‘The old men?’ Corbett asked quickly.
‘It was an accident,’ Norreys replied, shaking his head. ‘Mere chance, Sir Hugh. An old beggar came here, wanting work so I sent him down to the cellar to collect a tun of wine. Of course, the stupid, old man had to broach a cask. Quite drunk he was when I came down. He was frightened and ran away. I followed.’ Norreys chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Here,’ he whispered leaning forward, ‘here in the darkness, Sir Hugh. It was like being in Wales again. I was hunting him. He’d call out, saying he was sorry. I caught up with him and he struggled so I slit his throat. I left his corpse here but that night I had a dream.’
‘So you cut his head off, didn’t you?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘You put the corpse and the head in a barrel, and took it out of Oxford by this gate or that to dispose of.’
‘That’s right,’ Norreys agreed. ‘I’d throw the corpse into the woods and tie the head to a branch. Do you know, Sir Hugh, it was like being exorcised or shriven in church? The dreams stopped. I felt purified.’ Norreys smiled, a gleaming look in his eyes. ‘I felt like a boy jumping off a rock into a deep, clear pooclass="underline" washed clean.’ He paused, staring at a point above Corbett’s head.
Corbett breathed in deeply, straining his ears. Oh God, he prayed, where’s Ranulf? He looked down the passageway behind Norreys but he could see nothing.
‘Then you killed again?’ Corbett asked.
‘Of course I did,’ Norreys smirked. ‘It’s like wine, Sir Hugh. You drink it, you taste and feel the warmth in your belly. The days passed and I needed that warmth again. And who cared? The city is full of beggars — men with no past and no future: the flotsam and jetsam of this world.’
‘They had souls,’ Corbett replied, wishing Norreys wouldn’t press so hard with the sword. ‘They were men and, above all, they were innocent: their blood cries to God for vengeance,’
Norreys shifted and Corbett knew he had made a mistake.
‘God, Sir Hugh? My God died in Wales. What vengeance? What are you going to do, Sir Hugh? Cry out? Beg for mercy?’
‘I’ll be missed.’
‘Oh, of course you will be. I’ll take your corpse out. I promise I’ll do it differently. There are marshes deep in the woods. The fires of hell will have grown cold by the time your corpse is found. I have thought it all out. Your death will be blamed on the Bellman. The King’s soldiers will come into Oxford and those pompous, arrogant bastards across the lane will take the blame. Sparrow Hall will be closed but the hostelry will continue.’ He saw Corbett shift his gaze. ‘Oh, what are you waiting for? Your cat-footed friend? I locked the cellar door. You are alone, Sir Hugh.’ He cocked his head sideways. ‘But what made you suspect me?’
‘My servant, the one who died, is his blood on your hands?’
Norreys shook his head.
‘He said he’d knocked his shin against a bucket,’ Corbett continued as he glimpsed a shadow move further down the passageway. ‘I wondered why the Master of the hostelry, a place not known for its cleanliness, should be washing the cellar floor. You were removing the blood stains, weren’t you? And then I began to reflect how the corpses bore no mark of being hunted through the forest, how beggars might come here seeking alms, bread and water, how the cellars were deep; and I recalled your work as a speculator in Wales. Of course, as a steward, you had every right to go out in your cart to buy produce in the surrounding villages. No one would be suspicious, no one would stop you.’
Norreys pointed a finger at him. ‘You are a good hunting dog!’
‘You took the corpses out and left them with the heads dangling from branches. No one would notice the dark stain in a barrel built to contain wine, the lid firmly nailed down. Whilst I, the King’s hunting dog, was here, you stopped your slaughter. You knew I was curious so you washed the killing places and Maltote hit his shin against a bucket.’
‘Anything else?’
‘You dropped a button …’
‘Ah! I wondered …’
‘And there’s thin gravel here. I found traces of it on the beggar’s clothing.’
‘I thought you had found something,’ Norreys jibed. ‘I followed you down here …’
‘I will make you an offer,’ Corbett interrupted, for Ranulf was not very close.
Norreys’s eyes widened.
‘In the passageway behind you,’ Corbett continued, ‘is my servant, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. Before he became a clerk, Ranulf was a night stalker. He can open any lock and move like a ghost.’
Norreys shook his head, his sneer dying at the click of a crossbow behind him.
‘You can take your sword away,’ Corbett said softly, ‘and stand trial before the King’s justices.’
‘I could kill you.’ Norreys smiled but his gaze faltered.
Corbett brought his hand up slowly, pressing against the sword blade: he relaxed — it wasn’t sharp, merely a sticking iron.
‘You can accept my offer,’ Corbett remarked.
Norreys, however, was more concerned at Ranulf behind him.
‘Or Ranulf can kill you!’
Corbett suddenly knocked the sword away, rolling forwards. Norreys was up. Ranulf came into the light. Corbett heard the whirr of a crossbow bolt and Norreys staggered, dropping his sword, clutching at the bolt in his chest. The look of surprise was still on his face even as Ranulf seized his hair, pulled back his head and, with one swift slash, cut his throat. Ranulf knocked Norreys to the ground and crouched down beside Corbett. The clerk closed his eyes and drew nearer to the wall, drawing deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding of his heart.
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ Ranulf grinned. ‘The lock was rusty and stiff and, for a few moments, I lost my way.’ He helped Corbett to his feet. ‘Do you know what I would do, Master? I’d leave this bloody place!’ He kicked Norreys’s corpse with his boot. ‘I’d ride like the wind to Woodstock and obtain the King’s warrant to arrest everyone in both the hostelry and the Hall until this matter is finished.’
Corbett pushed him gently away and leaned against the wall.
This is a nightmare, he thought, glancing around. Dark, slimy passageways, flickering candlelight, the blood-soaked corpse of a murderer. Was this how it would end? Would Ranulf, one day, not be at hand? Or would he meet an assassin unlike the others, who killed silently and speedily, not bothering to boast about his exploits? Corbett picked up his dagger and re-sheathed it. Ranulf wiped his own blade on Norreys’s jerkin, picked up the crossbow and helped Corbett down the passageway. At the foot of the steps Corbett paused. He felt calmer though very cold.
‘You are right,’ he murmured. ‘Pack our bags, Ranulf. We’ll leave here and go to the Merry Maidens. Hire a chamber but don’t tell anyone where we are.’ He staggered up the steps and pulled open the door. ‘I’m not going back to that room.’
For a while Corbett sat on a bench, his face in his hands. A servitor came to ask if all was well, and whether Sir Hugh knew where Master Norreys was …
Corbett lifted his head and the man took one look at the clerk’s pale, angry face and hurried off. Ranulf came down, saddlebags over his shoulder and arms. They walked out into the lane. Corbett felt as if he was in a dream. He allowed Ranulf to guide him through streets, pushing away beggars. On one occasion Corbett had to stop because the sound and smells made him feel dizzy. However, by the time they reached the Merry Maidens, Corbett had regained his wits. Still cold and tired he sat in front of a weak fire in the taproom whilst Ranulf hired a chamber, and some food, roast pheasant in an oyster sauce. Ranulf remained silent and just watched as Corbett ate sparingly, drank two bowls of claret and told him about Norreys.