‘You are sure?’
‘As sure as I am that Maltote can ride a horse.’
Corbett handed the letter to Maltote. ‘Then take this to Master Sheriff at the castle and ask him to send it to Lady Maeve at Leighton. Tell him I need his help and assistance on an urgent matter.’
Maltote put his boots on, grabbed his cloak and hobbled off. Corbett then told Ranulf what he had discovered on his visit to Sparrow Hall.
‘Do you think Barnett,’ Ranulf asked, ‘is involved in the death of these beggars? I mean, he is a wealthy, flabby Master of the schools. Such men are not usually famous for their alms giving?’
‘Perhaps. But what about Appleston and our Vice-Regent? Either man could be the Bellman. There again, the same could be said of our good friend David Ap Thomas.’
‘What does concern me, Master,’ Ranulf said, ‘is the one question to which there appears to be no answer. Oxford is full of clerks — ’ he grinned ‘- such as ourselves, and scholars and students. Some of them come from abroad where their lords and rulers are the enemies of our King. Others come from the Scottish march or Wales and have no great love either for our sovereign lord. There must be many who would love to be the Bellman?’
‘And?’
‘So why does the Bellman identify himself as living at Sparrow Hall?’
Corbett shook his head. ‘I can’t really answer that except to say the Bellman must hate the Hall.’
‘Another question,’ Ranulf continued, ‘is that although we know the King is beside himself with fury at the Bellman’s appearance, who else really cares about his proclamations?’ Ranulf spread his hands. ‘I agree that there must be people in Oxford, as there are in Cambridge or in Shrewsbury, who’d follow any madcap rebel but — today, forty years after de Montfort’s death — what does the Bellman hope to achieve?’
‘Are you saying that the King should just leave it alone?’
‘In a way, yes,’ Ranulf replied.
Corbett chewed the corner of his mouth.
‘I hear what you say, Ranulf. It might be that the King was first advised that the antics of the Bellman were merely some scholar’s prank and so that’s why the murders took place. There was no real reason for them otherwise. How do we know Ascham or Passerel suspected the Bellman’s identity? Perhaps he just killed them, as in some game of hazard, to raise the odds so that the King was forced to take notice? But again the question is, why?’
Ranulf got to his feet. ‘I’m going across to the Hall,’ he declared. ‘Maltote will be some time hobbling to the castle and back. And, talking of hazard, I’ll wager that he stops at the Sheriffs stables to have a look at the horses.’
‘What do you want from the Hall?’ Corbett asked.
‘A book,’ Ranulf replied abruptly, becoming offhand.
‘What book, Ranulf?’
‘The …’ Ranulf stammered.
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘The Confessions of St Augustine,’ Ranulf replied in a rush.
‘Augustine of Hippo? What interest do you have in him?’
Ranulf sighed in exasperation and leaned against the door.
‘When I was at Leighton Manor, Master, I often spoke to Father Luke. He heard my confession and told me about St Augustine.’ Ranulf closed his eyes. ‘Father Luke gave me a quotation from the Confessions: “Late have I loved thee, Lord.” And again: “Our hearts are never at peace until they are at rest with Thee.” They are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.’ Ranulf opened his eyes.
Corbett sat, mouth open, eyes staring.
‘I suppose you think it’s funny?’ Ranulf retorted.
Corbett just shook his head. ‘Can I ask why?’ he stuttered.
‘As a young man,’ Ranulf answered, ‘Augustine was a scapegrace, a rascal, who consorted with whores and courtesans. Father Luke told me he even had an illegitimate son. But then he converted, and became a priest and a bishop.’
Corbett nodded, fascinated. ‘And you think you can do the same?’
‘Don’t laugh at me, Master.’
‘Ranulf, I have cursed you, I have complained about you, I have prayed for you, I have even had the urge to shake you warmly by the neck,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I have never laughed at you and I never will.’
His manservant let his arms fall to his sides.
‘During our long stay at Leighton,’ he stammered, not meeting Corbett’s eyes, ‘I started to think about the future.’
‘And you wish to become a priest?’ Corbett asked.
Ranulf nodded. ‘If that’s what it means…’
‘Means to do what?’
‘I am not too sure, Master.’
‘But you are Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The terror of maidens from Dover to Berwick. A street fighting man! My bullyboy!’
‘So was Augustine,’ Ranulf replied hotly. ‘So was Thomas a Beckett. And Father Luke said that, even amongst Jesus’s followers, there was a knife man.’
Corbett held his hand up. ‘Ranulf, God forgive me, I don’t doubt what you say but you must admit it comes as a surprise.’
‘Good!’ Ranulf lifted the latch. ‘Father Luke said that when Augustine changed, it surprised everyone.’ He opened the door and went out.
Corbett sat as if poleaxed. ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’ he whispered. ‘Who has lifted more petticoats than I have had hot dinners.’
Corbett closed his eyes and tried to think of Ranulf as a priest. At first he found it amusing but, the more he thought, the less surprised he became. Corbett lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering about the vagaries of the human heart. Ranulf was no longer a stripling. He was a man with a mind of his own and a steely determination to do what he wanted. He’d applied himself ruthlessly to his studies and his recent questions about the doings at Sparrow Hall showed a sharp mind as well as a quick wit. Somehow, Corbett realised, Ranulf’s questions lay at the heart of the mystery. Why was the Bellman doing what he did? And why proclaim himself as a Master or scholar at Sparrow Hall?
He dozed for a while. When Ranulf returned, the manservant pushed open the door.
‘The Vice-Regent gave me a copy,’ he called in.
‘Good,’ Corbett murmured.
A short while afterwards Maltote limped back.
‘The Sheriff will see you now,’ he declared, still nursing his bruised shin. ‘Oh, by the way, Master, they’ve got some fine horses in the castle stables.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they have.’ Corbett swung his legs off the bed, put his war belt on and went to tell his companions to do the same.
They took their cloaks and walked out into the lane. They crossed Broad Street, taking the road which led up to the castle. At the corner of New Hall Street and Bocardo Lane they had to stop: the street markets and shops were closing. Peasants pushed handcarts and barrows, the wealthier ones leading ox-drawn carts, out towards the city gates. All had stopped before the open space before the gallows; a hideous, three-branched scaffold against which ladders had been placed. Bailiffs were tightening nooses round the necks of three felons whilst the town crier loudly proclaimed ‘the horrible homicides, depredations and rapes of which these three had been found guilty’. He finished bawling and clapped three times. The red-masked executioners slid down the ladders as nimble as monkeys. The ladders were pulled away and all three felons danced and jerked at the end of their ropes. A collective sigh rose from the crowd, as a bailiff shouted that the King’s justice had been done. Corbett glanced away. The crowd dispersed and they were allowed through up a lane that skirted the old city wall and led into the castle. The bailey was deserted. A groom told them the garrison was preparing for the evening meal. Only a little boy with a chicken under his arm staggered about, the bird squawking raucously. The stables and outhouses were quiet as the groom led them across and up outside stone stairs into the castle solar. This was a soldier’s room: the walls white-washed, the roof beams blackened by numerous fires. A few shields and rusting swords hung on either side of a battered crucifix, placed slightly askew, whilst the rushes on the floor were dry and crisp, and smelt rather stale.