‘I would offer you some wine, Sir Hugh, but,’ he added sardonically, ‘Master Churchley has told us how wary you would be of eating or drinking anything here.’
‘I think the same applies to all of you,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s no rhyme nor reason for the deaths of Ascham or Passerel. Or, indeed, that of my good servant Maltote. The Bellman strikes when he wishes, not just to safeguard himself but to heap insult upon injury. You asked to see me?’
‘I…’ Tripham stammered. ‘We would like to protest — the Sheriff has informed us that Sparrow Hall is to be placed under curfew from dusk till dawn. Is that really necessary?’
Corbett shrugged. ‘That is a matter for you and the University,’ he replied. ‘But Maltote was a king’s servant and was brutally murdered. Furthermore, a number of your scholars, Master Tripham, are to face serious charges of debauchery, and perhaps even dabbling in the black arts.’
‘We are not responsible,’ Tripham snapped, ‘for the private lives of each individual scholar.’
‘And neither am I,’ Corbett replied, ‘For every royal official. Moreover — ’ Corbett’s voice rose ‘- on my way back here I was attacked yet again. A piece of slingshot narrowly missed my head.’
‘We have all been here,’ Tripham expostulated. ‘Sir Hugh, all this morning no one has left the hall. We have sat in close council in the parlour discussing what should be done with Ap Thomas and his cronies.’
Corbett hid his surprise. ‘You are sure, Master Tripham?’
‘We would all take oaths on it,’ Dame Mathilda snapped. ‘And you could interrogate the servitors who brought us wine and sweetmeats. Since we rose this morning and heard Mass in our chapel, no one has left Sparrow Hall. And, Sir Hugh, to my knowledge nobody left the hall last night when your servant was murdered.’
‘I don’t want Maltote’s body to be dressed here,’ Corbett replied, ignoring the outburst. ‘It is to be sent to Osney Abbey for embalming.’
‘Norreys will take it there,’ Tripham replied. ‘But, Sir Hugh, how long will you stay here? How long will this go on?’
‘How long will you continue to pry into our lives?’ Barnett snapped.
‘Until I find the truth,’ Corbett, stung by their arrogance, retorted. ‘What about you, Master Barnett, and your secrets?’
The sneer faded from Barnett’s fat, smug face.
‘What secrets?’ he stammered.
‘You are a man of the world,’ Corbett continued, wishing he had kept better control of his tongue. ‘Yet you feed the beggars and are well known to Brother Angelo at St Osyth’s hospital. Why should a man like you bother with the underdogs of this world?’
Barnett stared down at the tabletop.
‘What Master Barnett gives to the poor,’ Tripham murmured, ‘is surely a matter for him alone?’
‘I am tired,’ Barnett replied. He glanced round the library. ‘I am tired of all this. I am tired of the Bellman. I’m tired of attending the funerals of men like Ascham and Passereclass="underline" of lecturing to students who neither comprehend nor like what you say.’ He stared at Corbett. ‘I’m glad Ap Thomas has been arrested,’ he continued, ignoring the gasps of his colleagues. ‘He was an arrogant layabout. I don’t need to reply to your question, master clerk, but I will.’ He got to his feet, knocking away Churchley’s restraining hand. He undid the buttons of his long gown and then the clasps of the shirt beneath. ‘I have spent my life in avid study. I love the taste of wine, the dark passion in a bowl of claret, and young girls, full-breasted, slim-waisted.’ He continued to unfasten the clasps of his shirt. ‘I am a wealthy man, Corbett, the only son of a doting father. Have you ever heard the phrase in the Gospels: “Use money, tainted though it be, to help the poor so, when you die, they will welcome you into eternity”?’
Barnett pulled open his shirt and showed Corbett the hair-cloth beneath. Barnett sat down on a stool, his arrogant face now downcast.
‘When I die,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t want to go to hell — I have lived in hell all my life, Corbett. I want to go to heaven so … I give money to the poor, I help the beggars, I wear a hair shirt in reparation for my many sins.’
Corbett leaned across and pressed his hand.
‘I am sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Master Tripham, I have told you what I know: soldiers from the castle will guard every entrance from Sparrow Hall until this business is finished.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now I would like to pay my last respects to my friend.’
Tripham led him out of the room and along to the corpse chamber.
‘We have done what we could,’ he murmured as he opened the door. ‘We’ve washed the body.’
Corbett, followed by Ranulf, stood by the bed and looked down.
‘It’s as if he’s asleep,’ Ranulf whispered, staring at the boyish, ivory-white face.
‘We dressed the wound.’ Tripham stood behind them. ‘Sir Hugh, did you know about the terrible bruise on his ankle?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett replied absentmindedly. ‘Master Tripham, leave us for a moment.’
The Vice-Regent closed the door. Corbett knelt beside the bed and wept as he quietly prayed.
Chapter 11
Corbett and Ranulf returned to their own chamber, passing Norreys on the stairs. He offered some food and drink but they refused. Ranulf said he wanted to go for a walk so Corbett went and sat in his chamber: deeply upset by Maltote’s death, he tried to distract himself. He took out the proclamations which Simon had given him at Leighton and sifted through them. They were all similar: the shape of the bell at the top through which a nail had been pierced; the broad, clerkly brushes of the quill; the phrases full of hate for the King. At the foot of each was the same phrase: ‘Given by our hand at Sparrow Hall, The Bellman.’
Corbett pushed them away. He wiped the tears from his face and picked up Maeve’s letter from his chancery bag, going carefully over the phrases. One sentence caught his eye. Maeve’s complaint about how uncle Morgan teased Eleanor with stories of decapitated corpses and heads hanging by their hair from branches.
‘That’s it!’ Corbett breathed.
He put the letter down and recalled the clothing he had examined at the castle: no grass, no soil, not a leaf or a piece of bark.
‘If they weren’t killed there …?’
He got up and walked to the window. He missed Maltote more than he would admit and he knew Ranulf would never be the same again. He thought of his young friend’s corpse and Tripham’s words about the bruise on the ankle. As Corbett stared down into the yard at a great cart, fear chilled his stomach. He gave a shout of exasperation and banged his fist against the open shutter. Going to the door he threw it open.
‘Ranulf!’ he shouted.
His words rang like a death knell down the lonely corridor. It was early afternoon: the students, already subdued by Ap Morgan’s capture, were now dispersed to their school rooms and lecture halls. Corbett’s unease grew. He felt lonely, suddenly vulnerable. There were no windows in the gallery, apart from an arrow slit high on the wall at each end, so the light was poor. Corbett edged back inside the doorway. Was there anyone there, he wondered? He was certain he was not alone. He drew his dagger and whirled around at the soft, scuffling sound behind him. A rat? Or someone lurking in the darkness?
‘Ranulf! Ranulf!’ Corbett shouted. He sighed as he heard a pounding on the stairs. ‘Take care!’ Corbett warned.
Ranulf came on, running along the gallery, dagger out.