Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl (6 page)

‘You should have announced yourself,’ she cried, stepping backwards. ‘A gentleman recently knighted should observe such courtesies!’

‘So, you have heard the news?’

‘Of course, Maltote told me.’

Corbett swallowed hard. ‘And the other news?’

Maeve made a wry smile. Corbett clasped her hands and pulled her back to him. He was surprised she did not seem angry; the smooth, unblemished skin of her face was not drawn tight nor was there any furrow on her brow or round her lips – sure signs that his wife had lost her fiery temper. The lips he had just tasted were soft and warm and her eyes held a teasing look.

‘You are not angry, Maeve?’

‘Why should I be? My husband has returned.’

‘About the news?’

‘Sir,’ Maeve answered in mock surprise. ‘You have been knighted.’

‘Madame,’ Corbett rasped. ‘We are not going to Wales. You will not see your uncle!’

Maeve slipped her arms round his waist.

‘True, true,’ she mocked. ‘We will not be going to Wales.’ Her face became serious. ‘But I will see my uncle.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He is coming here. I have already despatched Maltote with the invitation.’

Corbett steeled his face, though he would have dearly loved to have screamed. He hadn’t thought of that: the Lord Morgan ap Llewellyn sweeping into his house like some wild wind from the mountains of Wales. Oh, Lord, Corbett thought, he’ll be here, he’ll drink and eat as if there’s no tomorrow. His retainers will get drunk in the London taverns, be arrested by the watch and get thrown into gaol when they try to break their necks. There will be nights of song and roistering as the Lord Morgan sings some savage song before breaking into tears at the vanished glories of Wales. In the morning, however, the Lord Morgan will rise as fresh as a daisy to argue about Edward’s policies in Wales. He will challenge Ranulf to gamble and the house will ring with their curses as they do their best to cheat each other. Corbett slumped down on a stool.

‘The Lord Morgan is coming here?’ he said weakly.

Maeve crouched beside him and grasped his fingers.

‘Oh, Hugh, don’t object. He may be wild but he’s growing old!’

‘Your uncle,’ Corbett grated, ‘will never grow old!’

‘Hugh, he loves me and, beneath his temper, he deeply admires you.’

Oh, divine sweetness, Corbett thought. He was about to object when he glimpsed the tears brimming in his wife’s eyes – one of her favourite tricks: either accept now, she was saying, or I’ll wander round this house like some martyr about to be burnt.

‘How long is he staying?’

‘Two months.’

In other words, six, Corbett thought. He sighed. ‘Let the Lord Morgan come.’

Maeve kissed him again. ‘We’ll all be together,’ she whispered, her eyes alight with pleasure.

Yes, Corbett thought wearily, we’ll all be together.

Maeve clapped her hands. ‘He can have the chamber at the back of the house and his servants can use the hall below or perhaps stay in a tavern.’

Corbett rose and caught the tendrils of his wife’s hair and grinned. ‘I’ll be busy,’ he observed, then he suddenly grasped Maeve by the shoulders.

‘The King told me you had visitors, Maeve. The Frenchman, de Craon and his companion, de Nevers.’

Maeve made a face. ‘De Craon was charming. Oh, I know Hugh, he is a fox but he brought me a scarf, pure silk from the looms of Lyons and a silver spoon for Eleanor.’

‘Get rid of them!’ Corbett rasped.

‘Hugh!’

‘De Craon is a cruel bastard who wishes me nothing but ill.’

‘Hugh, he was courteous.’

‘And how was his companion?’

‘De Nevers?’ Maeve made a face. ‘He was handsome, quieter than de Craon, diplomatic and affable. I liked him.’

Corbett glared at his wife, then realised how ridiculous he must look. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But de Craon always makes me uneasy.’

Maeve grasped him by the hand. ‘Then forget him like I have. Come and see your daughter.’

Corbett followed her and stared down at his baby daughter. At three months, Eleanor already looked like Maeve: beautiful soft skin, clear regular features. He touched one of her tiny fingers. ‘So small!’ he whispered. The baby’s hand felt warm, soft as a satin cushion. He squeezed gently and, under her small quilted blanket, Eleanor moved and smiled in her sleep.

‘She is well?’

‘Of course.’

Corbett placed his hand gently against the baby’s forehead and Maeve watched him guardedly. Her husband, usually so calm, even cold, harboured the most terrible fears of what might happen to the child. Maeve looked away. Much as she could try, her husband’s mind was still plagued by ghosts. The most frightening, surprisingly enough for a man so detached, was of losing those close to him, of being left alone. She seized him by the hand.

‘Let’s go,’ she whispered. ‘Our chamber is ready. There is wine, bread and fruit, next to the bed.’ Maeve grinned. ‘A bed covered in red silk,’ she whispered. ‘And in the centre, two embroidered turtle doves.’ Her face became serious. ‘You may want to rest? Drink something sweet? You must be tired after your long journey.’

Corbett grinned back. ‘Call Anna,’ he murmured, pulling Maeve close to him. ‘Let her sit with Eleanor and I shall show you, Madam, how tired I am!’

The next morning Corbett rose early. He doused the light in its sconce holder and opened the small latticed window which looked out over the gardens and small orchard at the back of the house. The day was about to break, the sky already scored with gashes of bright light. He could hear the bells of St Lawrence Jewry clanging as dawn broke, the usual sign for the city gates to be opened and a fresh day’s business to begin. He returned to his bed and kissed his still sleeping wife on the side of her face then stood over Eleanor’s cradle for a while and watched his little daughter gaze solemnly back. Corbett was fascinated. The child was so placid, so even-tempered. Before he had risen he had heard her gurgling to herself, smacking her little lips and chatting to the wooden doll Maeve had placed on the small bolster beside her. Corbett reluctantly turned away and dressed hurriedly in the clothes Maeve had laid out over the chest the night before; leggings of dark blue, a soft white shirt, with a sleeveless cote-hardie with a cord to fasten round the waist. Corbett threw the latter aside. He knew the horrors which might confront him so he took his sword-belt off the peg on the wall and buckled it round his middle. He picked up his boots and cloak, tiptoeing gently out of the room just as Eleanor suddenly realised she was hungry and began to bellow as if she wanted to show her father some new aspect of her character.

‘Her mother’s daughter,’ Corbett whispered to himself as he crept up the stairs and pushed open the door to Ranulf’s chamber. As usual, the room looked as if a violent struggle had taken place. Corbett could only tell his servant was there by a series of loud snores. Corbett enjoyed shaking him awake, then went down to the buttery to wait. Scullions had not yet started the fire so he poured himself a jug of watered ale. Ranulf appeared, bleary-eyed and unshaven. Corbett let him quench his thirst before pushing the still half-sleeping manservant out of the house and across the street to the tavern. There was the usual commotion of mocking argument until a burly ostler brought out and saddled their horses. Ranulf splashed water over his face from the huge butt and gave the fellow the rough edge of his tongue, bluntly informing him that some people had to work and not just loll around in warm straw. This provoked a stream of abuse from the ostler which Ranulf thoroughly enjoyed. He was still throwing catcalls over his shoulder when they rode out into the Mercery and down towards the Guildhall.

The day would be a fine one and apprentices and traders were already pulling out their booths in front of the houses, fixing up poles, putting up the awnings and laying out their goods. The air was thick with the wood smoke of the artisans in their little huts behind Cheapside. Carts bringing their produce into the city crashed along the cobblestones, the drovers cracking the air with their whips and cursing their horses. Apprentices, wearing canvas and leather jerkins, kept a wary eye on the beggars moving about in the shadows between the houses. These were the upright men: not the real poor but the cranks and counterfeiters looking for easy pickings before the day’s business began. Four of the city watch marched by, leading a line of night-walkers, drunkards, thieves, blowsy whores and roaring boys, towards the great water tank, or Conduit, where most of them would stand in a cage all day to be abused by the good citizens whose sleep they had disturbed.

Corbett looked up as the bells in the steeple of St Mary Le Bow began to chime and he saw the great night-light, the beacon which guided Londoners during the hours of darkness, being doused. Now other bells began to toll, calling the faithful to early-morning mass. Ranulf stared round and drank in these sights, then, glowering at Corbett, began to complain loudly about the lack of food and how he was starving. They stopped at a cook shop, the reins of their horses looped through their arms as they gulped small bowls of hot spiced beef. Ranulf chattered about his son, the illicit fruit of one of his many amours. Corbett listened attentively. Ranulf wished to bring the boy for a short stay at the house in Bread Street. Corbett smiled bravely but his heart sank with despair. Lord Morgan, Ranulf and Ranulf’s young son would utterly destroy the peace and quiet of his household.

Corbett finished chewing the meat and washed his hands in a small bowl of rose water brought out by a thin-faced urchin. The lad looked half-starved, his eyes almost as big as his face. Corbett pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. ‘Buy some food yourself, lad.’

He dried his hands on a napkin and waited to make sure the boy did as he was told. Then, leading the horses, they walked down Cheapside. Corbett, half-listening to Ranulf’s glowing description of his son, recalled the events of the night before: after their wild, passionate love-making, Corbett and Maeve had gone down for a meal in the kitchen before going back to bed. He recalled Maeve’s teasing and his idle chatter about affairs at court. His wife, however, became anxious as Corbett described the reasons for his return to London.

‘I have heard of these murders!’ Maeve commented, sitting up and drawing the sheets round her body. ‘At first no one noticed. In a city like this, girls are killed or disappear and no one cares but,’ she shook her head, ‘the deaths of these women, the manner of their dying – is it true?’ she asked.

Corbett, lying flat on his back, suddenly stirred.

‘Is what true?’

‘They say the murderer—’ Maeve shivered and brought her knees up under her chin. ‘They say the killer mutilates the bodies of the girls.’

Corbett looked up in surprise. ‘Who told you that?’

‘It’s common gossip. Most women are frightened to go out at night but that last death was during the day.’ Maeve went on to tell him of the recent killing and the mutilated corpse of a whore being found in the porch of a church in Greyfriars.

Corbett gently stroked her bare arm. ‘But why the fear? The women he has killed have all been whores and courtesans?’

‘So what?’ Maeve tossed her head. ‘They are still women and Lady Somerville was certainly not an whore!’

Corbett had fallen silent. Somehow he believed that Lady Somerville’s death was different from the rest. Had the old lady discovered something? Had she surprised the killer?

Corbett looked round as Cheapside began to fill. Already he could glimpse the whores in their bright clothes and garish wigs. Suddenly the day didn’t seem so bright and as he recalled Maeve’s words about mutilation he felt uneasy. His usual adversaries, be they de Craon or some calculating murderer, had reason and motive for their actions. But what now? Was he hunting – as Ranulf had described the previous day – some mad man, some lunatic with a twisted hatred of women who found it easier to prey upon poor street-walkers but who might change and strike at any woman, lonely and vulnerable enough. Corbett wished he could turn and go back home. He felt he was about to enter a very darkened house with shadowy labyrinthine passages and, somewhere, a killer lurked waiting for him to come. Oh, God, he prayed, bring me out of this safely; from the snare of the hunter, Lord, deliver me.

At the Guildhall, Corbett’s sombre mood was not helped by a beadle standing on the steps auctioning the goods of a hanged felon: a battered table, two broken chairs, one ripped mattress, two thimbles, a set of hose, a shirt, a doublet and a battered pewter cup inlaid with silver. The man had apparently robbed a church but his accomplice had escaped so a rather shabby cleric, holding a candle in one hand and a bell in another, was loudly proclaiming his excommunication in a litany of curses.

‘May he be cursed wherever he be found. At home or in the field, on a highway or a path, in the forest or on water. May he be cursed in living and in dying, in eating and drinking, whilst hungry and thirsty, sleeping, walking, standing, sitting, working, resting, urinating, defecating and bleeding. May he be cursed in the hair of his head, in his temples, brow, mouth, breast, heart, genitals, feet and toe-nails!’ On and on the dreadful, sonorous declamation continued.

‘I think,’ Ranulf whispered to Corbett, ‘that the poor bastard should get the message now!’

Corbett grinned and threw the reins of his horse at Ranulf. ‘Stable him in a tavern,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll meet you inside.’

A beggar, his face hooded and masked, crouched in the doorway of the Guildhall whining for alms whilst, on the other side, a huckster sold pretty ribbons. Corbett stopped and indicated both to move out of his way.

‘I know who you are,’ he said softly. ‘You’re upright men, counterfeiters, and whilst I am busy with the beggar, the other will try and pick my purse.’

The two men fairly scuttled away and Corbett walked down the passageway, across a courtyard and into a small mansion. The Guildhall proper was merely a walled enclosure containing a number of buildings around a large, three-storied house. Corbett waited inside the doorway until Ranulf joined him. They went up a rickety wooden staircase into a spacious, white-washed chamber where clerks sat at a table scratching away at great rolls of vellum and parchment. Not one of them looked up as Corbett and Ranulf entered but a large fat man, seated at the head of the room, got up and waddled over. Corbett recognised the podgy, red face above the ill-fitting gown and food-stained jerkin.