by Paul Doherty
Sir Edmund rose to his feet, bowed and left. Bolingbroke asked if there was anything further. Corbett shook his head. The clerk departed saying he needed to change, wash and sleep.
‘What now?’ Ranulf asked.
He lounged in his chair, playing with the dagger sheath on his war belt. He placed this on the table before him and peered up at Corbett.
‘You really do expect mischief, don’t you?’
Corbett walked to the door which Bolingbroke had left half open. The gust of cold air was welcoming, but as he pulled the door shut, he noticed the first snowflakes fall.
‘I don’t know what to expect, Ranulf. You know Edward of England; he rejoices in the title of the Great English Justinian, he has a passion for knowledge. Once he becomes absorbed in something he becomes obsessed. He has been through Bacon’s writings time and time again, like some theologian poring over the scriptures. He has insisted that I do the same. I have his copies of Friar Roger’s works in that coffer.’
‘Was the friar a magician?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett drew the trancher of bread towards him, cut a piece, dabbed it in the butter jar and put it in his mouth. ‘Ranulf. Again it’s logic. Have you ever lain in the grass,’ he grinned, ‘by yourself, stared up at the sky and watched a bird hover? Have you ever wondered what it must be like to fly, to be a bird? Or leaned over the side of a ship and wondered what really happens beneath the waves?’
‘Of course,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Your mind wanders.’
‘People like Roger Bacon go one step further. Is it possible? Can it be done? They speculate,’ Corbett continued, ‘they become intrigued, and so the experiments begin.’
‘Do you believe in this secret knowledge?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Corbett swirled the ale round his jug. ‘I believe in logic and deduction. If something is possible, does it become probable? What is the relationship between an idea and a fact? If we build a machine such as a catapult, to hurl rocks at a castle wall, is it possible to construct another machine to throw them even further and harder? Go down to the castle yard, Ranulf, study those Welsh bowmen. They don’t use an arbalest but a bow made of yew which can loose a yard-long shaft. In Wales I watched a master bowman fire six such arrows in the space of a few heartbeats whilst a crossbowman was still winching back the cord of his own weapon.’
‘When the French come . . .’ Ranulf decided to change the subject. He knew from past experience how Corbett’s military service in Wales always brought about a change in mood. Sir Hugh still suffered night-mares about those narrow twisting valleys and the cruelties both sides perpetrated on each other. ‘When the French come,’ he repeated, ‘will de Craon accuse Bolingbroke of theft and murder?’
‘Great suspicion but little proof.’ Corbett laughed drily. ‘Oh, he’ll know and he’ll know that I know, which will make us both very knowledgeable, but de Craon is too cunning to accuse anybody. He may make references to it, but no outright allegation. He might talk about a housebreaker called Ufford, a scholar and an Englishman, being killed, but that is as far as he will go. The dead do not concern de Craon. Like a fox which has killed a pullet, it has only whetted its appetite for—’
Corbett started at the shouting from outside.
‘Woe unto you who has done this! Limb of Satan, fiend of Hell, innocent blood cries for vengeance and justice! Cursed be ye in your thinking and in your drinking . . .’
The rest of the proclamation was drowned by a soul-chilling scream, followed by shouts and yells. Corbett and Ranulf hurried to the door. The snow was swirling under a biting wind, but the flurry of winter was ignored as members of the castle, men, women and children, ran towards a tall balding man, his lower face covered by a luxuriant beard and moustache, who stood, dressed all in black, beside a small hand barrow. Corbett ran down the steps, forcing his way through the throng. On the hand barrow sprawled the corpse of a young woman, the sheet which had covered her pulled back to reveal a bloodless face, staring eyes and a quarrel high in the chest which had rent flesh and bone. A line of blood coursed down from the girl’s gaping mouth. A woman knelt beside the hand barrow, fingers combing her grey hair as she threw her head back and shrieked at the low grey sky. A man beside her, dressed in a leather jerkin, tried to comfort her. Others were gathering around, shouting words of comfort and condolence. Another young woman, hysterical with grief and fear, crouched holding on to the barrow until others prised her fingers loose and led her away. The crowd was turning ugly with shouts and curses, and Corbett became aware that the main accusations were levelled against an outlaw band and its leader, Horehound.
Sir Edmund, along with his wife and daughter, had arrived. Constance, her beautiful face shrouded by the hood of her cloak, took the distraught mother, lifting her up and pressing her body next to hers as she led her away. Lady Catherine hastened to help. Sir Edmund ordered his men-at-arms to keep the crowd away, shouting at them to go back to their business. After a while order was imposed. The grieving parents were taken into the long hall. The young woman’s corpse was inspected by the dry-faced castle leech, who introduced himself simply as Master Simon. He carefully examined the body and shook his head.
‘No bruises, no violation; death must have been instant. Sir Edmund, there is nothing I can do.’ He pointed to the quarrel dug deep into the flesh. ‘Except take that out and prepare her for burial.’ He walked away shaking his head, muttering about the girl’s death being similar to the rest.
Corbett crouched down beside the barrow, whilst Sir Edmund led the black-clad priest away, having introduced him to Corbett as Father Matthew, parish priest of St Peter’s in the Wood. Father Matthew had a strong face, lined and ashen, and hollow eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He was shaking slightly and muttered an apology about his outburst, putting it down to the horror of what he had seen. Sir Edmund called for a servant to bring a cup of posset. The snow was falling heavily now, covering the sheet-white face of the murdered girl. A flake settled on her half-open eye; others mingled with the dry blood. Corbett’s finger brushed the feathered quarrel, a stout, ugly dart, embedded so deeply the feathers mingled with the ruptured flesh. When he glanced up, the priest had returned and was staring down at him.
‘So you are the King’s man?’ Corbett noticed the fear in the priest’s eyes. ‘I apologise once again, but . . .’ Father Matthew stumbled as he gestured at the corpse. ‘It was in the lane outside the church, crumpled like a bundle of rags. I was in my sacristy when I heard Alusia’s chilling scream. She’s the girl who found the corpse. Apparently she’d arranged to go down to the cemetery to visit the grave of another victim, her friend Marion. This lass,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘was meant to go with her. Poor Rebecca! Anyway, Alusia left on Mistress Feyner’s cart, thinking Rebecca would join her later. Of course, she didn’t. When Alusia left the cemetery she stumbled across her corpse.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Such horror! I’d forgotten the warning of the ancients, Praeparetur animus contra omnia.’
‘Prepare your soul for the unexpected,’ Corbett translated. ‘You are a student of Seneca, Father?’
‘Many years ago.’ The priest seemed pleased at the arrival of the old chaplain Father Andrew, who came hobbling across almost hidden by his cloak, a walking stick in one hand, a small reed basket in the other.
‘Have you performed the rites?’ the old priest asked.
‘No, Father, I haven’t. I forgot.’
Father Matthew knelt, the snow swirling around him, and whispered the words of absolution, ‘Absolvo te a peccatis tuis,’ ‘I absolve you from your sins.’
‘And now the anointing,’ Father Andrew cackled. ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t forget the anointing. Extreme unction is one of the Sacraments of the Church. I can’t do it myself.’ Father Andrew’s light blue eyes peered at Corbett. ‘It’s the rheums in my legs, you know.’
Father Matthew snatched the phial of holy oil from the basket and began to anoint the palms of the dead girl’s hands, then her fe
et, slipping off the coarse leather sandals, before anointing her eyes, ears and mouth. Corbett looked over his shoulder. Ranulf stood watching avidly. Corbett recalled his henchman’s ambition, one he voiced now and again, that if the path of preferment meant ordination as a priest, he would seriously consider it.
Once the anointing was finished, Sir Edmund ordered some men-at-arms to take the corpse down to the small shed which lay behind the castle chapel, St John’s Within-the-Gate, near the entrance to the first bailey. Then he stared up at the sky, a sea of iron grey, the snowflakes shifting in the sharp breeze.
‘Sir Hugh, my apologies, you haven’t eaten, well, not properly.’
He invited the priests to join them, but the old castle chaplain declared he would watch by the corpse and pray. They watched him go, then hurried across to the Constable’s quarters. The hall was a welcome relief from the bitter cold and the grim, sombre council room. It was a long vaulted chamber, its beams painted a deep black, its walls covered in white plaster as background for a series of beautiful paintings of angel musicians, all playing different instruments: lutes, harps, viols, pipes, clarions and shawms. Sir Edmund, to ease the tension, explained how Lady Catherine had a fascination with angels, adding that the hall’s tapestries and gaily coloured cloths celebrated similar themes.
‘We call it the Hall of Angels.’ He gestured around. The hall was certainly comfortable and tastefully decorated, its hardwood floor polished and free of the reeds and rushes which collected filth and could reek like a midden heap. At the far end was a minstrel’s gallery, and down either side long trestle tables of good stout walnut, polished until they shone in the light of cresset torches and candles. In the centre of the hall, almost facing the principal doorway, was a large mantled hearth, a yawning cavernous fireplace protected by a wire mesh grille, behind which a stack of logs burned merrily. At the other end of the hall, under heraldic banners, stood the high table on its dais, and in the centre of the table rested a beautiful silver castle which served as the great salt holder. Sir Edmund, pointing out various features of the hall, took them up to the table and grouped them round it. Servants hurried from the kitchens behind the dais with steaming bowls of barley soup, followed by platters of towres, a delicious veal omelette, with buttered bread and a dish of diced vegetables. Sir Edmund poured the wine, a sparkling white, especially imported from vineyards of the Rhine. To keep their fingers warm, small ornamented chafing dishes, filled with charcoal and sprinkled with thyme, were placed along the top of the table. Father Matthew, declaring himself famished, ate quickly, and when he had finished accepted a dish of rather fatty lamb cutlets served in a mint sauce.
‘You are fasting, Father?’ Ranulf teased.
‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Sir Edmund,’ Father Matthew nodded towards the Constable, ‘insists that I dine with him here.’ He grinned. ‘So I thank him by prayer, good works and fasting for the next meal.’
‘Father,’ Corbett waited until the chuckling had subsided, ‘you have brought in the sixth victim.’
‘Aye, it is; six in all. Five buried in my cemetery, five requiem masses, five sprinklings of holy water, five crosses, five mothers and fathers to console.’
‘And you have no suspicion why this has been done?’
The priest shook his head. ‘That is the first corpse I have found. The rest? Well, Sir Edmund will tell you about them. Just lying there she was. Crumpled, like a bundle of cloth tossed aside. But why?’ The priest talked as if to himself. ‘She was only a poor maid, she had nothing but her comeliness.’
‘I heard people blame the outlaws.’
‘Outlaws,’ Sir Edmund interrupted. ‘You would think they were William Wallace. A paltry group of men and women,’ he explained to Corbett, leaning across the table. ‘Poachers and petty thieves. Oh, they’ve done enough to hang, but why should they kill young women? Three of the seven victims have been found in the grounds of the castle.’
‘I thought it was six?’
‘One is missing,’ Sir Edmund explained. ‘Phillipa, Mistress Feyner’s daughter, she is the principal laundrywoman here. About ten weeks ago, just after the harvest was brought in, Phillipa disappeared after Sunday Mass. According to common report she claimed she was going for a walk but never returned. I sent out men-at-arms and riders who scoured the countryside; they went as deep into the forest as they could. I asked the fishermen along the coasts to watch the tides, but no corpse has ever been found.’
‘I organized my parishioners,’ Father Matthew added. ‘Every dell, wood, copse, ditch and cave on Purbeck Island was searched but nothing was found. Mistress Feyner now believes her daughter is dead, the first victim of these horrid murders. A time of tribulation, the worst since I joined the parish.’
‘How long ago was that?’ Corbett asked, scooping up a piece of omelette with his horn spoon.
‘About eleven years. I originally come from Durham, but was unable to obtain a benefice there.’ The priest swiftly reverted back to the murders. ‘Truly this is a time of fear; as Ovid says: Omnibus ignotae mortis timor, “In all creatures lurks a fear of unknown death.” No one understands why these young women have been killed in such a brutal fashion.’
Corbett leaned over and whispered to Sir Edmund, the Constable turning his head to listen intently.
‘Is there anything,’ Ranulf asked, ‘that all these victims have in common?’
The priest pushed away his platter, cradling his wine cup. Corbett noticed how, despite his burly appearance, Father Matthew’s fingers were long and slender as a woman’s.
‘What do they all have in common? I understand your logic.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But I do not know your name.’
‘Ranulf, Ranulf atte Newgate, Chief Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
‘Those things,’ the priest replied, ‘which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another. The same rule of logic applies to all these victims. They are poor, they are young, they live in the castle, they all look for work, either in the castle, or the great prize, being a slattern or maid at Master Reginald’s inn, the Tavern in the Forest.’
‘And there’s your school,’ Sir Edmund added.
‘Oh yes, my school.’ The priest smiled. ‘Every Saturday afternoon I gather all the young women into the nave of the church to teach them the basic rudiments of reading and writing. There must be about thirty girls in all. Some are very quick, young Phillipa certainly was. I give them some buttermilk and freshly baked bread and, in summer, the best honey from my hives. On Sunday it’s the turn of the young men. I’m very proud of my school,’ he added.
‘So would I be,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s where I began, the transept of St Dunstan’s church, followed by cathedral school and after that, the Halls of Oxford. Small sparks can be fanned into flames.’ He paused as a servant carrying a leather bag entered, then bent over and whispered into Sir Edmund’s ear.
‘They’ll be here in a short while, but in the mean time . . .’ The Constable pushed across the leather bag. Corbett took out the wicked-looking quarrel which the leech had removed from Rebecca’s chest; at one end were sharp barbs like those on a fish-hook, at the other a flight of stiffened feathers. It had been cleaned but Corbett noticed how the impact had bent one of the barbs, and even the ugly tip was slightly blunted.
‘Do you recognise it, Sir Edmund?’
‘There are thousands like it in the castle.’
Corbett weighed the quarrel in his hand. ‘Rebecca was found on a trackway; at a guess her killer stood only a yard away. Now here was a young woman fleet of foot and sharp of ear. If she felt threatened, she would run, but she didn’t. She was facing her killer, she must have allowed the assassin to draw very close. Now tell me, sirs, on a lonely, misty trackway, on a cold December morning, in a place and at a time when hideous murders have taken place, why should this young woman not show any fear?’
‘Before you say it,’ Father Matthew’s voice was hard, ‘she would allow her pr
iest to walk close, but I was in my church.’
‘Pax, pax,’ Corbett whispered. ‘No one accuses you, Father, let alone suspects you. Who else?’
‘A friend,’ Ranulf declared, ‘another young woman, or someone old and frail? Rebecca was not frightened.’ He paused at the clamour around the hall door. Sir Edmund shouted at his guards to let them pass and a group of men and women shuffled into the hall, staring round in wonderment before turning to bow towards Sir Edmund.
‘They are the parents,’ Sir Edmund whispered, ‘of the dead girls. I’ve gathered them as you asked.’
Corbett waited until they all stood just inside the doorway before going down to greet them. The rest of the company on the high table followed. Sir Hugh asked the parents to sit, then introduced himself.
‘Have you been sent down here?’ A small, slender woman with wiry grey hair and fierce eyes in a sweat-soaked red face stared eagerly at Corbett. ‘Has the King himself sent you down here to seek justice for our daughters?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett replied quickly, ‘that is one of my tasks. Sir Edmund, perhaps we could serve our guests a cup of warm posset; their hands are chapped and their lips blue with the cold.’ His words were welcomed, and for a while there was some confusion as the cooks and scullions from the kitchen brought out a bowl of heated wine, muttering under their breath about interfering clerks whilst they doled out the hot spiced drink. Corbett himself took a cup and toasted his guests sitting either side of the trestle table. He turned to the woman who had addressed him.
‘You are?’
‘Mistress Feyner, chief washerwoman of the castle.’ She hitched her tattered shawl about her shoulders. Corbett noticed how the smock underneath, although threadbare, was spotlessly clean, whilst the woman’s chapped red hands glistened with oil.