by Paul Doherty
‘Do you know he’s dead as well? Killed by an arrow?’
The woman looked startled.
‘No, no, I did not.’
‘It will become common knowledge soon enough. But what makes you think she was visiting Lord Henry?’
‘Because he always visits us and he’s the only person in Ashdown Françoise knew.’
‘Lord Henry often came here?’
‘Oh, a true cock of the walk our manor lord.’ Roheisia grinned. ‘But, before you ask, Françoise shared her bed with no man. She entertained him, mind you. She allowed him to peep into the chambers when others were there and allowed him the choicest wench.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, not because Françoise liked him. If the truth be known, Françoise hated him. For what he was, for his wealth, for the way he didn’t care. A man, how did she put it? Yes, that’s it, deeply in love with himself. I’m a whore, master clerk. A strumpet, a bawd. But I fear God and I do not pretend to be what I’m not. If Françoise was to be believed, Lord Henry Fitzalan feared neither God nor man.’
‘You do not grieve over her death?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I will grieve in my own way! And in my own time and place. So you, sir, with your cat eyes and sharp face, ask your questions and be gone for I can help you no further!’
‘Which of your ladies did he favour the most?’ Corbett asked.
‘He favoured them all. Variety is the spice of life, he would boast. Sometimes he’d take one, sometimes he’d take two or three together.’
‘Would any of them know?’ Corbett paused. He had to be careful how he asked this question.
‘Would who know what?’ she asked angrily.
‘Why, madam, one of the other ladies? Did Françoise have her favourites? Someone she confided in?’
‘I know what you are saying, clerk. However, as long as the girls keep themselves clean, cause no disturbance and make themselves available, what they do is a matter for them.’
‘So you cannot help us?’
‘No, I cannot.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett took the warrant out of his pouch, ‘I want the entire house roused. I want to meet all your ladies.’ He opened his purse and tossed a gold piece at the woman, who caught it deftly. ‘I want it done now.’
Roheisia left without demur. Corbett sat back in the chair and listened to the house being roused, the clatter of feet above him; shouts, a cry of protest, footsteps on the stairs. Roheisia swept back into the room and gave the most mocking curtsey.
‘My lord, the ladies of the house are assembled in our hall. If you would like to favour them? You’ve paid for your introduction. But, if you touch any of the merchandise, you must pay.’
Ranulf was about to reply but Corbett held his hand up. Roheisia, who had now fastened her gown tightly around her, pushed back the door.
‘They can only hold their eagerness for so long.’
‘Do they know who I am?’
‘A King’s man. But still a man.’
Roheisia swept out of the room, leading Corbett and Ranulf down the passageway to a long, dark, wooden panelled room at the back of the house. The tousled ladies were assembled around a long dining table. Most of them wore cloaks, or robes, about their shoulders. A host of pale faces, heavy eyes, confronted the two men. About a dozen in number of different sizes, ages and, Corbett suspected, nationalities sat there. A few were beautiful. Some, who looked raddled, didn’t even bother to raise their heads when Corbett and Ranulf entered the chamber. A few looked boldly at him; one pursed her lips and blew a kiss in Ranulf’s direction. Corbett saw his embarrassment as he tapped the table with his fingers.
‘Ladies, accept my apologies for this rude awakening. I am the King’s clerk, I need to ask you certain questions. A member of this . . .’ He paused. ‘This community, Françoise Sourtillon, was murdered in Ashdown Forest.’
Their smiles and giggles disappeared.
‘Do any of you know why she should go there?’
‘The Fitzalan lord.’ A fat, red-haired woman spoke up.
‘Did she say as much?’ Corbett asked.
‘If Françoise told me little,’ Red Hair replied, ‘she would tell even less to my sisters here.’
‘Do any of you know?’ Ranulf barked. He felt uncomfortable. The brothel brought back memories and this made him uneasy as his heart was now set on the chaste and beautiful Alicia.
‘We know nothing,’ Red Hair retorted boldly.
Her reply was greeted with nods and murmurs of agreement.
‘The one who could tell you,’ said a young, flaxen-haired woman at the end of the table, ‘is Cecilia.’
‘And where is she?’ Corbett asked.
‘Gone,’ Roheisia said. ‘Lord Henry removed her from the house.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t know. We heard rumours that she had been lodged in a tavern in the town and then sent abroad.’
‘And why should Lord Henry do that?’
‘I don’t know. He bought her from Françoise, paid for her services in good gold. Cecilia left and that’s the last we heard of her.’
‘So she could be in Rye?’
‘It’s possible.’ Red Hair spoke up. ‘But Mistress Roheisia is correct. Lord Henry had a fancy for the girl. He lay with her on a number of occasions and then she was gone.’
‘Is this customary?’
‘If a lord likes a wench, he can buy her indentures and rent her a private chamber for his own personal pleasure.’ Roheisia shrugged one shoulder then winked at Corbett as a sign that she wished to say more but not here. ‘So,’ Roheisia said as she got to her feet. ‘If, sir clerk, you have no more questions for my sisters, they need their rest.’
Corbett looked round the different faces but could detect no sign or gesture that these ladies of the night were prepared to help him. He thanked them, handed two pieces of silver to Roheisia to buy each a goblet of wine and followed her back into the parlour. Roheisia closed the door behind him and stood, clicking her tongue.
‘I am sorry.’ She smiled. ‘But your silver has just jogged my memory. Françoise was close to Cecilia but, like any of us, would never stop one of her sisters’ advancement. To become the mistress of a manor lord marked the beginning of a prosperous career.’
‘But?’ Corbett asked.
‘Cecilia left about two months ago. One evening I found Françoise here, in the parlour, in a terrible rage. She wouldn’t tell me what had happened except what you learned in there: how Lord Henry had bundled Cecilia aboard a ship and sent her to foreign parts.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. But Françoise declared she had made careful searches among the different ships which berth at Rye. Apparently she learnt from a captain of a cog what Lord Henry had done.’
‘And?’
‘All Françoise said was that she’d teach that reprobate to treat Cecilia as he had. I asked what she meant by that, she didn’t reply.’
‘Did Françoise leave any private papers?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Documents, letters?’
Corbett took out a pure gold piece from his purse. Greed flared in Roheisia’s eyes.
‘Françoise could write and read her letters.’
‘And could Cecilia?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What did this Cecilia look like?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, young, slender, very beautiful, hair like spun gold. It fell down almost to the floor, very proud of it was Cecilia. Françoise used to comb it for her. Very popular with the lords was our young Cecilia. Françoise made them pay heavily for her favours.’ She looked at the gold coin. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
She left the parlour, asking if they wanted refreshments, but Corbett refused. A vague suspicion stirred in his mind.
‘What do you make of this?’ Ranulf asked once Roheisia had gone.
‘I don’t know. But let’s see what our lady of the night can find for us.’
‘We should go after her,�
� Ranulf urged. ‘Search this place from garret to cellar.’
Corbett shook his head.
‘First, Ranulf, that would only alienate our good ladies. Secondly, Françoise has been missing for a month. I am sure the good Roheisia has already been through her documents and papers. She knows there is something which might interest us and she’s gone to find it. If we start stamping our feet and rattling our swords, I don’t think it will be handed over to us.’
Roheisia came back, a sheaf of greasy-edged parchment in her hand. She thrust these at Corbett but held on to them until he handed across the gold piece. By the light of a candle he quickly went through the different pieces of parchment. One or two were items of purchase, one a letter, enigmatic and curt: Corbett suspected it was a message to one of her clients, or at least a draft that had never been sent. He glanced up. Roheisia was watching him closely.
‘Don’t play games, mistress,’ he warned her. ‘I don’t pay gold for an empty cup. You knew all this when we first arrived!’
‘Oh, there’s something there,’ she admitted. ‘Not much.’
Corbett continued searching through the papers and then he found it. A draft of a letter to Cecilia Hocklewell at the Chambard tavern in Dieppe. Corbett felt slightly guilty. Françoise had written it as if she were Cecilia’s lover rather than her friend, vowing how she missed her, that she would return. He noticed the phrase, ‘when your glory has been restored’. He glanced at Roheisia.
‘“When your glory has been restored”, Mistress Roheisia? What on earth does that mean?’
She stared blankly back. Corbett rolled up the piece of parchment and put it in his wallet.
‘Madam, I come here as the King’s officer. You know full well that Françoise has been murdered in the same forest where Lord Henry was killed. Now, there’s more to Lord Henry than being a client of your house. He and Françoise shared a common bond, Cecilia. Lord Henry took her out, ostensibly as his personal mistress, but then he bundled her abroad. Françoise makes careful searches. She finds Cecilia but she apparently refuses to come back until what Françoise calls “her glory” is restored.’ He gripped Roheisia’s wrist. ‘Now, madam, an explanation!’
Roheisia swept across to a chair and sat down on it. She sat like a queen, hands dangling down the side. ‘I hate men. I hate them because they are hypocrites, because they believe they can buy what is precious. They strut in here full of wine, mouths bleary, cocks hard, as if this is nothing more than a barnyard. I liked, even loved Françoise but, as the years passed, this grew cold. It was Françoise who brought Cecilia into our house. A Kentish girl. I never knew whether she loved Cecilia as her daughter or as a man would a maid. Françoise distrusted Lord Henry but allowed him to take Cecilia out. When Françoise discovered that she had gone missing, she became demented. The management of this house, the pleasuring of our clients were forgotten. Lord Henry came here and she confronted him. I heard nothing of their bitter words, only Lord Henry laughing, mocking her as he often did. Françoise became determined. She became a constant visitor to the harbour. She would go out visiting this place or that. Sometimes she was absent for days. She’d curse Lord Henry and said both he and his family would pay for what they had done. Ça ira, that’s all I know.’
‘And Cecilia’s glory?’ Ranulf asked.
‘She must be referring to the girl’s face. What Lord Henry did, I am unsure: in his cups he could be vicious. There are men, master clerk, who like to beat women, see them bleed before they can take their pleasure with them.’
‘And you think this happened?’ Corbett asked. ‘That Lord Henry beat Cecilia so badly, he sent her to Dieppe to hide any scandal?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘So, Cecilia wouldn’t return until these wounds were healed?’
‘Again that’s possible. It’s also possible that Françoise travelled to Ashdown to confront Lord Henry but, to do that, she was very foolish. After all, who cares if an arrow slits a whore’s throat?’
‘Are there any other letters?’ Ranulf asked.
Roheisia threw her head back and laughed. ‘Françoise was like myself, young sir. Our correspondence? Let me put it this way, good whoring and letters do not go together. A love note received on Monday can be dangerous by Friday. Françoise was no different. Before she left she either burned her letters or took them with her. I only found those by mistake. She’d left them in a pocket of a robe hung on a peg in her chamber. Master clerk?’
Corbett was sitting, eyes closed. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘Ranulf, I really do, what Lord Henry did to that girl?’
In the priest’s house, a narrow, two-storied dwelling built just behind the church of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees, Alicia Verlian filled a goblet for her father and placed it on the table in Brother Cosmas’ clean-swept kitchen. Outside darkness was falling, the silence broken by the sounds of the forest as it awaited the night. The verderer sipped from the cup and glanced across at his daughter.
‘It will be good to get back,’ he said.
‘We should leave now,’ Alicia replied. ‘You have nothing to fear and Sir Hugh will protect us against Sir William.’
Verlian shook his head. ‘It’s best to wait.’
Alicia looked at her father pityingly. He had aged in the last few days, nervous, unsure of himself. He was even frightened by the shadows in the church. Brother Cosmas had kindly agreed that he could move into his house. Indeed, since Corbett’s questioning in the church, the Franciscan had grown very preoccupied. He had left early in the afternoon, saying he wished to have words with Odo.
‘But make yourselves comfortable,’ he had offered. ‘I have some wine, dried meats and freshly baked bread. Build the fire up. Alicia, if you wish, you can stay, sleep in the church or make up beds for both of you on the kitchen floor.’
With that he had taken his cloak and cudgel and left them. Alicia had repaid his kindness by tidying up the sanctuary and sweeping the floor. She promised herself that, tomorrow, she would return to her own house and bake some pies, recompense for this gruff priest’s kindness.
‘Do you think it will end soon?’ Her father broke into her thoughts.
‘Sir Hugh is a good man. He will execute the King’s justice without fear or favour. However, he keeps his thoughts to himself. I suspect, Father, there’s more to this man than you and I can ever imagine.’
‘And the other one?’ her father teased, trying to lighten his mood. ‘Who walks and looks like a cat? He is much smitten by you, Alicia.’
‘And I by him,’ she admitted.
‘Would you become handfast to such a man?’
Alicia glanced away. ‘And what would you do then, Father?’ She tugged at the Franciscan robe he wore. ‘Become a priest?’
‘I don’t know what I will do,’ Verlian said. ‘But, when this is all over, I am finished with the Fitzalans!’
‘And now you want to marry me off?’
‘He’s an ambitious young man.’ Verlian grasped his daughter’s wrists. ‘Alicia, you don’t favour him because you have something to hide?’
She blushed. ‘I have nothing to hide, Father. Ranulf-atte-Newgate is a personable young man. I have never met his like before. Oh, some of the forest people are kind but Lord Henry was really no different from the rest, except he had the power and the wealth to pursue his lust.’
Alicia studied her father’s face. She loved him so deeply. He was gentle and kindly, being both mother and father to her. A man who loved the forest, he’d taught her everything she knew. Even as a little girl he would take her out to show her a badger’s sett or a fox’s lair, even climb a tree to study the thrush’s eggs. How could she tell him about her secret?
‘You wouldn’t become a nun?’ he teased. ‘Not one of Lady Madeleine’s ladies?’
‘I don’t know, Father.’
Verlian’s heart sank. He’d meant it as a joke but she didn’t object as he had expected.
‘I have . . .’ She stumbled over her words. ‘I k
now what I do not want to be. I . . . I wish . . .’
‘Do whatever you want, child,’ he reassured her.
Alicia was going to reply when there was a loud rapping on the front door. She made to rise but Verlian, embarrassed by his own fears, shrugged a shoulder and got to his feet.
‘Stay there, daughter. It will only be one of the forest folk looking for Brother Cosmas.’ Pulling the cowl over his head, Verlian limped towards the door and opened it. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.
Outside a cold breeze had sprung up, setting the fallen leaves whirling like lost souls. Verlian smelt the fragrance of the forest; his anger curdled to be locked away from it. He walked out on to the porch. Behind him the door swung open. Verlian stepped forward, then realised he had made a mistake. No one was about and he was a target against the light behind him. He turned but, even as he did, the arrow caught him full in the heart.
Chapter 15
Corbett contemplated the corpse laid out in its Franciscan robe. The coffin was no more than a wooden casket, probably an arrow box; thick, white bandages bulged over the dead man’s chest. These closed the wound, yet death was never presentable: two coins kept Verlian’s eyes closed but the face was sunken, unshaven, the mouth slightly open. The man’s hands lay across his chest clasping a wooden crucifix. Corbett heard the sound of weeping. He went and stood in the entrance in the rood screen of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees from where he saw that Ranulf sat on the bench with Alicia.
The young woman’s grief over her father’s murder was uncontrollable. Her eyes were red-rimmed with crying, her face pallid, her beautiful hair fell into tangles to her shoulders. She sat head forward, hands clasped in her lap. Ranulf had one hand on her shoulder, whispering to her, but she seemed not to listen to what he was saying. Corbett went over and knelt down.