Satan in St Mary

Madam?"
    "Alice atte Bowe, she keeps a tavern in St. Mark's Lane, the haunt of others of her coven or company. Reginald de Lanfer, Robert Pinnot, Paul Stubberhead, Thomas Coroner…?" Her voice trailed off and she stood twisting her waist chain in her fingers. "She was Crepyn's mistress. An evil whore!" She almost spat the words out of her mouth. "Crepyn forced me to sleep with him, to strip and pose, and then he told her and others what had happened. " Jean slumped on to one of the trunks, her head in her hands.
    Corbett just stood and watched for a while. "Was Lawrence Alice's lover as well?" he asked.
    Jean lifted her head back and laughed loudly. "My brother, Master Clerk, did not like women. As to the real cause of his quarrel with Crepyn, " she looked directly at Corbett. "I do not know, I do not care and, in days, I will be free of here. I have relatives in Oxford. I shall go there. " She rose and smoothed the folds of her dress. "That is all, Master Corbett. I wish you well. " She opened the door and stood aside to let Corbett pass through into the street.
    Outside Corbett suddenly felt tired and hungry and eager for his own bed. He bought a pie from a nearby stall and ate it as he walked, quite determined to stay away from the taverns and their heady drink, at least for one night. He had begun his task as a good clerk should by collecting facts and information and, now was trying to organize it into some recognizable pattern. Yet there were items which confused and perplexed him and he knew his chancery-trained mind would give him no rest until everything was in order.
    He turned off Cheapside down Paternoster Row and eventually arrived outside his lodgings in Thames Street just as darkness fell. He entered the house, ordered a lighted brazier from the owner, the sulky wife of a merchant, and climbed the rickety stairs to his garret. For a while he lay on his bed, swathed in his cloak as he recalled all he had seen, heard or said. Gradually, a pattern began to emerge in his mind and, having lit candles, he undid his bundle and, picking out his writing tray, slowly began to write on a piece of used parchment the facts now so clear in his mind.
Five
    Corbett slept late that morning and, when he awoke, returned to the document he had drawn up the previous evening, studying it carefully and making corrections until he was satisfied. He then washed, dressed and, after a quick meal, took his cloak and left his lodgings to walk briskly towards the river. A bright winter sun seemed to add to his mood of quiet expectancy about his mission. He was quite confident about what had happened in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow, though he was baffled as to why and how. These questions perplexed him throughout his short walk to the east Watergate where he hired a boat to take him to Westminster. The journey was cold, quick and noisome. At Westminster he disembarked, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to avoid recognition and pushed through the crowds, taking a path around the Great Hall to the buildings beyond. Here he went towards one of the small outbuildings, knocked on the door and demanded entrance. When a querulous voice told him to go away, he knocked again and eventually the door swung open to reveal a tall, ascetic man dressed in a long brown robe. His face was pale, long and lined, and his watery eyes squinted at the daylight. "Master Couville. It is I, Hugh Corbett. Are you so blind you cannot see me or just so senile you cannot recognize me?" The old man's drawn face broke into a smile and thin
    blue-veined hands clasped Corbett by the arms.
    "Only you, Hugh, would dare insult me, " he murmured. "My best pupil! Come in. Come in. It's cold outside. "
    Hugh entered the room, the light was poor and the air was musty with the smell of tallow, charcoal and the lingering perfume of leather and old parchment. There was a trestle table and a huge stool, the rest of the room being taken up with leather and wooden chests of all sizes. Some were open with rolls of parchment spilling out onto the floor; around the walls on shelves stretching up to the blackened ceiling were more rolls of parchment. It all looked very disorganized but Corbett knew that Couville could accurately pick out any manuscript he wanted. This was part of the records office of the Chancery and Exchequer dating back centuries. If a document was issued or received, it would be filed in the appropriate place and this was Nigel Couville's kingdom.