‘What’s wrong, Master?’
Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered, ‘but we are not alone, Ranulf. No, no!’ He seized the servant’s arm. ‘We will not go hunting. At least not here!’
Corbett almost dragged Ranulf into the chamber.
‘Put on your war belt,’ he ordered as he did likewise. ‘Bring a crossbow and a quiver of bows.’
‘Where are we going? What are we doing?’
‘Have you noticed,’ Corbett replied, ‘that since we came to Oxford, no headless corpses have been found on some lonely trackway? I know where those poor beggars were killed.’ Corbett jabbed a finger at the floor.
‘Here?’ Ranulf exclaimed.
‘Yes, here, in the hostelry. In the cellars below! Remember, Ranulf, these buildings once belonged to a wine merchant. You visited the houses of such merchants in London?’
‘They have huge cellars and long galleries,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘Some in Cheapside could house a small village.’
‘And there are the legends,’ Corbett added, ‘of the woman who lurked in the cellars here with her child, when Braose founded his Hall. I wager our noble founder had to hunt them out.’
Ranulf watched him anxiously.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘But you will watch the cellar door. If anyone comes in after me, follow them down. No, no!’ Corbett shook his head. ‘Maltote didn’t die in vain, Ranulf.’ He stared round the chamber. ‘An old priest once told me how, at least for a while, the dead linger with you.’ He smiled. ‘I used to put my findings down to intuition or logic but, for this, I give thanks to Maltote. Count to a hundred!’ he ordered. ‘Then follow me!’
Corbett went down the stairs. On the ground floor he went along to Norreys’s counting office. The man was writing in a ledger and Corbett realised that, if anyone had been in the top gallery, it hadn’t been him.
‘Sir Hugh, can I help?’ Norreys got to his feet, wiping ink-stained fingers.
‘Yes, I would like to search the cellars, Master Norreys.’
The man pulled a face. ‘What do you expect to find down there? The Bellman?’
‘Perhaps,’ Corbett answered.
‘There’s nothing there; just barrels and supplies but …’
Norreys took a squat, tallow candle from a box and, jingling the keys on his belt, led Corbett out along the passageway. He stopped to light the candle then unlocked the cellar door.
‘I’ll go by myself,’ Corbett said.
He went down the steps towards the cellar, which was dark, musty and cold.
‘There are torches in the wall sconces,’ Norreys sang out.
At the bottom Corbett lit one of these as Norreys slammed the door behind him. Corbett made his way carefully into the darkness. Every so often he would stop to light a sconce torch and look around. The wall to his left was of solid brick, but on his right were small caverns or chambers. Some were empty, others contained bric-a-brac, broken tables and benches. He turned a comer and coughed at the thick staleness of the air. Corbett lit more torches and quietly marvelled at this sprawling underworld.
‘These must run the entire length of the lane,’ he murmured.
Now and again he paused to go into one of the chambers or crouch and look into the caverns. He was glad he’d lit the torches: they would show him the way out. He must have wandered for some time before he made his way back, following the line of torches. He espied another narrow passageway. He went down but the end was blocked off. Corbett remembered those beggar men: he knew they had died here. He could feel an eerie stillness, a sense of evil. He heard a sound further along the passageway and crouched down, examining the brickwork and ground carefully. He could find nothing but small pools of water. Corbett dipped his fingers carefully into one of the puddles and rubbed small pieces of gravel between his fingers. He lifted the candle and stared up at the vaulted ceiling but he could find no trace of any leak or water seeping through. Corbett closed his eyes and smiled. He’d found the killer!
He went back into the passageway where the torches were still alight, making the shadows dance. Corbett wanted to get out. He felt as if the place was closing in around him. His heart began to quicken and his mouth ran dry. He turned a corner and stopped. The passageway was in darkness. Someone had extinguished the sconce torches. Corbett heard a click and immediately stepped back just as a crossbow bolt whistled through the air, smacking into the brickwork. Corbett turned and ran.
He avoided the narrow passageway, the blind alley. At one point Corbett stopped, drew his dagger and crouched down to catch his breath. He looked back and saw a figure silhouetted against the light. Corbett licked dry lips. His attacker could not see so clearly and a second bolt whirred aimlessly through the darkness. Corbett rose and ran as fast as he could before his assailant could insert another bolt and winch back the cord. The man saw him coming. In the flickering light Corbett watched those fingers pulling back the cord but then he crashed into him and both men rolled on the ground, kicking and jabbing at each other. Corbett grasped the small arbalest and sent it smashing against the wall. His assailant broke free. Corbett made to rise but the man’s sword was out, the point under his chin. The figure, half stooping, pulled back his cowl.
Master Richard Norreys.
Corbett pulled himself up to lean against the wall. His hand stole to the dagger in his belt but the sheath was empty.
Norreys crouched down, pushing the tip of his sword into the soft part of Corbett’s neck. Corbett winced and held his head further back.
‘Don’t struggle.’ Norreys wiped the sweat from his face with one hand, though the other, holding the sword, didn’t even quiver. ‘Well, well, well,’ Norreys mused.
He edged closer.into the pool of light; his eyes had a soft, dreamy look. Corbett fought to control the fear. He decided not to lash out — Norreys was as mad as any March hare. If he struggled or resisted Norreys would plunge that sword into his throat, then sit and watch him die.
‘Why?’ Corbett tried to move his head away. He kept glancing down the passageway behind Norreys. Where in God’s name, he thought, was Ranulf?
‘Why what?’ Norreys asked.
‘Why the killings?’
‘It’s a game, you see,’ Norreys replied. ‘You were in Wales, Sir Hugh, you know what it was like. I was a speculator, a spy. I used to go out with the others at night. Along those mist-filled valleys. Nothing — ’ Norreys’s voice fell to a whisper ‘- nothing moved, only the murmuring of the trees and the call of an owl. But they were always there, weren’t they? The bloody Welsh, creeping like worms along the ground.’ Norreys’s face was suffused with rage. ‘Soft! Soft!’ His eyes opened wide. ‘We’d always go out in a group of five or six. Good men, Sir Hugh, archers, with wives and sweethearts back home. We’d always lose one, sometimes two or three. Always the same! First we’d find the corpses. Then we’d go looking for their heads. Sometimes the bastards would play games with us. They’d take a head and leave it like some apple bobbing in a breeze.’ Norreys paused, clasping the sword with both hands. ‘You think I’m mad, witless, possessed by a demon. I tell you this, master clerk,’ he continued on in a rush, ‘when the King’s army disbanded at Shrewsbury, I began to have dreams. Ever the same. Always the darkness, camp fires amongst the trees, footsteps slithering beside or behind me. And those heads — always the heads! Sometimes during the day, I’d see little things — a leaf on a branch, a ripe apple hanging down — ’ Norreys sighed ‘- and I’d dream again. Then I came here.’ He smiled. ‘You see, Sir Hugh, I am an educated man: trained as a clerk, a student of the horn book. I was also a good soldier so the King gave me the sinecure here.’
‘Are you the Bellman?’ Corbett asked.
‘Bellman!’ Norreys sniggered. ‘Bellman! I couldn’t give a fig about de Montfort or those fat lords across the lane. I was happy here and the dreams became less frequent … but then the Welsh came.’ He closed his eyes but abruptly opened them as Corbett stirred. ‘No, no, Sir Hugh, you have got to listen. As I had to — to those voices. Do you remember, Sir Hugh, how the Welsh used to call out in the darkness? They’d get to know our names, and as we hunted them they hunted us. And, if they took one of our company, they’d call out: “Richard has gone! Henry has gone! Tell John’s wife she’s a widow!” Norreys’s voice rang through the vaults. He looked round. ‘I’ll have to go soon,’ he whispered. ‘The scholars will be back from the schools. They’ll be knocking on my door for this or that.’