Free Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt by Paul Doherty

Corbett replied, putting a restraining hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I am married to the Lady Maeve Ap Llewellyn. Her Uncle Morgan is my kinsman. Yes, I have fought the Welsh; but they were resolute fighters - not bullyboys.’
    The scholar stared at him, surprised.
    ‘Now,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Either stand out of my way, sir...!’
    ‘Leave him be, ap Thomas!’ a voice shouted.
    Richard Norreys shouldered his way through the crowd. The scholars dispersed, not because of Norreys’s arrival, but due to Corbett’s claim to kinship with one of the leading families of South Wales. Norreys was apologetic as he led them across the yard into the downstairs parlour of the hostelry. The passageway was rather dirty, its whitewashed walls marked and stained, but the parlour itself was comfortable. The sandstone floor was scrubbed, and tapestries, shields and weapons hung on the walls. Norreys ushered them across to a table, flicking his fingers at a servitor to bring goblets of white wine and a dish of sugared almonds.
    ‘I must apologise for Ap Thomas.’ He breathed heavily as he sat down at the table beside Corbett. ‘He’s a Welsh noble and likes to play the part of the swaggart.’
    ‘Are there many Welsh here?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘A good number,’ Norreys replied. ‘When Henry Braose founded the Hall and bought this hostelry, special provision was made in the Foundation Charter for scholars from the shires of South Wales.’ Norreys smiled. ‘Henry felt guilty about the Welsh he killed but... don’t we all, Sir Hugh?’
    For a while they discussed the King’s campaigns in Wales. Norreys recalled the mist-filled valleys, treacherous marshes, sudden ambuscades and the soft-footed Welsh fighters, who would steal into the King’s camp at night to cut a throat or take a head.
    ‘You served there long?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Aye, for some time,’ Norreys replied. He spread his hands. ‘That’s how I received preferment here. A benefice for services rendered.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its nook beside the fireplace. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, we are expected at the Hall at seven o’clock and Master ‘Tripham’s a stickler for punctuality.’ He got to his feet. ‘I have chambers for you,’ Norreys continued. ‘Two chambers on the second floor.’
    He led them out and up a wooden staircase. Now and again they had to pause as students rushed by, horn books in their hands, sacks or bags slung over their shoulders.
    ‘The afternoon schools,’ Norreys explained. He then began to describe how Braose had bought three great mansions with cellars and chambers and united them to form the hostelry.
    ‘Oh yes, we have everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘Garrets for the commoners, dormitories for the servitors, chambers for the bachelors. All those who have the money to pay.’ He glimpsed Maltote perspiring under the weight of the heavy saddle bags he carried. ‘But come on, come on.’
    Norreys led them up to the second gallery. The passageway was dull and damp, the walls mildewed. He pushed open the doors of two rooms; both were no more than austere monastic cells. The first had two truckle beds; the other, Corbett’s, a mattress on the floor. It also possessed a table, chair, chest, two candlesticks and a crucifix on the wall.
    ‘It’s the best we can do,’ Norreys mumbled. He glanced shamefacedly at Corbett. ‘Sir Hugh, you are not really welcome here, you must know that.’ He hastened on, ‘If it grows cold, I can have braziers brought up. For heaven’s sake, watch the candles, we live in mortal fear of fire. The refectory and tap room are on the ground floor, though Master Tripham will probably invite you to eat at the Hall.’
    ‘If we could have some water?’ Corbett asked. ‘My companions and I would like to wash.’
    Norreys agreed and left them.
    Muttering and cursing under their breath, Ranulf and Maltote made themselves as comfortable as possible. Corbett placed the few