Free Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl by Paul Doherty Page A

The clerk then stood, glared at the priest and undid the neck of his purse.
    Two silver coins went spinning in the priest’s direction. ‘Here, Father!’ Corbett muttered. ‘I want a Mass sung for her. For pity’s sake, before you bury her, douse the coffin in a mixture of vinegar and rose water and place a white cloth over the corpse. She probably lived a wretched life, died a dreadful death. She deserves some honour.’
    The priest tapped the silver coins with the toe of his high-heeled boot. ‘I’ll not do that,’ he squeaked.
    ‘Yes, you bloody well will!’ Corbett roared. ‘You’ll get someone to do it and, if you don’t – and I will check – I will make it my business to have you removed from this benefice. I understand His Grace the King needs chaplains for his army in Scotland.’ He stood over the now frightened priest. ‘My name,’ he whispered, ‘is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, friend and counsellor of the King. You’ll do what I ask, won’t you?’
    The priest’s bombast collapsed like a pricked bladder. He nodded and carefully picked up the silver coins. Corbett didn’t wait but walked back to the wicket gate, where they had tied their horses, and stood for a while drawing in deep breaths.
    ‘Whoever did that,’ he nodded back to the church, ‘must be both evil and bad.’
    Cade, who still appeared nauseous, just muttered and shook his head whilst Ranulf looked as if he had seen a ghost. They walked down the Poultry, their stomachs unsettled as they passed the stinking tables and shearing tubs of the skinners who sat, knives in hand, scraping away the dry fat from the inside of animal skins before throwing the finished pieces into tubs of water.
    Ranulf, now revived, cat-called the apprentices who stood waist-deep in the large vats of water, kneading the soaking skin with their bare feet. The abuse was swiftly returned but most of the skinners’ venom was directed at a man chained by the beadles to the pole of one of their stalls. A placard round the fellow’s neck proclaimed how the previous night, whilst drunk, this roaring boy had moved amongst the skinners’ houses mewing like a cat. A barbed insult, implying that some skinners tried to trade cat skin in the place of genuine fur.
    At last, Corbett and his party reached the Mercery where tradesmen behind stalls shouted that they had laces, bows, caps, paternosters, boxwood combs, pepper mills and threads for sewing. They passed the great seld, or covered market, in West Cheapside, finding it difficult to manage their horses because of the cows being driven up the Shambles towards the slaughter houses at Newgate. The animals seemed to sense their impending doom and struggled at the ropes round their necks. The horses caught their panic and whinnied in fear. Further up near Newgate, the slaughterers had been busy, turning the cobbles brown with blood, gore and slimy offal. They passed through Newgate, the summer breeze wafting the fetid odours of the prison and the foul stench of the city ditch which ran alongside of it.
    ‘A morning for bad odours,’ Cade mumbled. He pointed to the city ditch, a seething cauldron of stale water, dead rats, the carcasses of cats and dogs, human waste and rotting offal from the markets. Cade nudged Ranulf playfully in the ribs.
    ‘Keep on the straight and narrow,’ he warned. ‘From next Monday, the sheriffs intend to use all malefactors in the city gaols to clear the ditch and have the rubbish rowed out to sea to be dumped.’
    Corbett, still thinking about the corpse he had just viewed, stopped at Fleet Bridge to buy a ladle of fresh water from tipplers selling it from stoups and water barrels. The others joined him and they washed their mouths before continuing down Holborn towards the Strand. They passed the church of St Dunstan’s in the West, the Chancery record office, went under Temple Bar and on to the broad Strand leading down to Westminster. The great highway was lined