‘Remember, man, that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return!’
Ranulf looked over his shoulder at the small chink of light from the anchorite’s window.
‘For death shall come!’ the anchorite intoned. ‘Sprung like a trap upon every living soul upon the earth!’
‘Go to your prayers, old woman!’ Ranulf shouted back.
‘And I pray for you,’ Magdalena retorted. ‘Passerel prayed here but he died: the assassin slid in like a viper, with not a sound, even when he stumbled against the iron boot bar just within the door. So pray!’
‘I need your prayers,’ Ranulf briskly replied.
He stared down the long nave of the church at the huge cross which hung above the high altar. He was reflecting on what the anchorite had said when he heard a sound and turned, but it was only a rat climbing out of the parish coffin that stood on a set of trestles in the transept. Ranulf ran a finger round his lips. He found it difficult to pray for himself, never mind poor Maltote. He shifted slightly to the left so he could see the statue of the Virgin and Child where it stood before a lighted oil lamp to the left of the high altar. Ranulf found it hard to recite the Ave Maria: what memories did he have of motherhood except of a foul-tempered woman who slapped him on his face and threw him out into the streets? One day Ranulf had returned and found her dead of the pestilence. He had just stood and watched as the corpse collectors came and took her off in a barrow to join the rest of the bodies in the great lime pits outside Charterhouse.
The sacristy door opened and Father Vincent came out. He genuflected before the rood screen and came down the church. Ranulf rose to meet him, not wishing to startle the priest.
‘Who is it?’ Father Vincent stopped, peering through the darkness.
‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’
‘I thought I heard a noise,’ Father Vincent said. He jingled the keys in his hands. ‘I must lock up now.’ He came closer and saw the book Ranulf was carrying. ‘You are at your devotions, sir?’
‘He’s praying!’ Magdalena shouted. ‘He’s praying for God’s judgement on Sparrow Hall!’
‘It’s the Confessions,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘St Augustine’s Confessions. I borrowed it from the library at Sparrow Hall.’
The priest took the book and weighed it in his hands. ‘Will this help you catch the assassin?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’m not here for that, Father. I came to pray.’
‘And do you want me to hear your confession?’ The priest’s tired, old eyes held those of Ranulf’s. ‘Do you want to be shriven, Ranulf-atte-Newgate?’
‘I have many sins, Father.’
‘Nothing can be refused absolution,’ the priest replied.
‘I have lusted. I have wenched. I have drunk.’ Ranulf took the book back. ‘And, above all, Father, I have killed. I killed a man this afternoon.’
The priest stepped back.
‘It was in self defence,’ Ranulf explained. ‘I had to kill him, Father.’
‘If that is so,’ Father Vincent replied, ‘there is no sin.’
‘And I intend to kill again,’ Ranulf added. ‘I intend to hunt down my friend’s assassin and carry out an execution.’
‘That must be done by the due process of law,’ the priest hastily replied.
‘I will kill him, Father.’
The priest crossed himself. ‘Then I cannot give you absolution, my son.’
‘No, Father, I don’t suppose you can.’ Ranulf genuflected and, without a backward glance, walked out of the church.
Corbett sat at his desk and pulled the two fat tallow candles closer so they bathed the piece of parchment in front of him in their light. Outside in the yard, dogs yapped at the moon. Now and again the sounds of revelry and drinking could be heard from the taproom below. Corbett had opened the shutters. The night air was soft, warm, mingling the smell of the yard with the more fragrant odours from the kitchen and herb garden. Corbett felt uneasy. He stared down at the blank piece of vellum and tried to marshal his thoughts.
‘What have we here?’ he whispered. He dipped his quill into the ink pot.
Item — The self-proclaimed Bellman nails his letters to the doors of churches and Halls all over Oxford. Vicious attacks on the King but who, apart from the King, really cares?
Item — which of the masters from Sparrow Hall could move so quickly round Oxford? Tripham? Appleston? Surely not Barnett who seems to spend his life torn between sin and penance for it? Or the Lady Mathilda, with her cane tapping on the cobbles? Or the silent Master Moth? Yet he seems witless and unable to read? Item — Ascham knew something. What book was he looking for? Why did he write ‘PASSER…’ in his own blood as he lay dying? And why was Passerel killed so silently in St Michael’s church?
Corbett lifted his quill. Ranulf had gone there, saying he needed to pray. Corbett hoped he’d be safe. He smiled grimly as he recalled Ranulf’s cold ruthlessness when dealing with Norreys.
Item — Langton? Why was he poisoned? And why was he carrying a warning letter to myself?
Item — All these deaths are the work of the Bellman. But why?
Corbett put the pen down and rubbed his face. He looked at the hour candle but it was so battered Corbett could hardly distinguish the hour marks. He rose, took off his jerkin, crossed himself and lay down on the bed. He would rest for a while and, when Ranulf returned, continue with his work. He thought of Maeve, Eleanor and Uncle Morgan at Leighton. Perhaps Maeve would be in the solar talking to her uncle? Or in her bed chamber? Maeve always took so long to come to bed, her mind constantly busy, getting things ready for the following day. Corbett closed his eyes, determined to sleep only for a short while.
When he awoke the shutters were closed and the candles doused. Ranulf lay fast asleep in his bed near the door. Corbett heard sounds from the yard below. He opened the shutters and was momentarily dazzled by the sunlight.
‘God have mercy,’ he murmured, ‘but I slept well and deep.’
‘Gone into the west,’ Ranulf joked as he threw his blankets off the bed. ‘I was back before midnight, Master. The taproom was empty. You were sleeping like the dead.’
Ranulf realised what he had said and apologised. He went down the passageway and came back with a fresh jug of water. Corbett decided not to shave but washed himself hurriedly. He changed his shirt and linen and, leaving Ranulf to his own ablutions, went down to the deserted taproom. He was half-way through a bowl of hot broth when Bullock strode into the room snapping his fingers.
‘Sir Hugh, you had better come! And you!’ he barked at Ranulf who had just come down the stairs. ‘We’ve found the Bellman!’
Corbett pushed away the bowl and jumped up.
‘The Bellman? How?’
‘Follow me!’
They hurried after him into the street, Ranulf running back for their war belts. He caught them up just as they entered the lane leading to Sparrow Hall.
‘Who is it?’ Corbett clutched at the Sheriff’s sleeve.
‘It’s Appleston. You know, de Montfort’s bastard son!’
‘And you have proof?’
‘All the proof in the world,’ the Sheriff retorted. ‘But much good it will do either him or you.’
Tripham, Churchley, Barnett and Lady Mathilda were waiting for them in the small parlour.
‘We found him just after dawn,’ Tripham bleated, getting to his feet, wringing his hands together. ‘So many deaths!’ he wailed. The Vice-Regent’s face was white and haggard. ‘So many deaths! So many deaths! The King will not accept this.’
‘Another murder,’ Corbett asked, staring round the group.
‘No murder,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘Appleston took the coward’s way out. Master Alfred Tripham will show you.’