The Devil's Hunt

Chapter 7

Corbett laid his hand over that of the beggar.

‘What devils?’ he asked.

‘Out in the woods,’ Godric replied. ‘Dancing round Beltane’s fires! Wearing goat skins, they were!’

‘And did you see any blood?’ Corbett asked.

‘On their hands and faces. Oh yes,’ Godric continued. ‘You see, sir, when I was greener, I was a poacher. I can go out and hunt the rabbit and take a plump cock pheasant without blinking. Since early spring this year I’ve tried my luck again and twice I saw the devils dance.’

‘How many devils?’ Corbett asked.

‘At least thirteen. The cursed number,’ Godric replied defiantly.

‘And have you told anyone else?’ Corbett asked.

‘I told Brother Angelo but he just laughed.’ Godric laid his head back on the bolsters. ‘That’s all I know and now old Godric has got to sleep.’ The beggar turned his face away.

Corbett and Ranulf left the infirmary. They followed Brother Angelo out, down the stairs and into the still busy yard.

‘Have you heard such stories before?’ Corbett asked.

‘Only Godric’s babble,’ the friar replied. ‘But, Sir Hugh — ’ Brother Angelo’s lugubrious fat face became solemn ‘- God knows if he’s roaming in his wits or what?’ He lifted one great paw in benediction. ‘I bid you adieu!’

Corbett and Ranulf left the hospital and entered Broad Street. The crowd had thinned because the schools were open, and the students had flocked there for the early morning lectures. Corbett led Ranulf across the street, stepping gingerly along the wooden board placed across the great, stinking sewer which cut down the centre of the street.

Outside the Merry Maidens tavern, a butcher, his stall next to that of a barber surgeon, was throwing guts and entrails into the street. Beside the stall, a hooded rat-catcher, his ferocious-looking dog squatting next to him, was touting for business.

‘Rats or mice!’ he chanted above the din,

‘Have you any rats, mice, stoats or weasels?

Or have you any old sows sick of the measles?

I can kill them and I can kill moles!

And I can kill vermin that creep in and out of holes!’

The man hawked and spat; he was about to begin again but stood aside as Corbett and Ranulf kicked their way through the mess.

‘Do you have any rats, sir?’ the fellow asked.

‘Aye, we have,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But we don’t know where they are and they walk on two legs!’

Before the startled man could reply, Ranulf followed Corbett into the tavern. The greasy-aproned landlord, bobbing like a branch in the breeze, showed them to the garret Ranulf had rented: a stale-smelling chamber with a straw bed, a table, a bench and two stools. Ranulf stretched out on the bed only to leap up, cursing at the fleas gathering on his hose. He sat on a stool under the open window and watched as Corbett opened his chancery bag and laid out his writing implements: quill, pumice stone and ink horn.

‘What do we do now, Master?’ Ranulf asked sharply.

Corbett grinned. ‘We are in Oxford, Master Ranulf, so let’s follow the Socratic method. We state a hypothesis and question it thoroughly.’

He paused at a knock on the door and a slattern asked if they wished anything to eat or drink. Corbett thanked her but refused.

‘Now,’ he began. ‘The Bellman. Here is a traitor who writes proclamations espousing the cause of the long-dead de Montfort. He pins them up on church or college doors throughout the city. This, apparently, is always done at night. The Bellman claims also to live in Sparrow Hill. So, what questions do we ask?’

‘I cannot understand,’ Ranulf broke in, ‘why we can’t discover the identity of the Bellman by his writing and style of letters?’

Corbett dipped his quill into the open ink-horn and carefully wrote on the parchment. He handed this to Ranulf who pulled a face and passed it back.

‘The Bellman,’ he declared. ‘It’s the same letters, you’d think it was the same hand.’

‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘A clerkly hand, Ranulf, as you know, is anonymous. All the clerks of the Chancery or Exchequer are taught what quills to use, what ink, and how to form their letters and the Bellman hides behind these. Even if we did find the scribe, it does not necessarily mean he is the Bellman.’

‘But why does he claim to live at Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett rocked backwards and forwards on his stool.

‘Yes, that does puzzle me. Why mention Sparrow Hall at all? Why not the church of St Michael’s, or St Mary’s or even the Bocardo gaol?’

‘There’s the curse?’ Ranulf offered. ‘Maybe the Bellman knows of this? He not only wishes to taunt the King but also the memory of Sir Henry Braose who founded Sparrow Hall.’

‘I would accept that,’ Corbett replied. ‘There is a bravado behind these proclamations, as well as a subtle wit. The Bellman might truly be from elsewhere but he hopes the King will lash out and punish Sparrow Hall. Yet-’ he scratched his head ‘- we do suspect the Bellman is at Sparrow Hall, what with Copsale dying mysteriously in his bed; Ascham in his library; Passerel poisoned in St Michael’s church and Langton’s death last night.’

‘Yes,’ Ranulf added. ‘Langton’s murder seems to prove the assassin lurks in Sparrow Hall.’

‘Let’s move on,’ Corbett replied. ‘We have the Bellman posting his proclamations. He does so in the dead of night. Now, who could flit like a bat through the streets?’

‘At Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf replied. ‘All the Masters, including Norreys, are strong-bodied men. Lady Mathilda, however, has no reason to hate the Hall her brother founded. I can’t see her hobbling through the streets of Oxford at night, her arms full of proclamations.’

‘There’s Master Moth!’ Corbett replied.

‘He’s witless,’ Ranulf replied. ‘A deaf mute, who can neither read nor write. I noticed that in the library last night. He picked up a book and was looking at it upside down.’ He grinned. ‘Can you imagine him, Master, going through the streets of Oxford in the pitch dark, posting the Bellman’s proclamations upside down?’

‘Of course,’ Corbett added, ‘there’s also our scholars, led by the redoubtable David Ap Thomas. You challenged him last night?’

‘No, Master, I frightened him. But I did notice something: Ap Thomas was wearing his boots, as were his companions, and all had wet streaks of grass clinging to their footwear and clothing. Moreover, Ap Thomas wore a charm or amulet round his neck, as did some of his companions: circles of metal with a cross in the centre, surmounted by a cheap piece of glass in the shape of an eye.’

‘A wheel cross,’ Corbett explained. ‘I saw them in Wales. They are worn by those who believe in the old religion, who hark back to the glorious days of the Druids.’

‘Who?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Pagan priests,’ Corbett explained. ‘The Roman historian, Tacitus, mentions them when writing of Anglesey: they worshipped gods who lived in oak trees by hanging sacrificial victims from the branches.’

‘Like the heads of our beggars?’

‘Possibly,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s Godric’s wild ravings about fires and garishly dressed people practising rites in the woods. But is that our Bellman?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Let us keep to our hypothesis. Who is the Bellman and how does he act?’ He drew a deep breath. ‘We know Ascham was close to the truth. He was searching for something in that library but he betrayed himself to the Bellman. Ergo-’ Corbett tapped the quill against his cheek. ‘Ascham was an old and venerable man. He was not used to going to the schools or wandering around Oxford so he must have voiced his suspicions to someone at Sparrow Hall.’ Corbett rose, walked over and looked out of the window. ‘I think we can rest assured,’ he declared, ‘that the Bellman lives in Sparrow Hall or the hostelry across the lane.’

‘But what was Ascham looking for?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Again that proves the conclusion we have reached,’ Corbett replied. ‘Apparently Ascham had a book out on the table but this was later returned to the shelves: an easy enough task for someone at the Hall. However, let’s move on. Ascham was shot by a crossbow bolt, fired by an assassin who persuaded him to open the library window. The Bellman then tossed in his contemptuous note. Ascham, knowing he was dying, grasps it and begins to write what appears to be Passerel’s name in his own blood. Now, why should he do that?’

‘I know.’ Ranulf sprang to his feet, clapping his hands with excitement. ‘Master, how do we know Ascham wrote those letters? How do we know that the assassin didn’t climb through the window, take Ascham’s finger, dip it into his own blood and scrawl those letters to incriminate Passerel?’

Corbett returned to sit at the table. He wafted at the flies which were hovering above the stains in the wood grain.

‘I hadn’t thought of that, Ranulf,’ he declared. ‘It’s possible; but let’s continue. Passerel is depicted as Ascham’s murderer and he, in turn, flees the college only to be later murdered at St Michael’s. But why was Passerel killed?’ he asked. ‘Why not leave him as he was depicted, the possible murderer? Unless, of course,’ Corbett concluded; ‘Passerel might reflect on what his good friend Ascham had told him.’ He paused and glanced up. ‘Do you know something, Ranulf? When we return to Sparrow Hall I must do two things. Firstly, I want to look through Passerel’s and Ascham’s possessions, particularly their papers.’ Corbett began to write.

‘And secondly?’ Ranulf asked hopefully.

‘I want to ask our good physician, Master Aylric Churchley, if he keeps poisons? Copsale was probably poisoned and we know Passerel and Langton certainly were. Now such potions are expensive to buy; moreover, some apothecary or leech would certainly recall anyone asking to buy them…’

‘But would Churchley have some?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, and I suspect the poisons used were from his stock. Anyway, to conclude-’ Corbett sighed. ‘We know the Bellman is at Sparrow Hall or the hostelry. We are not too sure about his motives, except for his deep hatred for the King and the Hall itself. We know the Bellman is a skilled clerk, able to move round Oxford in the dead of night. A ruthless murderer who has already killed four men in order to conceal his identity…’

‘Master?’

Corbett glanced at Ranulf.

‘If, as you say, the Bellman hates the King and Sparrow Hall, then that places me, and certainly you, in grave danger. Can you imagine what would happen if Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s principal clerk, friend and companion, was found poisoned or with his throat cut in some Oxford alleyway, with a proclamation from the Bellman pinned to his corpse?’

Corbett didn’t flinch but Ranulf saw the colour fade from his face.

‘I am sorry, Master, but if we are going to put up hypotheses then I am going to study mine very carefully. If Sir Hugh Corbett is hurt or killed, the King’s wrath would know no bounds. That sullen bastard at the castle would soon find the King shaking him by the collar whilst the Royal Justices would be in Sparrow Hall as quick as an arrow, expelling the community, sealing its rooms and confiscating possessions.’

Corbett smiled thinly. ‘You put a very high price on my head, Ranulf.’

‘No, Master. I am a rogue, a street fighter, and, whoever he is, the Bellman is no different: he will reach the same conclusion as I have, if he hasn’t already.’

‘Then we should be careful.’

‘Aye, Master, we should. No more food or wine in Sparrow Hall. No wandering the streets of Oxford at night.’

‘That is going to be hard!’

Corbett returned to his writing, listing quickly the conclusions he had reached, his pen skimming over the smooth vellum he had taken from his chancery bag. He put the quill down.

‘And now to our final problem,’ he declared. ‘Every so often, the headless corpse of a beggar is found in the fields outside Oxford, the head tied by its hair to the branches of some nearby tree. We know that beggars are chosen as victims because they are lonely and vulnerable. In a sense, no one will miss them. However-’ Corbett ticked the points off on his finger. ‘Firstly, why aren’t the corpses found within the city walls? Secondly, according to Bullock there’s been very little sign of violence around where the severed corpses were found. Thirdly, why are they always found near some trackway? And finally, why are they never found along the same road but at different places around the outskirts of the city?’

Corbett dropped his hand. ‘Which means, my dear Ranulf, that they must have been killed inside Oxford and then transported out by different routes to be later disposed of. However, if the murders occur within the city, surely someone would notice? The only conclusion we can draw is that, perhaps, they are killed outside the city at one particular spot but the remains deliberately displayed elsewhere. What else?’

‘I am just thinking about Maltote. We shouldn’t leave him alone too long.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, if you are correct, the Bellman will hunt the King’s dog or crow. Maltote is safe — except, perhaps, from the teasing of Ap Thomas and others.’ He picked up his quill. ‘Concentrate on the problem. What other questions can we ask about the murders of these poor beggars?’

‘Why?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Why are they killed in such a barbaric way?’

Corbett stared at a wine stain on the far wall. ‘Godric may indeed have seen something in the woods around Oxford: the activities of a coven or a group of warlocks, and this group must be based here in Oxford. We know there’s some connection with Sparrow Hall, because of the button we took from the last corpse. Now, I can’t see any of the Masters engaged in some devilish activity. However, our scholars, under David Ap Thomas, might have something to answer.’

‘Do you think Ap Thomas could be the Bellman?’ Ranulf asked. ‘After all, scholars can move round Oxford at night? David Ap Thomas is a rebel by nature: he might enjoy baiting the King.’ He paused. ‘Have you forgotten Alice atte-Bowe and her coven?’

Corbett closed his eyes. So many years ago, he thought. It had been the first task entrusted to him by Chancellor Burnell, the rooting out of a coven of witches and traitors around the church of St Mary Le Bow in London. Corbett recalled Alice’s dark, beautiful face. He opened his eyes.

‘I shall never forget,’ he replied. ‘I think I have but then — a sound, a smell and the memories come tumbling back.’ He packed away his writing equipment. ‘There’s always the library,’ he added. ‘We have yet to search for what Ascham was studying, although that might be an impossible task: there are so many books and manuscripts! We don’t even know if the book is still there. We could waste days, even weeks, playing a game of Blind Man’s Buff!’ Corbett rose. ‘It’s time we left for Sparrow Hall.’

They left the chamber and went downstairs. The landlord was waiting for them, a battered leather bundle in his hands.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

The landlord thrust the small bundle into Corbett’s hands.

‘A beggar child came in.’ He pointed to the doorway. ‘A man, cowled and hooded, was standing behind. The child gave me this for you.’

Corbett wrinkled his nose at the foul smell and the greasy scrap of parchment, with his name scrawled on it, tied on a string round the leather bundle. He walked out into the street, stood in the mouth of an alleyway and cut the cord. He crouched down and gingerly tipped the contents into the muddy street. His stomach clenched and he gagged at the sight of the tattered, foul remains of a crow, its body slit from throat to crotch, the innards spilling out. Corbett swore, kicked the dead bird away and went back into the street.

Ranulf stayed behind. He examined the bird carefully and then the tattered, leather bag.

‘Leave it, Ranulf!’ Corbett called.

‘A warning, Master?’

‘Aye,’ Corbett breathed. ‘A warning.’

He stared across Broad Street. The crowd had thinned: it was well past noon: the Angelus bell had tolled and the cookshops and taverns were now full, the traders enjoying a slight lull in the day’s frenetic activities. Corbett and Ranulf walked back towards Sparrow Hall. Now and again Ranulf would turn, staring up a narrow alleyway or glancing at the windows on either side, but he could detect no sign of pursuit. They entered the lane; the door to Sparrow Hall was closed so they crossed the street, went down an alleyway and into the yard of the hostelry. Norreys, assisted by some porters, was rolling great barrels out of a cart to be lowered through an open trap door into the cellar below.

‘Provisions,’ Norreys called out as they walked across. ‘Never buy in an Oxford market, it’s cheaper and fresher from outside.’

‘Have you just returned?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes, I left well before dawn,’ Norreys replied, his face flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. ‘I’ve made a handsome profit.’

Corbett was about to continue when a group of students burst into the yard, led by David Ap Thomas. The Welshman, stripped to his waist, flexed his muscles and swung a thick quarterstaff in his hand, much to the admiration of his henchmen. Ap Thomas was well built, his chest and arms firm and muscular; he played with the staff as a child would a stick, skilfully and effortlessly turning it in his hands.

‘An accomplished street brawler,’ Corbett murmured.

‘I’d ignore them and go in,’ Norreys warned.

Corbett, however, just shook his head. The Welshman was now staring across at them. Corbett glimpsed the amulet round his neck.

‘I think this is meant for our entertainment and amusement,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘As well as a warning.’

Suddenly the door was flung open and a garishly dressed figure came bounding out. One of Ap Thomas’s henchman, clothed in black tattered rags, a yellow beak stuck to his face, with boots of the same colour on his bare legs. He, too, held a staff and, for a while, jumped about flailing his arms, cawing like the crow he was so aptly imitating.

‘I’ll cut the bastards’ throats!’ Ranulf said hoarsely.

‘No, no,’ Corbett warned. ‘Let them have their laugh.’

The ‘crow’ stopped its antics and squared up to Ap Thomas, and both scholars began a quarterstaff fight. Corbett decided to ignore the insult. He stood, admiring the consummate skill of both men, Ap Thomas particularly. The quarterstaffs were thick ash-poles wielded with great force, and a blow to the head would send any man unconscious. Nevertheless, both Ap Thomas and his opponent were skilled fighters. The staffs whirled through the air, as both men ducked and leapt. Now and again the sticks would clash as a blow to the head or stomach was neatly blocked or there would be a jab at the legs in an attempt to tip the opposing fighters over by a vicious tap to the ankles. Ap Thomas fought quietly with only the occasional grunt as he stepped back, chest heaving, face and arms coated in sweat, waiting for his opponent to close in once again.

The fight lasted for at least ten minutes until Ap Thomas, swiftly moving his pole from hand to hand, stepped back and, with a resounding thwack to the shoulder, sent his opponent crashing to his knees.

Corbett and Ranulf walked across the yard, ignoring the raucous crowing. Ranulf would have gone back but Corbett plucked at his sleeve.

‘As the good book says, Ranulf, “there’s a time and place under heaven for everything: a time for planting and a time for plucking up, a time for war and a time for peace.” — Now it’s time to rouse Maltote, he’s slept long enough!’

Ranulf shrugged and followed. He also recalled a phrase from the Old Testament: ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life’, but he decided to keep his own counsel.

They found Maltote had just woken up. He was sitting, scratching his blond, tousled hair. He blinked owlishly at them, then winced as he stretched out his leg.

‘I came back here half asleep,’ he explained, ‘and caught my shin on a bucket Norreys had left out after he’d been cleaning the cellars.’ Maltote limped to his feet. ‘I heard the noise from below,’ he said. ‘What was happening?’

‘Just fools playing,’ Corbett retorted. ‘They were born foolish and they’ll die foolish!’

‘Are we to eat?’ Maltote asked.

‘Not here,’ Corbett said. ‘Ranulf, take Maltote, explain what has happened and how careful he has to be. Go to Turl Lane, where there’s a tavern, the Grey Goose. I might meet you there after I’ve visited the Hall.’

They went downstairs into the lane. A whore, her face painted so white the plaster was cracking, flounced by, shaking her dirty, tattered skirts at them. In one hand she held her red wig, in the other a pet weasel tied by a piece of string wrapped round her wrist. She grinned at them in a display of yellow, cracked teeth but then turned, cursing in a string of filthy oaths, as a dog came out of an alleyway snapping and snarling at her pet. Whilst Ranulf and Maltote helped to drive it away, Corbett crossed and knocked at the door of Sparrow Hall. A servitor let him in. Corbett explained why he was there and the man took him upstairs to Churchley’s chamber. Master Aylric was sitting at his desk beneath an open window, watching the flame of a candle burn lower. He rose as Corbett entered, hiding his irritation beneath a false smile.

‘How does fire burn?’ he asked, grasping Corbett’s hand. ‘Why does wax burn quicker? Why is it more amenable to fire than wood or iron?’

‘It depends on its properties,’ Corbett replied, quoting from Aristotle.

‘Yes, but why?’ Churchley asked, waving him to a stool.

‘It’s about natural properties I have come.’ Corbett abruptly changed the conversation. ‘Master Aylric,’ he continued. ‘You are a physician?’

‘Yes, but I’m more of a student of the natural world,’ Churchley teased back, his narrow face becoming suspicious.

‘But you dispense physic here?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And you have a dispensary? A store of herbs and potions?’

‘Of course,’ came the guarded reply. ‘It’s further down the passageway, but it’s under lock and key.’

‘I’ll come to the point,’ Corbett said briskly. ‘If you wished to poison someone, Master Aylric — it’s a question, not an accusation — you wouldn’t, surely, buy it from an apothecary in the city?’

Churchley shook his head. ‘That could be traced,’ he replied. ‘One would be remembered. I buy from an apothecary in Hog Lane,’ he explained, ‘and all my purchases are carefully noted.’

‘You never gather the herbs yourself?’

‘In Oxford?’ Churchley scoffed. ‘Oh, you might find some camomile out in Christchurch Meadows but, Sir Hugh, I am a busy Master. I am not some old woman who spends her days browsing in the woods like a cow.’

‘Exactly,’ Corbett replied. ‘And the same goes for the assassin who killed Passerel and Langton.’

Churchley sat back in his chair. ‘I follow your drift, Sir Hugh. You think the poisons were taken from the dispensary here, yet that would be noticed. The poisons are all held in jars carefully measured. It’s not that we expect to be poisoned in our beds,’ he continued, ‘but a substance like white arsenic is costly. Come, I’ll show you.’

He took a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall and led Corbett to a door further down the gallery. He unlocked it and they went in. The room was dark. Churchley struck a tinder and lit the six-branched candelabra on the small table. The air was thick with different smells, some fragrant, others acrid. Three walls of the chamber were covered in shelves. Each bore different pots, cups or jars with its own contents carefully marked. On the left were herbs: sponge-cap, sweet violet, thyme, hazelwitch, water grass, even some basil, but others, on the right, Corbett recognised as more deadly potions such as henbane and belladonna. Churchley took down a jar, an earthenware pot with a lid. The tag pasted to its side showed it to be white arsenic. Churchley put on a pair of soft kid gloves lying on the table. He took off the stopper and held the pot up against the candlelight. Corbett noted how the jar was measured in half ounces.

‘You see,’ Churchley explained. ‘There are eight and a half ounces here.’ He opened a calf-skin tome lying on the table. ‘Sometimes it is dispensed,’ he continued, ‘in very small doses for stomach complaints and I have given some to Norreys as it can be used as a powerful astringent for cleansing. But as you see, eight and a half ounces still remain.’

Corbett picked up the pot and sniffed.

‘Be careful,’ Churchley warned. ‘Those skilled in herbal lore say it should be handled wisely.’

Corbett sifted through the pot, noticing how the powder at the top seemed finer than that lying underneath. Churchley handed him a horn spoon and Corbett shook some of the fine chalk-like substance into it. Churchley stopped his protests and watched quietly, his face rather worried.

‘You are thinking the same as I,’ Corbett murmured. He scooped some of the powder on to the spoon. ‘Master Churchley, I assure you, I am not skilled in physic.’ Corbett held the powder up to his nose. ‘But I think this is finely ground chalk or flour and no more deadly.’

Churchley almost snatched the spoon out of his hand and, plucking up courage, he dabbed at the powder and put some on the tip of his tongue. He then took a rag and wiped his mouth.

‘It’s finely ground flour!’ he exclaimed.

‘Who keeps the keys?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, I do,’ Churchley replied in a fluster. ‘But, Sir Hugh, surely you do not suspect me?’ He stepped out of the pool of light, as if he wished to hide in the shadows. ‘There could be other keys,’ he explained. ‘And this is Sparrow Hall, we don’t bolt and lock all our chambers. Ascham was an exception in that. Anyone could come into my chamber and take the keys. The Hall is often deserted.’ His words came out in a rush.

‘Someone came here,’ Corbett replied, putting the spoon back on the table, ‘and removed enough white arsenic to kill poor Langton. Someone who knew your system, Master Churchley.’

‘Well, everybody does,’ the man gabbled.

‘He filled the jar with powder,’ Corbett explained.

‘But who?’

Corbett wiped his fingers on his cloak.

‘I don’t know, Master Churchley.’ He waved round the room. ‘But God knows what else is missing.’ He stepped up close and saw the fear in Churchley’s eyes. ‘But I ask myself what else, Master Aylric, has been taken?’ Corbett turned and walked to the door. ‘If I was a Master of Sparrow Hall,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘I would be very careful what I ate and drank.’