Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders Read Online Free PDF Page A

the poor light his eyes glittered; when he pulled the mouth bands down, his hot breath burst clear on the wintry air.
    ‘ Gaudium et spes .’ He growled the usual Christmas greeting. ‘Joy and hope.’
    ‘ Gaudium et spes ,’ Corbett replied, indicating that Ranulf should re-sheathe his sword.
    ‘We are Les Hommes Joyeuses – the Joyous Men,’ the fellow continued, ‘travelling players. Our carts are somewhere behind us. We have come to give thanks to our patron Thomas à Becket and to God’s Holy Mother.’
    ‘Then, friend,’ Corbett hid his smile, ‘we shall sing together. But why are you travelling to Canterbury in the dead of winter?’
    ‘In thanksgiving,’ the leader of the Joyeuses replied, continuing the pretence that he did not know Corbett. ‘To sing a carol to Christ’s Blessed Mother. Last month we sheltered in Suffolk.’ The man, one of Corbett’s spies, chattered on. Corbett waited for the real message. ‘Ah yes, we are glad to be out of Suffolk, with its treasure-hunters, lepers and grisly death. We bring all sorts of news. Ah well,’ he stamped his feet, ‘are we to stay here and freeze?’
    In the flickering light of the candle, Les Hommes Joyeuses assumed a funereal air lacking any kind of Yuletide cheer.
    ‘By what name are you called?’ the leader asked. He wanted Corbett to reassure the rest of his party.
    ‘Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s emissary to Canterbury, Keeper of the Secret Seal.’
    The Joyeuses came forward, their dismal air lifted; hands appeared from beneath cloaks. Corbett heard the scrape of blades being shoved back into sheaths, as cowls and hoods were pushed back.
    ‘I am sorry,’ their leader confessed, winking quickly at Corbett, ‘we thought you were different, something else, perhaps outlaws or wolfsheads.’ He extended a hand. ‘Robert Ormesby, formerly clerk of Taunton, Somerset, now the Gleeman, poet, mummer and mimer.’
    Corbett grinned, grasped the Gleeman’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Then let us carol merrily together! What chant?’
    ‘Advent is drawing to a close,’ the Gleeman replied, pursing his lips. ‘Why not one of the O antiphons? “Clavis David” or “Radix Jesse”?’
    Corbett, much to Ranulf’s annoyance, agreed heartily to both and they all trudged to the far side of Harbledown Hill, the snow falling thick and fast. Ranulf was reluctantly coaxed to join in. Tunes were hummed; Corbett conceded the honour of cantor to the Gleeman, whose strong voice broke into the beautiful antiphon: ‘Root of Jesse, set up as a sign, come to save us . . .’
    Corbett and the rest joined in the refrain, ‘And delay no more, and delay no more . . .’
    The deep-throated singing swelled out under the leaden skies, proclaiming the coming of the Emmanuel, the King of Peace, the Christ child. The words of the antiphon cut through the freezing air, drifting towards Canterbury, the King’s own city, which housed the blessed bones of the murdered Becket and where even more hideous killings were being subtly plotted.
    Once the singing was finished, Corbett felt better, and again clasped the Gleeman’s hand.
    ‘Where will you lodge? Not a stable?’ he joked as he pulled up his cowl.
    ‘May as well be,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘Perhaps the inn yard at the Chequer of Hope, but if not that . . .’ He shrugged.
    Corbett stepped closer, peering at the man. The Gleeman was broad-faced, with well-spaced eyes, thin lips, a snub nose and full cheeks, a merry-looking man with a tinge of cynicism. His light hair was shorn to a stubble, his upper lip and chin freshly shaved and scrubbed.
    ‘If you fail there,’ Corbett whispered, ‘come to St Augustine’s Abbey near Queningate. Use my name, and I’ll see what I can do . . .’
    Corbett made his farewells and strode across to where Ranulf slumped holding the reins of his horse.
    ‘Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured, one foot in the stirrup, ‘Christmas is a time of friendship, bonhomie and good cheer. All