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 melee to pass before making his way across and up the lane. He pulled hard at the bell outside the main door of the Halclass="underline" 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.