Corbett spent the next three days going through de Montfort's accounts. They were really quite crude, written on pieces of parchment stitched together with heavy twine. They did not refer to the abbey but simply listed expenses, though a great deal of the money had been deposited with different bankers. Corbett idly wondered how many of these would admit to holding monies on behalf of the priest. The income fascinated him, coming as it did from several sources. One was minor: stipends, benefices, gifts from people and close relatives, nothing much, but a sharp contrast to the rest. Every quarter there were huge amounts, literally hundreds of pounds sterling in bags of silver from two places: Cathall Manor in Essex and from his property in London.
Corbett knew the secret of de Montfort's London houses but he wondered what was so special about Cathall. Corbett considered travelling there to find out but, after many journeys downstairs to inspect the weather, realized it could change again and he did not wish to be cut off in some village in Essex. Moreover, if the thaw continued, his letters would soon reach the sheriff and other officials in Essex and they would collect the necessary information on his behalf. He wondered about Ranulf's recent, fitful appearances; on one occasion to change his clothes, another to beg Corbett for some money which the clerk absentmindedly gave. He never enquired too much into Ranulf s whereabouts; he had told him blundy not to break the law and, apart from that, left him to his own conscience and confessor. Corbett had a shrewd idea, however, that Ranulf was a man totally dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh, having seen him flirt dangerously with other men's wives and daughters.
In this the clerk was correct, for Ranulf was busy pursuing the plump-haunched, arrogant young wife of a London mercer. He had wooed and pursued her for days and felt sure his quarry would be brought down. On that particular Sunday evening, however, Ranulf returned, minus one boot, to his lodgings in Bread Street. Corbett was too immersed in his own thoughts to pay much attention and Ranulf was not humble enough to admit that he had been in the lady's chamber preparing for a night of pleasure when her husband, reportedly away on business, had returned unexpectedly because of bad weather. Ranulf had had to flee, the anguished screams and the angry roars of the couple behind still ringing in his ears.
Ranulf slunk back to his lodgings, anxious lest his master interrogate him, but Corbett was still trying to reconstruct what had happened at the high altar of St Paul's.
First, he listed what each priest had worn: a white alb bound by a cord over which there was a chasuble; the thick gold jewel-encrusted cope displaying the colour of the day's feast; a matching stole round the neck and an amice. Corbett remembered the copes and chasubles he had seen in the cupboard in the sacristy of St Paul's, thick, heavy, encrusted with jewels.
Secondly, he looked at the plan of the celebrants that day. On the far right of de Montfort had been de Eveden and the Scotsman, Ettrick. On the far left the young man, Blaskett, de Luce and Plumpton. Once again Corbett traced the way the chalice would have been passed. First, up to Ettrick, and then back along to Plumpton, de Luce and Blaskett before it was returned by de Luce and Plumpton to de Montfort who had taken the fatal sip. According to de Eveden he had not drunk from the chalice. Corbett wondered whether to believe him. He was sure, during the feast after the mass at which de Montfort had died, he had seen de Eveden drinking. So was the librarian lying? If he was not, the logical explanation would be that the chalice had been poisoned by Blaskett or de Luce. But there again, Plumpton on de Montfort's left, could be the secret assassin. Moreover, de Eveden may not have drunk from the chalice, but that did not stop him from poisoning it.
Corbett looked again at the diagram. He tried to reconstruct the altar as he had seen it when the king had sent him back to assess everything. He had seen something odd which was now mysteriously plaguing him, something very wrong. He remembered the stains on the altar frontal and the wine on the carpet. His mind chased the problem. He felt like a dog, loose in a forest chasing shadows, nothing substantial, except there was something evil about St Paul's. Perhaps, as a good servant of the king, he should insist that the whole college of canons be investigated by the Bishop of London and have the evil rooted out, for there was something malevolent beyond the normal animosities, jealousies and rivalries one would find in any small, enclosed community.
Corbett spent most of Sunday evening attempting to solve the puzzle, but he failed to reach a satisfactory conclusion. At last, he put down his pen, opened the shutters of his room and looked out over the city. A heavy mist had rolled in across the Thames, blanketing out the sky so that he could only see the odd winking glare of a fire or the lights of lanterns placed outside doors by householders. He wanted this matter finished. He thought of Ranulf upstairs and envied the young man's exuberance for every waking moment. Corbett looked up, the same sky now shrouded Maeve in Wales. Suddenly he felt a tremendous longing for her, almost a hunger which made him feel ill. All he could think of was her sweet face, long blonde hair and the wide innocent eyes which could suddenly crinkle with amusement or flash with anger. He was tired of the city, of the filthy streets, the offal, the lay stalls thick with muck, the sluggish river, the arrogant courtiers, the bickering and in-fighting amongst the clerks and, above all, the animosity of the canons of St Paul: liars, lechers, men who should have been pursuing goodness but seemed to have lost their way. He felt impatient with the king who had put him to this task: a man intent on power, who honoured Corbett only because Corbett had served him well. Yet, all the clerk really wanted was to be in a lonely room in Neath Castle overlooking the wild seas, seated before a fire with Maeve in his arms. In his garret, Ranulf, busy congratulating himself on his rapid and lucky escape from the mercer's wife's bedroom, heard the faint lilting sound of the flute. He knew Corbett was sad and wished he could help. The playing went on into the early morning before it fell silent and only then did Ranulf know that his master had found some peace in sleep.
Corbett slept late the next morning, until he was abruptly woken by a pounding on the door below. Throwing a cloak round him, he hurried down and opened it. The mists outside swirled and boiled like steam from a cauldron. At first, he could see no-one.
'Who is there?' he called out and leapt back as a muddied figure, with a cut on his face, stepped into the house. At first the thought of a secret assassin crossed Corbett's mind but the man pulled back a rain-soaked hood and let the cloak fall from his shoulders.
'Master Corbett?'
'The same.'
'I am John Enderby, messenger from the Sheriff of Essex.' He handed a small scroll to Corbett, who instantly broke the red-and-white encrusted seal. The letter consisted of only four lines: the sheriff sent Corbett health and greetings; the information he had sent would be given to him by his messenger, John Enderby, the bearer of this letter.
Corbett crumpled the parchment in his hands. 'Please follow me.'
Enderby followed him up the stairs and, once Corbett had made him comfortable, the man delivered his message.
'The sheriff,' he said, 'was sorry he could not give a full written report but that would have taken more time. Suffice to say that the sheriff's men went to the manor of Cathall where they had found Walter de Montfort's steward, Thomas, dead; his throat had been cut. His wife Katherine had been raped a number of times by a notorious outlaw band, led by Robert Fitzwarren. They had apparently come to the manor to meet Thomas and, because of some quarrel, had cut his throat and raped the poor woman until she was half-crazed. The sheriff's men were able to calm Katherine, whereupon she confessed to the most extraordinary story. How the same outlaw Fitzwarren had raided convoys of travellers, traders and merchants on the roads leading out of London into Essex. Fitzwarren's plunder, however, was passed on to the Dean of St Paul's, who had sold it in the market-place of London and divided the money with the outlaw leader. On the day de Montfort died, his steward had been present in the congregation of St Paul's, having come to London to settle business on behalf of the outlaw. Because of his master's death, however, the steward was unable to conclude this business and returned empty-handed to the manor of Cathall. There, the outlaws, disappointed and frustrated, had taken out their rage on Thomas and his wife.'
'The Sheriff added,' Enderby wearily related, 'that although the woman was half crazed, a search of the house had revealed certain goods taken months earlier from a merchant. The sheriff sent his greetings and good wishes to His Grace and hoped the information would be of use.'
Corbett made Enderby repeat the story a number of times, satisfying himself on certain details before calling Ranulf down and instructing him to take Enderby to a nearby tavern to find him lodgings, before the messenger's return to Essex. Once he was gone, Corbett lay on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head, and once again considered de Montfort's death. So far, he had concentrated solely on the canons of St Paul's but there were others who would wish him dead. The courtesan had said this and she had also been present. Did Thomas, the steward, have a hand in this? Did he in fact kill his master? Was the king totally blameless? After all, and Corbett had consistently overlooked this fact, the king hated the de Montfort family. There were yet others who, if they had known de Montfort had been bought, would have gladly destroyed him. Was Robert Winchelsea, His Reverence the Archbishop of Canterbury, above murder? Corbett would have liked to think so but, having spent some time with the canons of St Paul's, believed priests and bishops were as capable of murder as any member of the laity. Finally, there were the barons. Corbett had heard rumours, about how the barons were gathering, plotting in secret meetings, trying to resist Edward's demands to follow him abroad.
Corbett let the questions swirl round his mind until he returned to the nagging half-memory of what he had seen on the altar. He had to concentrate on this matter, try and resolve it and perhaps some progress would be made. Accordingly, when Ranulf returned, Corbett asked him to go to St Paul's to seek out Sir Philip Plumpton and ask the canon, on the king's orders, to meet Corbett on the high altar once nones were completed. After that Corbett penned a short letter to the king describing what he had done and admitting that he had made little progress in the matter. He hoped the king would not be at Westminster when the message arrived. This would give him more time; for, if the king was displeased, he would simply send a curt order instructing Corbett to show some fruits of his hard labour.
The clerk spent the rest of the afternoon in his chamber thinking over the details and the facts he had garnered about de Montfort's death. He became resdess and would have gone out if it had not been for the cold mist seeping in through the chinks and cracks of the shutters. So he stayed inside, warming himself by the brazier. Corbett wrote a short message to Maeve, saying how much he missed her and hoped that spring would soon come so that he could see her again. He tried to joke about warming his heart and soul on the fires of her love and hoped it wouldn't read as clumsily as it sounded.
Ranulf returned and announced that he was going to the city. Corbett nodded absent-mindedly and let him go. Once his servant had clattered down the stairs, Corbett took up his flute, but only played a few notes before throwing it onto his bed. He opened the trunk at the bottom of his bed and took out a small leather pouch. Inside was Maeve's letter, now some four months old. The ivory-white vellum was beginning to turn slighdy yellow but the handwriting was still as firm, curved and well formed as any scribe's. The halting phrases seemed to reflect the passion which existed between them.
My dearest Hugh [it began],
Affairs in Wales and around the castle of Neath are still not setded. My uncle says he is ill and has taken to his bed. He is as good an actor as any in a mummer's play. The countryside around is turning a golden yellow as summer fades and autumn begins. Strange that at such times of the year, partings from loved ones are all the more bitter. I miss you now more than ever. Every day, every waking moment, I think of your face, and would love to kiss your eyes and mouth. You must smile more, my serious clerk, the sun does rise and set without your leave. The shadows in your mind are nothing but dust on the leaf or wind through the trees. Yet I know you constantly live on the edge of darkness. Soon the night will be over, I shall be with you and the sun will always shine. I long for your touch. God keep you safe.
Your lover, Maeve.
Corbett sighed as he rolled the letter up again and placed it in his pocket. Then he smiled, for he must have read the letter at least twice a day. He heard the wind howl outside and wished the iron-hard winter would break and Maeve would come. A knock on the door made him jump. He slid his hand under the bolster of the bed, his fingers touching the ice-cold handle of the dagger which lay there.
'Come in,' he snapped. The door swung open; Ranulf stood there, his hair wet, a bruise under his left eye. In his arms he held a bundle, cradling it clumsily like a bulky parcel.
'Come in!' Corbett repeated peevishly.
Ranulf, his face white with shock, his eyes glazed as if he had seen some terrible vision, walked slowly into the room like some sleep-walking dreamer. Wordlessly, he stretched out his hands, offering Corbett the bundle. The clerk took it apprehensively as the bundle stirred.
'It's a boy,' Ranulf murmured. 'A boy.'
Corbett pulled aside the edge of the tattered shawl and stared dumbstruck at what he saw, before bursting into peals of laughter and slumping on the bed. The baby, angry at being so rudely woken, flickered open his eyes and extended his mouth for one great bellow. The small pink face crumpled into a red mask and the tiny fists clenched on his chest, as the baby gave full vent to his fury. The cry seemed to shake Ranulf from his trance. He stood, arms dangling by his side, hopping from one foot to another, a look of abject horror on his face. Corbett controlled his laughter and gendy cradled the baby in his arms. The infant, lips pursed, stopped his bawling and looked up speculatively at the clerk as if expecting some reward for its silence. Corbett rapped out a few instructions to Ranulf, who clattered downstairs to the buttery to bring back a bowl of warmed milk and a clean linen cloth. Corbett took the cloth and dipped it into the milk for the lusty infant to suck noisily.
'You are not,' the clerk began, 'to claim this is not yours,
Ranulf.' He looked down at the baby, the wisps of sandy hair, the small cleft chin, the dimple in the left cheek. If Corbett had found the baby in the street, he would have immediately recognized it as Ranulf's. Corbett made his servant pour two goblets of wine whilst the baby began positively to gnaw at the milk-soaked rag. After a few gulps of wine, the bemused father was calmer, more prepared to explain. He had gone out for a night's pleasure but, unfortunately, the father and elder brother of one of his earlier conquests had been waiting for him. A furious altercation ensued. Ranulf received a sharp blow to the face and his offspring was unceremoniously dumped into his arms. He gazed fearfully at his master.
'What, Master,' he muttered, 'are we going to do?' Corbett noted the word 'we' and glared at his servant. Some time soon, he really must have a quiet but very firm talk with this young man, who threatened to turn the house into a home for foundlings. The 'younger Ranulf, now angry at the cloth being drained of its milk, was beginning to look dangerously round the room trying to seek out the cause of his discomfort. Corbett hastily soaked the rag again and popped it into the infant's small extended mouth. 'Ranulf the younger' gripped it firmly and began to chew as vigorously as a young puppy.
The father, now beaming with smug pride at his young offspring, edged closer.
'What are we to do, Master Corbett?'
Corbett gently handed Ranulf his new-found son and, rising, went across to the trunk. He opened it, pulled out a clinking bag of coins and placed them gently into his servant's hands. He then took a writing tray and scribbled a hasty note, sealed it and handed it over to Ranulf.
'Look,' he said quietly, 'neither of us can care for this child. It has been baptized?'
Ranulf beamed and nodded.
'You,' Corbett continued wearily, 'are unable to look after yourself let alone an infant. God knows, you would probably lose the child the first time you took it out the door. You are to take this note to Adam Fenner, a cloth merchant in Candlewick Street. He and his wife have been longing for a child. They will look after this one, provide it with every necessity and positively spoil it with love and affection. They will let you see the child whenever you so wish.' He smiled sadly at Ranulf. 'Am I not right?'
Ranulf nodded, blinking vigorously to hide the tears welling up in his eyes. He scooped up the soft bundle.
'I am going to rename him Hugh,' he announced and quietly left the room.
Corbett heard his heavy footfalls on the stairs and silently despaired at Ranulf's innate penchant for mischief, shuddering to think that both father and son were now his responsibility. He then grinned at the thought for, once Maeve heard the news, she would shriek with laughter and tease Ranulf mercilessly.
Corbett wished he could look after the child, or return to his place at the Chancery, until Maeve arrived, and continue the work he did there every day, instead of walking in the sewer of human ambitions, greed, lechery and murder which surrounded de Montfort's death. Eventually, tired and weary, Corbett removed his boots and lay on his bed. He looked up into the darkness and waited for his servant to return, pretending to be asleep when Ranulf lifted the latch to his chamber and stealthily entered. His servant, taking a cloak from a bench, placed it carefully over his master and, extinguishing the candle, tiptoed out. Corbett smiled ruefully. He knew Ranulf and Ranulf knew him. His servant would know his master would never fall asleep with the candle lit but they both pretended. Corbett wondered how much more of his life would be pretence. Would it always go on like this? At last, his mind tired of whirling round, chasing shadows, dredging up memories, fell into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning Corbett, regretting his idleness of the previous day, rose and busied himself. Ranulf was roused and sent to Westminster with two letters: the first to the king; the second, Corbett hoped a royal messenger would deliver to Maeve, some time over the next few weeks. He instructed Ranulf to meet him at The Standard in Cheapside and, as his servant ran down the stairs, Corbett condnued with his other tasks. There were provisions to be bought, matters to be dealt with. Finally, having dressed and armed himself, he wrapped a heavy, military cloak around him, went downstairs and out into Bread Street.
The city was still covered with a thick mist which made the figures he passed seem like phantasms from a dream. Underfoot, the ground was now slippery and ice-hard. Corbett stayed in the middle of the street and tried to avoid the hard-packed snow which was still falling off the roofs, whilst making every attempt not to slip into the sewer which ran down the middle. Corbett soon found walking was now a very dangerous occupation. He stopped to help a fat-bottomed mercer's wife who had slipped onto her backside, a look of absolute amazement on her face. She would have sat there for the whole day, being taunted by urchins, had Corbett not come to help her. He strolled onto Cheapside and, turning right, entered the church of St Mary-le-Bow.
Corbett remembered the church when its doors and windows had been covered up with briars and the main gate barred. The whole place was excommunicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury, because it had been the headquarters of a satanic coven plotting against the king. Corbett recalled all this as he entered the church, fleetingly remembering Alice who had led the coven and with whom he had become deeply infatuated. He thought of her dark face and secretive eyes, realizing with a pang how the passage of years had still not really healed that wound. Now, however, St Mary's was different: clean, freshly painted, with new rectors installed and the school there recognized. It was now Corbett's parish church. In fact, he belonged to its fraternity of Corpus Christi, a society including aldermen, mercers, merchants and tradesmen, who had joined together for social and religious reasons. Corbett paid money every year for a chancery priest to sing masses for the repose of the souls of his wife and child and, though they did not know it, for the soul of Alice-atte-Bow, the leader of the satanic coven.
Corbett chatted to the priest, ensured all was well and became involved in a brief debate with one of the aldermen of the ward. London was divided into wards; it had twelve such, each with an alderman who supervized most of the secular and religious affairs in his quarter. Each person living there had to pay a tax. Corbett, although he could well afford it, had always resisted this because, by royal ordinance, clerks, together with knights and squires, were exempted from the levy. The alderman, however, was now insisting Corbett should pay for Ranulf; but the clerk evaded the issue claiming that because Ranulf was an apprentice-at-law he should also be excluded from this local tax. The alderman regretfully agreed. Corbett, however, failed to add that Ranulf s knowledge of the law was honoured more in the breach than in its observance. He also neglected to mention Ranulf s new addition to the ward.