The room was empty of all furniture except for open braziers clustered together at the far end, besides which were two or three small stools. There were chains and manacles hanging from the wall but his eyes were drawn to the small macabre group at the far end.
As Corbett approached, he realized that there were three men stripped to the waist, black scraps of cloth wrapped around their foreheads to keep the sweat from running into their eyes. Their bodies glistened with sweat and they kept turning to the braziers, pulling out long rods of iron, the handles wrapped in cloth to protect their hands. He saw one of them take a glowing iron bar and place it against what he thought was a shadow near the far wall until he heard a terrible scream and saw the shadow jerk and writhe. He then became aware that it was the priest hanging by his wrists from the chains, stripped of all his clothing except for a loincloth. His body was covered in long gaping wounds where the hot metal bars had been pressed. Corbett hid his revulsion, knowing that this was not the time for pity. This man may well have been responsible for Duket's death, for the death of the young boy, Simon, and for the two criminal assaults on himself. The only fear Corbett experienced was a secret dread that the man might actually be innocent.
"Has he answered the question I asked you to put to him?" Corbett rasped. Neville shook his head.
"No, " he replied. "He says he had nothing to do with Duket's death. " Corbett almost felt his heart skip a beat and his mouth went dry with fright.
"Has he said anything?"
Neville grinned. "He has said enough. He keeps calling on the Lord Satan to help him and that is not the sort of prayer you would expect a priest to say!"
Corbett went round the braziers, pushing his way past the torturers, who looked expectantly at him as if waiting for fresh orders to apply their burning metal bars.
He could see that their victim had had enough. Bellet's face was bloodless and the eyes crazed with pain, the thin, bony, pathetic body of the priest had reached the limit of his endurance.
"Well, Master Priest?" Corbett whispered. "We meet again, though in quite unexpected surroundings!" He went closer, almost whispering through the priest's sweat-soaked hair so only he could hear. "Lawrence Duket, did you murder him?"
Bellet turned his face slowly towards him, his eyes narrowing as he tried to swim out of the circle of pain which had engulfed him. "This is your doing, Clerk! You whoreson get!" he cursed. "You are no more than a country bumpkin. You don't know with whom you are dealing. You and your sort will soon be swept away. " Bellet grunted and tried to lift his body to alleviate the racking pain in his chest and legs.
"I can stop this, " Corbett said. "I can stop it as soon as you tell the truth. What is the Pentangle? Who ordered Duket's death? Who killed the boy Simon? Who ordered the attacks on me?" The priest's eyes, however, slid away and Corbett sensed he was still secretly laughing at him. Flushed with rage, he grabbed the priest by his chin, wrenching his face round so he could look into his eyes.
"Tell me, " he urged. "Tell me now! "The only response he got was a stream of abuse and spittle. Then the priest's body twitched, went rigid like a man going into a fit and suddenly relaxed, the head slumping forward on his chest.
Neville came closer, pushing Corbett aside as he felt the chest and neck of the priest. "The man is dead, " he said. "It is now finished. " He looked at Corbett. "What shall we do with the body?" he asked.
Corbett shrugged. "Wrap it up in a shroud, " the clerk replied, "and bury it among the paupers. " He then left the dungeon and the gruesome figures standing there in the flickering obscure light of the braziers. He felt no remorse at what had happened to Bellet. He knew the man was guilty. He was evil and had played no small part in the murder of Duket and, by his own confession, was deeply involved in treasonable sinister activities against the King.
Across the black misty river the hooded figures of the Pentangle met once more and crowded round their leader, the Hooded One. They sat quiet but were gripped by an air of expectancy, almost fear. "So, a member of this group is destroyed?" one asked. The speaker to the right of the Hooded Leader's chair, nodded in agreement. "We understand that he has been taken, " he replied. "He is probably dead and we have Corbett to thank for that! Our spy in the Chancery also reports that Corbett knows a great deal about us. "
"Then why not kill him?" another asked, an edge of fear to his voice. "Why not kill him?" he repeated insistently. "When he meets his doxy in The Mitre, I have often seen him there… " his voice trailed off as a deathly, cold silence fell upon the group.
"We cannot kill him there and you know you should not have said that!" the speaker replied slowly. "You know the pact. None of us ever say what we are, male or female, what we do, or even what part of the city we frequent. However, " the speaker's eyes glittered behind his mask as he scanned the group. "We will execute Corbett, and take vengeance for our dead comrade, but the important thing is that we continue with our Grand Design. Each of us must prepare our groups, collect arms and wait for the sign to rise in rebellion!"
"And Corbett?" came the insistent interruption.
"We have someone special assigned for him, " the speaker firmly replied. "You may consider Corbett already dead!"
Sixteen
The next day Corbett went to Saint Mary Le Bow leaving orders for Ranulf to join him there. The church and house were deserted, Neville had given him Bellet's keys but Corbett, surprisingly, found the door unlocked and carefully pushed it open. The main room looked as it had the night Corbett had visited the priest so many weeks ago. The charcoal brazier was full of dead spent ash; a cup half full of wine and slivers of stale cheese, rat-gnawed, lay upon the top of the room's only chest. He knocked them off and opened the heavy wooden lid. There was a smell of must mingled with stale sweat as Corbett began to pull out clothes; a dirty robe, hose, a pair of leather boots. There was nothing else. Corbett looked around the deserted room. There must be more. He suddenly realized that there was something missing.
This was a priest's house and yet there was no cross or crucifix. He scanned the wattle-daubed walls, the crumb-strewn table, but looked in vain for signs of any religious worship. He kicked the dirty rushes with his boot and then went into the small room at the back which served as both a kitchen and buttery. It was filthy and contained a dirt-stained table, a low stool, a shelf of cracked cups and soiled wooden plates. "The man must have lived like an animal, " thought Corbett. He went back into the main room and stared at the loft at the far end which must have served as a bedroom. There was a screen of polished wood which protected the bedchamber from prying eyes and it could only be approached by a dangerous-looking wooden ladder slung against the wall.
Corbett propped the ladder up against the rim of wood which ran along the base of the partition and carefully climbed up. He expected to see the same dirt and chaos he had met below but the reality was much different. The bed-chamber was small, with a little window made of horn high in the wall, letting in sufficient light. The floor was polished with beeswax and thick velvet drapes hung from the whitewashed walls which depicted the most lascivious love scenes. A huge bed, covered in a sea-green silken cover, occupied most of the room. Corbett climbed over the wooden partition and sat on the bed, feeling the rich, feather-filled mattress and bolsters beneath him. On the near side of the bed was a wooden stool with a pure wax candle in a silver-plated holder, while on the other, a small, richly carved, wooden chest. Corbett leaned across the bed to open the lid.
Perhaps it was a sound, a slight shadow, but he suddenly rolled to the right and avoided the evil edge of the sword as it came crashing down where he had been lying. Corbett saw a tall dark figure dressed completely in black. A pair of glittering eyes stared at him through the holes of the black hood as the secret assassin lifted the sword for a second blow. He did not wait but flung himself under his attacker's upraised sword arm and both went crashing against the wooden partition. At such close quarters the assassin could not use his sword but brought its pommel brutally down on Corbett's unprotected back. The pain was excruciating and all he could do was keep tight hold of his assailant's waist and force him back against the partition. Corbett hoped
Ranulf had arrived and would hear the noise, when suddenly the partition cracked and he and his attacker tumbled off the edge and went crashing to the floor below.
Corbett was lucky for his fall was cushioned by the body of his assailant who was not so fortunate. A large pool of blood seeped out from beneath the black mask and Corbett, after massaging his arms and wrists and stretching his back to relieve the soreness there, leant over and lifted the mask from his attacker's face just as Ranulf came belatedly crashing through the door, shouting at the top of his voice.
"You're too late!" Corbett snapped. "Why did you not hear the noise earlier?"
Ranulf scratched his chin. "I wandered over to the church and only heard the sound of a scuffle as I came back. " He pointed down to the assassin lying on his back, one arm and leg curiously twisted. "Who is he?" Ranulf asked.
Corbett forced the man's hood off and looked down at the smooth young face, white, eyes stony beneath a fringe of black hair. A trickle of blood seeped out of the corner of the dead man's mouth and ran down to join the pool of blood caused by the skull caving in.
"I don't know, " Corbett replied softly. "But he was waiting for me. They sent him. They knew mat I was coming here. " He stared at the anxious face of Ranulf.
"Who are they?" Corbett asked. "For God's sake what do they want from me?" He got up and dusted himself down, trying to ignore the pain in his back and arms. "Come on, " he pointed to the fallen ladder. "Hold this, Ranulf, while I finish my search. "
Ranulf held the ladder secure whilst Corbett went back up into the dead priest's sleeping quarters to search the carved wooden chest. It was packed with clothes, hose, jackets, robes and shirts of the highest quality, taffeta, velvet and silk, pure woollen wraps, lush fleeces, jewel-encrusted belts, soft leather boots and velvet gloves. The priest had evidently lived a double life of public poverty and private wealth. There were no documents or scraps of parchment, the only book being a leather bound copy of a bible with a gold clasp. The pages were beautifully written and adorned with small intricate drawings, a feast of colours, Corbett could appreciate the skill of the calligrapher who had carefully written the words and then brought them to life with scarlet, gold, green and other colours. He turned the pages over, there was nothing amiss except that he was surprised that even a man such as Bellet should have a bible, let alone such a costly one. Corbett carefully leafed through the pages but there was nothing there. He turned to the back of the book where the man who put the manuscript together would leave blank pages for its future owner to write reflections or meditations.
Bellet had certainly written but not spiritual aphorisms or moral axioms. There were pages of closely written Norman French or dog Latin which refuted the existence of Christ, alongside spells and incantations, as well as drawings of a man with a goat's head sitting on an altar dripping with blood under which there was an inverted cross. Another drawing showed a church full of people with the empty vacuous faces of sheep, all turned attentively towards a figure in priest's garb but with the fierce head and slavering jaws of a wolf.
The last drawing, which Corbett judged as most recent, was completely different. It showed a tower, square-shaped and on its turreted top was an archer, bow in hand, the arrow was in the air, directed along a road or pathway, on which there was a man seated on a horse with a crown on his head. The drawing was crude, almost child-like, yet it had a vigour and realism of its own. Underneath were the words Hac Die libertas nostra de arcibus veniat. Corbett translated it aloud. "On that day our freedom comes from the bows". He studied the drawing and the words. He remembered the riddle of the dead squire, Savel, about a bow which cannot be bent being more dangerous than one that could for it included all weapons.
The image of the freshly turned graves in the nearby cemetery became clear in his mind and, almost shouting out loud, he turned and scrambled down the ladder, the bible still in his hand which he thrust into the hands of the astonished Ranulf.
"Quick, " he urged. "Take this to the Chancellor! Tell him to study the drawings at the back, particularly the last one. Tell him to stop the King coming in from Woodstock and order a search in all the fresh graves here at Saint Mary Le Bow!" Corbett made Ranulf repeat the message until he had it perfect by rote and dismissed him.
Corbett calmed himself and, after looking around the house, left, making his way across the muddy yard to the church. The main door was unlocked and he cautiously opened it and went in. He stood just inside, breathing deeply, while listening with all his being for strange or threatening sounds, trying to feel the atmosphere and determine if there was danger. Satisfied that there was none, but still shaken by the attack he had just survived, Corbett walked up the nave of the church and sat in the Blessed Chair. He looked down into the shadows of the entrance, realizing that this must have been about the same time of day that Duket had fled to the church. Once again he probed at the question of how the assassins had got into the church, murdered Duket and then escaped without notice.
He sat, continuing to look down the nave, when suddenly the solution to the problem just seemed to present itself. It was so simple, so obvious he just started to laugh, the echoes pealing around the deserted church. Of course, it was so apparent, so clear, its very simplicity showed the cunning and brilliance behind it. He remembered the voice of his old 'Dominus', Father Benedict, telling him that there was a solution to every problem. "It's just a matter of perspective, my dear boy, " he used to boom out. "Just a matter of perspective. " Well he had the right perspective, now it was a matter of finding who the real murderers were. The shadowy figures behind the Pentangle.
Corbett got up, walked down the church and went outside into the early spring sunlight. He felt pleased and, almost without noticing, found himself making his way to see Alice. The tavern was deserted so he quietly walked across the main room and pulled open the door to the kitchen. Alice, her back to him, was talking to Peter the Giant, his great bulk towering above her as she softly explained something to him. Corbett called her name and she spun round. The blood drained from her shocked face but then she gave an exclamation of joy and ran towards him, flinging her arms around his neck, hugging and kissing him. She grabbed his heavy brooch-clasped cloak and unfastened it while she told him to sit and sent Peter for food and drink.
"You are pleased to see me?" Corbett asked dryly.
Alice kissed him again full on the lips. "Of course!" she pouted. "Where have you been? What have you been doing?"
He told her a tale of being involved in the King's business, of the obstacles he faced and the little progress he was making. He did not tell her of the attacks on him or how he had moved to the security of the Tower. He did not wish to alarm her, for the fewer people who knew what was going on the better. Moreover, there was something about The Mitre, about the morose giant, Peter, he did not like, a feeling of unease, something he could not express and it troubled him.
Corbett asked Alice what she had been doing but she simply shrugged. "Nothing really, " she replied. "I manage the inn, or I try to. The King is due to enter the city very soon and we must prepare for the celebrations. There are pirates in the channel raiding our ships. " She smiled at him. "Nothing out of the ordinary, unlike you clerks with your important secret business!"
They sat and teased each other. Corbett ached with a need to gather her in his arms and take her upstairs, anywhere they could be alone, but he knew she would refuse and the presence of the surly Peter dampened his ardour. Instead Corbett made her promise that she would wait for him on the following evening, made his fond farewells and left the tavern, his thick cloak slung over his arm for the weather had turned warm and, if attacked, he would be more free to defend himself and use it as a shield.
When he arrived back in the Tower, he found Ranulf waiting for him, sprawled on his narrow cot. "Yes, " he answered Corbett wearily. "I went to Westminster and managed to see Burnell, though that fat pompous Hubert, " he added bitterly, "tried to stop me. So, I just stayed outside the Chancellor's chamber shouting your name and that of the King. It worked. Burnell sent for me. He looked at the bible and the drawings you told me to point out, especially the last one. " Ranulf paused to sniff and wipe his nose on the sleeve of his jerkin before continuing: "The Chancellor took one look at the last picture and jumped to his feet, yelling for clerks and messengers and demanding that the stables prepare the fleetest horses. He glared at me and I thought I was for the hangman but then he dismissed me with this simple message for you. 'Tell Corbett that I want names. ' That's all. " Ranulf concluded. Corbett nodded, kicked his boots off and lay on his own cot to ease the bruised aching of his body. Names! The Chancellor wanted names. Corbett could tell why Duket was murdered and how, but who? Apart from the apostate priest, and he was dead, he had no names.
Corbett shivered and pulled his cloak firmly over him, the metal brooch clasp hit him on the mouth and he sat up to arrange the cloak better. He looked closer at the brooch, drawing at the threads caught there until they lay in the palm of his hand. So tiny, so light, and so insignificant. Yet Corbett felt the sword pierce his soul and could almost taste the rank metal at the back of his throat. A series of images formed in his mind, clearing the doubts and troubles which had festered there, as when boils or buboes burst, the agony was intense. He felt a pain in his chest as if a mailed fist was clenching his heart while the blood pounded and roared in his ears like breaking surf. He lay down on his cot, his fists now tightly clenched while he tried to restore order to the chaos crashing about him. Ranulf came up to him, anxious and concerned. "Was there anything wrong? Could he fetch some wine?" Corbett drove him off with a mouthful of foul abuse and Ranulf, seeing Corbett's white face and wild staring eyes, simply slunk from the room like a beaten dog. Neville came in an hour or so later but Corbett just stared and waved him away. Ranulf did not sleep there that night, as he preferred the relative safety and security of the guardroom to the company of his apparently demented master.
The next morning, however, Ranulf found Corbett up, washed and dressed, sitting on his cot, writing tray on his knee, scratching away with his pen on a long piece of vellum. The clerk still looked pale and drawn. Ranulf began to make solicitous enquiries but then lapsed into silence under Corbett's stony gaze. Ranulf knew something terrible had happened but could not imagine what it could be. His master was so secretive in all matters that it was difficult to determine whether he was happy or sad. Ranulf stood, shuffling his feet, until Corbett finished writing, looked up and ordered Ranulf to take the letter to Nigel Couville in the Chancery offices at Westminster. Corbett insisted that the matter was so important that Ranulf was to wait until a reply was ready and bring it straight back to him. Ranulf left immediately, leaving his master to his thoughts and the fresh piece of vellum he had begun writing on.
Ranulf took the boat from the Tower to Westminster and, after making enquiries around the Great Hall, managed to secure an interview with the old keeper of the records. After reading Corbett's note, Couville listened to him attentively. Ranulf could see that he was concerned about Corbett and knew that he had done nothing to resolve the old man's anxieties by describing his master's strange and wild appearance. "Just like he was after his wife and child died, " Couville murmured. "Nevertheless, " he continued briskly. "Maybe this information will be of use. " Ranulf had to stay with Couville for a number of days, fretting and biding his time while the old man searched amongst records and sent his clerks here and there over the city with enquiries or petitions for information. Eventually, after a few days, Couville gave Ranulf a small scroll and ordered him to take it back to Corbett at the Tower. Ranulf immediately complied, glad to be free of Couville's cramped office and the even more restricted quarters the old man had given him.
Ranulf found his master still pale and rather dejected on the parapet above the Tower moat, leaning against the crenellated battlements and staring emptily into the dark waters below. Corbett hardly bothered to greet Ranulf but snatched the document he had brought from Couville and read it greedily, muttering and groaning, almost as if he had expected to find what he read there. He then ordered Ranulf to rest and eat before entrusting him with another short letter to take to Mistress Alice atte Bowe at The Mitre Tavern. Corbett instructed Ranulf, once he delivered the message, to occupy himself in the city and, he added abruptly, if possible, to stay out of trouble. Ranulf immediately departed for the Tower kitchens. Corbett waited until his footsteps faded into the distance and, covering his face with his hands, wept bitterly in a mixture of rage, self-pity and a deep sense of loss.