the King: De Montfort is a demon that haunts his soul - to him the Bellman poses a terrible threat to his crown and his rule.’