The Devil's Hunt

Chapter 8

A worried Churchley locked the door of the store room and followed Corbett down the gallery.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he wailed. ‘Are you saying we are all in danger?’

‘Yes, yes, I am. I would strongly advise that you scrupulously search to see if any more powders are missing.’

Corbett paused at the top of the stairs. ‘Who is acting as bursar after Passerel’s death?’

‘Well, I am.’

‘Is it possible to sift through Ascham’s and Passerel’s belongings?’

Churchley pulled a face.

‘I need to,’ Corbett persisted. ‘God knows, man, all our lives are at risk. I might find something there.’

Churchley, grumbling under his breath and anxious to get back to his herbs, led Corbett downstairs. They passed the small dining hall to the rear of the building. Churchley unlocked the door and led Corbett into a store room, a large vaulted chamber full of barrels with sheaves of parchment, ink, and vellum ranged along the shelves; further back stood buckets of sea coal and tuns of malmsey, wine and ale.

Churchley took Corbett over to a far corner. He unclasped two great chests.

‘Passerel’s and Ascham’s possessions are here,’ he declared. ‘They had no relatives — or none to speak of. Once their wills have been approved by Chancery, I suppose all these items will be inherited by the college.’

Corbett nodded and knelt down beside the chests. He smiled as he recalled his own experience as a clerk of the Chancery court, having to travel to some manor house or abbey to approve a will or order the release of monies and goods. He began to sift through the belongings. Churchley mumbled something about other duties and left Corbett to his own devices. Once Churchley’s footsteps faded away, Corbett realised how quiet the Hall had become. He controlled a shiver of unease and went across to close and bolt the door before returning to his task. He then searched both chests, sifting through clothes, belts, baldrics, a small calf-skin-covered Books of Hours, cups, mazers, pewter dishes and gilt-edged goblets that each man had collected over the years. Corbett was experienced enough to realise that what was not actually listed in Ascham’s or Passerel’s will would have already been removed. He was also sure the Bellman would have also scrutinised the dead men’s possessions to confirm that nothing suspicious remained. Ascham’s belongings provided little of interest and Corbett was about to give up on Passerel’s when he found a small writing bag. He opened this and tossed the fragments and scraps of parchment it contained on to the floor. Some were blank, others scrawled with different lists of provisions or items of business. There was a roll listing the expenses Passerel had incurred in travelling to Dover. Another listed the salaries of servants in both the hostelry and Hall. A few were covered with graffiti: one in particular caught Corbett’s attention. Passerel had scrawled the word ‘Passera’, ‘Passera’, many times.

‘What is this?’ Corbett murmured, recalling the message left by the dying Ascham. Was Passerel playing some pun on his name? Did ‘Passera’ mean something? Corbett put the pieces of parchment back, tidied up both chests and pushed down the clasps. He went back into the hall and along the passageway to the library. The door was half open. Corbett pushed it aside and walked quietly in. The man seated at the table with his back to him was so engrossed in what he was reading that Corbett was beside him before he turned, the cowl falling back from his head, his hands moving quickly to cover what he was reading.

‘Why, Master Appleston,’ Corbett smiled his apologies. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

Appleston closed the book quickly, turning on his stool to face Corbett.

‘Sir Hugh, I was… er… well, you remember what Abelard said?’

‘No, I am afraid I do not.’

‘He said there was no better place to lose one’s soul than in a book.’

Corbett held his hand up. ‘In which case, Master Appleston, may I see the one you are so engrossed in?’

Appleston sighed and handed the book over. Corbett opened it, the stiff, parchment pages crackling as he turned them over.

‘There’s no need to act the inquisitor,’ Appleston declared.

Corbett continued to turn the pages.

‘I have always had an interest in the theories of de Montfort: “Quod omnes tangent ab omnibus approbetur”.’

‘What touches all should be approved by all,’ Corbett translated. ‘And why the interest?’

‘Oh, I could lie,’ Appleston replied, ‘and say I am interested in political theory, but I am sure the court spies or city gossips have told you the truth already.’ He stood up, pulling back his shoulders. ‘My name is Appleston, which was my mother’s name. She was a bailiffs daughter from one of de Montfort’s manors. The great Earl, or so she told me, fell in love with her. I am their child.’

‘And are you proud of that?’ Corbett asked. He studied the square, sunburnt face, the laughter lines around the eyes and wondered if this man, in some way, was a fair reflection of his father. ‘I asked a question.’

‘Of course I am,’ Appleston retorted, touching the sore on the comer of his mouth. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t pray for the repose of my father’s soul.’

‘Concedo,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was a great man but he was also a traitor to his King.’

‘Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis,’ Appleston quipped.

‘No, I don’t believe that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Just because the King wants something does not mean it’s law. I am not a theorist, Master Appleston, but I know the gospels: a man cannot have two masters — a realm cannot have two kings.’

‘And if de Montfort had won?’ Appleston asked.

‘If de Montfort had won,’ Corbett replied, ‘and the Commons, together with the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, had offered him the crown, then I and thousands of others would have bent the knee. What concerns me, Master Appleston, is not de Montfort but the Bellman.’

‘I am no traitor,’ the Master replied. ‘Although I have studied my father’s writings since I was a boy.’

‘How is it — ’ Corbett asked ‘- that a member of the de Montfort family is given a benefice here at Sparrow Hall? A college founded by de Montfort’s enemy?’

‘Because we all feel guilty.’

Master Alfred Tripham entered the library, a small folio under his arm.

‘I have just returned from the schools,’ Tripham explained. ‘Master Churchley told me you might be here.’

Corbett bowed. ‘You walk as quietly as a cat, Master Alfred.’

Tripham shrugged. ‘Curiosity, Sir Hugh, always has a soft footfall.’

‘You spoke of guilt?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ah, yes.’ Tripham put the folio down on the table. ‘That prick to the conscience, eh, Sir Hugh?’ He looked round the library. ‘Somewhere here, amongst these papers, there’s a copy of Sir Henry Braose’s will but I am too busy to search for it.’ Tripham went and sat on a stool opposite Appleston. ‘However, in his last years, Braose became melancholic. He often had dreams about that last dreadful fight at Evesham and how the King’s knights desecrated de Montfort’s body. Braose believed he should make reparation. He paid for hundreds of chantry Masses for the dead Earl’s soul. When Leonard here applied for the post…’

‘He knew immediately,’ Appleston broke in. ‘He took one look at my face, paled and sat down. He claimed he was seeing a ghost. I told him the truth,’ Appleston continued. ‘What was the use in denying it? If I had not told him, someone else would have.’

‘And the post was offered to you?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, yes, it was, on one condition: I was to retain my mother’s name.’

‘We all have secrets.’ Tripham laced his fingers together. ‘I understand, Sir Hugh, that you have been through Ascham’s possessions.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You are no fool, Corbett. I am sure you know that items have already been removed?’

Corbett stared back.

‘You might wonder,’ Tripham continued, ‘why Ascham was so beloved of scholars like Ap Thomas and his cronies. What would an old man, an archivist and librarian, have in common with a group of rebellious hotheads?’

‘Nothing seems what it should be here,’ Corbett replied.

‘And the same applies to Ascham!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Oh, he was venerable, amusing, a scholar but — like many of us — ’ he let his gaze fall away ‘-he had a weakness for handsome youths, for a narrow waist and firm thighs, rather than a lady’s eyes or swelling bosom.’

‘That is not uncommon,’ Corbett declared.

‘In Oxford it certainly isn’t.’ Tripham rubbed the side of his face. ‘Ascham also hailed from the Welsh march — or rather Oswestry in Shropshire. He was skilled in pagan lore as well as knowledgeable about the traditions of the Welsh. He used all this knowledge to establish a close friendship with many of our young scholars.’

‘So, naturally, his murder was ill received by many in the hostelry?’

‘That’s why they turned their anger against poor Passerel,’ Churchley replied. ‘He was their scapegoat.’

‘Scapegoat?’

Tripham put his hands up his sleeves and leaned on the table.

‘We know Passerel was innocent,’ he replied. ‘Ascham must have been killed when Passerel was miles away from Sparrow Hall. Ah, well!’ Tripham got to his feet. ‘And as for poor Appleston, surely it’s not treason to study de Montfort’s theories? After all-’ he smiled thinly ‘- even the King himself has taken them as his own.’ He gestured at Appleston. ‘Come, let us dine together, I am sure Sir Hugh has other matters to pursue.’

‘Oh, one other thing, Master Tripham?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’

‘You talked about secrets. What is yours?’

‘Oh, that’s quite simple, master clerk. I did not like Sir Henry Braose, either his arrogance or his scrupulous doubts just before death. Nor do I like his waspish sister who should never have been allowed to stay at this Hall.’

‘And Barnett?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ask him yourself!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Barnett has his own demons.’

Tripham opened the door, ushered Appleston out and slammed it behind him.

Corbett sighed and stared round the library. He remembered why he had come and went along the shelves looking for a Latin lexicon. At last he found one near the librarian’s table. He pulled it out, sat down and found the place but groaned in disappointment. ‘Passera’ was one of the Latin words for sparrow. Was that what Ascham had been trying to write? Was his death connected with Sparrow Hall itself? Or perhaps the dead bursar had simply been scrawling a passage in his own name? Corbett put his chin in his hands. His eye caught the small box of implements the librarian must have used. He pulled this over and went through the tawdry contents: a soft piece of samite, probably used as a duster, quills, ink-horn, pumice stone and small, silken finger-caps which Ascham would have used to turn pages. On a stone shelf beyond the desk, Corbett glimpsed a leather-bound ledger. He took and opened this: it was a record of which books had been borrowed from the shelves. Corbett searched for Ascham’s name but there was nothing: the dead archivist probably had no need to borrow books from the room he constantly worked in.

Corbett closed the ledger, put the lexicon away and left the Hall.

The lane was now thronged with scholars and their hangers-on making their way down to the last lectures of the day. Corbett glanced across and glimpsed Barnett: the pompous Master was standing at the top of the alleyway talking animatedly to the same beggar Corbett had met. The clerk stepped back into a doorway and watched Barnett hand a coin over. The beggar fairly jumped with glee. Barnett leaned down and whispered in the man’s ear; the fellow nodded and pushed himself off in his barrow. Corbett waited for the master to cross the lane and stepped out to block his path. Barnett seemed to ignore him but Corbett held his ground.

‘You are well, Master?’

‘Yes I am, clerk.’

‘You seem out of sorts?’

‘I do not like to be snooped and pried upon.’

‘Master Barnett,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘I merely watch you do good works, helping the lame, feeding the hungry…’

‘Get out of my way!’ Barnett snapped and, pushing by, opened the door to Sparrow Hall.

Corbett let him go and returned to his own chamber in the hostelry. He could tell, as soon as he opened the door, that someone had been there though, when he looked, nothing was missing. Corbett sat down at his table. He felt hungry but decided to wait until the evening to eat. He knew Ranulf and Maltote would soon return. He took out his quill and ink-horn and wrote a short letter to Maeve. He told her about his arrival in Oxford; how good it was to return to the place where he had studied as a youth, how both the city and University had changed. His quill sped across the page, telling her the usual lies he always told whenever he was in danger. At the end he wrote a short message for Eleanor, forming huge, round letters. He put the quill down and closed his eyes. At Leighton, Maeve would be in the kitchen supervising the maids for the evening meal or perhaps in the chancery office studying accounts or talking to bailiffs. And Eleanor? She would just have finished her afternoon sleep. Corbett heard a sound in the passage outside. He opened his eyes, quickly folded the letter and began to seal it. There was a knock on the door and Maltote and Ranulf came in.

‘I thought you’d be joining us?’ Maltote asked as he sat on the bed.

‘I said I might do. I am not too hungry yet.’

‘Then we should dine before we leave.’

‘Leave?’ Corbett asked.

‘Tonight,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Maltote and I believe that our good friend David Ap Thomas and his henchmen will be leaving the city after dark.’

‘How do you know?’

Ranulf grinned. ‘This hostelry is a rabbit warren. You can hide in nooks and crannies and, when you are deep in the shadows, it is wonderful what you overhear.’

‘You are sure?’

‘As sure as I am that Maltote can ride a horse.’

Corbett handed the letter to Maltote. ‘Then take this to Master Sheriff at the castle and ask him to send it to Lady Maeve at Leighton. Tell him I need his help and assistance on an urgent matter.’

Maltote put his boots on, grabbed his cloak and hobbled off. Corbett then told Ranulf what he had discovered on his visit to Sparrow Hall.

‘Do you think Barnett,’ Ranulf asked, ‘is involved in the death of these beggars? I mean, he is a wealthy, flabby Master of the schools. Such men are not usually famous for their alms giving?’

‘Perhaps. But what about Appleston and our Vice-Regent? Either man could be the Bellman. There again, the same could be said of our good friend David Ap Thomas.’

‘What does concern me, Master,’ Ranulf said, ‘is the one question to which there appears to be no answer. Oxford is full of clerks — ’ he grinned ‘- such as ourselves, and scholars and students. Some of them come from abroad where their lords and rulers are the enemies of our King. Others come from the Scottish march or Wales and have no great love either for our sovereign lord. There must be many who would love to be the Bellman?’

‘And?’

‘So why does the Bellman identify himself as living at Sparrow Hall?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I can’t really answer that except to say the Bellman must hate the Hall.’

‘Another question,’ Ranulf continued, ‘is that although we know the King is beside himself with fury at the Bellman’s appearance, who else really cares about his proclamations?’ Ranulf spread his hands. ‘I agree that there must be people in Oxford, as there are in Cambridge or in Shrewsbury, who’d follow any madcap rebel but — today, forty years after de Montfort’s death — what does the Bellman hope to achieve?’

‘Are you saying that the King should just leave it alone?’

‘In a way, yes,’ Ranulf replied.

Corbett chewed the corner of his mouth.

‘I hear what you say, Ranulf. It might be that the King was first advised that the antics of the Bellman were merely some scholar’s prank and so that’s why the murders took place. There was no real reason for them otherwise. How do we know Ascham or Passerel suspected the Bellman’s identity? Perhaps he just killed them, as in some game of hazard, to raise the odds so that the King was forced to take notice? But again the question is, why?’

Ranulf got to his feet. ‘I’m going across to the Hall,’ he declared. ‘Maltote will be some time hobbling to the castle and back. And, talking of hazard, I’ll wager that he stops at the Sheriffs stables to have a look at the horses.’

‘What do you want from the Hall?’ Corbett asked.

‘A book,’ Ranulf replied abruptly, becoming offhand.

‘What book, Ranulf?’

‘The …’ Ranulf stammered.

‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘The Confessions of St Augustine,’ Ranulf replied in a rush.

‘Augustine of Hippo? What interest do you have in him?’

Ranulf sighed in exasperation and leaned against the door.

‘When I was at Leighton Manor, Master, I often spoke to Father Luke. He heard my confession and told me about St Augustine.’ Ranulf closed his eyes. ‘Father Luke gave me a quotation from the Confessions: “Late have I loved thee, Lord.” And again: “Our hearts are never at peace until they are at rest with Thee.” They are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.’ Ranulf opened his eyes.

Corbett sat, mouth open, eyes staring.

‘I suppose you think it’s funny?’ Ranulf retorted.

Corbett just shook his head. ‘Can I ask why?’ he stuttered.

‘As a young man,’ Ranulf answered, ‘Augustine was a scapegrace, a rascal, who consorted with whores and courtesans. Father Luke told me he even had an illegitimate son. But then he converted, and became a priest and a bishop.’

Corbett nodded, fascinated. ‘And you think you can do the same?’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Master.’

‘Ranulf, I have cursed you, I have complained about you, I have prayed for you, I have even had the urge to shake you warmly by the neck,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I have never laughed at you and I never will.’

His manservant let his arms fall to his sides.

‘During our long stay at Leighton,’ he stammered, not meeting Corbett’s eyes, ‘I started to think about the future.’

‘And you wish to become a priest?’ Corbett asked.

Ranulf nodded. ‘If that’s what it means…’

‘Means to do what?’

‘I am not too sure, Master.’

‘But you are Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The terror of maidens from Dover to Berwick. A street fighting man! My bullyboy!’

‘So was Augustine,’ Ranulf replied hotly. ‘So was Thomas a Beckett. And Father Luke said that, even amongst Jesus’s followers, there was a knife man.’

Corbett held his hand up. ‘Ranulf, God forgive me, I don’t doubt what you say but you must admit it comes as a surprise.’

‘Good!’ Ranulf lifted the latch. ‘Father Luke said that when Augustine changed, it surprised everyone.’ He opened the door and went out.

Corbett sat as if poleaxed. ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’ he whispered. ‘Who has lifted more petticoats than I have had hot dinners.’

Corbett closed his eyes and tried to think of Ranulf as a priest. At first he found it amusing but, the more he thought, the less surprised he became. Corbett lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering about the vagaries of the human heart. Ranulf was no longer a stripling. He was a man with a mind of his own and a steely determination to do what he wanted. He’d applied himself ruthlessly to his studies and his recent questions about the doings at Sparrow Hall showed a sharp mind as well as a quick wit. Somehow, Corbett realised, Ranulf’s questions lay at the heart of the mystery. Why was the Bellman doing what he did? And why proclaim himself as a Master or scholar at Sparrow Hall?

He dozed for a while. When Ranulf returned, the manservant pushed open the door.

‘The Vice-Regent gave me a copy,’ he called in.

‘Good,’ Corbett murmured.

A short while afterwards Maltote limped back.

‘The Sheriff will see you now,’ he declared, still nursing his bruised shin. ‘Oh, by the way, Master, they’ve got some fine horses in the castle stables.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they have.’ Corbett swung his legs off the bed, put his war belt on and went to tell his companions to do the same.

They took their cloaks and walked out into the lane. They crossed Broad Street, taking the road which led up to the castle. At the corner of New Hall Street and Bocardo Lane they had to stop: the street markets and shops were closing. Peasants pushed handcarts and barrows, the wealthier ones leading ox-drawn carts, out towards the city gates. All had stopped before the open space before the gallows; a hideous, three-branched scaffold against which ladders had been placed. Bailiffs were tightening nooses round the necks of three felons whilst the town crier loudly proclaimed ‘the horrible homicides, depredations and rapes of which these three had been found guilty’. He finished bawling and clapped three times. The red-masked executioners slid down the ladders as nimble as monkeys. The ladders were pulled away and all three felons danced and jerked at the end of their ropes. A collective sigh rose from the crowd, as a bailiff shouted that the King’s justice had been done. Corbett glanced away. The crowd dispersed and they were allowed through up a lane that skirted the old city wall and led into the castle. The bailey was deserted. A groom told them the garrison was preparing for the evening meal. Only a little boy with a chicken under his arm staggered about, the bird squawking raucously. The stables and outhouses were quiet as the groom led them across and up outside stone stairs into the castle solar. This was a soldier’s room: the walls white-washed, the roof beams blackened by numerous fires. A few shields and rusting swords hung on either side of a battered crucifix, placed slightly askew, whilst the rushes on the floor were dry and crisp, and smelt rather stale.

Bullock was sitting in a window seat with a large, beautiful peregrine falcon on his wrist, its jesses tinkling like bells. The Sheriff was tenderly feeding it succulent pieces of meat; every so often he would murmur quietly to the bird, stroking the ruffled plumage under its throat.

‘A beautiful bird, Master Sheriff!’

‘I love hawks,’ Bullock replied. ‘Corbett, when I see this peregrine fly I truly believe in God and all his works. There, there, Raptor.’ He spoke softly to the bird. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps, amongst the marshes.’

Bullock sighed, got up and put the falcon back on its perch. He then led Corbett and his companions into a small adjoining chamber where he offered them stools whilst he leaned against the table, looking down at them.

‘Your messenger said you needed my assistance?’

Corbett explained what Ranulf had told him. Bullock rubbed his chin.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Ideally, Sir Walter, I would like a cordon of steel around Sparrow Hall and the hostelry. On second thoughts-’ Corbett paused. ‘Perhaps just around the Hall itself; at least it will keep the Bellman under careful surveillance.’

‘And the hostelry?’

‘As I said, Ap Thomas is a leader of a coven. He may, or may not, be connected with the murder of the beggar men. If he leaves Oxford tonight, and we try to follow him, he will lead us a merry dance like some will-o’-the-wisp.’

Sit Walter sighed and loosened the belt round his ponderous girth.

‘The King has arrived at Woodstock,’ he explained. ‘Half of my garrison has gone there. The few horsemen I have will be sent out to patrol the roads. I can’t help you with Sparrow Hall. It has a garden, windows, postern gates and rear doors. It would take a small army to watch every bolt hole.’ He sensed Corbett’s anger. ‘However,’ Bullock added hastily, ‘as regards Master David Ap Thomas, we have some verderers attached to the castle garrison. Sturdy buggers who like nothing better than a brawl — their leader is just the man to help.’

And, without a further word, Bullock left. He was gone for some time and when he returned a small, nut-brown man, dressed in shabby Lincoln green, accompanied him. The fellow entered the room so quietly Corbett hardly knew he was there.

‘Let me introduce Boletus,’ Sir Walter said. ‘They call him that because it’s the Latin for mushroom.’

Boletus stared unblinkingly at Corbett who noticed that the verderer had no eyelashes.

‘Boletus patrols the royal hunt runs in the forest between here and Woodstock. He can move amongst the trees as quietly and as swiftly as a sunbeam. Isn’t that right, Boletus?’

‘I was born in the forest,’ the verderer replied, his voice hardly above a whisper. ‘The trees are my friends. Better a wooded glade, eh, than the dirty streets of the city?’

‘Boletus,’ Bullock explained, ‘will watch Sparrow hostelry like a hawk. If David Ap Thomas and his henchmen leave, and I suspect they will after dark, Boletus will pursue like the Angel of Death and come back to inform us. In the meantime — ’ the Sheriff smacked his lips ‘- I intend to fortify the inner man. Sir Hugh, you are welcome to join me.’

Corbett excused himself but Ranulf and Maltote followed the Sheriff and his sinister companion out of the room. Corbett waited until they had gone. He would have liked to sleep, the night would be a long one, but he could not get Barnett’s meeting with that beggar out of his mind. He left the castle and made his way through the emptying streets and alleyways towards St Osyth’s Hospital. The sun was beginning to set: houses and shops were now closing, lamps being lit and hung on the hooks outside each door. The dun-collectors were out with their stinking carts, continuing their unequal battle to clear the sewers and sweep up the offal and mounds of rubbish left after a day’s trading. The taverns were beginning to fill and, because the evening air was warm, windows and doors were flung open. A young man was singing the ‘Flete Viri’ which Corbett recognised as a lament on the death of William the Norman. Further down, on the steps of a church, a small choir sweetly carolled Goliard songs and Corbett recognised his favourite, ‘Iam Dulcis Amica’, so he stayed and listened before walking on.

On the corner of a street, just opposite the hospital, four scholars danced wildly to the sound of rebec and pipe. Corbett dropped a coin into their dish and crossed the street and into the main gateway of St Osyth’s. The yard was packed with beggars thronging there for an evening meal of broth, rye bread and a stoup of watered wine. Brother Angelo stood in the centre shouting orders, greeting many of the beggars by name. He glimpsed Corbett and his smile faded.

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I appreciate you are busy so I’ll be blunt. Do you know Master Barnett of Sparrow Hall?’

‘Why, yes.’ Angelo turned to roar at a beggar who had taken two pieces of bread. ‘Put that back, Ragman! You greedy little bugger!’

Ragman jumped, dropped the offending piece of bread and scurried off.

‘Do you want something to eat, Corbett? You look pale-faced.’

‘No, just information about Barnett.’

‘Well, he’s a strange one,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘He likes the wine and the wenches, does Master Barnett, yet he also comes here, and brings money for the hospital. Sometimes he helps with the distribution of food. Some of the beggars talk highly of him, a kindly man.’

‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, on reflection, I suppose I do,’ Brother Angelo replied. ‘But, there again, he does no harm and who am I to refuse any help? And that’s all I know.’

Corbett prepared to leave.

‘Master clerk!’

Corbett came back. Brother Angelo’s eyes had grown soft.

‘Sir Hugh, you probably think I am just a suspicious Franciscan. However, I have heard the confessions of many men, and sometimes, when I shrive them, I detect an air of menace. Last time you were here, I felt that.’

‘You mean from us, Brother?’

The Franciscan shook his head. ‘No, not the stink of sin. More of danger.’ He clasped Corbett’s shoulder. ‘Be careful.’ Brother Angelo smiled. ‘Keep your faith — and your backs to the wall!’