The next morning Corbett was awake long before the bells of the city churches began to toll for prime. It was a grey, misty morning and more snow had fallen during the night. Corbett, who could now afford to have his windows glazed, was glad he had fitted new wooden shutters, a second barrier against the ever piercing wind. His chamber was simple, albeit spacious and the plaster walls were covered with worsted hangings of red, green and blue. A large oaken cupboard kept cups and a collection of plate. There was a table-board over a pair of trestles, a bench, a stool, a heavy carved high-backed chair with arms and scarlet cushion. Corbett had cleared the floor of rushes and straw, those harbourers of dirt and disease, and spent precious gold on a thick heavy Persian carpet, an object of envy to his few visitors. Most of the room was taken up with the broad oak-carved bed, now draped with a dark blue coverlet and surrounded by heavy serge curtains, there not only to maintain privacy but also a protection against the biting cold.
Corbett had already lit the charcoal brazier, ever anxious lest a spark escape and start a fire. He took the same care with a chafing-dish set on a table to heat the room and a silver candelabra which bore four candles, each of which now flickered, giving off some meagre warmth and light. From beneath the bed Corbett pulled an iron-studded trunk and, undoing the locks, pulled out his warmest shirts, robes, leggings and a stout pair of walking boots. He also took out a belt he had owned since the Welsh wars and, pulling out another trunk, slipped a long wicked Welsh dagger and a thin rapier into two sheaths. He crossed to the laver stand holding a basin and towels and washed his face and hands, quietly cursing the cold. Once finished, he secured the trunk, pushing it back under the bed, extinguished the fire and lights and, looking once more around his chamber, left, going up a further flight of stairs to a small room beneath the roof where Ranulf slept.
His servant's garret was totally disordered and Corbett grinned mirthlessly. He remembered the previous night, tramping round most of St Paul's looking for his servant, only to find him drunk as a stoat in one of the outer kitchens. Ranulf had gorged himself on the leavings of the feast and drunk flagon after flagon of wine, openly boasting about his own greatness and the silver he might give to a pretty kitchen maid he was inveigling into spending the night with him. Cursing and yelling he had been dragged by Corbett out into the cold, along the dark narrow alleyways back to Bread Street. Ranulf had threatened his master, accusing him of being a summoner and refusing him any pleasures. Corbett had dragged him along, brutally ignoring his protestations. Only twice did he stop: once to allow Ranulf to be sick; the other to douse him in a horse trough. The icy-cold water had helped to bring Ranulf to his senses, though by the time they had reached Bread Street, Ranulf had fallen into a stupor and his master had to drag him up the stairs and toss him onto his trestle bed.
Corbett had warned him time and again not to drink to excess and to watch his tongue. Now he would emphasize the lesson. He picked up an ewer of ice-cold water and poured it slowly over Ranulf s tousled head. The servant woke gasping, spluttering, cursing and, if it had not been for the look in Corbett's eyes, Ranulf would certainly have struck the clerk full in the face.
'You are, Master Clerk,' he rasped through clenched teeth, 'a most cruel man.'
'And you Master Ranulf,' Corbett jibed in reply, 'are a most stupid man. I have ordered you on a number of occasions, whenever we are on the king's business to watch what you drink, because if your tongue wags when it shouldn't, it may well cost us our lives, not to mention being arrested by Serjeants of the king's court on some charge of treason!'
Corbett jerked Ranulf roughly out of bed. The fellow was still fully dressed except for his boots, and Corbett made his servant sit on the edge of the bed and threw them at him.
'Put them on!' he ordered. 'Go downstairs. Relieve yourself in the street. Your stomach must be a cesspit now. I will not have you stinking the house out with your stale humours.'
Ranulf pulled on his boots, glared at the dark, tense face of his master and the narrow green cat-like eyes, and decided that revenge could wait. He would bide his timeand wait for his ever-sombre master to become maudlin-drunk in some tavern and serve back the same medicine. Ranulf clattered downstairs.
A little later, rather pleased he had followed Corbett's advice, Ranulf returned; but his master had not yet finished. He ordered Ranulf back up to his room to strip and wash and put on a fresh change of clothing. Only then, when both of them were dressed in woollen hose, long high boots, surcoat and hood, did they venture downstairs into the street.
Corbett had decided not to take their horses, stabled at a tavern further down Bread Street. Instead they would walk, for in some places the snow was knee-deep. The whole city looked as if it was under a carpet of white damask; underfoot the snow was frozen hard, while the ice, in huge jagged icicles, hung like tear-drops from the intricate gabled tiers of the houses. They turned into Cheapside. The busy thoroughfare, usually filled with stalls and shops, was deserted. The huge-framed merchant houses, built of strong thick oak and folded in with plaster three to four stories high, were all shuttered and covered in white except for those which bore the arms of the city shields of bright vermilion with a figure of St Paul in gold, the head, arms and feet of the saint in silver. The snow had slipped off these shields, making them blaze all the more fiercely against the whiteness. A friar, ghost-like, hurried by; his white robe would have made him blend with the snow but for the exquisite cope he wore round his shoulders which concealed the viaticum he carried to some sick person. Two tired boys, desperately attempting to keep their candles alight, preceded him.
To the left of Corbett, towering above the city, the huge sombre mass of St Paul's, snow still packed on its vaulted dome, made the clerk concentrate on his problems until, near exhausted by the snow, they reached the Shambles. Here carts took the offal, fat and other refuse from the butchers to be dumped in the Fleet River. One or two cartloads had already departed, leaving pools of red blood, and not even the snow could hide the terrible stench of the place. Faces turned against the biting wind, they passed the now open, double-barred gates of Newgate. Ranulf ceased his cursing for here, in the buildings around the gate, was the terrible prison where he had spent a night preparing to be hanged at Tyburn so many years ago. He felt his anger against Corbett ebb and, putting his head down to shield his face against the biting wind, he plodded on behind his master, wondering how long this terrible journey would last. They passed through the city gates; on the right the huge ditch, six feet deep and, in some places, seven yards wide, where the refuse of the city was dumped. In the summer, it would reek to high heaven but now, packed with ice, it served as a play area for a number of boys who, with shinbones fastened to their feet, were busy skating onto the ice. Beneath its frozen surface, Ranulf could see the corpses of dogs and cats and, he was sure, the perfectly formed body of a child.
Corbett and Ranulf moved across the open fields of Smithfield, past the charred execution block and towards the lofty pointed archway of St Bartholomew's hospital. The gate was open so they went in, following the immense walls; stables, smithies and other storehouses. The hospital itself, a long and huge hall, was approached by a flight of steps. Here, Corbett stopped a lay brother and asked to see Father Thomas. The old man nodded, gave a gap-toothed smile, the saliva drooling out from one corner of his mouth, and shuffled away. They waited at the top of the steps. Corbett could smell crushed herbs, spices and other substances he could not name. At last, a lanky, stooping figure came out of the doorway, hands extended, his face wreathed in smiles when he saw Corbett.
'Hugh, it is good to see you.' He put his arms round the clerk's shoulder, towering above him, as he gave Corbett a vice-like hug.
'Father Thomas,' Corbett said, 'may I introduce my servant and comrade,' he added caustically, 'Ranulf-atte-Newgate.'
Father Thomas bowed, his thin, narrow, horse-like face now solemn and courteous as if Corbett had just introduced him to the King of England. Father Thomas and Hugh had known each other since their student days at Oxford. The clerk had always admired this tall, ugly man with his friendly eyes and ever-smiling mouth. He had studied abroad in the hospitals of Paris and Salerno, and his knowledge of drugs and herbs could not be equalled.
Father Thomas ushered them into the long hall. It was clean and well swept; thick woollen coverings decorated the walls; the windows were boarded up with shutters and over these, to soften the austere look of the place, large multi-coloured drapes had been hung. On either side of the hall was a row of beds; beside each a stool, and at the foot a small leather trunk. Lay brothers and other priests moved quietly from bed to bed administering what remedies they could. Corbett believed most doctors did not relieve sickness, but at least, here, the brothers of St Bartholomew's made death comfortable and afforded it some dignity. Father Thomas led them through the hall to a small, white-washed chamber beyond, sparsely furnished with two tables, a bench, a few stools and a chafing-dish to warm the room. Along the walls were shelves filled with pots of crushed herbs, their fragrant smells even more delightful on such a cold wintry morning. Father Thomas made them sit, serving them mulled wine in wooden beakers. Ranulf found the wine hard to keep down although he was grateful for the hot spicy liquid. Once they were comfortable, Father Thomas went behind the table and, sitting down, leaned over, his face creased with concern.
'So, Hugh? Why do you wish to see me? Are you well?'
'I want to talk about poisons, Father Thomas,' Corbett replied, enjoying the shocked look in the priest's eyes.
He leaned over and tapped the priest's long bony fingers. 'Come now, Father,' he said, 'I am not here to make any confession. Nor do I normally discuss poisons, but tell me about the various types.'
Father Thomas grimaced and haltingly gave a list of poisons, the drugs from plants such as belladonna and foxglove. As he warmed to his subject, he provided detailed descriptions of each poison: how they were made; how they were to be administered; their side effects and possible antidotes. As he spoke, Ranulf, who found most of the terms difficult to understand, realized one thing: his secretive master believed the priest who had collapsed in St Paul's the previous day had been poisoned; he also understood that whoever had administered the poison had done so during the sacrifice of the mass, for all the deadly poisons Father Thomas described acted within minutes.
At last Father Thomas finished and Hugh nodded.
'You probably know why I have come?' Father Thomas shook his head and spread his hands.
'Here we have our own tasks, Hugh. I hear very little of what is going on,' he grinned, 'except your promotions. It's a long time, Hugh, since we were at college together. Oxford seems so far away. Strange,' he looked through the narrow-slitted window at the icy fields beyond, 'when you look back, how everything seems to have taken place at the height of summer? Do you know, I can never remember studying during the winter or when it was cold? The sun always seemed to shine.'
Hugh smiled, he quietly agreed. Whenever he thought back to his days at Oxford, or to his marriage to Mary, each day, each memory was always against a background of summer, of warm suns, lush green grass, trees moving gently in a soft breeze; the chatter of his little girl, the serene influence of his wife. Perhaps that was what the memories were for: to warm, bolster and strengthen you for the future.
Corbett shrugged, rose and, extending both hands towards Father Thomas, cupped the man's head in his hands, kissing him gently on the brow.
'Father Thomas,' he said, 'believe me. The paths I walk now, even though bounded by a wickedness you could not even comprehend, are made easier because of my friendship with you and the memories we share.'
Father Thomas rose, clasped Hugh's hand and, mildly protesting that the clerk did not come to see him often enough, led them back to the main gateway of the hospital.
Corbett, followed by a now grumbling Ranulf, began the long walk across Smithfield, back through Newgate. By now the city had come to life; booths were open and shop fronts, overhung with canvas to protect them against the inclement weather, were let down. A line of prisoners being taken from Newgate down to the King's Bench at Westminster passed them; they were shackled together with iron gyves around their ankles, wrists and necks, and made to trot through the snow. Some of them, young boys and girls, had no shoes or leg coverings and their cries were piteous as they scarred their feet on the hard ice and the rocky filth hidden beneath. A group of bawds, hauled in by the city bailiffs for walking the streets the previous evening, was being taken into the prison; their scarlet gowns and hoods were ripped and torn and white hats had been placed on their heads. A solitary bagpiper preceded them, whilst alongside shambled files of tired-looking soldiers who returned the obscene jokes or jests of the women with the occasional slap or coarsened oath. A beggar rushed out to Corbett, one eye missing, her nostrils eaten away by some terrible disease; she had a mewling infant clasped tightly to her breast. 'Ayez pitie! Ayez pitie!'
Corbett stopped. The woman knew Norman French. Once she may have been a lady, someone of quality, a discarded mistress who had begun to fall from the ranks of the city's caste system and was now at the bottom, here in the sewers and shambles of Newgate and the Fleet.
'Ayez pitie!' she repeated.
Corbett dug into his purse and handed over two silver coins. The woman smiled and turned away. As she did so, Corbett realized the bundle she carried was not an infant but a small cat. The woman was a professional beggar; she had disguised her face with horrific sores and presented herself as a true object of pity.
Corbett smiled wryly at Ranulf. 'Isn't it strange? Even when you want to show compassion, things go wrong.'
Ranulf shrugged, he did not understand his master, nor his fitful gesture of generosity; they seemed ill-placed for a man who, only a few hours earlier, had dragged him from his bed and thrown him into the ice-cold snow. They walked on, turning left to go down Old Dean's Lane and into Bowyer's Row, south along Fleet Street, past the ditch, its filth frozen in ice, then passing White Friars, the Temple, Gray's Inn and the rich, timbered gilt-edged houses of the lawyers, before joining the main thoroughfare to the palace and abbey of Westminster.
Scenes of frenetic business greeted them: lawyers in striped hoods, judges in their red, ermine-lined gowns, preceded by tipstaffs, bailiffs, officials and the occasional knight banneret of the royal household. All carried themselves with that hurried air of importance with which notables endow themselves to emphasize their rank and make the exercise of their own authority so much easier.
Corbett and Ranulf jostled their way through them, past the Clock Tower and up the broad, sweeping staircase into the main hall of Westminster. Corbett had been here many times. Usually his work was in the Chancery offices of the king's chamber which were situated wherever the king decided to hold court: sometimes south of the river at Eltham, or the Tower or the Palace of Sheen, or one of the royal manors in a distant shire. But always they came back to Westminster. Here, in the alcoves of the great hall, were the different courts, the exchequer, the Common Pleas and, on the dais, the King's Bench, where the Chief Justice, aided by other royal judges, dispensed justice in the king's name. Leading off from the hall were a warren of passageways, small chambers and offices: the royal messengers, the king's comptrollers and conveyors, the surveyor of works, the controller of the royal household, the chamberlain; each had their own little empire.
Corbett was pleased to be temporarily free of the bureaucratic politics which dominated each and everyone who worked here, for, as chief clerk to the Chancery, he was moved around from one department to another. Usually he was present when the king sealed charters with the Great Seal of England, with other barons present being there to ratify the document. On a few occasions only he and the king were present as letters were despatched under the Secret or Privy Seal to officials, sheriffs, bailiffs or Commissioners of Array in the shires. Corbett enjoyed his work. He liked writing, the study of manuscripts, the preparation of vellum, the joy of inscribing a fresh, pumice-rubbed piece of high quality parchment, the smell of the dried ink and sharpened quills. There was excitement when letters were brought in to be transcribed and satisfaction in seeing suitable replies despatched.
Now, for the third or fourth time, the king had asked him to take up special duties. Corbett, if he was honest with himself, would admit he was frightened. His previous tasks had taken him abroad and pitted him against powerful figures in shadowy, lawless areas of London. He had faced charges of treason in Wales and Scotland as well as murderous attempts on his life. Corbett had few illusions: he knew it was only a matter of time before either he failed disastrously and incurred the royal wrath of Edward or suffered some serious accident. Then what? The king might well discard him like one would an old rag or a useless piece of parchment, to be swept away like the leaves of the previous summer to be forgotten and not counted. And who would miss him? In his own way he loved Ranulf but he also had no illusions about his servant. There was only Maeve in Wales. Corbett stopped and squinted up at one of the great bay windows of the hall. It was now the middle of January and the last time he had seen her was the previous autumn. The lapse of time only increased his aching longing for her. If he thought about Maeve's serene face and long blonde hair, her perfect rounded figure, any feeling of pleasure would be replaced by a deep black depression. He knew he could not go to Wales and the weather made it impossible for her to travel to London. He would have to see this matter through and take what came.
Perhaps that was why he was frightened; he wanted to live now more than he ever did before. He was frightened of dying, of something happening which would stop him meeting Maeve, prevent them from being married and living as man and wife. For if he died what then? What use the tenements in Bread Street or Aldermanbury, or his other possessions – the little brown padlocked chest in the goldsmith's house in Cheapside or the empty, derelict manor in Sussex? What good would all these do if his body was rotting away in some pauper's grave or in some lonely London ditch?
Corbett pulled back his cloak and, without thinking, touched the long dagger which swung from his belt. Immediately he was accosted by an important official dressed in scarlet and blue doublet and hose, with his hair neatly coiffed. He carried a white wand of office which marked him as a Steward of the Great Hall. He placed his hand on Corbett's chest as a gesture he should go on further. The man's self-important face beamed with pleasure at being able to exercise power and his chest puffed out like some little cock-sparrow. In other circumstances Corbett would have laughed but now he glared into the man's pig-like face.
'You stop me, sir?'
'I stop you, sir,' the pompous fool replied, 'because you are armed, here near The King's Bench and that is an offence!' He clicked his fingers at a watching group of men-at-arms to come and arrest Corbett when suddenly, the clerk brought both hands firmly down on the man's shoulder with a resounding thwack.
'What is your name?'
The official's eyes became guarded. Corbett was not drunk nor did he seem deranged; only a man sure of himself would make such a gesture in the face of royal authority.
'What is your name?' Corbett repeated sternly.
'Edmund de Nockle,' the pompous idiot replied.
'Well Edmund,' Corbett said, pressing his hands deeper into the man's shoulders until he saw the fellow wince, 'my name is Hugh Corbett. I am senior clerk in the king's Chancery, a special emissary in matters of the secret seal. Now, if you wish me arrested that is your privilege, but I assure you before the day is out, I will be back in this hall wearing my sword and dagger and you, you arrogant fool, will be shackled in the Marshalsea Prison.'
The man was about to apologize but Corbett would not let him go. 'Now, Master de Nockle. You will lead us to where the king is.'
The man, pink-faced with embarrassment, chose to ignore Ranulf's snigger and, turning smartly on his heel, led them out of the hall, down some stairs and along a winding corridor. Corbett knew full well where the king was. The royal chamber was off the writing-room near where the letters and seals were kept. De Nockle approached a huge, iron-barred door and knocked gendy, but Corbett, deciding that he had had enough, pushed him aside and rapped more loudly. He heard the king's voice calling entry so he opened the door and went in with Ranulf close behind.