Angel of Death hc-4 Read online

  Father Thomas grimaced and haltingly gave a list of poisons, the drugs from plants such as belladonna and foxglove. As he warmed to his subject, he provided detailed descriptions of each poison: how they were made; how they were to be administered; their side effects and possible antidotes. As he spoke, Ranulf, who found most of the terms difficult to understand, realized one thing: his secretive master believed the priest who had collapsed in St Paul's the previous day had been poisoned; he also understood that whoever had administered the poison had done so during the sacrifice of the mass, for all the deadly poisons Father Thomas described acted within minutes.

  At last Father Thomas finished and Hugh nodded.

  'You probably know why I have come?' Father Thomas shook his head and spread his hands.

  'Here we have our own tasks, Hugh. I hear very little of what is going on,' he grinned, 'except your promotions. It's a long time, Hugh, since we were at college together. Oxford seems so far away. Strange,' he looked through the narrow-slitted window at the icy fields beyond, 'when you look back, how everything seems to have taken place at the height of summer? Do you know, I can never remember studying during the winter or when it was cold? The sun always seemed to shine.'

  Hugh smiled, he quietly agreed. Whenever he thought back to his days at Oxford, or to his marriage to Mary, each day, each memory was always against a background of summer, of warm suns, lush green grass, trees moving gently in a soft breeze; the chatter of his little girl, the serene influence of his wife. Perhaps that was what the memories were for: to warm, bolster and strengthen you for the future.

  Corbett shrugged, rose and, extending both hands towards Father Thomas, cupped the man's head in his hands, kissing him gently on the brow.

  'Father Thomas,' he said, 'believe me. The paths I walk now, even though bounded by a wickedness you could not even comprehend, are made easier because of my friendship with you and the memories we share.'

  Father Thomas rose, clasped Hugh's hand and, mildly protesting that the clerk did not come to see him often enough, led them back to the main gateway of the hospital.

  Corbett, followed by a now grumbling Ranulf, began the long walk across Smithfield, back through Newgate. By now the city had come to life; booths were open and shop fronts, overhung with canvas to protect them against the inclement weather, were let down. A line of prisoners being taken from Newgate down to the King's Bench at Westminster passed them; they were shackled together with iron gyves around their ankles, wrists and necks, and made to trot through the snow. Some of them, young boys and girls, had no shoes or leg coverings and their cries were piteous as they scarred their feet on the hard ice and the rocky filth hidden beneath. A group of bawds, hauled in by the city bailiffs for walking the streets the previous evening, was being taken into the prison; their scarlet gowns and hoods were ripped and torn and white hats had been placed on their heads. A solitary bagpiper preceded them, whilst alongside shambled files of tired-looking soldiers who returned the obscene jokes or jests of the women with the occasional slap or coarsened oath. A beggar rushed out to Corbett, one eye missing, her nostrils eaten away by some terrible disease; she had a mewling infant clasped tightly to her breast. 'Ayez pitie! Ayez pitie!'

  Corbett stopped. The woman knew Norman French. Once she may have been a lady, someone of quality, a discarded mistress who had begun to fall from the ranks of the city's caste system and was now at the bottom, here in the sewers and shambles of Newgate and the Fleet.

  'Ayez pitie!' she repeated.

  Corbett dug into his purse and handed over two silver coins. The woman smiled and turned away. As she did so, Corbett realized the bundle she carried was not an infant but a small cat. The woman was a professional beggar; she had disguised her face with horrific sores and presented herself as a true object of pity.

  Corbett smiled wryly at Ranulf. 'Isn't it strange? Even when you want to show compassion, things go wrong.'

  Ranulf shrugged, he did not understand his master, nor his fitful gesture of generosity; they seemed ill-placed for a man who, only a few hours earlier, had dragged him from his bed and thrown him into the ice-cold snow. They walked on, turning left to go down Old Dean's Lane and into Bowyer's Row, south along Fleet Street, past the ditch, its filth frozen in ice, then passing White Friars, the Temple, Gray's Inn and the rich, timbered gilt-edged houses of the lawyers, before joining the main thoroughfare to the palace and abbey of Westminster.

  Scenes of frenetic business greeted them: lawyers in striped hoods, judges in their red, ermine-lined gowns, preceded by tipstaffs, bailiffs, officials and the occasional knight banneret of the royal household. All carried themselves with that hurried air of importance with which notables endow themselves to emphasize their rank and make the exercise of their own authority so much easier.

  Corbett and Ranulf jostled their way through them, past the Clock Tower and up the broad, sweeping staircase into the main hall of Westminster. Corbett had been here many times. Usually his work was in the Chancery offices of the king's chamber which were situated wherever the king decided to hold court: sometimes south of the river at Eltham, or the Tower or the Palace of Sheen, or one of the royal manors in a distant shire. But always they came back to Westminster. Here, in the alcoves of the great hall, were the different courts, the exchequer, the Common Pleas and, on the dais, the King's Bench, where the Chief Justice, aided by other royal judges, dispensed justice in the king's name. Leading off from the hall were a warren of passageways, small chambers and offices: the royal messengers, the king's comptrollers and conveyors, the surveyor of works, the controller of the royal household, the chamberlain; each had their own little empire.

  Corbett was pleased to be temporarily free of the bureaucratic politics which dominated each and everyone who worked here, for, as chief clerk to the Chancery, he was moved around from one department to another. Usually he was present when the king sealed charters with the Great Seal of England, with other barons present being there to ratify the document. On a few occasions only he and the king were present as letters were despatched under the Secret or Privy Seal to officials, sheriffs, bailiffs or Commissioners of Array in the shires. Corbett enjoyed his work. He liked writing, the study of manuscripts, the preparation of vellum, the joy of inscribing a fresh, pumice-rubbed piece of high quality parchment, the smell of the dried ink and sharpened quills. There was excitement when letters were brought in to be transcribed and satisfaction in seeing suitable replies despatched.

  Now, for the third or fourth time, the king had asked him to take up special duties. Corbett, if he was honest with himself, would admit he was frightened. His previous tasks had taken him abroad and pitted him against powerful figures in shadowy, lawless areas of London. He had faced charges of treason in Wales and Scotland as well as murderous attempts on his life. Corbett had few illusions: he knew it was only a matter of time before either he failed disastrously and incurred the royal wrath of Edward or suffered some serious accident. Then what? The king might well discard him like one would an old rag or a useless piece of parchment, to be swept away like the leaves of the previous summer to be forgotten and not counted. And who would miss him? In his own way he loved Ranulf but he also had no illusions about his servant. There was only Maeve in Wales. Corbett stopped and squinted up at one of the great bay windows of the hall. It was now the middle of January and the last time he had seen her was the previous autumn. The lapse of time only increased his aching longing for her. If he thought about Maeve's serene face and long blonde hair, her perfect rounded figure, any feeling of pleasure would be replaced by a deep black depression. He knew he could not go to Wales and the weather made it impossible for her to travel to London. He would have to see this matter through and take what came.

  Perhaps that was why he was frightened; he wanted to live now more than he ever did before. He was frightened of dying, of something happening which would stop him meeting Maeve, prevent them from being married and living as man and wife. For if he died w
hat then? What use the tenements in Bread Street or Aldermanbury, or his other possessions – the little brown padlocked chest in the goldsmith's house in Cheapside or the empty, derelict manor in Sussex? What good would all these do if his body was rotting away in some pauper's grave or in some lonely London ditch?

  Corbett pulled back his cloak and, without thinking, touched the long dagger which swung from his belt. Immediately he was accosted by an important official dressed in scarlet and blue doublet and hose, with his hair neatly coiffed. He carried a white wand of office which marked him as a Steward of the Great Hall. He placed his hand on Corbett's chest as a gesture he should go on further. The man's self-important face beamed with pleasure at being able to exercise power and his chest puffed out like some little cock-sparrow. In other circumstances Corbett would have laughed but now he glared into the man's pig-like face.

  'You stop me, sir?'

  'I stop you, sir,' the pompous fool replied, 'because you are armed, here near The King's Bench and that is an offence!' He clicked his fingers at a watching group of men-at-arms to come and arrest Corbett when suddenly, the clerk brought both hands firmly down on the man's shoulder with a resounding thwack.

  'What is your name?'

  The official's eyes became guarded. Corbett was not drunk nor did he seem deranged; only a man sure of himself would make such a gesture in the face of royal authority.

  'What is your name?' Corbett repeated sternly.

  'Edmund de Nockle,' the pompous idiot replied.

  'Well Edmund,' Corbett said, pressing his hands deeper into the man's shoulders until he saw the fellow wince, 'my name is Hugh Corbett. I am senior clerk in the king's Chancery, a special emissary in matters of the secret seal. Now, if you wish me arrested that is your privilege, but I assure you before the day is out, I will be back in this hall wearing my sword and dagger and you, you arrogant fool, will be shackled in the Marshalsea Prison.'

  The man was about to apologize but Corbett would not let him go. 'Now, Master de Nockle. You will lead us to where the king is.'

  The man, pink-faced with embarrassment, chose to ignore Ranulf's snigger and, turning smartly on his heel, led them out of the hall, down some stairs and along a winding corridor. Corbett knew full well where the king was. The royal chamber was off the writing-room near where the letters and seals were kept. De Nockle approached a huge, iron-barred door and knocked gendy, but Corbett, deciding that he had had enough, pushed him aside and rapped more loudly. He heard the king's voice calling entry so he opened the door and went in with Ranulf close behind.

  7

  The king was at the far end of the room, sitting on a huge chest. Around him the floor was covered with rolls of parchment and vellum; a roaring fire burnt in the chimney and the hearth around was littered with bits of coal and wood. Corbett felt the intense heat immediately, for the windows were all shuttered and the room contained at least three braziers as well as the fire. The clerks working at the long table looked as if they regretted putting on so many layers of clothing. The king was dictating letters, now and again breaking off to start another, so all four scribes were virtually writing at once. Corbett had seen the king work like this, an amazing spectacle as he moved from one item to another: whether it be a letter to a sheriff ordering him to be more prompt and accurate in producing the profits of a shire, or to a cardinal in Rome asking him to plead a certain matter with His Holiness.

  On Corbett's entry, Edward rose and immediately barked at the scribes to leave. He did not have to repeat his commands. They dropped their pens and filed gratefully from the room. Edward filled two large cups of wine to the brim and brought them over to Corbett and Ranulf. He heard his servant splutter his thanks and noisily guzzle the wine. Edward always surprised Corbett. Sometimes he could be arrogant but then again he could remember the smallest detail about a servant, even going on an errand personally to make matters more comfortable for a menial of the household.

  Today, the king was apparently in such a mood. He waved both Corbett and Ranulf to a bench.

  'You have been out early, Master Clerk?' The king laughed at the surprised look in Corbett's eyes. 'I sent a messenger to your lodgings and was told you had gone. You have begun to investigate the matter in St Paul's?'

  'I have, Your Grace.'

  'And what have you found?'

  'Nothing much.' Corbett saw the King's eyes darken and realized how fickle the man was. 'I mean, Your Grace, I have learnt a little more. De Montfort was definitely poisoned but the venom used must have been administered during the sacrifice of the mass, probably during the communion of the celebrants. He died within a few minutes of taking the poison.'

  'Do you know who administered it?'

  'It could be anyone, Your Grace. The finger even points at you.'

  The king came so close to Corbett that the clerk could smell the mixture of royal sweat and rare perfume. 'What do you mean, Clerk?'

  'Your Grace, you did send wine to de Montfort the evening before the mass was celebrated.'

  'I did,' the king replied guardedly.

  'You sent it with Fulk Bassett?'

  'Yes, that is true,' the king repeated quickly, watching Corbett carefully and casting sidelong glances at Ranulf as if he now regretted his generosity and would like to order the servant from the room. Ranulf needed no second bidding. Putting the cup down, he sprang to his feet, bowed to the king and backed gracefully out of the chamber muttering how he had forgotten something in the great hall. He would have to hasten back and if His Grace and Master Corbett would excuse him then his voice trailed off. Ranulf opened the door and fled down the corridor, leaving his master to face the royal wrath. Corbett waited until he was gone, before speaking.

  'Your Grace, the wine you sent was poisoned with the same venom that killed de Montfort. I don't know the precise combination, arsenic, belladonna, the juice of the foxglove, maybe all three. The same poison de Montfort drank during the mass was found in the pannikin of wine you sent him.'

  'Do you think, Master Clerk,' the king replied, 'that I would poison wine?'

  'No, I do not. But someone else poisoned it to make it look as if you did. Who knows, even Bassett himself.'

  The king shook his head. 'Bassett would do nothing, not even draw breath, without the royal command,' he said drily. 'But do you believe all this, Corbett?'

  'No, your Grace, I do not.'

  'Why?'

  'The poison given to de Montfort was a powerful one. As I have said, he died within a few minutes. The wine you sent was opened the evening beforehand.'

  'He could have drunk it before the mass?'

  'No, he could not, Your Grace; you forget your Canon Law. No one who receives communion or celebrates mass must eat or drink after midnight.'

  The king shrugged. He knew some of these priests, they made burdens for other men's backs which they never carried themselves.

  'Still, Your Grace,' Corbett persisted, 'even if he had drunk it, he would never have reached the altar alive.'

  The king nodded. 'So it would look as if someone,' Edward squinted up at the light streaming through one of the shutters – 'It looks as if somebody wanted to kill de Montfort and make it look as if I wanted to kill him. At the same time, you say, I could have been the intended victim. Perhaps there is no solution.'

  'There will be, Your Grace,' Corbett replied confidently. 'If a problem exists, a solution must exist. We must find out who administered the poison or when it was administered. The answer to either of these questions will lead us to the truth.'

  The king went back and sat on the bench, his legs apart, head in hands. He rubbed his face, a favourite gesture, toyed with one of the many precious rings on his fingers and looked up at Corbett.

  'I know you, Clerk. You have not come here to tell me the obvious. You have come here to ask something haven't you?'

  Yes, Your Grace.'

  'Then for God's sake,' the king bellowed, 'ask it!' Corbett took a deep breath.

  'I d
on't think anyone would believe, Your Grace, the wine you sent to de Montfort was poisoned by you, but they might ask why you sent the wine in the first place.'

  The king shrugged. 'A gift, a peace offering.'

  Corbett rose, picked up a stool and walked over to sit close to the king. 'Your Grace, you know I am your obedient servant.' Edward looked at him warily. 'Your Grace,' Corbett repeated, 'I am your obedient servant, but if you wish to find out the truth then, with all respect, I must urge you to tell me the truth. You hated the de Montfort family. You hated the Dean of St Paul's. He was going to denounce you and your taxes before the entire English Church. His words would have gone abroad to the Pope in Avignon, to King Philip in Paris, to the Archbishops and Bishops of Scotland and Wales. So why did you send him the wine?' Corbett licked his lips. 'It could not be a bribe, not to a man like de Montfort. You would need the wealth of an abbey to buy a man like that.'

  The king smiled. 'You have a sharp brain, Master Corbett. Sometimes too sharp.' The king rose and walked restlessly round the room. 'But you are wrong. De Montfort was not going to denounce me. In fact, I had bribed him already. I had bought him, Master Clerk. In his speech after mass he was not going to attack the Crown's claims on the Church's revenues but support them.' The king paused to watch Corbett's astonishment. 'You see,

  Master Clerk, you are probably an honest man. In your own lights an incorruptible one. You make the mistake of thinking that because you do something or think something, other people do the same. But they do not.' The king jangled the purse which swung from the gold, jewel-encrusted belt lashed round his waist. 'Silver and gold, Master Corbett. I bought de Montfort. A mixture of bribes and threats.' 'And the wine?'

  'The wine was sent, Master Corbett, as a gesture to seal our understanding. De Montfort liked the luxuries of the world. Your investigations will prove my suspicions correct. You see, Corbett, yesterday, I was not angry about de Montfort's death but I was angry that he had not at least lived to deliver the sermon I had bought. I virtually wrote it for him myself – chapter and verse. It went back in history: how the Church in this country had constantly supported the monarchs. How Erconwald himself, Bishop of London, the great Saxon by whose tomb I stood yesterday, had done so much for the city, the king and the kingdom.