The Devil's Hunt

Chapter 2

Corbett studied the Bellman’s proclamation once again.

‘How long have these been appearing?’

‘Over five months,’ Simon replied. ‘At first we thought it was some scholar’s madcap scheme. Then the King’s Council tried to hush matters up but the proclamations became more frequent. The King wrote to the Regent, John Copsale, who wrote back claiming all innocence. A month ago Copsale who was in his fifties, was found dead in his bed. The physician said he had died from natural causes, but since then the Bellman has grown more vindictive.’

‘And how are matters at Sparrow Hall now?’

‘As in any college, Sir Hugh, there are tensions, rivalries, petty jealousies. Lady Mathilda would like more royal patronage: the other Masters find the Braose family irksome. They don’t like the name of the hall and would prefer to change it as well as the statutes drawn up by Braose when the college was founded.’

‘Why?’

‘Sparrow Hall is seen as a royal foundation, built on the blood of a man, de Montfort, whom many now see as a saint. Copsale believed it important for the Hall to have more self-determination, especially for a college in Oxford which prides itself on its history and its independence.’

‘Was de Montfort from Oxford?’ Maeve asked.

‘De Montfort had a great following in the University,’ Corbett replied, ‘amongst both the Masters and students. More importantly, the Earl raised troops there for his civil war. He also held a great Council in the city where he issued the Provisions of Oxford, a scheme to take over the royal Council and Government.’

‘And, of course,’ Ranulf added, ‘Oxford is the gateway to the kingdom. Scholars come there from all parts of the country as well as from abroad. The Bellman’s treason is like a pestilence, it could spread and cause further unrest.’

‘And the King doesn’t need that,’ Simon interjected. ‘Taxes are heavy, the royal purveyors are collecting provisions. The great earls want to return to their manors. It’s a fire which might quickly spread.’ Simon gestured at the proclamation. ‘I have a sack of these: I’ll leave them with you. But, before you ask, Sir Hugh, we have no evidence as to whether the writer is a Master or a scholar at Sparrow Hall. Of course, the King sent down his justices — but what could they do? The Masters and the scholars protested their innocence and cried harassment.’

‘Why doesn’t the King,’ Maeve asked, ‘just close down Sparrow Hall?’

‘Oh, the Bellman would love that,’ Corbett answered. ‘Then the entire University as well as the city would see the King conceding defeat. It would be embarrassing in the extreme: Sparrow Hall was founded by Lord Henry Braose, one of Edward’s principal captains, who fought resolutely against de Montfort. Braose was given some of the dead earl’s lands and revenues, and he used these to buy buildings in Oxford, near St Michael’s Northgate. The Hall itself — and I remember it well — stands on one side and, across the lane, there’s the hostelry where the scholars stay: a large five-storey house with gardens and courtyards.’

‘If the Hall was closed — ’ Simon tapped his fingers on the table ‘- the Bellman would indeed laugh. Many see Sparrow Hall as cursed, founded and built on the blood of the so-called great Earl. They even say his ghost haunts the place seeking vengeance.’

‘Who are the Masters there?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, Alfred Tripham is the Vice-Regent. Until Ascham’s and Copsale’s deaths there were eight Masters. Now Tripham is in charge with five others: Leonard Appleston, Aylric Churchley, Peter Langton, Bernard Barnett and Richard Norreys, the Master of the Hostelry. Henry Braose’s younger sister, the Lady Mathilda, also has a chamber in the Hall.’

‘That’s unusual! — for a woman to be given residence in an Oxford Hall?’

‘Lady Mathilda,’ Simon replied, ‘is a good friend of the King. She’s constantly petitioning the Crown for further recognition of her dead brother and extra grants to enlarge the Hall.’ Simon pulled a face. ‘But the Exchequer is exhausted, the treasury’s empty.’

‘And no one at the Hall knows anything about the Bellman or about Copsale’s death?’

‘No.’

‘And Ascham?’ Corbett asked.

‘He was the librarian and archivist,’ Simon replied. ‘A great friend of the founder. Five days ago, late in the afternoon, Ascham went into the library. He locked and bolted the door, and the window was shuttered. He lit a candle but we don’t know whether he was working or looking for something. When he failed to arrive at the buttery, the Hall bursar, William Passerel, went looking for him.’ Simon shrugged. ‘The doors were forced and Ascham was found lying in a pool of his own blood, a crossbow quarrel in his chest. But he didn’t die immediately.’

The clerk pushed back his stool, opened his pouch and passed across a piece of parchment. Corbett unrolled it.

“‘The Bellman fears neither King nor clerk,”’ he read aloud. ‘“The Bellman will ring the truth, and all shall hear it.”’

The message was written in the same script as the proclamation.

‘Turn it over,’ Simon remarked.

Corbett did so and noticed the strange symbols daubed in blood. ‘P ASS E R…’ He spelt out the letters.

‘Apparently,’ Simon explained, ‘Ascham wrote that in his own blood as he lay dying.’

‘But that’s almost the name of the bursar you mentioned at the hall?’

‘Yes, William Passerel,’ Simon replied. ‘But no action can be taken against him. For most of that day, when Ascham died, Passerel was in Abingdon on official business. He returned and went straight to the buttery, and then decided to look for Ascham who was his friend.’

‘And the library was sealed?’ Corbett asked.

‘The door leading to the passageway was locked and barred from the inside. The garden window was shuttered. There are no other entrances.’

‘Yet,’ Corbett said, studying the scrap of parchment, ‘someone not only shot Ascham but was able to leave this note? And Passerel the bursar still remains free?’

‘Oh yes, there’s no evidence against him. Passerel can prove he was in Abingdon. Servants attested that when he came back he went straight to the buttery.’ Simon gave a lop-sided smile. ‘There’s one further problem. Passerel’s eyesight isn’t very good. He also suffers from the rheums in his fingers. He could not hold or pull back a crossbow winch. Nor is there any explanation of how he could enter and leave the library, locking the windows and doors from the inside.’

‘The King and his council have discussed this?’

‘Oh yes, Edward and his principal henchmen have spent hours on the matter. They have even got a spy in Sparrow Hall. I don’t know who it is.’ Simon licked his lips. ‘The King said the spy would make himself known when you arrived in Oxford…’

Corbett tapped the parchment against the table. ‘Why now?’ he murmured. ‘Why does this mysterious writer called the Bellman appear, writing and posting his proclamations attacking the King? What does he hope to gain?’ He glanced at Simon. ‘There’s no evidence of interference by the King’s enemies either here or abroad?’

Simon shook his head.

‘And the writing?’

‘As you can see,’ Simon replied, ‘it’s in a clerkly hand. Those proclamations could be the work of you, or me or Ranulf.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Clerks are ruthlessly trained in the same style of writing.’

‘No threats have been made, there’s been no attempted blackmail?’

‘No.’

‘And you think Copsale’s death and Ascham’s were the work of the Bellman?’

‘Possibly.’ Simon spread his hands. ‘But, there again, the antagonism between these Masters is so intense, that Ascham may have been killed for other reasons and his death made to look like the work of the Bellman.’

‘And the beggars who have been found dead?’

‘Ah, that’s a tragedy.’ Simon sipped from his blackjack of ale. ‘The corpses are always found outside the city, with the head sheared off and tied by the hair to the branch of some tree. There are two other things common to the deaths. Firstly, the corpses all belong to men, old beggars. Secondly, they are always found near a trackway leading to or from the city.’

‘Are the bodies marked?’

‘One had been killed by an arrow — again a crossbow bolt, fired at close quarters. It went clean through the body. Another had been struck on the back of the head by a club or mace. The rest appeared to have had their throats cut.’

‘And they were all from the hospital of St Osyth?’

‘Yes, it’s a charitable foundation near Carfax, the crossroads in Oxford.’

‘Could it be the work of some gibbet lord?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The magicians and warlocks who always lurk around cities like Oxford?’

‘No, there’s plenty of them about but, there’s no mutilation, no clear reason for such deaths.’

‘Is there any connection between these deaths and the Bellman?’ Maeve asked, fascinated by the task entrusted to her husband. She had forgotten the twinges in her belly and her determination to settle accounts with the reeve whom, she believed, was helping himself.

‘None,’ Simon replied. ‘Except in the case of the old soldier, Brakespeare. About two days before his corpse was found, he was seen begging in the lane between Sparrow Hall and the hostelry. However, apart from that — ’ he got to his feet ‘- I can tell you no more.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its wooden spigot near the fireplace. ‘I must go. The King told me to join him at Woodstock.’ His voice became more pleading. ‘You will go, Sir Hugh, for all our sakes?’

Corbett nodded. ‘Ranulf, make sure Simon is fed and his horse ready.’ He rose and took Simon’s hand. ‘Tell the King that, when this is finished, I’ll see him at Woodstock.’

Corbett sat down and waited till Ranulf had taken Simon out of the hall. Maeve grasped his hand.

‘You should go, Hugh,’ she said softly. ‘Eleanor is well. Oxford is not far away and the King needs you.’

Corbett pulled a face. ‘It will be dangerous,’ he murmured. ‘I can sense that. The Bellman, whoever he may be, is full of malice. He hides behind the customs and traditions of the University and could do the King great damage. He will do his best not to be caught for, if he is, he will suffer a terrible death. Edward hates de Montfort, his memory and anything to do with him.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Two years ago, during the council meeting at Windsor, some poor clerk made the mistake of mentioning de Montfort’s Provisions of Oxford. Edward nearly throttled him.’ Corbett put his arm round his wife and drew her closer. ‘I’ll go there,’ he continued, ‘but there’ll be more deaths, more chaos, more heartache and bloodshed before this is over.’

Corbett’s words were prophetic. Even as he prepared to leave for Oxford, William Passerel, the fat, ruddy-faced bursar, sat in his chancery office at Sparrow Hall and tried to ignore the clamour from the lane below. He threw his quill down on the desk, put his face in his hands and tried to fight back the tears of fear pricking his eyes.

‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why did Ascham have to die? Who killed him?’

Passerel sighed and sat back in his chair. Oh why? Oh why? The words screamed within him. Why had Ascham written his name, or most of it, on that document? He had been in Abingdon the day Ascham had been murdered. He had only returned a short while before. Now he stood accused of murdering the man he had regarded as a brother. Passerel stared up at the crucifix fixed on the white-washed wall.

‘I didn’t do it, Lord!’ he prayed. ‘I am innocent!’

The sculpted, carved face of the Saviour stared blindly back. Passerel heard the hubbub in the street below grow. He went to the window and peered out. A group of scholars, most of them from the Welsh counties, now thronged below. Passerel recognised many of them. Some wore gowns bearing a crudely sewn sparrow, the badge of the Hall. Their leader, David ap Thomas, a tall, blond-haired, thickset, young man, was busily lecturing them, his hands flailing the air. Even the blind beggar, who usually stood on the comer of the alley with his pittance bowl, had gathered his clammy, dirty rags about him and drawn closer to listen. Passerel tried to compose himself. He went back to the list he was compiling of Ascham’s personal effects: the scarlet gown with tartan sleeves; the green cushions; the silk borders; mazers; gilt cufflets; silver vestments; saucers; dishes; pater nosters; amber beads and breviaries. For a while, despite the distraction of the growing clamour below, Passerel worked on. However, as the clamour grew to shouts and yells of defiance, he heard his own name called. He stole furtively to the casement window and stared out. His heart sank and beads of sweat turned his skin clammy. The crowd was now a mob. They were shouting and yelling, shaking their fists: their leader, David Ap Thomas, standing with hands on hips, glimpsed Passerel peeping through the window.

‘There he is!’ he yelled, his voice ringing like a bell. ‘Ascham’s assassin, Passerel the perjurer! Passerel the murderer!’

The words were taken up: fistfuls of mud and ordure were hurled at the window. A brick smashed through the mullioned glass. Passerel whimpered, gathering his cloak about him. He jumped as the door was flung open. Leonard Appleston, Master of Divinity in the hall, lecturer in the schools, burst in. His square, sunburnt face was ashen, his mouth tight with fear.

‘William, for the love of God!’ He grabbed the bursar by the arm. ‘You must flee!’

‘Where to?’ Passerel’s hands fluttered.

‘Sanctuary,’ Appleston replied. He grasped the bursar and pulled him closer. ‘Take the back stairs, quickly. Go!’

Passerel looked round the chamber at his books, his beloved manuscripts. He, a scholar, was being forced to flee like a rat up a drain. He had no choice. Appleston was already bundling him out of the room, pushing him along the gallery. In the stairwell he passed Lady Mathilda Braose, her thin, waspish face startled; beside her was the deaf mute Master Moth who followed her everywhere like a dog. She cried out but Appleston pushed Passerel past her. The bursar, fear now lending him speed, scurried through the kitchen and the scullery, out across the urine-stained hall. A mangy cat slunk up, its back arching. Passerel lashed out and looked back through the gateway. Appleston was standing at the door urging him on.

‘Why should I flee?’. Passerel’s lower lip quivered. ‘Why should I?’ he shouted.

He heard a sound at the mouth of the alleyway and looked up. His stomach clenched in fear. A group of students had gathered there. Passerel hoped that, in the poor light, they might not see him. He flattened his bulk, closing his eyes, praying to Saint Anne, his patron saint.

‘There he is!’ a voice cried. ‘Passerel the murderer!’

The bursar fled down the alleyway. He stopped at the end. Which way should he go? Down Bocardo Lane? Perhaps reach the castle? He heard the sound of pounding feet and changed direction. He ran as fast as he could, pushing his way past students, merchants, knocking aside children playing with an inflated pig’s bladder. He gasped with relief when he saw the lych-gate of St Michael’s Church. Behind, shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ echoed as the hue and cry was raised. He thought he had outwitted his pursuers until a clod of earth sped past his head. Passerel hurried on through the cemetery and threw himself through the doorway of the church. He slammed the door behind him, pulling across the bolt.

‘What do you want?’ a woman’s voice sang out above him.

Passerel, drenched with sweat, peered into the darkness. He stared up at the light flickering through a slit in a wooden partition above the door. At first he thought he’d heard a ghost until he realised there was an anchorite’s cell built just above the main porch. Passerel heard the sound of shouts and blows from outside.

‘I seek sanctuary!’ he gasped.

‘Then ring the bell to your left,’ the anchorite ordered. ‘And hurry! The church has a side door and they’ll cut you off!’

Passerel groped in the darkness and pulled at the rope. Above him the bell began to toll like the crack of doom.

‘Run!’ the anchorite shouted.

Passerel needed no second bidding. He fled up the nave, slipping and slithering on the smooth, greystone floor. He reached the oaken rood screen, heavy and squat. He stumbled through the entrance into the sanctuary and grasped the altar. The bell, still rolling from the force of his pull, clanged on. Passerel, weeping like a child, crouched in the darkness. He stared up at the red sanctuary light, a little lamp within a red glass bowl, which flickered on a shelf beneath the silver pyx holding the host. The side door opened with a crash. Passerel whimpered with fear.

‘What do you want? What do you seek?’

Passerel screwed up his eyes: a cowled figure stood in the entrance to the rood screen. A tinder was lit and a candle bathed the sanctuary in a pool of light. The face above it was gentle with straggly, spiked hair, and sad eyes in a wrinkled ageing face. Passerel sighed with relief as he recognised Father Vincent, the priest of St Michael’s.

‘I seek sanctuary,’ Passerel whimpered.

‘For what crime?’

‘For no crime,’ Passerel said. ‘I am innocent.’

‘All men are innocent,’ the priest replied, ‘in the eyes of God.’ He lit a candle on the altar as well as two large ones on the offertory table near the lavabo bowl. ‘Stand up! Stand up!’ Father Vincent ordered. ‘You are safe here!’

Passerel did so, trying to keep his legs from trembling.

‘I am Master William Passerel,’ he announced. ‘Bursar of Sparrow Hall. They have accused me of the murder of Robert Ascham the archivist.’

‘Ah!’ The priest came closer. He lifted his hand around which was wrapped a string of polished, black rosary beads. ‘I have heard of Ascham’s death and that of the Regent Sir John Copsale. They were both good men.’

‘No man is good!’ the anchorite shouted from the back of the church.

‘Shush, shush, Magdalena!’ the priest answered. ‘Sir John Copsale gave generously to our alms box. I have heard of Ascham’s death and the doings of the Bellman.’

The priest’s voice, like every sound, echoed round the church — small wonder the anchorite could hear it.

‘The Bellman came here!’ Magdalena boomed. ‘Pinned his proclamation to the church door he did. Creeping he came: mouse-eyed and close-mouthed. A goblin of wit!’

‘Shush! Shush!’ The priest brought his hand down on Passerel’s shoulder. ‘Your pursuers have gone. I heard the bell toll and came out. Bullyboys, the lot of them.’ He added, ‘Swaggering swains, empty vessels always make the most sound.’ The priest smiled. ‘I ordered them out of God’s acre. They had no right to bring their violence here but they are keeping watch on the lych-gate and around the cemetery. If you leave, they will kill you.’ The priest drew himself up, eyes wide. ‘That’s what happened to the last man who fled here. He came and went like a thief in the night. They caught him near Hog Lane and chopped his head off.’

Passerel moaned in fear.

‘However, you are safe here,’ the priest added kindly. ‘Look.’ He grasped Passerel by the arm and led him across to a recess in the wall. ‘This is the place of sanctuary. I’ll bring a bolster, some blankets, wine, bread and cheese. You can stay here for forty days.’ He watched as Passerel clutched his stomach. ‘If you have to relieve yourself, go out at the side door. There’s a small drain near one of the graves. But mind your step.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t fall in and take no light with you.’

Passerel sat down in the recess. The priest padded away. He returned a little later with a cracked pewter cup, a jug of watered wine and a trauncher of bread, strips of dried bacon, cheese and two rather hard manchet loaves. Passerel ate hungrily, listening to the priest chatter as he returned with a roll of blankets that smelt of horse piss.

‘There!’ Father Vincent stood back and admired his handiwork. ‘Keep the sanctuary clean.’ He pointed at the red winking lamp. ‘The Lord sees you and Holy Mother Church protects you. I’ll shrive you before morning Mass and you can be my altar boy. I’m giving a sermon tomorrow. It’s a very good one, on the dangers of riches.’

‘What does it profit a man?’ Magdalena’s voice boomed down the church. ‘To gain the whole world but suffer the loss of his immortal soul.’

‘Quite, quite.’ The priest began to douse the candles. ‘I’ll leave one alight.’ He reached down and grasped Passerel’s hand. ‘Goodnight, brother.’

Father Vincent went out under the rood screen. Passerel heard the side door close and he leaned back with a sigh. What could he do? he wondered. Surely master Alfred Tripham, Vice-Regent of Sparrow Hall, would help? He would petition the Sheriff for assistance. Passerel gnawed at his lip. Nevertheless, his life was over. He had been happy at Sparrow Hall with his books and manuscripts, and studying the accounts in his little money chamber. Now it was all gone in the twinkling of an eye. What would happen to poor Passerel now? If this nonsense continued he would be given a choice: either to surrender himself to the Sheriffs bailiffs or to leave Oxford and walk to the nearest port and take ship to foreign parts. Passerel scratched his chapped legs and ruefully decided he would be dead of exhaustion before he reached the city gates. And outside? Those students would be waiting for him.

‘On your knees and pray to God!’ Magdalena’s voice echoed down the church. ‘Pray that you be not put to the test!’

‘Shut up!’ Passerel whispered.

He put his face in his hands and tried to make sense of the chaos and tragedy seething around him. He recalled Copsale being found dead in his bed. The Regent had always had a weak heart: had he died in his sleep? And Ascham? Passerel remembered opening the door to the library and finding the archivist lying there, the blood like spilled wine soaking his robes; the crossbow bolt in his chest. Yet the window had been shuttered, the door had been bolted. Why had Ascham been murdered? What had he meant by his mutterings about ‘dear little sparrows’ or something like that? What had he hoped to find amongst the writings of de Montfort’s adherents, so much rubbish from decades before? And what of Ascham’s belief that someone at Sparrow Hall wished to destroy the work of its founder, Henry Braose?

Passerel took his hands away and looked around. It was growing darker. The solitary candle wavered and bent in some draught, its flickering flame brought out the garish painting on the far wall, which portrayed a group of demons, hollering like hounds after some poor soul. Passerel saw little comfort there. He lay down on the slab, groaning at its hardness, recalling his own soft, high bed. He heard a sound. The side door opened — someone was coming in. Passerel stiffened. Someone was slithering quietly towards the sanctuary. He kept still, watching the entrance to the rood screen. He heaved a sigh of relief as he glimpsed a pair of shadowy hands place a wine jug and cup down. A friend from Sparrow Hall? The footsteps receded, and the side door quietly closed. Passerel got up and walked across. He picked up the jug and sniffed at it. The claret it contained was rich and thick. Passerel’s mouth watered. He poured himself a generous cup and drank quickly.

‘This is the House of God and the Gateway of Heaven!’ the anchorite shouted. ‘A Place of Terrors!’

Passerel, emboldened by the wine, lifted his head.

He was about to fill the cup again when pain seized his belly, as if someone had thrust a knife into his innards. Passerel staggered forward, the jug and cup falling from his hands and shattering on the ground, ringing like a bell along the deserted nave. Passerel clutched at his stomach. He opened his mouth to scream but gagged on the bile at the back of his throat.

‘It is a terrible thing indeed,’ the anchorite intoned, ‘for a sinner’s soul to fall into the hands of the living God!’

Passerel, his face soaked in sweat, eyes popping, stretched his hand out towards the anchorite’s light. The waves of pain stretched up through his belly along his gullet. Closing his eyes, William Passerel, former bursar of Sparrow Hall, slumped in death before the sanctuary screen.

As Passerel died before the high altar of St Michael’s Church, the old beggar Senex — for that was the only name by which he was known — tried to flee from the death pursuing him. He couldn’t run very fast: a suppurating ulcer on his right shin made him wince every time he brought his foot down. Senex shuffled on, staggering blindly through the darkness, straining his ears, listening for any soft footfall.

‘Oh please!’ Senex whispered.

He sat down, crouching like a dog, arms wrapped tightly round his chest. If he stayed here, silent as a statue, perhaps he would not be found. Senex recalled a rabbit pursued by a weasel he had once seen in a field. The rabbit had stayed frozen beside a tussock of grass. Senex closed his eyes: he didn’t know how old he was and he had given up trying to guess. Life was never good but nothing had prepared him for this. He should never have come to Oxford. If he had stayed in the countryside sleeping in barns and begging at cottagers’ doors, he would have been safe. Yet last winter had been severe so Senex had wandered into Oxford and made his way to St Osyth’s Priory, his hands and feet covered in burning chilblains and blisters. The good brothers had tended to his every wound except for the ulcer on his shin, which they had been unable to cure. Senex had grown accustomed to the city: the jostling noise, the arrogant, swaggering students: the grand Masters in their furred robes. Oh, he had eaten well: last Midsummer’s Day he’d even been given a shilling to buy sweetmeats for himself and his comrades at St Osyth’s. Senex opened his eyes and listened, he stared back through the darkness: all he’d wanted was a piece of cheese and a pot of ale. Senex shivered as he recalled the whispers around St Osyth’s about those other inmates who had disappeared, their headless corpses found in lonely woods. He now knew the reason why and he quietly cursed. He thought of a prayer, a short one, taught him many years ago when he and Margaret, his elder sister, had tramped the lanes begging for bread.

Senex whimpered like a dog. Margaret was gone: she’d died of a fever in the ditch, many years ago. He’d covered her corpse with bracken. Surely Margaret in heaven would help him now? Poor, old Senex would never hurt a fly. The beggar man stared into the gloom. He’d been told that it was a game. Perhaps he could win, for the first time in his life? Senex began to crawl forward on all fours, going back along the way he had come, keeping close to the mildewed wall. He reached a comer and turned: he could see a chink of light in the distance but then he heard that whistle again, low yet clear, like a man calling his dog. Senex listened intently. Was someone lurking there? He turned and scampered away, back to the place he’d left, his hand catching the grey ragstone wall. There must be a way out surely? He would not be trapped like old Brakespeare had been. Senex stopped, fingers to his lips — Brakespeare had been a soldier and he’d been caught! Senex stopped and sniffed the air; he could smell faint cooking smells; bacon and freshly cooked meat. Senex’s stomach growled. He licked dry lips. If he kept going ahead perhaps he’d be safe? He reached the corner and, after crouching, ran on blindly. He froze at the stealthy patter of feet behind him. Someone was in hot pursuit. Senex reached a wall, he scrambled up, looking for an escape but could find no way. He turned. He should have gone right! He heard the whistle again and the pinprick of a torchlight grew as the figure carrying it drew closer. Senex put his hands up.

‘Oh, please no! Please no!’

He heard the click and, before he could move, he took the crossbow bolt full in his stomach. Senex crouched down, his fingers curling in pain, grasping the dirt. He couldn’t move. He tried to edge forward but then he saw the boots. He looked up and, as he did, the great two-handled axe took his head off, clean and sheer.

The next morning, just after dawn, journeyman Taldo, making his way out of Oxford towards Banbury, came across Senex’s corpse. It lay beneath an old holm tree and, from one of the branches stretched across the path, hung the old beggar’s severed head.