by Paul Doherty
Ranulf turned to the shaft, still embedded in the trackway before him, and noticed the piece of parchment tied with red twine just above the quill. He ran forward to pluck the arrow out. Sheltering behind his horse, he undid the red cord; the piece of parchment was yellow and greasy but its message was clear enough.
The Owlman sends greetings to the King’s emissary! Justice has already been done. The Owlman sees what he wishes and hears what he wishes! He goes where he wants. Farewell.
Corbett plucked the scrap of paper from Ranulf’s fingers and read it.
‘He’s well named,’ he commented. ‘The Owlman, a bird of the night which swoops silently on its prey. I wonder if he’s our assassin?’
‘Why the message?’
‘He’s simply making his mark!’ Corbett grinned. ‘Or telling us, in his own way, he’s not Lord Henry’s murderer.’
He thrust the scrap of parchment into his wallet and remounted.
‘He means us no harm.’
They moved on cautiously, studying the forest on either side, fearful of another attack, until they reached the crossroads where a decaying gibbet post hung lopsidedly, the piece of hemp in the rusty iron hook dancing in the morning breeze.
‘We follow the path straight on,’ Corbett said.
The trackway dipped, turned and then broadened. In a large clearing before them rose the honey-coloured stone walls of St Hawisia’s priory. Despite the early hour, the place hummed with activity; lay brothers were going out into the fields, traders and chapmen were making their way up to the main gates. Peasants, their carts piled high with produce for the priory kitchens, were also assembled, waiting for the gates to be opened.
‘The priory must own its own lands,’ Corbett decided. ‘From what I gather, it’s a little kingdom in itself, so let’s see its ruler.’
He gazed appreciatively at the buildings rising above the curtain wall: black and red slate roofs, a soaring church tower. Somewhere deep in the priory a bell tolled and the morning air wafted rich, savoury odours from the kitchens.
They asked directions from a peasant.
‘Well, you can wait like us,’ the pock-marked fellow replied, his nose and cheeks chapped by wind and sun. ‘Wait, as we always do, in the snow, rain or sun for their ladyships to open the gates.’ He pointed further down the wall. ‘Or you can try the postern door. But God help you if it’s not urgent business!’
Corbett thanked him and dismounted. He led Ranulf across and they rapped on the small, metal-studded gate. A grille high up the door was pushed back. Small, black, inquisitive eyes peered out.
‘What do you want? Who are you?’
‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s emissary, and this is my clerk Ranulf. We demand entrance. We wish to see Lady Madeleine.’
‘You are a liar!’ the querulous voice objected. ‘You are not dressed like a royal clerk!’
Corbett drew out his letter of commission and thrust the red wax seal up against the grille.
‘Open up!’ he ordered. ‘Or I’ll kick this door until it flies off its hinges!’
‘You should have shown me the seal first,’ came the aggrieved reply.
The bolts were pulled back, the gate swung open. The nun standing on the other side was small. She was dressed in a white woollen veil, a cream-coloured coif, and a white gown almost covered by a black apron.
‘I am Sister Veronica!’ she informed them. ‘Cellarer, porter, you name it, I do it.’ She peered up at Corbett, her thin lips tight, her white, wizened face full of hostility. ‘You look like a clerk.’ She glanced at Ranulf. ‘But you don’t. More like a gibbet bird!’
‘Would you say this priory is noted for its charity and Christian welcome?’ Ranulf asked.
The cellarer shook her head. ‘Don’t be impudent, Green Eyes! In my former life I had seven children. Two husbands long dead. Now I am a nun consecrated to God.’
‘And he’s welcome to you!’ Ranulf murmured.
‘What was that?’ Sister Veronica’s hand went to her ear. ‘My hearing’s not what it should be, but did you say something impertinent?’
‘My clerk was simply exclaiming in amazement.’ Corbett took the old woman’s hand. ‘We wish you well, Sister Veronica. However, we are on urgent business. We must see Lady Madeleine as well as the famous shrine.’
Sister Veronica’s face softened. ‘Well, you can see how busy we are going to be. I’d best take you across to the church. You can wait there while I tell the prioress.’
She led them along a pebble-dashed path, through gardens carefully laid out in the French fashion: raised flower beds, herb banks and turfed seats. The air was fragrant with a variety of perfumes. Corbett particularly appreciated the rose bushes planted on either side of the path, which gave off their own special scent. The garden occupied one side of the priory but, in the distance, he could see small orchards of apple, pear and plum trees. Sister Veronica pointed to another wall, its great wooden gates being opened.
‘Beyond that are the stables, outhouses, store-rooms and bakery. On the far side are meadows. We raise good sheep and we even have our own windmill.’
Corbett nodded. St Hawisia’s looked a wealthy establishment. The church before him was built of dressed stone, with a roof of iron-grey slate. The morning sun glistened in the stained glass windows and on either side of the church rose stately mansions of honey-coloured brick, every window sheeted in glass.
‘Our dormitories and refectory are over there,’ Sister Veronica pointed out. ‘We have a guest house and infirmary. Lady Madeleine has her own chambers on the far side of the cloister path near the forest wall. We also own a library and a scriptorium,’ she added proudly.
‘So, your priory is well endowed?’
Sister Veronica stopped abruptly. ‘We bring our own dowries here. The priory has fruitful estates and, of course, St Hawisia looks after us.’ She marched on, her shoulders stooped. ‘I can’t take you into our enclosure. The priory is not yet ready for visitors and Lady Madeleine is very strict about men coming here, be they clerk or prince. That’s why you have to wait in church.’
She waved them up the steps but, as Ranulf passed, she caught him by the sleeve.
‘You be careful what you touch. This is God’s house, not some stall in the marketplace!’
Ranulf seized her hand and, before she could protest, raised it to his lips.
‘Sister, I wouldn’t dream of it. I have had the deepest devotion to St Hawisia ever since I was a child. Do you know, when I was a boy I even had a vision of her?’
Sister Veronica’s jaw sagged.
‘Later, Ranulf!’ Corbett warned.
Ranulf again kissed her hand and, before the good nun could think of a suitable reply, followed Corbett into the church.
They stood in the doorway marvelling at the beauty and elegance of this jewel of a chapel. The flagstone floor was scrubbed clean. The pillars, shielding off the transepts, were painted a dark blue with gold crowns. The walls beyond glowed with brilliantly coloured frescoes illustrating scenes from the Bible. At the far end a heavily carved rood screen sheltered the choir stalls and sanctuary. The air was perfumed by flowers in small copper pots at the base of each pillar. Faint clouds of incense still drifted through the air, catching the coloured sunlight shafting through the stained glass windows.
‘Well endowed indeed,’ Ranulf commented. ‘Better than a royal chapel.’
‘With one difference,’ Corbett said. He pointed to the windows painted in shimmering reds, golds, greens and blues.
‘You are a senior clerk in the Office of the Green Wax, Master Ranulf. You have to be keen of wit and sharp of eye. Have you noticed anything? The paintings and the windows?’
Ranulf walked along the church. He prided himself on his education. Hadn’t he his own copy of the Bible and two Books of Hours? And, wherever he went, Ranulf always watched and listened. Some of the scenes he couldn’t recognise but others he could. Judith, from the Old Testament, cutting off her enemy’
s head. Ruth the Moabite. One scene caught his eye and he smiled: it showed the serpent tempting Adam. But this time Adam’s body was concealed, only his head stuck out from a thick wall of privet. Eve, however, was shown in all her glory, hand raised as if warning Adam not to succumb. On the wall beneath the window a dramatic scene showed Christ harrowing Hell after the crucifixion where he divided the good from the bad. Ranulf laughed.
‘It’s women,’ he said. ‘Every scene depicts women! There are hardly any men, apart from Adam’s head and Christ. And look, master, even the Saviour, with his long hair and delicate face, has a girlish cast about him.’
‘And have you noticed the damned?’ Corbett asked. He pointed to the dark shadowy forms, each of whom was dressed in battered armour. ‘Look, Ranulf, all those cursed by God are male but the saved are . . .’
‘They are all women!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Even the angels!’
They walked along the church. On the one hand the paintings were lavish, brilliant in their colours and expertly depicted but their message was the same. In Heaven as on earth, the woman was good, the male worthy of condemnation.
Corbett looked up the nave. He saw the Lady Chapel to the left and, to the right, a gleaming oak wood sarcophagus, the glass case at its head shimmering in the light of dozens of beeswax candles.
‘St Hawisia’s last resting place,’ he explained.
He was about to go up and investigate when from the choir stalls in the sanctuary came a young woman’s voice intoning the Salve Regina: ‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordia, Vita Dulcedo et Spes Nostra, Salve!’
Corbett raised his finger to his lips and, followed by Ranulf, entered the gorgeously decorated sanctuary with its polished wooden choir stalls on either side. At the far end stood a marble altar on a raised dais which was carpeted in thick blue and gold wool. Silver candlesticks stood on the altar and, above them, a jewel-encrusted pyx which held the Blessed Sacrament hung by a filigree chain. The nun standing in the stalls was facing the altar, hands by her sides. Corbett expected her to continue singing but she faltered and began again.
‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordia, Vita Dulcedo et Spes Nostra, Salve.’
‘Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Hail Our Life, our Sweetness and Our Hope.’
‘Ad te clamanus . . .’ But then her voice faltered off.
‘Ad te clamanus, exules filii Evae,’ Corbett sang in a rich baritone voice. ‘Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes.’
‘To you, we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To you we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this Vale of Tears.’
The young nun turned. Her pretty face, framed by its coif, was white with shock.
‘I . . . What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for Lady Madeleine.’ Corbett walked forward. ‘You seem to be having trouble with the hymn. Do you not have a Book of Hours?’
The young nun, more composed, grinned impishly at Ranulf.
‘I’m Sister Fidelis,’ she said in a rush. ‘I’m only a novice. I just cannot remember the words. So Lady Johanna, the choir mistress, not to mention the Lady Marcellina the novice mistress, have told me to stand here and sing it until I’ve learned it correctly.’
Corbett bowed. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, special emissary from His Grace the King.’
Sister Fidelis’ eyes rounded in amazement.
‘We are not as important as we sound.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Indeed, we have just met your Sister Veronica, who regarded us as two marauders.’
‘She would! I asked her for help but she says she’s too busy.’
‘Then we’ll help,’ Corbett replied. ‘Won’t we, Ranulf?’
‘Men aren’t supposed to sing here,’ Sister Fidelis simpered.
‘I don’t think the good Lord will object,’ Corbett replied. ‘And you must learn the words.’
‘It’s something I will talk about for days,’ Sister Fidelis laughed. ‘You begin, I’ll repeat each line.’
Ranulf, too surprised to join in, watched his master stand next to the young nun and, in a deep, rich voice, begin the Salve Regina. At the end of each line he paused and the young sister repeated it; at the very end Sister Fidelis triumphantly joined in the last line.
‘O Dulcis! O Pia! Virgo Maria!’
‘I sang it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know it now. You won’t tell them, will you?’
Corbett turned to Ranulf. ‘Our lips are sealed, aren’t they?’
Ranulf just gaped and wondered, not for the first time, if the arrow which had struck his master in Oxford had damaged more than his chest bone.
‘Thank you.’ Sister Fidelis smiled. ‘I never can remember the words in choir, Lady Johanna is so hard. She beats my knuckles with a ferrule.’
She held up a white, delicate hand; nasty red bruises marred the knuckles. Corbett kissed her fingertips.
‘Such harshness is ill fitting,’ he murmured.
Sister Fidelis blushed and withdrew her hand.
‘So, you are awaiting Lady Madeleine. I tell you this, you’ll tarry a long while! Lady Madeleine loves to keep people waiting. Even Lord Henry, when he came here, had to kick his heels in the guest house.’ She paused. ‘And he paid generously to refurbish the shrine!’
‘Does the priory have many such noble visitors?’ Corbett queried.
‘Oh yes. The Prince of Wales came here.’
‘I didn’t know Prince Edward had a devotion to the St Hawisia?’ Corbett asked innocently.
‘Well, he has, he came in here. But I’m only a novice, sir,’ she trilled on. ‘Such comings and goings do not concern me.’
‘What comings and goings?’ Corbett quietly prayed that Lady Madeleine would indeed tarry a while, since this fresh-faced young novice seemed eager to chatter.
‘Lady Johanna shouldn’t hit me with a ferrule.’ Sister Fidelis sucked on her knuckles.
Corbett studied her intently. He wondered if the young lady had been placed here, not for any vocation but because she was slightly fey.
‘What were you saying?’ she asked.
‘You were going to tell me about strange comings and goings.’
‘Well, I am! Oh, sir, what is your name?’
‘Sir Hugh Corbett, I’m the King’s emissary.’
‘Well, you see, Sir Hugh, I often daydream, particularly in the refectory; I never finish my food! So, I’m given tasks, little punishments. I hate leaves!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Leaves,’ Sister Fidelis repeated. ‘Because I don’t eat my food quickly enough, when the other novices go to recreation, I have to sweep the yard. I’m given a thick, heavy apron which scores my neck and a broom that’s far too heavy. I’m told to sweep the cobbled yard which divides our refectory from Lady Madeleine’s house.’
‘I don’t like leaves either,’ Corbett told her. ‘And, I promise you, I’ll have a word with Lady Madeleine not to punish you so rigorously.’
‘Oh, would you, sir, and would you also mention Lady Johanna’s ferrule?’
‘For the love of God!’ Ranulf whispered.
‘The leaves?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, one night, I think it was on the eve of St Matthew.’ Her fingers flew to her lips. ‘Or was it the feast of St Cornelius?’
‘You were sweeping leaves in the yard?’
‘Yes. I went into a corner when it was growing dark and no one would see me. I’d stolen a piece of marchpane from the refectory and my fingers were cold. Anyway, I ate the marchpane. I was very cross because the novices were in their house and all the other sisters were enjoying themselves. Suddenly.’ Her head came forward and Corbett nearly jumped. ‘Suddenly,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘I saw a man, cowled and cloaked, cross the yard.’
‘You are sure it wasn’t one of the sisters?’ Corbett asked.
‘They don’t wear spurs which clink nor do they carry swords! They certainly don’t walk with a swagger. Anyway, he enters Lady Madeleine’s house. Oh, I say
to myself, what goes on here? In he goes, just opens the door. Now downstairs is her own refectory and chambers; upstairs is her own bedchamber. No one ever goes up there! I put the broom down and stole across the yard. I looked through the window but saw no one there.’
‘So, the man must have gone upstairs?’ Corbett asked.
‘He must have done. Do you know, sir, I swept that yard time and again but he never came out. A week later, it was the end of the month because we had celebrated the feast of St Jerome, he was the man who . . .’
‘Yes,’ Corbett intervened. ‘I know who St Jerome was. And you were sweeping the yard again?’
‘No, sir, I was sweeping the refectory floor all by myself, another punishment. I am sure,’ Sister Fidelis confided, ‘that I saw the same man cross the yard.’
‘But surely, the prioress would not entertain male friends?’
‘But that’s it, sir, she has no male friends! Lady Madeleine believes men are no better than devils.’
‘Has she said as much?’
‘No, it’s just in her warnings to us. How we should act when male guests arrive.’
‘Like me?’
‘Oh, you’re the King’s emissary and you have helped my singing. You are also going to tell Lady Johanna not to use that ferrule!’
‘And do you know who this stranger was?’ Corbett asked.
The young novice shook her head. ‘Perhaps I’ve said wrong,’ she mused. ‘The stranger could have left the other way?’
‘What way?’
‘Lady Madeleine’s house is a little palace. It has its own kitchen and stables beyond, with a yard and a small postern door in the forest wall.’
‘And this stranger could have left by that?’
‘It’s possible!’
‘Have you seen anything else suspicious?’ Ranulf insisted.
Sister Fidelis gazed round fearfully.
‘Oh no! I haven’t told anyone else. I daren’t! Lady Madeleine’s rages are terrible to behold.’
‘Does she ever leave the convent?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, the priory owns properties in the town of Rye. She sometimes goes there with the almoner or one of her brothers to collect the rents and inspect the steward’s accounts. She’s gone four or five days, it’s always a relief. However, in many ways Lady Madeleine is kind and very proud of her shrine.’