Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page B

Corbett’s grim face did nothing to ease his panic. He almost grovelled at the clerk’s feet. ‘Master, believe me, we had nothing to do with it!’
    Ranulf drew his sword and brought the flat of its blade down on the man’s shoulder. ‘If you had,’ Corbett’s red-haired servant taunted, ‘within a week you’ll hang, then you’ll be quartered and your pickled limbs dangled above Micklegate Bar.’
    The landlord grasped Corbett’s cloak. ‘Master,’ he groaned, ‘mercy!’
    Corbett knocked away Ranulf’s sword and pushed the man back on to his stool.
    ‘Get your master a cup of the best wine. The same for me and my companions,’ he ordered one of the slatterns. ‘Now, listen sir,’ Corbett pulled a stool up and sat close, his knees touching the landlord’s. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he continued, ‘if you tell the truth.’
    The landlord could hardly stop shaking. Ranulfs sword was one thing, but this soft-spoken clerk was absolutely terrifying. For a while he could only splutter.
    ‘You are in no danger,’ Corbett reassured him. ‘You can’t be held responsible for everyone in your tavern.’ He took the wine a servitor had brought and thrust it into the man’s hand. Corbett sipped from his own then put it down: the wine was good but the sight of a fat fly floating near the rim turned his stomach. ‘Now, who was the man?’
    ‘I don’t know. He came here last night. A traveller. He gave his name as Walter Murston. He paid well for the garret: two silver coins. He ate his supper and that’s the last I saw of him.’
    ‘Didn’t he come down to break his fast?’
    ‘No, we were busy preparing for the king’s entry to York.’ The landlord groaned and put his face in his hands. ‘We were going to have a holiday. One minute we are by the doorway cheering the banners and listening to the trumpets, the next . . .’ The man’s hands flailed helplessly.
    ‘And no one else was with him?’ Corbett insisted. ‘No one came to visit him?’
    ‘No, Master, but there again the tavern has two entrances: front and back. People come and go, especially on a day like this.’ The man’s voice trailed away.
    Corbett closed his eyes and sat, recalling how he had struggled through the crowds. He had knocked that beggar aside as Ranulf had gone down the alleyway. Corbett opened his eyes.
    ‘Wait there,’ he ordered, and went out of the tavern.
    ‘What are you looking for?’ Ranulf hurried up behind him.
    Corbett walked to the mouth of the alleyway and stared down. It was a narrow, evil-smelling tunnel between the houses, full of refuse and wandering cats. Two children were trying to ride an old sow which was lumbering amongst the litter, but there was no sign of the beggar.
    ‘Master?’ Ranulf asked.
    Corbett walked back into the taproom.
    ‘Master taverner, in London, and I suppose York is the same, beggars have their favourite haunts: certain corners or the porch of some church. Does a beggar-man stand on the corner of the alleyway, on the other side of your tavern?’
    The landlord shook his head. ‘No, Master, no beggar would stand there. It’s well away from the stalls, and the alleyway really goes nowhere.’ He smiled in a display of red, sore gums. ‘After all, my customers are not the sort to part with a penny.’
    ‘In which case, Master taverner, go back to your beer barrels. You have nothing to fear.’
    Corbett beckoned at Ranulf and Maltote to follow and they walked back into Trinity Lane.
    ‘Sir.’ A serjeant of the royal household came up, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other cradling his helmet. ‘The Earl of Surrey told us to stay here until you were finished.’
    ‘Take your men, Captain,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Rejoin the king at the abbey. Tell my lord of Surrey I will be with him soon. Our horses?’
    The soldier raised his hand and an archer came forward, leading their three mounts.
    ‘You’ll have to walk them,’ the soldier observed. ‘The streets are