Angel of Death

hauled in by the city bailiffs for walking the streets the previous evening, was being taken into the prison; their scarlet gowns and hoods were ripped and torn and white hats had been placed on their heads. A solitary bagpiper preceded them, whilst alongside shambled files of tired-looking soldiers who returned the obscene jokes or jests of the women with the occasional slap or coarsened oath. A beggar rushed out to Corbett, one eye missing, her nostrils eaten away by some terrible disease; she had a mewling infant clasped tightly to her breast. 'Ayez pitie! Ayez pitie!'
    Corbett stopped. The woman knew Norman French. Once she may have been a lady, someone of quality, a discarded mistress who had begun to fall from the ranks of the city's caste system and was now at the bottom, here in the sewers and shambles of Newgate and the Fleet.
    'Ayez pitie!' she repeated.
    Corbett dug into his purse and handed over two silver coins. The woman smiled and turned away. As she did so, Corbett realized the bundle she carried was not an infant but a small cat. The woman was a professional beggar; she had disguised her face with horrific sores and presented herself as a true object of pity.
    Corbett smiled wryly at Ranulf. 'Isn't it strange? Even when you want to show compassion, things go wrong.'
    Ranulf shrugged, he did not understand his master, nor his fitful gesture of generosity; they seemed ill-placed for a man who, only a few hours earlier, had dragged him from his bed and thrown him into the ice-cold snow. They walked on, turning left to go down Old Dean's Lane and into Bowyer's Row, south along Fleet Street, past the ditch, its filth frozen in ice, then passing White Friars, the Temple, Gray's Inn and the rich, timbered gilt-edged houses of the lawyers, before joining the main thoroughfare to the palace and abbey of Westminster.
    Scenes of frenetic business greeted them: lawyers in striped hoods, judges in their red, ermine-lined gowns, preceded by tipstaffs, bailiffs, officials and the occasional knight banneret of the royal household. All carried themselves with that hurried air of importance with which notables endow themselves to emphasize their rank and make the exercise of their own authority so much easier.
    Corbett and Ranulf jostled their way through them, past the Clock Tower and up the broad, sweeping staircase into the main hall of Westminster. Corbett had been here many times. Usually his work was in the Chancery offices of the king's chamber which were situated wherever the king decided to hold court: sometimes south of the river at Eltham, or the Tower or the Palace of Sheen, or one of the royal manors in a distant shire. But always they came back to Westminster. Here, in the alcoves of the great hall, were the different courts, the exchequer, the Common Pleas and, on the dais, the King's Bench, where the Chief Justice, aided by other royal judges, dispensed justice in the king's name. Leading off from the hall were a warren of passageways, small chambers and offices: the royal messengers, the king's comptrollers and conveyors, the surveyor of works, the controller of the royal household, the chamberlain; each had their own little empire.
    Corbett was pleased to be temporarily free of the bureaucratic politics which dominated each and everyone who worked here, for, as chief clerk to the Chancery, he was moved around from one department to another. Usually he was present when the king sealed charters with the Great Seal of England, with other barons present being there to ratify the document. On a few occasions only he and the king were present as letters were despatched under the Secret or Privy Seal to officials, sheriffs, bailiffs or Commissioners of Array in the shires. Corbett enjoyed his work. He liked writing, the study of manuscripts, the preparation of vellum, the joy of inscribing a fresh, pumice-rubbed piece of high quality parchment, the smell of the dried ink and sharpened quills. There was excitement when letters were brought in to be transcribed and satisfaction in seeing suitable replies despatched.
    Now, for the third or fourth time, the king had asked him to take up special duties. Corbett, if he was honest with himself, would admit he was frightened. His previous tasks had taken him abroad and pitted him against powerful figures in shadowy, lawless areas of London. He had faced charges of treason in Wales and Scotland as well as murderous attempts on his life. Corbett had few illusions: he