‘I am no traitor,’ the Master replied. ‘Although I have studied my father’s writings since I was a boy.’
‘How is it — ’ Corbett asked ‘- that a member of the de Montfort family is given a benefice here at Sparrow Hall? A college founded by de Montfort’s enemy?’
‘Because we all feel guilty.’
Master Alfred Tripham entered the library, a small folio under his arm.
‘I have just returned from the schools,’ Tripham explained. ‘Master Churchley told me you might be here.’
Corbett bowed. ‘You walk as quietly as a cat, Master Alfred.’
Tripham shrugged. ‘Curiosity, Sir Hugh, always has a soft footfall.’
‘You spoke of guilt?’ Corbett asked.
‘Ah, yes.’ Tripham put the folio down on the table. ‘That prick to the conscience, eh, Sir Hugh?’ He looked round the library. ‘Somewhere here, amongst these papers, there’s a copy of Sir Henry Braose’s will but I am too busy to search for it.’ Tripham went and sat on a stool opposite Appleston. ‘However, in his last years, Braose became melancholic. He often had dreams about that last dreadful fight at Evesham and how the King’s knights desecrated de Montfort’s body. Braose believed he should make reparation. He paid for hundreds of chantry Masses for the dead Earl’s soul. When Leonard here applied for the post…’
‘He knew immediately,’ Appleston broke in. ‘He took one look at my face, paled and sat down. He claimed he was seeing a ghost. I told him the truth,’ Appleston continued. ‘What was the use in denying it? If I had not told him, someone else would have.’
‘And the post was offered to you?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, yes, it was, on one condition: I was to retain my mother’s name.’
‘We all have secrets.’ Tripham laced his fingers together. ‘I understand, Sir Hugh, that you have been through Ascham’s possessions.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You are no fool, Corbett. I am sure you know that items have already been removed?’
Corbett stared back.
‘You might wonder,’ Tripham continued, ‘why Ascham was so beloved of scholars like Ap Thomas and his cronies. What would an old man, an archivist and librarian, have in common with a group of rebellious hotheads?’
‘Nothing seems what it should be here,’ Corbett replied.
‘And the same applies to Ascham!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Oh, he was venerable, amusing, a scholar but — like many of us — ’ he let his gaze fall away ‘-he had a weakness for handsome youths, for a narrow waist and firm thighs, rather than a lady’s eyes or swelling bosom.’
‘That is not uncommon,’ Corbett declared.
‘In Oxford it certainly isn’t.’ Tripham rubbed the side of his face. ‘Ascham also hailed from the Welsh march — or rather Oswestry in Shropshire. He was skilled in pagan lore as well as knowledgeable about the traditions of the Welsh. He used all this knowledge to establish a close friendship with many of our young scholars.’
‘So, naturally, his murder was ill received by many in the hostelry?’
‘That’s why they turned their anger against poor Passerel,’ Churchley replied. ‘He was their scapegoat.’
‘Scapegoat?’
Tripham put his hands up his sleeves and leaned on the table.
‘We know Passerel was innocent,’ he replied. ‘Ascham must have been killed when Passerel was miles away from Sparrow Hall. Ah, well!’ Tripham got to his feet. ‘And as for poor Appleston, surely it’s not treason to study de Montfort’s theories? After all-’ he smiled thinly ‘- even the King himself has taken them as his own.’ He gestured at Appleston. ‘Come, let us dine together, I am sure Sir Hugh has other matters to pursue.’
‘Oh, one other thing, Master Tripham?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’
‘You talked about secrets. What is yours?’
‘Oh, that’s quite simple, master clerk. I did not like Sir Henry Braose, either his arrogance or his scrupulous doubts just before death. Nor do I like his waspish sister who should never have been allowed to stay at this Hall.’
‘And Barnett?’ Corbett asked.
‘Ask him yourself!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Barnett has his own demons.’
Tripham opened the door, ushered Appleston out and slammed it behind him.
Corbett sighed and stared round the library. He remembered why he had come and went along the shelves looking for a Latin lexicon. At last he found one near the librarian’s table. He pulled it out, sat down and found the place but groaned in disappointment. ‘Passera’ was one of the Latin words for sparrow. Was that what Ascham had been trying to write? Was his death connected with Sparrow Hall itself? Or perhaps the dead bursar had simply been scrawling a passage in his own name? Corbett put his chin in his hands. His eye caught the small box of implements the librarian must have used. He pulled this over and went through the tawdry contents: a soft piece of samite, probably used as a duster, quills, ink-horn, pumice stone and small, silken finger-caps which Ascham would have used to turn pages. On a stone shelf beyond the desk, Corbett glimpsed a leather-bound ledger. He took and opened this: it was a record of which books had been borrowed from the shelves. Corbett searched for Ascham’s name but there was nothing: the dead archivist probably had no need to borrow books from the room he constantly worked in.
Corbett closed the ledger, put the lexicon away and left the Hall.
The lane was now thronged with scholars and their hangers-on making their way down to the last lectures of the day. Corbett glanced across and glimpsed Barnett: the pompous Master was standing at the top of the alleyway talking animatedly to the same beggar Corbett had met. The clerk stepped back into a doorway and watched Barnett hand a coin over. The beggar fairly jumped with glee. Barnett leaned down and whispered in the man’s ear; the fellow nodded and pushed himself off in his barrow. Corbett waited for the master to cross the lane and stepped out to block his path. Barnett seemed to ignore him but Corbett held his ground.
‘You are well, Master?’
‘Yes I am, clerk.’
‘You seem out of sorts?’
‘I do not like to be snooped and pried upon.’
‘Master Barnett,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘I merely watch you do good works, helping the lame, feeding the hungry…’
‘Get out of my way!’ Barnett snapped and, pushing by, opened the door to Sparrow Hall.
Corbett let him go and returned to his own chamber in the hostelry. He could tell, as soon as he opened the door, that someone had been there though, when he looked, nothing was missing. Corbett sat down at his table. He felt hungry but decided to wait until the evening to eat. He knew Ranulf and Maltote would soon return. He took out his quill and ink-horn and wrote a short letter to Maeve. He told her about his arrival in Oxford; how good it was to return to the place where he had studied as a youth, how both the city and University had changed. His quill sped across the page, telling her the usual lies he always told whenever he was in danger. At the end he wrote a short message for Eleanor, forming huge, round letters. He put the quill down and closed his eyes. At Leighton, Maeve would be in the kitchen supervising the maids for the evening meal or perhaps in the chancery office studying accounts or talking to bailiffs. And Eleanor? She would just have finished her afternoon sleep. Corbett heard a sound in the passage outside. He opened his eyes, quickly folded the letter and began to seal it. There was a knock on the door and Maltote and Ranulf came in.
‘I thought you’d be joining us?’ Maltote asked as he sat on the bed.
‘I said I might do. I am not too hungry yet.’
‘Then we should dine before we leave.’
‘Leave?’ Corbett asked.
‘Tonight,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Maltote and I believe that our good friend David Ap Thomas and his henchmen will be leaving the city after dark.’
‘How do you know?’
Ranulf grinned. ‘This hostelry is a rabbit warren. You can hide in nooks and crannies and, when you are deep in the shadows, it is wonderful what you overhear.’