Angel of Death by Paul C. Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

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