Chapter 10
Corbett was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Dame Mathilda stood there, with Master Moth like a shadow behind her. The old lady was leaning on a stick, breathing heavily.
‘I came to express my condolences.’
She extended her hand and Corbett raised it and kissed her fingers. She promptly snatched her hand away. Corbett looked at her in surprise.
‘I am sorry,’ she apologised. ‘But all this business …’
‘Corbett!’
He turned. There was a crashing on the stairs and Bullock came lumbering up, his face red as a plum.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Lady Mathilda whispered. ‘Not him.’ She turned, sniffing the air. ‘He’s a disgusting man.’
She put her arm out for Moth who took it, his eyes never leaving hers. They walked down the passageway, forcing Bullock to flatten himself against the wall. The Sheriff watched them go, narrow-eyed, his rubicund face glistening with sweat.
‘I’ve come as fast as I could!’ he bawled. He jerked his head at Dame Mathilda now going down the stairs. ‘What did that old bitch want?’
‘She came to offer her condolences,’ Corbett snapped. ‘My friend Maltote was stabbed last night. He’s dead.’
Bullock groaned, slapping the leather saddlebags he carried against his leg.
‘God have mercy on him!’ he breathed. ‘And may Christ and His Mother give him good rest!’ He followed Corbett into the chamber. ‘And who is responsible?’
‘We don’t know. Reportedly a beggar — but probably the work of the Bellman.’
Bullock nodded at Ranulf who stood up to greet him.
‘Well, this is also the work of the Bellman.’
The Sheriff opened the saddlebags and threw on to the floor the faded, battered corpse of a crow, a piece of twine round its neck. Ranulf picked it up and, before anyone could object, pushed it out through the arrow slit window.
‘What else has the bastard done?’ he asked.
Bullock handed Corbett a scroll of parchment.
‘Two of these were posted last night,’ he replied. ‘One on the door of an Oxford Hall, the other at the Vine. I had two bailiffs patrolling the city just before dawn. They found these and the dead crow.’
Corbett undid the scroll and read the words which seemed to leap from the page:
‘So the King’s crow has come to Oxford. Caw! Caw!
Caw!
So the King’s crow, La Corbiere, sticks his yellow
beak
In the midden heap of the city. Caw! Caw! Caw!
The Bellman says this: cursed be Corbett in his sleeping.
Cursed be Corbett in his waking.
Cursed be Corbett in his eating.
Cursed be Corbett in his sitting.
Cursed by Corbett in his shitting.
Cursed be Corbett in his pissing.
Cursed be Corbett naked. Cursed be Corbett clothed.
Cursed be Corbett at home. Cursed be Corbett
abroad.’
‘I don’t think he likes you.’ Ranulf remarked, peering over Corbett’s shoulder. He pointed to the last few lines:
‘When the crow comes,’ the proclamation shrilled, ‘it is to be driven away by stones. The crow has been warned! Signed the Bellman of Sparrow Hall.’
Corbett looked at the vellum. The ink and the writing were the same as before, with a crude bell painted at the top where a pin had been driven through to attach it to a door.
‘So the Bellman was out last night?’ Corbett remarked, tossing the scroll on the bed. ‘That’s why Maltote died. Sir Walter, as of tonight, from curfew till dawn, I want your best archers to guard all the approaches to and from Sparrow Hall. I order that on the King’s authority.’
Bullock agreed.
‘Do you have anything else to report?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, our prisoners at the castle are not as bold and brave as they were last night,’ the Sheriff replied, mopping his face and slumping down on a stool. ‘But I think you should question them.’
‘And have you told anyone at Sparrow Hall about Ap Thomas?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, yes, on my way up. I left Tripham looking as white as a sheet.’ Bullock slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘I’m enjoying this. I am going to take you back to the castle, Sir Hugh. Once we are done, I’m off like a whippet to lodge a formal complaint with the Proctors of the University and then I’m back to Sparrow Hall. I am going to rub their arrogant faces into the growing shame of their so-called college.’
Bullock ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Firstly, they house a traitor who is also a murderer. Secondly, someone there has slain a royal servant. Thirdly, a group of their so-called scholars are guilty of debauchery and God knows what else. Finally, somehow or other that damnable place is linked to the deaths of these beggars on the roads outside Oxford.’
‘Don’t tell them about the button,’ Corbett warned. ‘Though, I have seen so many buttons on the gowns and clothing of the masters and scholars, it would be difficult to trace,’ he added ruefully.
‘What will happen to Ap Thomas and the others?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, they’ll appear before the Justices,’ Bullock replied. ‘They will be fined, and maybe given a short stay in the stocks, and then the University will probaby tell them to piss off for a year to face the fury of their families in Wales.’
‘Are you sure they are innocent of the activities of the Bellman or the deaths of these beggars?’ Corbett asked.
‘I am certain,’ Bullock replied. ‘But, as I have said, Ap Thomas is more amenable now. He may answer further questions.’ The Sheriff lumbered to his feet and tapped Corbett gently on the chest. ‘Sir Hugh, you’re the King’s clerk. When I post my guards not a mouse will be able to fart in Sparrow Hall without our permission.’ He pointed to the scroll lying on the bed. ‘But the Bellman is a vicious bugger. I would heed his warning. Now, you’ll come back with me to the castle?’
Corbett agreed. Bullock put his hand on the latch then turned.
‘I’m sorry about the lad,’ he said softly. ‘I am sorry he died. Do you know what I’d do?’ The Sheriff stuck his thumbs in his sword belt, puffing his chest out. ‘If I were you, Sir Hugh, I’d get on my horse and go out to the King at Woodstock. I’d have this bloody place closed down and the Masters taken into the Tower for questioning.’
‘You don’t like Sparrow Hall, do you?’ Corbett asked.
‘No, I don’t, Sir Hugh. I never liked Braose. I don’t like to see a man profit from the pain and humiliation of others. I don’t like his bloody sister either — constantly petitioning me to ask the King whether her brother’s memory could be more hallowed. Braose was no saint but a bloody warlord who turned to religion and study in the twilight years of his life.’
Corbett watched fascinated as this fat, little man let his anger flow.
‘I don’t like the Masters either!’ he spat out. ‘Either here or elsewhere in the city. I resent their so-called scholars swaggering around, who are responsible for more crime than any horde of outlaws.’
‘I was a scholar once.’
Bullock relaxed and smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I’m in a temper. Many Masters and their scholars are good men, dedicated to a life of study and prayer.’
‘It’s Braose you don’t like, isn’t it?’ Corbett asked.
Bullock raised his head — there were tears in his eyes.
‘When I was young,’ the Sheriff replied, ‘a mere lad, a stripling, I was my father’s squire in de Montfort’s army. Did you ever meet the great Earl?’
Corbett shook his head.
‘He spoke to me once,’ Bullock replied. ‘He got down off his horse and clapped me on the shoulder. He made you feel important. He never stood on ceremony and, when he talked, it was like listening to music — your heart skipped a beat and the blood began to pound in your veins.’