Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt (8 page)

The ostler hastily led the horses away, whilst the students ringed Corbett and his companions.

‘It’s a fine day,’ Corbett declared, throwing his cloak back over his shoulders so the students could see his sword. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your studies? The Trivium, the Quadrivium, Grammar and Logic? In the immortal words of Aristotle: “Seeking truth and turning the will to good”.’

The leader of the scholars stopped, nonplussed. He would have liked to have quipped back in the time-honoured fashion. Corbett wagged a finger at him.

‘You have been neglecting your horn book, sir.’

‘That’s correct,’ the young man replied languidly, his voice betraying a soft, Welsh accent. ‘Hall life has been disturbed by the comings and goings of inquisitive, royal clerks.’

‘In which case,’ Ranulf spoke up, stepping forward, ‘you can join us at Woodstock to debate the matter in front of His Grace the King.’

‘Edward of England does not concern me,’ the fellow replied, grinning over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Llewellyn and David are our Princes.’

‘That’s treason,’ Ranulf retorted.

The student leader took a step forward. ‘My name is David Ap Thomas,’ he declared sternly. ‘What’s the matter, clerk, don’t you like the Welsh?’

‘I love them,’ Corbett replied, putting a restraining hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I am married to the Lady Maeve Ap Llewellyn. Her Uncle Morgan is my kinsman. Yes, I have fought the Welsh; but they were resolute fighters - not bullyboys.’

The scholar stared at him, surprised.

‘Now,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Either stand out of my way, sir...!’

‘Leave him be, ap Thomas!’ a voice shouted.

Richard Norreys shouldered his way through the crowd. The scholars dispersed, not because of Norreys’s arrival, but due to Corbett’s claim to kinship with one of the leading families of South Wales. Norreys was apologetic as he led them across the yard into the downstairs parlour of the hostelry. The passageway was rather dirty, its whitewashed walls marked and stained, but the parlour itself was comfortable. The sandstone floor was scrubbed, and tapestries, shields and weapons hung on the walls. Norreys ushered them across to a table, flicking his fingers at a servitor to bring goblets of white wine and a dish of sugared almonds.

‘I must apologise for Ap Thomas.’ He breathed heavily as he sat down at the table beside Corbett. ‘He’s a Welsh noble and likes to play the part of the swaggart.’

‘Are there many Welsh here?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A good number,’ Norreys replied. ‘When Henry Braose founded the Hall and bought this hostelry, special provision was made in the Foundation Charter for scholars from the shires of South Wales.’ Norreys smiled. ‘Henry felt guilty about the Welsh he killed but... don’t we all, Sir Hugh?’

For a while they discussed the King’s campaigns in Wales. Norreys recalled the mist-filled valleys, treacherous marshes, sudden ambuscades and the soft-footed Welsh fighters, who would steal into the King’s camp at night to cut a throat or take a head.

‘You served there long?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye, for some time,’ Norreys replied. He spread his hands. ‘That’s how I received preferment here. A benefice for services rendered.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its nook beside the fireplace. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, we are expected at the Hall at seven o’clock and Master ‘Tripham’s a stickler for punctuality.’ He got to his feet. ‘I have chambers for you,’ Norreys continued. ‘Two chambers on the second floor.’

He led them out and up a wooden staircase. Now and again they had to pause as students rushed by, horn books in their hands, sacks or bags slung over their shoulders.

‘The afternoon schools,’ Norreys explained. He then began to describe how Braose had bought three great mansions with cellars and chambers and united them to form the hostelry.

‘Oh yes, we have everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘Garrets for the commoners, dormitories for the servitors, chambers for the bachelors. All those who have the money to pay.’ He glimpsed Maltote perspiring under the weight of the heavy saddle bags he carried. ‘But come on, come on.’

Norreys led them up to the second gallery. The passageway was dull and damp, the walls mildewed. He pushed open the doors of two rooms; both were no more than austere monastic cells. The first had two truckle beds; the other, Corbett’s, a mattress on the floor. It also possessed a table, chair, chest, two candlesticks and a crucifix on the wall.

‘It’s the best we can do,’ Norreys mumbled. He glanced shamefacedly at Corbett. ‘Sir Hugh, you are not really welcome here, you must know that.’ He hastened on, ‘If it grows cold, I can have braziers brought up. For heaven’s sake, watch the candles, we live in mortal fear of fire. The refectory and tap room are on the ground floor, though Master Tripham will probably invite you to eat at the Hall.’

‘If we could have some water?’ Corbett asked. ‘My companions and I would like to wash.’

Norreys agreed and left them.

Muttering and cursing under their breath, Ranulf and Maltote made themselves as comfortable as possible. Corbett placed the few possessions he had brought in a small battered chest under the arrow slit window. His writing bag he hid under the bolster of his pillow before he went to see Ranulf and Maltote. He stood in the doorway and grinned: Maltote was already fast asleep on his bed, curled up like a child; Ranulf squatted to the side of him, glowering at the wall.

‘Don’t say you wish you were back at Leighton,’ Corbett teased.

‘I can see why you told us to bring little or nothing of value,’ Ranulf replied without turning his head.

‘At Oxford,’ Corbett said, ‘students are not thieves, they are like jackdaws. If they want something, they take it. I began my first Trinity term here in one set of clothes and finished it in another.’

A servant brought up two pewter bowls and jugs of water. Corbett returned to his own chamber. He washed his face and hands, rested for a while and was drifting off to sleep when he was roused by the harsh ringing of a bell. He rose, put his sword belt on and decided to wander around the hostelry. The sprawling mansion immediately reminded Corbett of the maze in Queen Eleanor’s garden at Winchester: there were passageways and galleries, stairways and steps leading hither and thither, past chambers, offices, store rooms - a veritable warren. It was none too clean, reeking of burnt oil and boiled cabbage. He went down to the refectory, a long, white-washed chamber with tables and benches placed along the walls. A few students lounged there, arguing loudly, whilst others lay fast asleep on the rushes in the corner. A servant came over and asked if he wished something to drink but Corbett refused. He went along a passageway and stopped before a great, iron-studded door. He tried the handle but the door was locked.

‘Can I help you?’ Norreys came running up, a bunch of keys jangling in his hand.

‘I’m fascinated by your hostelry, Master Norreys. It’s a veritable warren.’

‘It could be better,’ Norreys replied. ‘But the Masters of the Hall are reluctant to spend more silver.’ He pointed to the door. ‘That leads to the cellars and store rooms. It is kept firmly locked, otherwise the students would steal wine and beer and help themselves to the stores. Do you want to go down? I must warn you, it’s no better than the hostelry itself and you’ll need a candle.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘What were these houses before?’

‘They belonged to a wine merchant. One of the houses was used for storage, and the merchant and his company lived in the other two. And there’s the yard and the cellars beneath.’

‘No gardens?’

‘Oh no, the price of land is rising, Sir Hugh. Five years ago Master Copsale sold the garden plots to the City Council.’

Corbett thanked him and returned to his own chamber. Ranulf and Maltote were awake. After they had unpacked their belongings, they dressed and followed Corbett out of the hostelry into the lane. They paused as a friar hurried by pushing a wheelbarrow, with a sheeted corpse lying in it. Beside the friar went a young boy, struggling to keep a candle alight: at every step the altar boy took, a bell, slung on a cord round his waist, tinkled as a warning. Corbett blessed himself and stared up at the windows of the Halls opposite. The sky was still overcast and he glimpsed the glow of candles. Three debtors, chained together and released from the city prison, hobbled along, begging bowls in their hands. A drunken bailiff swayed behind them; he cursed and yelled as a group of children knocked against him in pursuit of a little monkey dressed in a small jacket and a bell cap. They were throwing sticks and stones and, in turn, were chased by the relic-seller whom Corbett had met earlier at the castle. Corbett tossed a coin into one of the beggars’ bowls and waited for the mêlée to pass before making his way across and up the lane. He pulled hard at the bell outside the main door of the Hall: this was swung open, and a smiling Master Moth beckoned them in. Corbett was immediately struck by the contrast between the Hall and the hostelry: here, bright oaken wainscoting covered most of the walls, above this hung coloured cloths and tapestries; rush matting lay across the paving stones; candles glowed in brass holders and small, tin pots, full of fragrant herbs, were placed on shelves or in comers.

Moth led them silently into the parlour, which was a comfortable, cosy chamber. Tripham and Lady Mathilda were sitting in box chairs before the fire. Moth, helped by a servant, brought stools for Corbett and his companions. Greetings were stiffly exchanged, the offer of wine and small portions of toasted cheese made and taken. Tripham must have caught Ranulf’s sardonic glance at the luxuries round the room: the tapestries, Turkish rugs, pewter and silver pots glistening on shelves; the small, metal coffers and three long chests standing under a table in one corner.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Tripham apologised, sipping from his wine, ‘I appreciate that the hostelry is, perhaps, not the best or most luxurious of quarters.’

Corbett quietly kicked Ranulf before he could reply.

‘I’ve slept in worse,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Master Norreys does his best!’

‘You see,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up, ‘the statutes of Sparrow Hall make it very clear. My brother, God bless his memory, decreed this was a house of study and, apart from myself, no other visitors can be lodged here.’

‘You are not a visitor,’ Tripham declared tactfully.

Lady Mathilda just sniffed and looked away.

‘How long has the college been founded?’ Corbett asked.

‘Thirty years,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘The year after King Edward’s coronation. My brother -’ her eyes brightened ‘- wanted a place of scholarship, of books and manuscripts. Sparrow Hall has produced clerks, scholars, priests and bishops,’ she continued proudly. ‘My brother would have been pleased, though,’ she added darkly, ‘perhaps his contribution to the hall and its founding have not been fully recognised.’

‘Lady Mathilda,’ Tripham sighed. ‘We have been down this path many a time. Our resources are few.’

‘I still believe,’ Lady Mathilda sniffed, ‘that the Hall could find new resources to found a Chair in the University in my brother’s name.’ She pulled at the skin of her throat. ‘Soon all those who knew my brother will be dead and his great achievements forgotten.’ She glanced at Corbett. ‘The King, too, is ungrateful: a grant of monies...’

‘His Grace cannot grant,’ Corbett replied, ‘what he has not got.’

‘Ah yes,’ Lady Mathilda agreed. ‘The war in Scotland. It’s a pity.’ She picked up her wine cup and stared at the fire. ‘It’s a pity Edward has forgotten my brother and the day he defended the royal standard at Evesham when de Montfort fell.’

‘No one forgets,’ Tripham interrupted tactfully.

‘No, and neither do I,’ Lady Mathilda retorted. ‘Perhaps the Hall’s accounts should be examined more carefully.’

‘What are you implying?’ Tripham’s scraggy neck tensed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in a pond.

Ranulf and Maltote sat bemused at the rancour between two of their hosts. Corbett, embarrassed, stared at the sparrow carved above the motto on the stone mantelpiece. He translated the Latin, a quotation from the Gospel, ‘Are you not worth more than many sparrows?’ Lady Mathilda must have noticed Corbett’s distraction for she sighed, gesturing at Tripham that these matters would have to wait.

‘Sir Hugh, do you make any sense of Passerel’s death? Could he have been the Bellman?’ Tripham asked. ‘I mean, the attack by the students was unforgiveable. But—’ He pulled a face. ‘Ascham was a well-loved master, child-like in his innocence. He did scrawl most of Passerel’s name on a piece of parchment before he died.’

‘It would be tempting,’ Corbett replied, ‘to claim Passerel as the Bellman; to think that he murdered Ascham because the librarian had discovered his secret identity and that Passerel later fled to St Michael’s where he was murdered out of revenge.’ Corbett put his cup down on the floor. ‘If that was the truth, and I could prove it, the King would dismiss Passerel’s death as a mere nothing. He’d declare that the Bellman had been silenced, that justice had been done and I could leave Oxford.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Who knows, we could even build a case that Passerel may be behind the deaths of these old beggars who have been found in the woods outside the city.’

‘But would your logic be so flawed?’ a voice called out from behind him.

Corbett turned as Master Leonard Appleston picked up a stool and came across to join them. He introduced himself, giving Corbett and his companions a vigorous shake of the hands.

‘You are skilled in logic?’ Corbett asked.

Appleston’s square, sunburnt face creased into a smile; his eyes took on a rather shy look. He scratched at an angry sore on the corner of his mouth, like some schoolboy wondering whether he should be praised or not.

‘Leonard is a master in logic,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up. ‘His lectures in the schools are most popular.’

‘I heard what you said,’ Appleston declared. ‘It would be neat and tidy if poor Passerel was cast as the assassin, the
“fons et
origo” of all our troubles.’