‘I’ll sleep for a while,’ Corbett concluded. ‘Go back to Sparrow Hall, Ranulf and tell Master Tripham what has happened. Wake me just as the bells ring for Vespers.’
Corbett went up to his chamber. A tapster went before him carrying the fresh sheets and bolsters Ranulf had ordered. The room was a simple, whitewashed cell with a rickety table and two stools, but the beds were comfortable and clean. Once the tapster had changed the sheets, Corbett bolted the door, crawled into the bed, pulling the blankets over him, and fell into a deep sleep.
Corbett slept for an hour. When he woke, his hand went to the dagger on the floor until he remembered where he was. He tossed the blankets off, got up and washed. He felt better and, going down to the taproom, found Ranulf engaged in a game of hazard. His servant winked at him, pocketed his winnings and followed Corbett out into the small herb garden behind the inn.
‘Do you feel better?’
‘Aye.’ Corbett stretched. ‘It happened so quickly, Ranulf. You are hunting a murderer and, before you know it, the bastard’s hunting you. You have told Tripham?’
‘There’s chaos at Sparrow Hall,’ Ranulf replied.
‘Chaos!’
‘Bullock has removed Norreys’s corpse to the market cross in Broad Street. He’s hung it on a gibbet as a warning to other would-be murderers.’
‘And what are the rest of the Masters doing?’
‘They are virtually prisoners in their own Hall. They remind me of sparrows caught in a cage.’
Corbett smiled at the pun.
‘If I had my way …!’ Bullock bellowed as he strode out into the garden.
‘I told him where we were,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘If I had my way,’ the Sheriff repeated, hitching his great, leather belt further up his ponderous girth, ‘I’d have all the buggers arrested and thrown in the dungeons!’ He stared at Corbett. ‘That was stupid, Sir Hugh. You could have ended up pickled in a barrel!’
‘I needed to search for proof and I suspected Norreys would follow me.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘But that’s over now and we must concentrate on Sparrow Hall.’
‘Once the curfew sounds,’ Bullock retorted, ‘there’ll be more soldiers round Sparrow Hall and that hostelry than flies on a dung heap. I’m also leaving men in the street outside; I thought I’d tell you.’ The Sheriff spun on his heel and walked back to the tavern.
‘What now, Master?’
‘I don’t know, Ranulf.’
Corbett looked up at the sky, which was still shot red from the setting sun. He wafted his hand against the gnats which had begun to swarm despite the bowls of vinegar that had been placed along the garden path.
‘The Bellman will not strike again, at least not against us. Old beggars will no longer be slaughtered in the cellars of the hostelry.’ He heard laughter, followed by the sound of a young boy breaking into a carol in a chamber high in the tavern. ‘You were playing hazard?’
Ranulf threw the dice from hand to hand. ‘Yes, and I wasn’t cheating.’
Corbett placed his hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I owe you my life.’
His servant glanced away.
‘How are you finding the Confessions of Augustine?’
‘Difficult but thought-provoking.’
‘So, we’ll see a new Ranulf, eh?’ Corbett steered him back towards the tavern door. ‘No more maidens in distress. And the aged goldsmiths of London will sleep more peacefully in their beds, eh?’
They entered the taproom and Corbett called across for wine. Ranulf thought Corbett would go up to his chamber but, surprisingly, the clerk joined a group of scholars sitting in the far corner. One of them had a tame badger and was busily feeding it drops of mead which the creature greedily guzzled.
‘Have you had it long?’ Corbett asked.
The scholar looked up. ‘Since it was a cub. I found it wandering in Christ Church meadows. They say it brings luck.’
‘And has it?’ Corbett asked, sitting down.
‘Well, it’s drinking my mead.’ The scholar looked enviously at Corbett’s brimming cup so the clerk called the tapster over.
‘The same for my companions!’ he ordered.
‘You are not interested in badgers, are you?’ the scholar asked slyly.
‘No, I’m not,’ Corbett replied. ‘Tell me, have you heard of the Bellman and his proclamations?’
‘I have heard a lot of things, sir: of deaths at Sparrow Hall and in the hostelry.’
‘But you have read the Bellman’s proclamations?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I’ve glanced at them.’ The scholar waved round to his companions. ‘As have we all.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
The fellow gathered the tame badger into his arms and sat stroking him gently.
‘It’s much ado about little, sir. What do we care for de Montfort? It’s the work of some trickster or madman. You’ll not get the scholars arming themselves and marching on Woodstock.’
‘And that’s the general feeling?’
‘I read the proclamations only because they were posted on the door of Wyvern Hall,’ the scholar replied. ‘But, to answer you bluntly, sir, I couldn’t care whether the Bellman lives or dies.’
Corbett thanked him, placed a coin on the table to buy more mead for the badger and, followed by a curious Ranulf, returned to his chamber.
‘What was all that about?’ Ranulf asked, slamming the door.
‘It’s something we’ve overlooked,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Let’s go back to that day at Leighton Manor. Edward arrives full of rage at the Bellman’s proclamations, all the nightmares about de Montfort springing fresh in his soul. The King cares so we have to care — after all we are the King’s most faithful servants, his royal clerks. We come to Oxford and we make the mistake of entering the Bellman’s world. However, as I was standing out in the garden, staring up at the sky, I recalled something you said at the hostelry. What does it really matter? Who really cares? And the scholar downstairs, the young man with the badger, proves it.’ He glimpsed the look of puzzlement in Ranulfs eyes. ‘Read your Augustine: reality is only what we perceive. Augustine perceived God, and suddenly all his former realities — lechery, revelry, drinking and women — disappeared.’ Corbett settled further back on the bed. ‘Who knows, the same might happen to Ranulf-atte-Newgate. It is the same with the King: De Montfort is a demon that haunts his soul — to him the Bellman poses a terrible threat to his crown and his rule.’
‘But in reality?’
‘The reality,’ Corbett continued, ‘is that people don’t care. De Montfort’s been dead for almost forty years: the Bellman is aiming directly at the King. We have got to pose Cicero’s question: “Cui bono?” What is the profit to the Bellman for all his hard and dangerous work? What is he trying to achieve? He won’t excite rebellion. He’ll not have armies marching on London and Westminster. So what is his purpose?’
‘To settle scores?’ Ranulf queried.
‘But why? Why now? Why the murders? The attack on me? The growing chaos at Sparrow Hall?’ Corbett picked at a loose thread on the blanket. ‘They have had their warning,’ he added softly.
‘Warning, Master?’
‘Chaos,’ Corbett replied. ‘The Bellman seems bent on bloody mayhem and, if that’s the case, believe me, Ranulf, before we are much older, there will be another murder at Sparrow Hall!’
Chapter 12
Ranulf sat just inside the church of St Michael. He crouched at the base of a pillar and stared across at the side chapel, disturbed by the colourful painting there. The church was dark except for two lighted candles, which glowed like the eyes of some beast lurking in the gloom. The candles lit up the lurid wall painting of Christ at the Last Judgement, coming with his angels to pronounce eternal doom, life or damnation. Ghostly skeletons, clothed in shrouds, lifted their hands in supplication to angels swooping above them, swords raised. On Christ’s left, goats ridden by fleshless hags mixed with demons, swarming for the last harrowing of souls before the doors to eternity closed for ever.