Angel of Death

failed to reach a satisfactory conclusion. At last, he put down his pen, opened the shutters of his room and looked out over the city. A heavy mist had rolled in across the Thames, blanketing out the sky so that he could only see the odd winking glare of a fire or the lights of lanterns placed outside doors by householders. He wanted this matter finished. He thought of Ranulf upstairs and envied the young man's exuberance for every waking moment. Corbett looked up, the same sky now shrouded Maeve in Wales. Suddenly he felt a tremendous longing for her, almost a hunger which made him feel ill. All he could think of was her sweet face, long blonde hair and the wide innocent eyes which could suddenly crinkle with amusement or flash with anger. He was tired of the city, of the filthy streets, the offal, the lay stalls thick with muck, the sluggish river, the arrogant courtiers, the bickering and in-fighting amongst the clerks and, above all, the animosity of the canons of St Paul: liars, lechers, men who should have been pursuing goodness but seemed to have lost their way. He felt impatient with the king who had put him to this task: a man intent on power, who honoured Corbett only because Corbett had served him well. Yet, all the clerk really wanted was to be in a lonely room in Neath Castle overlooking the wild seas, seated before a fire with Maeve in his arms. In his garret, Ranulf, busy congratulating himself on his rapid and lucky escape from the mercer's wife's bedroom, heard the faint lilting sound of the flute. He knew Corbett was sad and wished he could help. The playing went on into the early morning before it fell silent and only then did Ranulf know that his master had found some peace in sleep.
    Corbett slept late the next morning, until he was abruptly woken by a pounding on the door below. Throwing a cloak round him, he hurried down and opened it. The mists outside swirled and boiled like steam from a cauldron. At first, he could see no-one.
    'Who is there?' he called out and leapt back as a muddied figure, with a cut on his face, stepped into the house. At first the thought of a secret assassin crossed Corbett's mind but the man pulled back a rain-soaked hood and let the cloak fall from his shoulders.
    'Master Corbett?'
    'The same.'
    'I am John Enderby, messenger from the Sheriff of Essex.' He handed a small scroll to Corbett, who instantly broke the red-and-white encrusted seal. The letter consisted of only four lines: the sheriff sent Corbett health and greetings; the information he had sent would be given to him by his messenger, John Enderby, the bearer of this letter.
    Corbett crumpled the parchment in his hands. 'Please follow me.'
    Enderby followed him up the stairs and, once Corbett had made him comfortable, the man delivered his message.
    'The sheriff,' he said, 'was sorry he could not give a full written report but that would have taken more time. Suffice to say that the sheriff's men went to the manor of Cathall where they had found Walter de Montfort's steward, Thomas, dead; his throat had been cut. His wife Katherine had been raped a number of times by a notorious outlaw band, led by Robert Fitzwarren. They had apparently come to the manor to meet Thomas and, because of some quarrel, had cut his throat and raped the poor woman until she was half-crazed. The sheriff's men were able to calm Katherine, whereupon she confessed to the most extraordinary story. How the same outlaw Fitzwarren had raided convoys of travellers, traders and merchants on the roads leading out of London into Essex. Fitzwarren's plunder, however, was passed on to the Dean of St Paul's, who had sold it in the market-place of London and divided the money with the outlaw leader. On the day de Montfort died, his steward had been present in the congregation of St Paul's, having come to London to settle business on behalf of the outlaw. Because of his master's death, however, the steward was unable to conclude this business and returned empty-handed to the manor of Cathall. There, the outlaws, disappointed and frustrated, had taken out their rage on Thomas and his wife.'
    'The Sheriff added,' Enderby wearily related, 'that although the woman was half crazed, a search of the house had revealed certain goods taken months earlier from a merchant. The sheriff sent his greetings and good wishes to His Grace and hoped the information would be of use.'
    Corbett made Enderby repeat the story a number of times, satisfying himself on