Angel of Death

maudlin-drunk in some tavern and serve back the same medicine. Ranulf clattered downstairs.
    A little later, rather pleased he had followed Corbett's advice, Ranulf returned; but his master had not yet finished. He ordered Ranulf back up to his room to strip and wash and put on a fresh change of clothing. Only then, when both of them were dressed in woollen hose, long high boots, surcoat and hood, did they venture downstairs into the street.
    Corbett had decided not to take their horses, stabled at a tavern further down Bread Street. Instead they would walk, for in some places the snow was knee-deep. The whole city looked as if it was under a carpet of white damask; underfoot the snow was frozen hard, while the ice, in huge jagged icicles, hung like tear-drops from the intricate gabled tiers of the houses. They turned into Cheapside. The busy thoroughfare, usually filled with stalls and shops, was deserted. The huge-framed merchant houses, built of strong thick oak and folded in with plaster three to four stories high, were all shuttered and covered in white except for those which bore the arms of the city shields of bright vermilion with a figure of St Paul in gold, the head, arms and feet of the saint in silver. The snow had slipped off these shields, making them blaze all the more fiercely against the whiteness. A friar, ghost-like, hurried by; his white robe would have made him blend with the snow but for the exquisite cope he wore round his shoulders which concealed the viaticum he carried to some sick person. Two tired boys, desperately attempting to keep their candles alight, preceded him.
    To the left of Corbett, towering above the city, the huge sombre mass of St Paul's, snow still packed on its vaulted dome, made the clerk concentrate on his problems until, near exhausted by the snow, they reached the Shambles. Here carts took the offal, fat and other refuse from the butchers to be dumped in the Fleet River. One or two cartloads had already departed, leaving pools of red blood, and not even the snow could hide the terrible stench of the place. Faces turned against the biting wind, they passed the now open, double-barred gates of Newgate. Ranulf ceased his cursing for here, in the buildings around the gate, was the terrible prison where he had spent a night preparing to be hanged at Tyburn so many years ago. He felt his anger against Corbett ebb and, putting his head down to shield his face against the biting wind, he plodded on behind his master, wondering how long this terrible journey would last. They passed through the city gates; on the right the huge ditch, six feet deep and, in some places, seven yards wide, where the refuse of the city was dumped. In the summer, it would reek to high heaven but now, packed with ice, it served as a play area for a number of boys who, with shinbones fastened to their feet, were busy skating onto the ice. Beneath its frozen surface, Ranulf could see the corpses of dogs and cats and, he was sure, the perfectly formed body of a child.
    Corbett and Ranulf moved across the open fields of Smithfield, past the charred execution block and towards the lofty pointed archway of St Bartholomew's hospital. The gate was open so they went in, following the immense walls; stables, smithies and other storehouses. The hospital itself, a long and huge hall, was approached by a flight of steps. Here, Corbett stopped a lay brother and asked to see Father Thomas. The old man nodded, gave a gap-toothed smile, the saliva drooling out from one corner of his mouth, and shuffled away. They waited at the top of the steps. Corbett could smell crushed herbs, spices and other substances he could not name. At last, a lanky, stooping figure came out of the doorway, hands extended, his face wreathed in smiles when he saw Corbett.
    'Hugh, it is good to see you.' He put his arms round the clerk's shoulder, towering above him, as he gave Corbett a vice-like hug.
    'Father Thomas,' Corbett said, 'may I introduce my servant and comrade,' he added caustically, 'Ranulf-atte-Newgate.'
    Father Thomas bowed, his thin, narrow, horse-like face now solemn and courteous as if Corbett had just introduced him to the King of England. Father Thomas and Hugh had known each other since their student days at Oxford. The clerk had always admired this tall, ugly man with his friendly eyes and ever-smiling mouth. He had studied abroad in the hospitals of Paris and Salerno, and his knowledge of drugs and herbs could not be