Prince of Darkness hc-5 Page 15
'Prepare him wed,' he said. 'He was a good man, a dedicated priest He deserved a better death.'
They went back out into the cemetery. At Corbett's bidding an old man showed them the blood-spattered piece of ground where their priest had been found. Corbett walked over the soft rather damp clay of the cemetery, Ranulf and Maltote on either side.
'Look, Master, here!' Ranulf squatted down and pointed to the small indentation of a boot. He looked up at Corbett 'Like a child's,' he whispered. 'But what child wears boots in an Oxfordshire village?'
'It could have been a woman,' Maltote interrupted.
Corbett just stared back and shook his head. A vague idea formed at the back of his mind.
'Father Reynard's death,' he concluded, 'however distressing, must wait for a while. Come,' he announced, 'we have far to ride.'
Within the hour they were out into the countryside, following the track which would lead them down to the old Roman road. The clear autumn day drew to a close and Corbett made them rest their horses for a while. Ranulf and Maltote, lost in their own thoughts and conversation, allowed him to walk ahead. The clerk wanted peace and calm after the shock of Father Reynard's death. He was glad to be free of Godstowe and the cloying, hidden menace which seemed to permeate the place like some unwholesome stench. Moreover, Corbett loved this time of the year and realised how much he missed Maeve and the serenity of his own manor house. Like here, the leaves at Leighton would be turning a reddish-gold, there would be the faint smell of wood smoke, and Corbett wondered if his wife was also out in the fields enjoying the last lingering warm embrace of summer.
They cleared the thick, wooded hills of Oxford and went down into the open countryside. Corbett stopped his horse to watch some labourers in the fields below working to bring in the last of the crops. In an adjoining field a sower, a basket cradled in his hands, scattered the life-bearing seeds, whilst behind him two young boys danced and cavorted, swinging their slings to drive off the marauding crows and ravens. Somewhere a dog howled and Corbett shuddered. He remembered that ghastly hunt across the fields at Woodstock and bit his lip at the despair he felt So far he had found no way to resolve the conundrum facing him. There were pieces missing. Why were Lady Eleanor's saddle bags packed? Who was her secret admirer or friend? And was Lady Eleanor planning to flee to him? Corbett blinked and felt tired. He must study this mystery, take each strand and follow it through.
Behind him Ranulf laughed and Corbett looked back. The evening dusk was failing, the breeze rather cold. They had to hurry on. Corbett wished he was back in his chamber at Leighton Manor, Maeve with him. He could listen to her gentle teasing before going into his secret room and memorandising the questions which bedeviled him. He turned and smiled at Ranulf.
'Come!' he shouted. 'Let's ride a little faster to the nearest tavern. Some food and drink before we decide whether we shall continue our journey.'
They mounted and spurred their horses into a gallop, thundering along the rutted track past the crossroads where a decaying skeleton swung, the neck and head twisted, a macabre dancer against the darkening sky. Corbett fleetingly wondered if it was a portent
They stayed at a tavern that night as the weather turned foul. Heavy rain clouds gathered and the roads next morning were clogged with thick, heavy mud. Nevertheless, they were in London just before mid-day, following White Cross Street through Cricklegate. They broke their fast in a small tavern near Catte Street, Ranulf revelling at being back in London, straining like a dog on a leash, wanting to be off on his own personal business.
Corbett warned him: 'Stay with me, Ranulf, and you too, Maltote. Whoever killed Father Reynard shot at us the previous evening. He may well have trailed us back into London.'
Maltote was only too pleased to agree though Ranulf sulked for a while. They stabled their horses and pushed their way through the noisy, colourful streets. There Ranulf quickly regained his good humour he pointed to a group of Spaniards in their multi-coloured hoods, mantles and stupendous codpieces. He and Maltote quarrelled about what was genuine fur, and what the jewelled embroidered motifs and the bright hues on the cloaks of some retainers really signified. All around them were the cries of tradesmen and costers, the distant shrill braying of trumpets as the household of a noble moved majestically through the city under flapping banners down to Westminster. Ranulf, nudging Maltote, leered at the pretty ladies in their fillets and low-waisted dresses; sometimes his words were drowned by the clamour of the crowd and the mid-day peal of the bells of London tolling for prayers from their great stone-washed, stately towers.
They passed into West Chepe where the throng was greatest. This broad, cobbled area, the main market place of the city, was packed with carts bringing in wine from the vintners, lawn for the cloth guilds, and vegetables packed high for the stalls and booths in the Poultry. They went through the Shambles where the butchers, ankle-deep in blood and gore, slit open the swollen bellies of cows, pigs and sheep. They allowed the blue entrails to fall on huge platters which were scooped up by young, ragged-arsed apprentices to be cleansed in vats of scalding water. A group of chandlers stood next to a long line of gutted pigs, arguing with their owner about the price of the fat which they would buy to make tallow candles. The noise was terrible and the stench made them retch. The cobblestones were soaked by streams of black blood over which swarms of fat flies hovered.
They continued on past Newgate prison, the stench from the inmates even more revolting than that from the Shambles. A beggar, the lower part of his face eaten away by sores, did a strange dance, hopping on one leg while a small, skeletal boy clothed in rags played a haunting tune on a reed pipe. Ranulf threw him a penny, then cursed as he slipped on the decaying corpse of a rat They hurried past Fleet ditch, the corpses of dead dogs floating in the slime, and along twisting lanes which ran through the high, four-storey houses, the upper floors projecting out on wooden pillars so the rooms above could catch the sun. Here, hawkers and costermongers pushed their little handcarts, crying 'Bread!', 'Eels!', 'Fish!' and 'Meat pies!' and on every comer stood tipplers who sold drinks to passersby out of small, iron-hooped barrels.
'Master, where are we going?' Ranulf called
'Smithfield!' Corbett shouted back, pushing away an apprentice who offered him spiced hot sheep's feet At the mouth of Cock Lane a group of young prostitutes – slim-waisted and lecherous – shouted out their lies and danced with sheer delight at the prospect of mischief. One of them apparently recognised Ranulf and called out honey-phrased invitations as to what she would offer for a silver coin.
I have no stiver!' he shouted back, ignoring Corbett's warning frown.
'Nor any balls, by the look of it!' one of the whores retorted.
The ladies of the town shrieked with laughter whilst Ranulf, his face flushed, hurried on as fast as he could. They crossed the open dusty area of Smithfield to where the hospital of St Bartholomew stood. Corbett asked the others to stay at the great gate whilst he went across the open square. He relished the coolness, the raised beds of flowers and herbs, and the elaborately carved fountains splashing in the centre. He caught the tangy smell of soap, though he also sniffed the stench of corruption and the dank smell of a charnel house which stood in one comer of the grounds.
Corbett went up the great steps of the hospital, past the group of old soldiers, their limbs grotesquely amputated, who enlivened each other with stories of their past A young boy with a ladle and a stoup of water wetted their grizzled mouths. Corbett stopped a lay brother.
'Is Brother Thomas here?' he asked.
The little man nodded his bald head, his eyes simple as a child's. He beckoned Corbett to follow him along whitewashed corridors to the herb-scented chamber of Brother Thomas. The apothecary was sitting at his small desk under the open window but rose, laughing and clapping his hands as he recognised Corbett. He threw down his goose quill and grasped the clerk's hands, pumping them up and down vigorously.
'Hugh, you have returned! Come in!'
'You want some wine or a cup of water?'
'The water will be best, Brother.'
Brother Thomas nodded and splashed an earthenware bowl to the brim.
'You are wise, Hugh,' he said. 'Always remember what Galen said, though Hippocrates maintained different: "Wine before sunset is not to be recommended." You are well? And the Lady Maeve?'
For a while Corbett and the apothecary discussed gossip of mutual interest, acquaintances at Westminster, at the court, as wed as the scandal of a certain physician now being investigated by the authorities at the Guildhall. The apothecary's face became serious.
'I know why you are here, Hugh,' he said sharply. 'Poison, the queen of murders. I am right, am I not?'
'You are right, Brother.'
'So what is the problem?'
'Could you sell me a poison, Brother? I mean, Belladonna or the juice of the Nightshade?'
The apothecary waved at the shelves around his room full of little phials and casks.
'They are yours for the asking, Hugh.'
'And they will kill?'
'In seconds. Ten or twenty heart-beats before the poison ices your heart and stops your breath.' Corbett stood up and stretched.
'But poisons that would only kill if taken regularly over a long period of time, do they exist?'
The brother's eyes became even more sombre.
'Oh, yes, Hugh. Such potions do exist, but not here. They are of the Italian mode. Deadly concoctions.' He paused. 'For example, five hundred years ago an Arab produced a white, odourless powder, highly poisonous, from realger, an ore found in lead mining.' Brother Thomas shrugged. 'In small quantities, it may be medicinal, but given regularly will eventually cause death.'
'Could I buy it in London?'
The apothecary nodded.
'Of course.'
'Who from?'
'A Hell-hound not far from here. The first alleyway on Faltour's Lane off Holborn Street. Go down there and look for the apothecary's sign. He is a Spaniard, a Portuguese, a Moor… I don't know, but he may tell you more than I can. You see, Hugh, as I said, some poisons are medicinal A little arsenic can cure disorders of the stomach, but given in regular small doses becomes a poison. I once heard the confession of a merchant from the Portsoken who wished absolution for killing his wife. For two years he fed the poor woman poison.' The apothecary turned and looked out of the window. 'You'd best go now, Hugh. The day is drawing on and this apothecary's shop is the very gateway to Hell. Or,' he grinned, 'as you manor lords would say: "Where the shit lies, the flies always gather."'
Hugh grinned, thanked him, and went back to the hospital gates where he warned Ranulf and Maltote to be on their guard. They followed a maze of alleyways which ran to the north of the city down to Holborn. Corbett realised that Brother Thomas was correct The weak sun was setting and the area near the old city wall was one of musty decay. The stalls were battered, selling shabby geegaws. There were very few well-dressed citizens, most of the denizens of the alleyways being rogues and villains; tinkers, trying to sell without permission from the Guilds, professional beggars, and rat-faced slum dwellers looking for easy prey.
They found Faltour's Lane and turned into the dirty refuse-filled alleyway, the daylight almost blocked out by the overhanging gables of the houses which reared up on either side. Ranulf stopped his chatter and when Corbett drew his sword so did his companions as a blatant warning to the dark shapes which lurked in the half-open doorways. A beggar, smitten with white leprosy, one ear and half his nose eaten away, came out of the shadows, his hands extended, begging for alms. Corbett threw him a coin, raised his sword, and the beggar scuttled away.
The clerk was now uneasy. The alleyway was narrow, lined with darkened doorways; some had shadows deeper than the rest and Corbett knew he was being watched. Any sign of weakness or fear and the cutpurses lurking there would be on them like a pack of dogs. He stood beneath the apothecary's sign, dagger still drawn; two cats raced by, screeching and squabbling over the half-gnawed body of a rat. Corbett jumped, cursing his own nervousness. He sheathed his dagger, whispered to Ranulf and Maltote to wait at the top of the alleyway, and knocked gently on the shop door.
A young man opened it Corbett was immediately struck by the fellow's swarthy good looks and elegant dress: dark purple hose, soft buskins on his feet, and an open-necked, spotless, white cambric shirt. The man smiled as if intrigued by Corbett, muttering a few words first in Portuguese and then in English. Corbett, acting his part, looked nervously back down the street and said he needed certain potions. The man smiled, his smooth dark face creasing in a grin, lips parted to reveal ivory white teeth as he gestured like a long-lost friend for Corbett to enter. Inside the shop was simple but clean; the stone floor had been recently scrubbed, the walls coated with lime to keep off flies. It was devoid of any furniture except a zodiac sign nailed to one wad, a small wooden table and two huge, high-backed chairs. The apothecary introduced himself.
'My name is Julio Cesar. Doctor, physician, formerly apothecary to his most Catholic Majesty, Sancho, King of Portugal. Now exiled from that country due to a,' the black eyes slid away, 'misunderstanding. And you, Sir?'
'Matthew Droxford,' Corbett lied.
The apothecary studied him, a faint smile on his full red tips as if he knew his visitor was lying.
'And you want some medicine?'
Cesar elegantly waved Corbett to a seat before disappearing into the small back room beyond, returning with two crystal goblets brimming with iced sherbet He gave one to Corbett before sitting down opposite, sipping from his own cup as if he had all the time in the world. Corbett tasted the drink gingerly. He knew this man, not by name or reputation, but by smelling the rotten evil about him. Oh, he would be a doctor, an apothecary, but he was also a poisoner. Corbett could not prove that but he recognised the kind of man who could concoct cunning elixirs which could kill a man or woman and leave no trace.
Cesar put his own cup down on the floor.
'Come, Sir,' he said briskly. 'Your business? Why are you here?'
'You have been recommended to me,' Corbett answered brusquely. He half smiled, his eyes narrowed. 'You are a gentleman, Signor, you will understand if I give no names. I am married, and my wife has been unfaithful.' He saw the flicker of amusement in Cesar's face. 'Not for the first time,' Corbett continued hurriedly. 'I am a man of honour, Signor. I cannot divorce her nor can I proclaim myself a cuckold, to be a common joke amongst my tenants and fellows. I have not stinted in providing my wife with every luxury. I have begged for her fidelity.'
'But she does not keep her word?' The apothecary leaned closer, like a priest ready to listen to a confession. 'And now, Signor, you wish to carry out sentence?'
'Yes. I want a powder, a potion, one which will not kill immediately but over a period of months, undetected by her or any physician.'
'Signor, that will be expensive.'
Corbett asked the price and stifled his amazement at the reply. It would take most of the silver he had on him and that would be just for half an ounce of what was needed. Nonetheless, he agreed; the apothecary rose and disappeared into the back room, emerging a few minutes later with a small leather bag. He offered it, smiling, to Corbett.
'You may taste it, Signor. It will not harm you. It's no more dangerous than chalk. But if you took it regularly…' He shrugged.
Corbett took the powder and counted out the silver. The price was worth it. The powder he would throw away but the information the poisoner had provided was invaluable.
Chapter 11
Corbett left that terrible shop without a word to Ranulf and Maltote, and walked out into the street off Faltour's Lane. 'Master!'
Corbett stopped and turned. 'What is it, Ranulf?'
'When you were in that apothecary's, I thought we were being watch
ed. No, not just by some bully boy – someone else.'
Corbett looked around. They were back on the broad but darkened thoroughfare of Holborn. The stalls had disappeared, the shop fronts were boarded up. Some householders had even placed lantern horns outside their house, the weak flame of the candles fluttering in their protective iron grilles against the cool evening breeze. Two young urchins ran by, screaming and shouting. A bloody-mouthed mastiff tied by a chain to a lintel of a door snarled and barked. Somewhere in a room above them, a woman gently crooned the tune of a lullaby. Corbett could see nothing untoward.
'You are sure?' he said. 'Maltote, did you see anything?' The serjeant-at-arms looked worried but shook his head. 'I did think we were being followed when we went to the apothecary's, but it was only a child.'
Two young urchins, their faces completely hidden by hoods, came hurrying by, kicking an inflated pig's bladder before them.
'There's nothing,' Corbett murmured. 'Nothing at all.'
They walked up Holborn, across the darkening common which stretched out before the old city walls, into the pestiferous area around Newgate and down towards Cheapside. Now and again they would stop and look around but there was no one following them. They reached Catte Street and Corbett decided they should stay in the tavern where they had stabled their horses.
'Tomorrow,' he announced, 'we go to Leighton.'
'And baby Hugh? I'd like to see him!' Ranulf angrily replied.
Corbett smiled.
'I'd not forgotten, Ranulf. However, as Scripture says, "Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof." Let's fid our bellies and try the ale.' Corbett looked slyly at Maltote. 'And, who knows, you may teach Ranulf the finer points of dicing!'
Laughing and joking, they pushed their way into the tavern's huge taproom, choosing a table near the great roaring fire. Corbett shouted for jacks of ale, demanding they be served the landlord's best