by Paul Doherty
‘And I accepted this, clerk?’
‘You had no choice. No relic, no pilgrims, no royal status.’ Corbett paused. ‘I wondered how you could be drawn into Sir William’s petty meddling with Gaveston and the Prince of Wales. You did it for one reason. Not because of any childhood friendship. No, help the Prince now and, when he became King, St Hawisia’s would become one of the most famous shrines in all of England. You couldn’t lose that.’ Corbett tapped the oaken sarcophagus. ‘Anyway, the shrine is sealed off. Workmen are not brought in till Lord Henry has fulfilled his side of the bargain. Unknown to you he goes to Rye. He buys the beautiful golden hair of a whore. He pays her off and bundles her aboard a ship to France. Her golden locks, her glory, are brought here, probably by Cantrone, a skilled physician. The hair is dressed in certain potions and unguents which will keep it fresh and supple. If decay occurs again it can always be replaced. The hair is brought secretly to the shrine. You open the glass case and replace the relic. The rest of the shrine is repainted and refurbished and, once again, opened to receive the prayers of the good nuns and the pious faithful. Now that should have been the end of the matter!’
Corbett sat down beside her.
‘With any other man it would have been the end. Lord Henry had fulfilled his side of the bargain, but he had some control over you. He must have reminded you about that. How, if matters between you ever became bitter, he could deny his sacrilege but, perhaps, let it be known the true origins of your famous relic. Did he then tell you where it came from? Did he hint? Did he think that it was amusing and mock you with his revelation?’
‘As you said, sir clerk.’ Lady Madeleine turned her face. ‘Lord Henry feared neither God nor man.’
‘Unfortunately for both of you,’ Corbett continued, ‘someone found out what had been done: a brothel mistress from Rye. She had a special affection for the young whore Cecilia whose hair had been sacrificed. She made careful enquiries. She discovered that Cecilia had been sent abroad, so Françoise comes to Ashdown. Now, I doubt if Lord Henry would have told her why he plucked Cecilia’s golden tresses. However, Françoise Sourtillon was a woman of the world, wasn’t she? I suspect she came here to St Hawisia’s and visited the relic. One among many pilgrims. Françoise knew Cecilia’s hair, she had combed it often enough, she realised the truth behind your relic. Did she confront you? Or would the great prioress refuse to see her?
‘So, François writes you a letter. At first glance an innocent-looking missive but you would read between the lines. Did she threaten you with blackmail or public ignominy? You, of course, sent a sweet, innocent note back. Why shouldn’t Françoise come up and discuss these matters? Perhaps she could stay at the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern? Françoise, full of anger, would accept this. She wanted reparation. She wanted justice.’
‘And I left my priory and rode out and killed her?’ Lady Madeleine taunted.
‘I think it’s possible. You have your own house, kitchens and stable. There is a side gate leading from there into the forest. You answer to no one. You can issue an order that you are not to be disturbed and go riding. Dressed in a cloak and cowl who would suspect this was the prioress? You have fixed the date and time when Françoise should meet you. I checked with the taverner. Françoise stayed there one night, then the next morning she left the tavern. She walked along that lonely trackway to be at the prearranged meeting place at the appointed hour. It would be some lonely spot, not far from the tavern, a dell or a clearing? Perhaps you even offered to meet Françoise on the trackway?’
‘To send such a letter would be dangerous.’
‘Would it? Unsigned? Unsealed? Especially if you told Françoise to bring it for identification.’
‘She could have told someone else.’
‘Why should she, if blackmail was intended?’
Lady Madeleine glanced away.
‘Meanwhile,’ Corbett continued, ‘you had left the priory by a secret route. Your bow and quiver of arrows were already hidden away. You’d be there in good time. You did the same as you did to me, threw a pebble on the track. Françoise stopped and looked up, the arrow shaft took her in the throat. You make sure the way is clear and you hurry across. You roll the body down the bank, take her purse and saddle panniers, strip the corpse then bury it. You were calm enough to go through her personal possessions. I suspect Françoise brought a strand of Cecilia’s hair.’ Corbett opened his wallet and took out the two cloth clasps. ‘That lock you took away but dropped these in your hurry. Disguised, you creep back along the trackway, mount your horse, throw Sourtillon’s possessions into a marsh and return to St Hawisia’s.’
‘An interesting tale, clerk.’
‘God knows what happened next,’ Corbett went on evenly. ‘Did your brother, who visited the brothel in Rye, discover Françoise was missing? Did he threaten you? Or did he continue his secret taunts about your sacred relic? Enough was enough: Lord Henry was the cause of all your trouble. You heard about the hunt. You went to that dell, where you had played as a child, the afternoon before the hunt took place. You put a bow and quiver in the hollow of an oak tree. The next morning, cloaked and cowled, you left the priory. This time you’d silence your brother’s taunts about the relic and possible jibes about Gaveston for good. You could settle, once and for all, your longstanding grievances with this hated man.’
Lady Madeleine put her head down.
‘A fine, sunny morning,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Lord Henry would prove a good target, this time not to the neck but an arrow straight in his heart. Even as he fell to the ground, you’d be hurrying back to your horse, bow and quiver hidden away, and return to St Hawisia’s.’
‘But why should I kill my brother?’ Lady Madeleine lifted her head. ‘If, as you say, the Italian physician Cantrone already knew?’
‘He was a stranger. A foreigner. What proof could he offer? Who would believe him or the whore Cecilia now Françoise and Lord Henry were dead?’ Corbett paused. ‘In a few months,’ he continued, ‘what could Cantrone say? But, you were committed to the hunt and Cantrone was an easy victim. So why let him go? He’d dared to threaten you, not realising how vulnerable he made himself. However, Lady Madeleine, when you kill, you not only trample lives but become immersed in other plots, other schemes. Cantrone didn’t give a whit about the relic. He and Lord Henry were involved in other stratagems, very dangerous to himself. Cantrone simply wanted to flee. His patron was dead and the French wanted to get their hands on him. He needed gold and silver, didn’t he? You didn’t send for him. He came to the priory demanding to see you. He mentioned the relic and insisted that you buy his silence. Some gold and silver for his journey, he would be gone and that would be the end of it. Cantrone really meant that but you didn’t trust him.’
‘But I was here when he left!’
‘No, Lady Madeleine, you are cunning. You probably paid him then remembered little Sister Fidelis. She would be your excuse, the reason for his visit. You gave out some story that you’d sent for him. Cantrone would accept that. He’d be a little puzzled but,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘what was that to him? Or that you offered food? Ashdown Manor was in uproar following Lord Henry’s death. Servants and retainers were departing. Cantrone would be hungry. You order him to be taken to the refectory, given something to eat. In the meantime you once again left the priory as you did with me. Ashdown, particularly for a stranger, is a death trap. There’s only one road out to the manor. I, Cantrone, Françoise Sourtillon, must take that trackway or become lost in the trees.
‘By the time Cantrone had reached it you were waiting. Again an arrow to the throat. His wallet and purse are taken. A slender, light man, you’d put Cantrone’s corpse across the saddle of his horse, take it deep into the woods and hide it in a marsh.’
Corbett stood up and glanced down the church where he noted that Ranulf was still sitting at the foot of the pillar.
‘Finally, madam, we come to a death, a murder that need not have occurred! The death of Robert Verlian!’
Ch
apter 16
‘His death,’ Corbett continued, ‘was the quickest and easiest to plan, or rather that of the person you really wanted to kill. You went to the priest’s house, knocked on the door and hurried into the shadows of the trees only a few yards away. You believed Brother Cosmas was there. You’d noticed the light in the window. The friar would answer the knock; you would loose an arrow and that would be it. What you didn’t know was that Brother Cosmas was absent, gone to see his friend Odo.’ Corbett sat down beside the prioress. ‘You know the hermit was the Owlman?’
‘What!’
For the first time since Corbett had begun questioning her, Lady Madeleine showed genuine surprise.
‘Oh yes, he hated your brother as much as you do. An ancient sin, one curled up like a poisonous snake. The fruit of your brother’s lusts and lack of care for anyone else.’
‘Why should I kill a Franciscan?’ she asked sharply.
‘Let us go back to the death of Françoise Sourtillon,’ Corbett replied. ‘You’d killed her, buried her corpse and you thought that was the end of the matter. True, the grave was shallow. One day the body might be unearthed but the corpse would be simply regarded as a casualty of some outlaw attack, or even the infamous Owlman. My suspicions were first provoked by your generosity. Lady Madeleine, you may be consecrated to Christ but, to be honest, you manifest little of His teaching. You are locked in your own private heaven where the male and the brutish things of life are kept carefully at the gate. Yet you immediately offer to bury a stranger’s corpse. Why?’
‘An act of compassion. It is one of the Corporal Works of Mercy.’
‘You don’t understand the meaning of the word!’ Corbett snapped. ‘You buried her corpse to get it out of the way, hidden in the soil as quickly as possible. If it had been any other corpse, you would have sent it to St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees for interment in the common plot. I did wonder why the great Lady Madeleine manifested such speedy and merciful measures? You kept well away from the corpse but you made careful enquiries. Perhaps this is where God’s hand makes itself felt; for you became very suspicious why the corpse of your victim was left at your priory gate. Was someone pointing the finger of suspicion? Had your attack on poor Françoise been seen? Was this a reminder? Now, and this is a series of coincidences, on any other day you might have thought it was your brother. One of his subtle tricks to prick your memory. But, that particular morning, it couldn’t have been. He was preparing for his great hunt in which he was later killed.’
‘So?’ she asked, a touch of humour in her voice.
‘You went down to the death house, where the corpse had been placed in a habit. You carefully studied the cloak in which it had been wrapped when it was left at your postern gate. I would wager a tun of wine that you recognised that cloak, one your priory had given to Brother Cosmas.’
‘Where is this cloak?’ Lady Madeleine asked, eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, madam, I am sure it’s gone now. You would, perhaps, recognise the distinctive stitching and draw the logical conclusion that the corpse had been left by Brother Cosmas. What you didn’t know was that Cosmas, in turn, had given that cloak to the hermit, Odo, who was also the Owlman. Odo had come to this forest in search of justice against Lord Henry.’
‘And so it was he who found the corpse?’ Lady Madeleine asked quietly.
‘Yes he did and he’s confessed to it. He didn’t want to carry the corpse to St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees, that might create suspicions. The corpse was that of a woman, so he left it at the priory.’
Lady Madeleine abruptly rose to her feet. Corbett’s hand dropped to the dagger on his belt. She moved to stand beside the oaken sarcophagus but kept well away from Ranulf’s sword and dagger lying on the top. For a while she stood caressing the dark polished oak. Then, going round the side, she stared squarely across at Corbett.
‘This is a beautiful shrine, Corbett,’ she said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘And I am its keeper and prioress. There’s no one here to witness what I say.’
‘Except God, his host of saints and all the heavenly force.’
‘In which case, clerk, they already know the innermost workings of my heart!’ She leaned on the tomb and half-smiled. ‘Now, sir, you’ve walked into this shrine and laid serious allegations against me, one of the Lords Spiritual of Holy Mother Church. Yet what proof do you have? Where are the witnesses? Where is the documentation? How can you prove that I left the priory to go murdering in the forest?’
‘I have very little proof, madam. I said that from the beginning. But there’s a logic to it. You wanted your brother dead. You had to kill Françoise. Cantrone had to be silenced and Verlian’s murder was the work of your tortuous, twisted soul.’
Lady Madeleine stood back as if Corbett had struck her in the face.
‘How dare you!’ she hissed. ‘How dare you come swaggering in here!’
‘You are a demon.’ Corbett grasped the sword and dagger and pulled them away. ‘You are a demon, Lady Madeleine, dressed in the clothes of an angel. God knows what you worship here but it isn’t God. You talk of proof. I could go searching for that. Where is the cloak in which the corpse of Françoise was left? Shall we summon Sister Veronica? I am sure that she’ll find it has disappeared and wonder why. Or Sister Fidelis? Or the other nuns? We will certainly establish just who did send for Cantrone?’ He paused. ‘Which of your servants took the message? Which peasant? Did anyone at Ashdown remember such a message arriving? Then, of course, I could go across to your lodgings, make a careful search for the dark cloak and cowl you probably wear when you ride out. Perhaps examine the harness and saddle of your horse? Inspect the trackway which lies outside the gates leading from your private quarters? Or shall I just prove where you actually were when your brother, Cantrone and Verlian were killed?’
Corbett tapped his finger against the polished oak.
‘Ranulf said you were left-handed so you’d make a poor archer but you’re gifted, I’ve noticed that, in the use of left or right. Do you still have the bow and quiver of arrows?’ He raised his hand. ‘You nearly killed me, you devil in flesh! You’re a consummate archer who’ll do anything to defend this shrine. Now Henry, Françoise and Cantrone are gone who can really challenge you?’
‘Yes, clerk,’ came the curt reply. ‘Who can? Will you, with your meagre evidence?’
Corbett spread his hands. ‘Perhaps I can have the royal searchers seek out this young prostitute, Cecilia. Have her brought back to England and closely questioned. Or shall I offer a reward to the chapmen and tinkers who ply their trade between Rye and Ashdown? See if anyone brought a message from Françoise Sourtillon to the prioress?’ Corbett held up Ranulf’s sword as if it were a cross. He could tell by Lady Madeleine’s face that he had struck his mark. ‘You are an assassin. I don’t know whether you are just evil or mad or both. And all this.’ Corbett banged the wooden sarcophagus with the sword. ‘It’s all mummery! The corpses of dead saints, relics of golden hair! You no more believe in the Lord Christ than the animals which dwell in the forest. At least they are true to their nature. You, Lady Madeleine, are true to nothing!’
And, turning on his heel, Corbett walked out of the shrine and down the nave of the church.
Edward of England lounged in a high-backed chair. He drummed his fingers carefully on the table as Corbett recounted what had happened at Ashdown. The King, dressed simply in a brown tunic and leggings with high-heeled riding boots, played with the tassels of his war belt on the table before him. He picked up the jewelled goblet and stared at its engraving of a knight kneeling, hands clasped, in front of a crucifix.
‘You are sure of this, Corbett?’
The King kept his face down so the clerk wouldn’t catch his excitement.
‘As I am that I sit here, my lord. Lady Madeleine is an assassin and, somehow or other, she should be brought to justice.’
‘Oh, never mind that.’ The King sipped from the goblet and stared over the rim at Corbett. ‘I am interested
that Piers Gaveston has the impudence to come stealing back into my kingdom like a riffler along an alleyway.’
‘But, sir, you promised not to raise it with your son?’
‘Oh, I won’t do that.’ The King scratched the side of his head and gazed sweetly on this, his most favoured clerk. ‘I think I’ll post rewards in every port and harbour. Gaveston will think twice before he sets foot in this kingdom again. No, no, it’s more what you tell me about my beloved brother in Christ, Philip of France!’
The King hugged the cup to his chest, scraping back the chair. He stared at Corbett from under heavy-lidded eyes.
‘Can you imagine it, eh? The descendant of St Louis of France killing his own wife? We’d heard rumours, you know.’
Corbett kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to tell the King about Master Aidan Smallbone. After all, Smallbone was a veritable source of gossip and chatter. The King quickly crossed himself.
‘Do you remember Simon Roulles?’
Corbett nodded.
‘They found his mangled corpse on a muddy bank of the Seine. A few days earlier, they’d discovered the half-naked body of Mistress Malvoisin, a few yards further up.’
‘The widow of the royal physician?’
‘The same. Poor Simon was searching for what you discovered at Ashdown, and he may have even found it. What a waste! A good spy, a cunning clerk but not as good as you, eh Hugh?’
‘You won’t use it, sire?’
Corbett glanced sideways at Ranulf who sat tense, eyes watchful. Ever since they’d left Ashdown and journeyed up to Eltham, Ranulf had been obsessed with bringing Lady Madeleine to justice.
‘What do you mean, I won’t use it!’
‘Sire, the treaty!’
The King’s smile widened. ‘Ah, you mean my beloved son’s marriage to the Princess Isabella?’
‘Sire, you know that marriage treaty has the support of the papacy, not to mention your Council and the Commons who recently met in parliament. If you break it, there’ll be war within a month and French ships will be helping the rebels in Scotland.’