Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium Read Free Page A

St Botulph’s Cripplegate in the King’s own city of London. Ranulf was in armour, a mailed clerk, hauberked and helmeted. In one hand a kite-shaped shield was raised against the bowmen peering from those arrow-slit windows in St Botulph’s tower. This full-square, sturdy donjon towered over the cemetery, an ideal refuge for the miscreants who had escaped from nearby Newgate. Ranulf felt exhausted. The chain-mail coat weighed heavy, his arms ached and the cold morning breeze was chilling his sweaty body. The helmet with its broad nose guard pressed down tightly and his cropped red hair itched. He stared across at his master Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, who was similarly armed, though he had not yet donned his helmet. Corbett’s olive-skinned face was drawn, dark shadows circled his deep-set eyes and his black hair was streaked with glistening grey. He was so sweat-soaked he had pulled back his chain-mail coif, and was staring fixedly at the church.
    ‘Sir Hugh, on your mark?’
    Corbett gripped his sword and stared around what used to be God’s acre at St Botulph’s but was now a battlefield. The dead sprawled under rough sacking that hid the gruesome sword and axe wounds to face, neck, chest and belly. Corbett closed his eyes and muttered a requiem for the dead. He should not be here in this slaughter yard. On this mist-hung morning he should be in his own manor at Leighton, sitting in his chancery chamber with his beloved books or walking out with the Lady Maeve. He opened his eyes and stared at the Welsh archers in their brown leggings, their Lincoln-green jerkins now covered in blue, red and gold royal tabards.
    ‘Archers, on my mark!’ he shouted.
    They thronged forward, longbows notched, bearded faces beneath their steel sallets tense and watchful. Behind the row of bowmen stood a huge cartload of straw and oil waiting to be torched. From beyond the cemetery walls rose the muffled clatter of the citizens of London who had thronged to watch this deadly confrontation reach its bloody climax.
    ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh Corbett?’ called a clear voice.
    Corbett lowered his sword and groaned as Parson John, vicar of the parish, pushed his way through the thronging archers, holding a crucifix.
    ‘Sir Hugh, I beg you wait.’ Parson John grasped the wooden pole of the cross more tightly and knelt before the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal. ‘I beg you.’ He lifted his unshaven face. It was thin, haggard, the green eyes red-rimmed. ‘No more of this. Let me talk to these malefactors.’ He paused and ran a hand through his cropped blond hair. Corbett noticed how the tonsure was neatly cut, the fringe over the broad brow laced with sweat, the furrowed cheeks stained with dust.
    ‘Father,’ Corbett crouched down to face him squarely, ‘look around you. Sixteen dead here, more in the church, your own people cruelly slain. These felons are condemned men, rifflers who broke out of Newgate. They have slaughtered again and again, not only here, but yesterday in Cheapside, along the streets of Cripplegate and more elsewhere. Then there are the women they abducted.’ He swallowed hard. ‘At least their screams have stopped. The church is now encircled, it has to be stormed.‘ He saw tears in Parson John’s eyes. ‘I know,’ whispered Corbett. ‘These are hard times for you. Your own father’s fall—’
    ‘My father has nothing to do with this.’
    ‘I don’t agree,’ hissed Corbett, his voice turning hard. ‘Your father may well have something to do with it. My orders are explicit. Sir Ralph Sandewic has now retaken Newgate. I will storm the church, your church, and bring this bloody mayhem to an end.’
    ‘Sir Hugh.’ Ranulf was pointing to the top of the church tower. Figures could be seen darting between the crenellations; similar ominous movements could be glimpsed at the narrow windows. Corbett followed Ranulf and put on his helmet, he then stood up, ignoring the priest, who still