tavern. I’ve got a boil on my arse. I haven’t slept for two nights and my wife’s kinsfolk want to come and stay till Michaelmas.’ He sniffed. ‘Now, those are only the minor matters.’
Corbett smiled. He dug into his purse and handed two gold coins over.
‘I don’t take bribes, Sir Hugh.’
‘It’s not a bribe,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s your wages. I’ll tell the Exchequer.’
The coins disappeared in the twinkling of an eye.
‘The Bellman?’ Corbett asked.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ the Sheriff replied. ‘All I know is that every so often, one of his proclamations is pinned on the doorway of some Hall or church.’
‘Didn’t you fight at Evesham for de Montfort?’ Corbett asked abruptly.
Bullock’s gaze fell away. ‘Yes, I did,’ he replied as if to himself. ‘I was young, an idealist, stupid enough to believe in dreams. Now, Sir Hugh, I am the King’s man in war and peace. I’m no traitor. I do not know who the Bellman is or where he comes from. Oh, I have trotted down to make my inquiries amongst the empty heads of Sparrow Hall, but I might as well whistle across a graveyard as expect a response!’
‘And the corpses round Oxford?’
Bullock shrugged. ‘You know as much as I do, Sir Hugh. Poor men; heads taken off and strung up by their hair to a tree. I have had my men out. They’ve scoured the woods and fields. There’s something going on.’ He paused and scratched the mole on his right cheek. ‘Oxford is a curious place, Sir Hugh. In the churches they sing the Salve Regina and venerate the Body of Christ. At night, in the taverns, they lose their souls in wine and debauchery. Beyond the walls, in the lonely places - well, to cut a long story short, on the Banbury road my men talked to a forester. He led them to a glade deep in the trees. There’s a rock, a huge boulder, as if Satan himself thrust it up from hell. Someone had used it as an altar; there were marks of fire, blood-stains and, in the branch of a tree, an animal’s skull.’
‘Warlocks?’ Corbett asked.
‘Wizards, warlocks, and witches?’ Bullock sniffed. ‘That’s all there was. The local peasants or farmers are innocent: they’ve neither the time nor the energy for such nonsense.’
‘And you think it’s connected to these deaths?’
‘Possibly.’ Bullock wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I’d love to find the killer. I hope it’s some arrogant popinjay of a student. By the way, another corpse was brought in this morning: an old simpleton called Senex. He was found like the others-’ Bullock smiled grimly ‘-with one exception: the old man’s hand was tightly clenched. When I prised the fingers open, I found dirt, pebbles and, more importantly, a button.’
‘A button?’ Ranulf queried.
‘Yes, of metal, embossed with a sparrow, the escutcheon of Sparrow Hall. What is more,’ Bullock continued, ‘as you know, Sir Hugh, these buttons are only worn on the gowns of Masters or certain rich scholars. Most of the rest are clothed in nothing better than sacking.’
‘So, what do you think?’ Corbett asked.
Bullock got to his feet. ‘My view is that there is a coven of warlocks in the hall who follow the Lords of the Gibbet. The deaths of these old beggars are linked to some loathsome practices but I have no proof or evidence. The old man may have picked the button up whilst he was being hunted or, in his death struggle, plucked it from someone’s coat. However, his is not the only corpse we have this morning.’ Bullock slurped from his wine goblet. ‘An evening ago, just before Vespers, William Passerel the bursar was hounded from Sparrow Hall by a mob of students. It’s common knowledge that Ascham, who was well loved, wrote most of Passerel’s name on a scrap of parchment as he lay dying in the library. Now Passerel fled, and took sanctuary in St Michael’s Church. Father Vincent, the parish priest, gave him sanctuary, food and drink. The mob dispersed, but later
Corbett smiled. He dug into his purse and handed two gold coins over.
‘I don’t take bribes, Sir Hugh.’
‘It’s not a bribe,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s your wages. I’ll tell the Exchequer.’
The coins disappeared in the twinkling of an eye.
‘The Bellman?’ Corbett asked.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ the Sheriff replied. ‘All I know is that every so often, one of his proclamations is pinned on the doorway of some Hall or church.’
‘Didn’t you fight at Evesham for de Montfort?’ Corbett asked abruptly.
Bullock’s gaze fell away. ‘Yes, I did,’ he replied as if to himself. ‘I was young, an idealist, stupid enough to believe in dreams. Now, Sir Hugh, I am the King’s man in war and peace. I’m no traitor. I do not know who the Bellman is or where he comes from. Oh, I have trotted down to make my inquiries amongst the empty heads of Sparrow Hall, but I might as well whistle across a graveyard as expect a response!’
‘And the corpses round Oxford?’
Bullock shrugged. ‘You know as much as I do, Sir Hugh. Poor men; heads taken off and strung up by their hair to a tree. I have had my men out. They’ve scoured the woods and fields. There’s something going on.’ He paused and scratched the mole on his right cheek. ‘Oxford is a curious place, Sir Hugh. In the churches they sing the Salve Regina and venerate the Body of Christ. At night, in the taverns, they lose their souls in wine and debauchery. Beyond the walls, in the lonely places - well, to cut a long story short, on the Banbury road my men talked to a forester. He led them to a glade deep in the trees. There’s a rock, a huge boulder, as if Satan himself thrust it up from hell. Someone had used it as an altar; there were marks of fire, blood-stains and, in the branch of a tree, an animal’s skull.’
‘Warlocks?’ Corbett asked.
‘Wizards, warlocks, and witches?’ Bullock sniffed. ‘That’s all there was. The local peasants or farmers are innocent: they’ve neither the time nor the energy for such nonsense.’
‘And you think it’s connected to these deaths?’
‘Possibly.’ Bullock wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I’d love to find the killer. I hope it’s some arrogant popinjay of a student. By the way, another corpse was brought in this morning: an old simpleton called Senex. He was found like the others-’ Bullock smiled grimly ‘-with one exception: the old man’s hand was tightly clenched. When I prised the fingers open, I found dirt, pebbles and, more importantly, a button.’
‘A button?’ Ranulf queried.
‘Yes, of metal, embossed with a sparrow, the escutcheon of Sparrow Hall. What is more,’ Bullock continued, ‘as you know, Sir Hugh, these buttons are only worn on the gowns of Masters or certain rich scholars. Most of the rest are clothed in nothing better than sacking.’
‘So, what do you think?’ Corbett asked.
Bullock got to his feet. ‘My view is that there is a coven of warlocks in the hall who follow the Lords of the Gibbet. The deaths of these old beggars are linked to some loathsome practices but I have no proof or evidence. The old man may have picked the button up whilst he was being hunted or, in his death struggle, plucked it from someone’s coat. However, his is not the only corpse we have this morning.’ Bullock slurped from his wine goblet. ‘An evening ago, just before Vespers, William Passerel the bursar was hounded from Sparrow Hall by a mob of students. It’s common knowledge that Ascham, who was well loved, wrote most of Passerel’s name on a scrap of parchment as he lay dying in the library. Now Passerel fled, and took sanctuary in St Michael’s Church. Father Vincent, the parish priest, gave him sanctuary, food and drink. The mob dispersed, but later
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