Angel of Death hc-4 Page 4

  Plumpton shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course. But,' he said, 'I understand the king waits for you now. My Lord Bishop of London has prepared a banquet for us to celebrate the king's discomfiture but the cooks are ready and de Montfort's death has surely not spoilt our appetite.'

  Corbett grinned, passed through the ranks of soldiers down the altar steps, gazed coolly at the still glowering archbishop and walked back behind the rood-screen to join the king. He found Edward had regained his composure and allowed in others of the royal household: marshals, stewards, courtiers, all bustling around, attempting to impose some order on the chaos which had broken out. The king had a silver ewer of water and napkins brought to him. He washed his hands with fragrant soap and allowed the royal barber to comb his beard and hair and replace the silver chaplet. Once that was done, Edward announced that His Grace the Bishop of London awaited them in the chapter-house and, followed by a trail of retainers, Corbett and Surrey included, the king strode back into the sanctuary. He ignored the others standing there and, walking out of the east door, went through the windswept snow-covered cloisters and into the chapterhouse of the cathedral.

  The white plaster walls of the great chapter-house were covered in costly Flemish tapestries and thick Persian carpets had been laid on the polished oaken floor. Candelabra of thick silver, each with a pure wax candle, kept away the darkness. There were braziers full of charcoal on small wheels; fresh herbs had been placed on them before their steel caps were fixed and they were wheeled into the room.

  In the far wall a huge fire roared, fed with sea coal and fresh pine logs and at the end of the hall, on a dais under a heavy rafter beam draped with red, white and gold hangings, stood the great table; behind it, carved oaken chairs. The table itself was covered by a white cloth and bedecked with silver and gold ornaments. The canons had evidently raided their treasury, removing all the precious ornaments to grace the hall and so awe the king. Corbett wondered if it was meant as a quiet jest at Edward's expense. He would have heard de Montfort's tirade against royal taxation and then been brought here and feasted at the church's expense, the bishops and canons taunting him with the treasures they so avidly denied him. The king, as if realizing the joke intended for him, did not wait for others to join him from the cathedral, but strode to the head of the hall and took the main seat on the dais. After that it was a frenetic scramble for places, people jostling to be as close as possible to the royal table on the dais. Corbett did not mind. The king had asked him to stay but Corbett whispered it would be better if he dined in the body of the hall and listened to any rumours or whispers which were circulating. The king had nodded. Corbett however realized that Edward, if he was the object of someone's malice, was as vulnerable here as he was in church.

  'Your Grace,' he murmured, 'had best be careful what he eats or drinks.'

  Surrey, who had placed himself at the king's left hand, turned angrily to Corbett. 'You need not worry, clerk,' he snapped. 'The king will not eat or drink what I have not eaten or drunk first.'

  'Then my Lord,' Corbett replied coolly, 'knowing His Grace's life is in your hands and I have your word for it, I feel safe.' He bowed towards the king and withdrew, leaving Surrey, not the most nimble-witted of Edward's courtiers, to wonder if an insult had been given or not.

  Corbett chose his place carefully. Already he had suspicions about Plumpton – far too gracious, far too pleasant, almost happy and relieved to see de Montfort dead. A man, Corbett considered, who needed questioning. So when people took their places, he slipped quietly onto the bench beside Plumpton. The canon, apparently pleased by his company, soon engaged him in a detailed conversation about the history of the cathedral whilst carefully avoiding any reference to de Montfort's death. Corbett listened carefully, though wondering where Bassett and Ranulf were. Ranulf, unable to find a seat in the hall, was quick-witted enough to know he would be served better and faster if he went into the kitchens, claiming to be a royal retainer; while Bassett would undoubtedly be carrying out some secret errand of the king. As Plumpton talked, Corbett thought of Bassett, a young man, a knight banneret probably from a landed family. Corbett had met such young men before: they were becoming ever more popular at the court, were totally devoted to the king and seemed to embody that dreadful legal maxim, 'The will of the Prince is force of law.' Bassett was one of these. A ruthlessly ambitious young man for whom there was no morality, no right or wrong, no heaven or hell, no grace no sin, no good no evil, nothing but the will of the prince.

  As the king grew older he seemed to surround himself with such men, for Edward could never brook opposition even as a young man, and in his old age found it, however slight, totally intolerable. Corbett had seen Edward fight in Wales. There the king had shown magnanimity to defeated rebels, but now? Corbett looked up the long hall to where the king sat in regal splendour at the high table. Now it was different. Corbett had heard about the expedition to Scotland, the sheer butchery, the king's murderous intent. Men like Surrey who sat beside the king were simply an extension of this royal fury. Surrey was an able soldier, a veteran warrior. He would put a town to the torch as easily as he would cross a street or mount a horse. Sometimes Corbett wondered whether he should serve the king; he had done well with estates in Sussex and was the proud owner of tenements in Suffolk, Shotters Brook, Clerkenwell and Bread Street. He thought of a phrase in the gospel, 'What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world but lose his own soul?' Corbett had to walk gingerly in the intricate politics of the English court, where it would be so easy for a man to lose his way and, eventually, his soul.

  The present case was no different. Corbett believed the chalice may have been meant for de Montfort but he had remembered the conversation before mass when Bassett had reminded the king (Corbett had been seated behind him) how, after the priest had taken the chalice as a gesture of friendship, the same cup would be brought for the king to drink. But who would want to kill Edward? Corbett sighed. There must be hundreds. Philip of France,

  Edward's sworn enemy, would be only too pleased to see the king die in his cups, or collapse before the high altar in his principal cathedral. Philip would then announce to Christendom how it was God's judgement on a perfidious English king. There were the Welsh chieftains, rebellious and seething with treachery. Corbett had dealt with such; that was how he had met Maeve… her sweet diamond-shaped face framed by long silver-blonde hair flickered into his mind. Corbett closed his eyes and removed the vision. If he started thinking about Maeve nothing would be done. Finally, of course, there were the Scots. Corbett had met their chieftains, Bruce and others, ruthless men totally determined not to give one inch of Scottish soil to England.

  Maeve's smiling face returned, so Corbett asserted himself by gazing round the hall. The meal was being served; the Bishop of London's cooks, despite the season, had done their best to provide a banquet. Baked mallard, teal, small birds served in almond milk, capon roasted in syrup, roasted veal, roasted pig, herons, tartar flesh, jellies, broiled rabbit, pheasant, venison, even hedgehogs skinned and baked in a rich sauce, cranes, partridges, custards, oranges, sweet doucettes all served up by a myriad of retainers. They were equally generous in filling the pewter cups from flagons of rich red wine. Corbett, despite his long fast, did not feel hungry. He still remembered de Montfort's face, the blackened mouth and swollen tongue. Moreover, in the far corner of the hall he had just seen a cat carrying the half-gnawed body of a rat and this, together with some of the gaping ulcers on the arms and hands of several of the serving boys, had decidedly put him off his meal. So he sipped quietly at the wine, vowing that as soon as the banquet was over, he would make his way into the city to justify his own hunger.

  Plumpton was still talking and Corbett let him babble on as he carefully examined his wooden platter or roundel, tracing with his finger certain verses of the Bible inscribed on it in gilt lettering. This was indeed wealth. The canons of St Paul's may not have known much of poverty but they certainly did about wealth. Even i
n a nobleman's house the roundel or trancher would have held stale bread, but here it was different. Even the cups given to them were of pewter. Their meals had been served on silver and gold dishes; the candles on the table were pure wax; the drapes on the wall were thick and heavily encrusted with gold. No stone floor, but polished wood covered with carpets. Charcoal braziers, the black metal polished clean, glowed red, giving off not only heat but a sweet fragrance. Plumpton, beside him, sat dressed in a thick robe and cowl lined with white ermine, his fleshy hands covered in rings. Corbett almost recoiled at the womanish perfume the man emanated. The priest seemed oblivious to this as he described the workings of the cathedral until Corbett, tired, decided to interrupt.

  'Sir Philip,' he said softly, 'who would want de Montfort dead?'

  Plumpton turned, his face beaming with pleasure. 'I for one.'

  'You did not like the dean?'

  'No,' he said, 'I did not like the dean, a mysterious, strange man. I would have liked his post, the office of dean. It should have been mine anyway.'

  Corbett was slightly taken aback at such a disclosure.

  'And how many more disliked him?'

  Plumpton spread his hands and gazed around. 'The cathedral is a small city in itself. There is the bishop, the dean, the treasurer, the sacrist, the almoner, the librarian. We have our servants, those who clean the church, those who serve us here. Our huntsmen, our washerwomen, our messengers, our tailors. I don't think you'd find one who liked Master de Montfort or who is going to weep copious tears because he is dead.'

  Plumpton sipped from his cup and peered closely at Corbett. 'And you, Master Clerk, do you think it was an accident? I have heard say you announced it as murder. It is murder, is it not.'

  'What do you think?' Corbett asked. 'Who would murder the Dean of St Paul's?'

  Plumpton grinned again.

  'Why not ask your master, the king,' he said.

  Corbett placed his hand firmly on Plumpton's arm. 'Sir priest,' he said, 'some men would say that was treason.'

  Plumpton slowly removed Corbett's hand. 'Some men, Master Clerk, say it is the truth.' He gazed steadily at Corbett. 'Why not ask your king? After all, was it not Bassett who brought a flagon of wine, the best Bordeaux, as a gift from your royal master, just before mass began?'

  Corbett stared back. 'I did not know that.'

  'There are many things that you did not know,' the priest replied peevishly. He suddenly raised a beringed hand and snapped his fingers. A servant, one eye covered by a black patch, shuffled forward. Corbett looked at him, the emaciated face, the long lank hair, the greasy leather jerkin and canvas apron tied around his waist.

  'Simon,' the priest said softly, 'is my servant. Simon has something to show you.' He whispered into the servant's ear, the man nodded and shuffled away.

  Corbett turned back to the table where around him the general hum of conversation was unbroken; people ignored him, intent on filling their own bellies and acquiring some warmth against the savage cold outside. The wine was now circulating freely and already some of the canons looked the worse for wear, bleary-eyed and droop-mouthed. Corbett knew the king would stay here most of the day, intent on showing he had nothing to hide or fear, and would be only too willing to relax and feast himself on the riches of the Church. Corbett would have liked to go but waited until the servant reappeared. In one hand he carried a cup, in the other a leather pannikin of wine. Corbett looked at the cup, which was empty: a simple design, made of good-quality pewter. The pannikin was of leather lined with gilt; the stopper of hard-boiled polished leather fitted the top snugly. Corbett had seen many such used around the royal palace. He looked at the cup, sniffing at the brim and caught a faint but strange smell. He then uncorked the pannikin of wine and the bitter sweet smell almost made him choke. Plumpton watched in amusement.

  'They are yours, Master Clerk. That smell, this morning in the sacristy, it is the same now. I am sure, Master Clerk,' Plumpton continued smoothly, 'that if you took a gulp of that, you would not leave this hall alive. But they are yours. I give them as a free gift, for in the wrong hands they could well be used as a weapon against the king.'

  Corbett nodded. 'I will not forget,' he said. He replaced the stopper carefully, making sure it was screwed in tightly, rose and without a word to Plumpton or his shadowy servant, walked from the hall, with both cup and pannikin concealed beneath his robe.

  5

  Corbett walked out of the warm chapter-house and into the icy cold cloisters. It was now bitterly cold; the sun had set and a grey dusk was closing in. Flurries of snow fell, adding a fresh carpet to what had come before. An unnatural stillness hung over the cathedral grounds, as if the snow had blanketed everything under a canopy of peace; yet Corbett knew different. Only two years ago the king had ordered a high wall to be erected around the cathedral, strengthened by gates which were locked every night and opened only when the bells rang for prime. Here were men who had fled from the law, seeking sanctuary: the scum of London, broken men declared 'utlegatum' – beyond the law. They came here untroubled by royal officers or other city officials. Through the falling flakes, across the graves and mounds now hidden by the snow, Corbett could see the great stone wall and the makeshift shelters erected against it. Men, women and children, faint figures swathed in skins and rags, like those in a nightmare, slipped silendy by. He saw the dim glow of fires and heard the cry of a baby, painful against the encroaching freezing night. A hopeless scene. The grounds were taken up by the dead and used by those who lived in a sort of half-dead state.

  A dreadful place, Corbett concluded, it evoked the old demons in his soul. He remembered a friend, an Arab physician whom he had once met years ago in London, talk of a sickness of the soul which excited the base humours of the body; the mind became clouded and eventually it led to suicide. Corbett thought such a nightmare always awaited him, that he would settle in some black fit of depression and, unable to continue, simply lie down and die. The graveyards and grounds of the Cathedral of St Paul's evoked these demons: here, in Christ's house, where Christ lived, his figure perpetually crucified, the priests fed like pigs, their bodies, sleek, fat, plump, clothed and warm; while the poor, like the cat he had seen earlier, squatted where they could, eating what they had scavenged.

  Corbett passed a group of horses tethered together, waiting for their masters to finish their feasdng, the grooms long since disappeared. Corbett rounded a corner and entered the south door of the cathedral. On either side of the gloomy entrance were small wooden iron-barred gates leading to the tower. Corbett ensured these were fastened. He didn't know why, but he simply did not want to pass a door which might be open, for he could not shake off a feeling of evil, of watchful malice. He walked up into the nave. On either side of him the transepts were shrouded in darkness, the stout rounded pillars standing like a row of silent guardians, thrusting the mass of stone, as if by magic, up into the air. The place was deserted. Usually, this market-place of London would be packed by scribes, lawyers, parchment-sellers, and servants. Here men would come to talk of lawsuits and crop prices; women had neighbourly chats even while divine service was being celebrated, sometimes only becoming quiet when the host was elevated. St Paul's was a useful meeting-place where enemies might confer on safe ground; arbitrators decide a land quarrel; a young man with marriage on his mind arrange to meet a young girl and her family.

  Corbett jumped as the great bell of St Paul's began booming out, a sign that the curfew would be imposed, the gates locked and chains laid across them to deny access to any of the roaring gangs of lawless youths who terrorized the city at night. It was cold, deathly cold. Corbett walked on past the small, shadowy embrasures where the chancery priests sang masses for those who paid money to escape God's judgement for their sins on earth. He climbed the steps into the choir; on either side the wooden stalls were empty, the carved gargoyles staring in motionless terror towards him. Wall torches still spluttered faintly, throwing deep shadows and giving the patterne
d stone-work a life of its own. Corbett entered the silent sanctuary. Here too, torches fixed into their iron sockets in the wail provided a little light. Corbett looked up at the high altar which had been cleared. The sacred vessels were now covered with a thick, dark cloth, though the incense from the morning mass still hung in the air like souls who refused to ascend to heaven.

  The high altar with its carved frontal was now shrouded in virtual darkness, except for the solitary red winking sanctuary light which shone through the gloom like a beacon in a storm. Corbett remembered the words carved on the wooden sanctuary screen he had just passed through. 'Hic locus terribilis. Dominus Dei et porta coeli' – This is indeed a terrible place, the house of God and the gate of heaven. Corbett shivered. Perhaps it was also the gate of hell. Here Christ dwelt under the appearance of bread and wine, surrounded by a horde of adoring angels, the whole might of heaven's armies. But was that true? Corbett could hardly believe it. Did what the priest say really exist? Was it true? Were some philosophers right when they said that man lived in a world of simple appearances? Did Corbett constantly dwell in the shadows unaware of the true reality beyond it? Or, as St Augustine put it, was man a mere child playing in the rock pools of a beach ignoring the great ocean whispering beside him? Yet there was a reality here, even if it was just the reality of evil. Corbett found it difficult to believe that this cathedral, founded on the ruins of an ancient Roman temple, was really a holy place.

  Here, after all, a priest had been murdered, struck down as he prepared to meet Christ himself. Was it God's dreadful judgement on that man? And what more terrible judgement would await those who had planned such a hideous crime?

  Corbett jumped. He heard a sound from the far sanctuary wall; drawing his dagger from beneath his cloak he walked softly over, his heart pounding, his mouth becoming so dry that his tongue was rigid between his teeth. The scraping seemed to come out of the wall itself. Corbett, the sweat now breaking out on his body, placed his hand gingerly on the wall and began to feel down to where the sound had come from. Suddenly his shuffling fingers were caught in an icy vice-like grip. The clerk raised his other hand but his palm, wet with sweat, let the dagger slip with a clang onto the flagstone. Corbett tried to curb his rising panic. He saw a ray of light appear in the wall and moaned in terror. Had one of the stone devils, the grinning gargoyles high up the-wall, unexpectedly come to life and in this evil place slithered down serpent-like to seize him? Corbett panicked and he was on the point of screaming when he heard the voice.