elder!’
The rascal’s mouth opened and closed. ‘God bless you, sir, I was in confusion myself. You are sure?’
‘Certainly,’ Ranulf replied, handing it back.
‘Then that’s what it is,’ the relic-seller whispered and, turning round, walked over to a group of castle scullions. ‘Buy a piece of elder!’ he shouted. ‘The very tree on which Judas hanged himself!’
Corbett grinned; he was about to ask Ranulf how he could tell the difference between juniper and elder when a prod in his back made him turn around.
‘What do you want?’
The serjeant looked Corbett over from head to toe.
‘What do you want?’ he repeated. ‘And where did you get those horses?’
Ranulf stepped between his master and the serjeant and stared at the man’s dirty, unshaven face.
‘We want the Sheriff,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Sir Walter Bullock. This is Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s principal clerk from the Office of the Secret Seal.’
The serjeant hawked and spat. ‘I couldn’t give a bugger if he was from the Holy Father!’
He bawled across at a groom to come and take their horses and, snapping his fingers, told Corbett and his companions to follow.
They found Sir Walter in his chamber above the gate house. It was a stark room with coloured cloths hung against the wall like rat banners. The fat, balding Sheriff was eating from a dish of eels, beside him on a trauncher were several apples and some cheese. Short and thickset, Bullock was dressed in jerkin, hose and shirt, his war belt and leather riding boots thrown on the straw-covered floor beside him. As the serjeant ushered Corbett and his companions in, slamming the door behind them, the Sheriff raised his clean-shaven face bright as a brass pot.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, his mouth full of eels.
‘That’s what the ignorant bastard downstairs asked me,’ Ranulf retorted.
Bullock sat back on his stool and nodded towards the arrow slit window.
‘If it was big enough, you’d leave through that!’
Corbett sighed and pulled from his wallet the King’s seal and tossed it on the table. Bullock swallowed his mouthful of food and picked it up.
‘You know what that is, Master Bollock?’ Ranulf taunted.
‘My name’s Bullock.’ The Sheriff pushed back his stool and got up, licking his fingers and wiping them on a dirty napkin. He went and stood before Ranulf, hands on hips. ‘My name is Bullock,’ he repeated. ‘And do you know why, sir? Because I am like one: stocky, addle-pated and foul tempered.’ He poked Ranulf in the stomach. ‘Now you look like a fighting boy, but that doesn’t concern me. I’ve pulled bigger things out of my nose!’ He turned abruptly to Corbett, his hand extended. ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh. The King sent a cursitor, we’ve been expecting you.’
Corbett grasped the Sheriff’s hand. He noticed how the man’s eyes were dark-ringed with exhaustion.
‘You look tired, Master Sheriff?’
Sir Walter waved to a bench near the wall. ‘If I lie down, Sir Hugh, I’d never get up. Would you like some wine? Something to eat?’ He looked slyly at Ranulf. ‘Maybe a bucket of water from the well to cool you down after your long, hot journey?’
Ranulf grinned at this little fighting cock of a man. ‘Sir Walter, I apologise.’
The Sheriff shook Ranulf’s hand then picked at his teeth. ‘Bugger this for a soldier’s life!’ he growled.
He waited until Corbett sat down then pulled his own stool across. He ticked the points off on his stubby fingers.
‘The King’s at Woodstock breathing down my neck. There’s a parliament summoned to sit at Westminster: I’m under orders to get the right man elected. There’s some charlatan selling rats’ teeth to children. The garrison hasn’t been paid for four months. I am running short of supplies. There are three felons in the Bocardo,’ he added, referring to the town gaol, ‘whose necks I am going to stretch before dusk. A tavern wench was ravished in the Chequers
The rascal’s mouth opened and closed. ‘God bless you, sir, I was in confusion myself. You are sure?’
‘Certainly,’ Ranulf replied, handing it back.
‘Then that’s what it is,’ the relic-seller whispered and, turning round, walked over to a group of castle scullions. ‘Buy a piece of elder!’ he shouted. ‘The very tree on which Judas hanged himself!’
Corbett grinned; he was about to ask Ranulf how he could tell the difference between juniper and elder when a prod in his back made him turn around.
‘What do you want?’
The serjeant looked Corbett over from head to toe.
‘What do you want?’ he repeated. ‘And where did you get those horses?’
Ranulf stepped between his master and the serjeant and stared at the man’s dirty, unshaven face.
‘We want the Sheriff,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Sir Walter Bullock. This is Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s principal clerk from the Office of the Secret Seal.’
The serjeant hawked and spat. ‘I couldn’t give a bugger if he was from the Holy Father!’
He bawled across at a groom to come and take their horses and, snapping his fingers, told Corbett and his companions to follow.
They found Sir Walter in his chamber above the gate house. It was a stark room with coloured cloths hung against the wall like rat banners. The fat, balding Sheriff was eating from a dish of eels, beside him on a trauncher were several apples and some cheese. Short and thickset, Bullock was dressed in jerkin, hose and shirt, his war belt and leather riding boots thrown on the straw-covered floor beside him. As the serjeant ushered Corbett and his companions in, slamming the door behind them, the Sheriff raised his clean-shaven face bright as a brass pot.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, his mouth full of eels.
‘That’s what the ignorant bastard downstairs asked me,’ Ranulf retorted.
Bullock sat back on his stool and nodded towards the arrow slit window.
‘If it was big enough, you’d leave through that!’
Corbett sighed and pulled from his wallet the King’s seal and tossed it on the table. Bullock swallowed his mouthful of food and picked it up.
‘You know what that is, Master Bollock?’ Ranulf taunted.
‘My name’s Bullock.’ The Sheriff pushed back his stool and got up, licking his fingers and wiping them on a dirty napkin. He went and stood before Ranulf, hands on hips. ‘My name is Bullock,’ he repeated. ‘And do you know why, sir? Because I am like one: stocky, addle-pated and foul tempered.’ He poked Ranulf in the stomach. ‘Now you look like a fighting boy, but that doesn’t concern me. I’ve pulled bigger things out of my nose!’ He turned abruptly to Corbett, his hand extended. ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh. The King sent a cursitor, we’ve been expecting you.’
Corbett grasped the Sheriff’s hand. He noticed how the man’s eyes were dark-ringed with exhaustion.
‘You look tired, Master Sheriff?’
Sir Walter waved to a bench near the wall. ‘If I lie down, Sir Hugh, I’d never get up. Would you like some wine? Something to eat?’ He looked slyly at Ranulf. ‘Maybe a bucket of water from the well to cool you down after your long, hot journey?’
Ranulf grinned at this little fighting cock of a man. ‘Sir Walter, I apologise.’
The Sheriff shook Ranulf’s hand then picked at his teeth. ‘Bugger this for a soldier’s life!’ he growled.
He waited until Corbett sat down then pulled his own stool across. He ticked the points off on his stubby fingers.
‘The King’s at Woodstock breathing down my neck. There’s a parliament summoned to sit at Westminster: I’m under orders to get the right man elected. There’s some charlatan selling rats’ teeth to children. The garrison hasn’t been paid for four months. I am running short of supplies. There are three felons in the Bocardo,’ he added, referring to the town gaol, ‘whose necks I am going to stretch before dusk. A tavern wench was ravished in the Chequers
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