Angel of Death

cathedral.

6
    The next morning Corbett was awake long before the bells of the city churches began to toll for prime. It was a grey, misty morning and more snow had fallen during the night. Corbett, who could now afford to have his windows glazed, was glad he had fitted new wooden shutters, a second barrier against the ever piercing wind. His chamber was simple, albeit spacious and the plaster walls were covered with worsted hangings of red, green and blue. A large oaken cupboard kept cups and a collection of plate. There was a table-board over a pair of trestles, a bench, a stool, a heavy carved high-backed chair with arms and scarlet cushion. Corbett had cleared the floor of rushes and straw, those harbourers of dirt and disease, and spent precious gold on a thick heavy Persian carpet, an object of envy to his few visitors. Most of the room was taken up with the broad oak-carved bed, now draped with a dark blue coverlet and surrounded by heavy serge curtains, there not only to maintain privacy but also a protection against the biting cold.
    Corbett had already lit the charcoal brazier, ever anxious lest a spark escape and start a fire. He took the same care with a chafing-dish set on a table to heat the room and a silver candelabra which bore four candles, each of which now flickered, giving off some meagre warmth and light. From beneath the bed Corbett pulled an iron-studded trunk and, undoing the locks, pulled out his warmest shirts, robes, leggings and a stout pair of walking boots. He also took out a belt he had owned since the Welsh wars and, pulling out another trunk, slipped a long wicked Welsh dagger and a thin rapier into two sheaths. He crossed to the laver stand holding a basin and towels and washed his face and hands, quietly cursing the cold. Once finished, he secured the trunk, pushing it back under the bed, extinguished the fire and lights and, looking once more around his chamber, left, going up a further flight of stairs to a small room beneath the roof where Ranulf slept.
    His servant's garret was totally disordered and Corbett grinned mirthlessly. He remembered the previous night, tramping round most of St Paul's looking for his servant, only to find him drunk as a stoat in one of the outer kitchens. Ranulf had gorged himself on the leavings of the feast and drunk flagon after flagon of wine, openly boasting about his own greatness and the silver he might give to a pretty kitchen maid he was inveigling into spending the night with him. Cursing and yelling he had been dragged by Corbett out into the cold, along the dark narrow alleyways back to Bread Street. Ranulf had threatened his master, accusing him of being a summoner and refusing him any pleasures. Corbett had dragged him along, brutally ignoring his protestations. Only twice did he stop: once to allow Ranulf to be sick; the other to douse him in a horse trough. The icy-cold water had helped to bring Ranulf to his senses, though by the time they had reached Bread Street, Ranulf had fallen into a stupor and his master had to drag him up the stairs and toss him onto his trestle bed.
    Corbett had warned him time and again not to drink to excess and to watch his tongue. Now he would emphasize the lesson. He picked up an ewer of ice-cold water and poured it slowly over Ranulf s tousled head. The servant woke gasping, spluttering, cursing and, if it had not been for the look in Corbett's eyes, Ranulf would certainly have struck the clerk full in the face.
    'You are, Master Clerk,' he rasped through clenched teeth, 'a most cruel man.'
    'And you Master Ranulf,' Corbett jibed in reply, 'are a most stupid man. I have ordered you on a number of occasions, whenever we are on the king's business to watch what you drink, because if your tongue wags when it shouldn't, it may well cost us our lives, not to mention being arrested by Serjeants of the king's court on some charge of treason!'
    Corbett jerked Ranulf roughly out of bed. The fellow was still fully dressed except for his boots, and Corbett made his servant sit on the edge of the bed and threw them at him.
    'Put them on!' he ordered. 'Go downstairs. Relieve yourself in the street. Your stomach must be a cesspit now. I will not have you stinking the house out with your stale humours.'
    Ranulf pulled on his boots, glared at the dark, tense face of his master and the narrow green cat-like eyes, and decided that revenge could wait. He would bide his timeand wait for his ever-sombre master to become