Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page B

Ignoring Ranulf’s black looks he led them into the musty taproom. They stood by the door drinking quickly before going back into the streets.
    ‘What are we doing?’ Ranulf pushed alongside Corbett. ‘Where are we going, Master?’
    ‘I want to show you the city,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I want you to feel it in your brain as well as your belly.’ He paused and beckoned his companions closer. ‘Oxford is a world unto itself,’ he explained. ‘It is a city made up of small villages which are the Halls or Colleges. Each stands in its own ground and has its own workshops, dorters, forges and stables.’ He pointed down the street where Ranulf and Maltote could glimpse a great metal-studded gate in the high curtain wall. ‘That’s Eagle Hall and there are numerous others. Each has its own privileges, traditions and history. They take students from France, Hainault, Spain, the German States and even further east. The Halls dislike each other; the University hates the town; the town resents the University. Violence is rife, knives are ever at the ready. Sometimes you may have to flee and -’ he added,‘- to know in which direction you are fleeing, could save your life.’
    ‘But you are the King’s clerk,’ Maltote spoke up, stroking the muzzle of his horse. ‘They’ll obey the King’s writ?’
    ‘They couldn’t give a fig,’ Corbett replied. ‘Let’s say we were attacked now, who’d come to our assistance? Or later stand up as a witness?’ He punched Ranulf playfully on the shoulder. ‘Keep your cowl pulled, your face down and your hand well away from your dagger.’
    They went along the High Street and stood aside as a church door opened: scholars, in shabby tabards tied round the waist by cords and leather straps, burst out from the noonday Mass. As Ranulf whispered, the service seemed to have had little effect on them. The scholars jostled and shoved each other, bawling raucously, some even sang blasphemous parodies of the hymns they had just chanted. Despite the wet and the jostling crowds, Corbett persisted in showing his two companions the layout of the city. At last they returned, past the Swindlestock tavern, making their way gingerly around the gaping sewer in Carfax and into Great Bailey Street, which led up into the castle.
    ‘Why are we going there?’ Maltote asked. ‘I thought we were for Sparrow Hall?’
    ‘We have to visit the Sheriff,’ Corbett explained over his shoulder. ‘Sir Walter Bullock.’ He grinned. ‘And that will be an experience in itself. Bullock is as irascible as a starving dog.’
    They crossed the moat, really nothing more than a narrow ditch, its water covered with a black slime on which a cat’s corpse, soggy and bloated, floated lazily beneath the drawbridge. A guard dressed in a dirty leather sallet slouched against the wall beneath the portcullis, his sword and shield lying on the ground beside him. He hardly looked up as they entered the inner bailey. The castle yard was busy: a group of archers shot lustily at the butts; a group of ragged-arsed children, armed with wooden swords, attempted to fight a strident goose; women stood round the well, slapping cloths on the side of the great tuns which served as their bowls. No one took any notice of the new arrivals except a relic seller dressed in garish rags who’d been touting his wares and now came across, a piece of wood in his hand.
    ‘Buy a piece of the juniper tree.’ He pushed the blackened piece of wood almost into Ranulf face.
    ‘Why?’ Ranulf asked.
    The fellow bared his mouth in a horrid display of crumbling teeth. ‘Because it’s the very tree,’ he whispered, ‘that protected the baby Jesus when Mother Mary took him into Egypt, away from Pilate’s fury.’
    ‘I thought it was Herod?’ Ranulf retorted.
    ‘Yes, but he was helped by Pilate,’ the relic-seller gabbled.
    Ranulf took the piece of wood and studied it carefully.
    ‘I can’t buy this,’ he said. ‘It’s not juniper, it’s