‘Oh, stop grovelling, Norreys!’ Lady Mathilda pushed the plate of eels away from her. ‘Sir Walter, we have come to collect Passerel’s corpse. He died a dishonourable death. We wish to give him honourable burial.’
Bullock didn’t answer her but picked up the plate of eels, leaned against the wall and started eating. He didn’t bother to look at Tripham, and Corbett sensed the bad blood between them. Lady Mathilda glanced at Corbett slyly, dismissing Ranulf and Maltote standing behind with a contemptuous pull of her mouth.
‘So, you are the King’s clerk? Corbett, yes?’
Sir Hugh bowed. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘I have heard of you, Corbett,’ she continued, ‘with your long, snooping nose. So the King’s dog has come to Oxford to sniff amongst the rubbish.’
‘No, madam,’ Ranulf spoke up quickly. ‘We have come to Oxford to catch the Bellman, an attainted traitor. We will take him to London so he can be hanged, drawn and quartered at the Elms near Tyburn stream.’
‘Is that correct, Red Hair?’ Lady Mathilda whispered mockingly. ‘You’ll catch the Bellman and hang him.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Just so?’
‘No, madam,’ Corbett replied. ‘As you say, I’ll forage amongst the rubbish and drag him out, as I will the assassin responsible for the deaths of Ascham and Passerel and, perhaps, the cold-blooded killer of old beggar men.’
‘What’s that?’ Tripham rose to his feet. ‘Are you saying they are one and the same?’
‘He’s a good dog.’ Sir Walter grinned, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘He’s already been sniffing amongst the rubbish.’
‘Lady Mathilda! Lady Mathilda! Master Tripham!’ Master Norreys came forward, hands flapping. He remembered himself and wiped the palms of his hands against his woollen tunic. ‘Sir Hugh is the King’s clerk,’ he continued. ‘We’ve met before, sir.’ He went up to Corbett. ‘I was with the King’s armies in Wales.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘Sir, there were so many and it was so long ago.’
‘I know, I know.’ Norreys pulled back the sleeve of his gown and showed the leather wrist guard. ‘I was a speculator,’ he explained.
Corbett nodded. ‘Ah yes, a scout!’
‘Now the Welsh are at Sparrow Hall,’ Tripham intervened. He forced a smile as if apologising for his previous bad manners. ‘Sir Hugh, whatever you think, you are most welcome. The King has insisted that we show you hospitality. Richard Norreys here is Master of the hostelry. He will ensure you have good food and are well housed.’ He hitched his robe round his narrow shoulders. ‘And tonight, Sir Hugh, be our guest at Sparrow Hall. Our cooks are trained in the French fashion. Master Norreys, you too can join us.’ He blew his cheeks out and turned to where Sir Walter still leaned against the wall. ‘Sir, you have Passerel’s corpse?’
The Sheriff continued to chew slowly. He put the bowl back on the table, licked his fingers and nodded at Corbett. He was about to lead Tripham out of the chamber when there was a knock on the door. The young man who slipped into the room was fresh-faced, his black hair carefully oiled and tied behind him. He was dressed in the clothes of a student commoner, a brown woollen jerkin, with hose of the same colour pushed into boots, the belt round his waist carried a dagger slitted through a ring. He had an ordinary face except for his eyes, which were bright, watchful and anxious until Lady Braose beckoned him over. He trotted across like a lapdog and stood behind her. Corbett watched curiously as Lady Mathilda made signs with her fingers. The young man nodded and gestured back. Lady Mathilda’s face softened, reminding Corbett of a doting mother with a favoured child.
‘This is my squire,’ she announced proudly. ‘Master Moth.’ She smiled at Corbett. ‘I am sorry if I was brusque, sir, but when Master Moth is not with me — ’ her eyes slid towards the Sheriff ‘- I become afeared for him.’ She patted Master Moth’s hand. ‘He’s a deaf mute; he has no tongue. He can neither read nor write. An orphan, a foundling, who was left at Sparrow Hall. He’s the son I never had but wished I could.’ She turned and made more signs. The young man responded and pointed at the window. ‘Master Sheriff,’ Lady Mathilda snapped. ‘It’s time we were gone before our cart goes without us! Sir Hugh?’ She rose. ‘You’ll be our guest tonight?’
Corbett nodded.
‘And I suppose the questioning will begin?’
‘Yes, madam, it will.’
Lady Mathilda grasped Moth’s arm and hobbled towards the door.
‘Come on, Master Sheriff,’ she snapped. ‘You wish us gone and so do we!’
Sir Walter bade his farewells to Corbett and followed, shouting over his shoulder that, if Corbett wished to speak to him, he knew where to find him. Corbett waited until their footfalls faded in the distance.
‘A pretty pottage, eh, Ranulf?’ he asked. ‘Hate and resentments all round.’
‘Does anyone in Oxford, Sir Hugh, love anyone else?’
Corbett smiled wryly and moved to the window. He stared down into the castle yard and glimpsed Sir Walter and his party making their way to the corpse chamber whilst Lady Braose sent Moth scurrying to fetch the cart.
‘I thought it strange,’ he murmured. ‘Do you realise, Ranulf? A bursar at Sparrow Hall was chased by a mob of students and forced to take sanctuary in a church where he was later poisoned, but no one asked why. No one showed any grief. Oh, they came to collect the corpse but they acted as if they’d returned for some forgotten baggage. Now, why is that, eh?’
‘Perhaps Passerel was disliked?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett licked his lips and realised how hungry and thirsty he had become. ‘Come, we’ll break our fast in some tavern and then go to the hostelry to see what awaits us.’
‘You have not answered your own question, Master?’
Corbett stopped, his hand on the latch of the door.
‘I wager a tun of wine to a barrel of malmsey that, before long, Passerel will be depicted as a murderer, maybe even the Bellman and — if we are foolish enough to swallow that — that the Bellman will remain silent until we are out of Oxford.’
Chapter 4
Two hours later, as the rain clouds began to gather, Corbett and his party arrived at Sparrow Hall in Pilchard Lane. The college itself was a gracious, three-storeyed building with a grey slate roof capping yellow sandstone bricks; it boasted a fine main door with a large oriel window above it. The other windows were square and broad, with coloured glass filling the mullions. The hostelry on the other side of the lane was more nondescript. Apparently, its founder had bought three four-storey mansions, each with a brick base, the upper storeys of plaster and wooden beams, and had connected the houses by makeshift wooden galleries. The hostelry lacked the grace of the Hall; some of the windows were shuttered, and others were covered by horn paper.
Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote went down a side lane and into the rear yard, its chipped cobbles covered in mud. This housed stables, forges and store rooms. Scholars, in various forms of dress, lounged in the open doorways. An ostler came across to take their horses. As Corbett dismounted, the scholars took a deeper interest in them, clustering together, whispering and pointing. A brick flew well above their heads and a voice in a Welsh accent shouted, ‘The royal dogs have arrived!’
Ranulf’s hand went to his dagger. The yard fell silent. More students now thronged about. A tall, thickset, young man, languidly pushing back a mop of hair from his ruddy face, sauntered across. He was dressed in the garb of a commoner: tight-fitting hose, soft leather boots, a white cambric shirt covered by a robe which fell just above a protuberant codpiece. He wore a broad leather war belt round his waist, from which a sword and dagger hung, pushed through rings. As he sauntered over, others followed.
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”.’