by Paul Doherty
Ranulf smiled like the cat who has drunk the cream. He had spent a pleasant time the previous evening consoling the good lady during her husband's absence. He thought of her white, soft as satin body, nubile and generous as she stood dressed in nothing but her head-dress and gartered hose. He groaned again, cursed softly, and urged his horse up into the grassy area before the manor door, scattering the lazy sheep grazing there.
Ranulf, however, could never be despondent for long: after all, his master was now the landlord of well-stocked bams, granaries, and lush meadows, and Ranulf could always pretend he had been very busy in London and so earn some reward. He licked his lips as he dismounted and assumed a doleful expression. He had rehearsed his speech. He would present matters in their worst light, depicting the toils and tribulations he had endured in pursuing his master's business… yet he had scarcely prepared himself for what happened. Corbett was waiting just inside the oak-panelled hall, cloaked, booted and spurred; his saddle bags, packed and strapped down, were being taken out by a servant. Ranulf expected the worst when he saw the grin on Corbett's face.
'Benedicte, Ranulf!' he exclaimed. I have been waiting. We are off to Godstowe Priory in Oxfordshire. Your son, how is the little cherub?'
Ranulf caught the sarcasm in his master's voice and grinned. His master loved little Hugh, or Hugolino, but often described him as a monster, a true son of his father, from his spiked hair to his innate ability to fall into mischief.
'Well, Master, as well as can be expected,' Ranulf replied, glimpsing Maeve coming out through the chancery door. She looked resplendent in a simple white wimple and a long, dark maroon dress clasped at the neck with silver-white bows, rather spoilt by the heavy belt she wore round her swelling waist, which bore most of the keys to the manor chambers. As usual Maeve looked solemn though Ranulf saw the mischief dancing in her eyes.
'You had a pleasant time, Ranulf, in London?'
The servant was going to lie but Maeve caught his glance.
'Yes, Mistress.'
'No excitement or frivolity?'
'Of course not,' Ranulf muttered. 'Just hard work.'
He glanced away but Maeve continued her inquisition. She would find out about Mistress Sempler whether he liked it or not, so Ranulf mumbled some excuse and fled to his own chamber. He washed his face in the lavarium, packed a new set of saddle bags, plucking what possessions he could find from his customarily chaotic chamber, and went down the side stairs out to the front of the manor where a groom had brought fresh horses and a sumpter pony. In the hall Maeve was growing truculent at Corbett's strictures against baiting Ranulf.
'You will miss me?' he asked, changing the conversation abruptly, grabbing her by the hands and pulling her close.
'No,' she teased.
'You'll look after the fencing in the long meadow?'
'No, I'll break it down.'
'And the grange with loose slats?'
Maeve shook her head.
'I'll burn that as well, together with the tithe bam. And I'll tell Father Martin, with his usual litany of complaints about his congregation using the graveyard as a playground, to go hang himself. After that,' she shook her head, 'God knows what I'll do!'
Corbett grabbed her, kissing her passionately.
'Then I'll bid you adieu, wife.'
He winked at her, smiled, and slipped through the door to the waiting horse.
Corbett and Ranulf travelled north, passing through small villages, little more than a cluster of rickety, thatched cottages clustered around some church or manor house. Soon harvest time would be over. Corbett remembered such days from his youth as he saw the crops standing high and yellow, next to fields of fallow green and the narrow ribs of turf which separated one village's strip from another. The cottages themselves were no more grand than that owned by his father with their walls of wattle and daub and the small patch of garden to grow onions, cabbages, garlic and shallots.
His horse stumbled and Corbett cursed, Ranulf quietly admiring his master's grasp of some of the filthiest oaths he had ever heard. The roads were ruined by huge potholes filled with makeshift clumps of brushwood or mounds of earth which would be washed away in the first heavy shower. They stopped at a village inn for a dish of spiced eels and a few gulps of heady local ale. The place was packed with men and women, country folk, falconers, huntsmen, lackeys from the stables, bakers, brewers, cooks and kitchen scullions. They all crowded in for their pottle of ale, rubbing shoulders with shepherd and hog-herds, teasing and slapping the laundresses and dairy maids who came to exchange gossip or catch the eye of their favourite swain.
Corbett sat in a corner and listened to Ranulf's description of affairs in London before quietly informing him of what awaited them at Godstowe Priory. Ranulf's face paled. Gaveston and the Lord Edward were twice as dangerous as the old King; Gaveston in particular, a spiteful, powerful lord who had made his presence felt in both court and city. For the first time since attending Mass at Christmas, Ranulf closed his eyes and really prayed that his master would not fail or slip from royal favour. Corbett was truly caught in the raging animosity between Edward and his truculent heir. If he failed the King, Corbett would certainly feel the royal displeasure, but the Prince of Wales was irrational, veering like a bird on the wing, one moment the cheerful companion, the common man; the next standing on every inch of his authority. Gaveston was worse; he was just downright dangerous. Ranulf loved his master, even though he might quietly cheat him of the odd coin or two and silently mock his solemn ways but, if Corbett fell, so would he. Ranulf stood up and ordered another black-jack of ale from the greasy aproned slattern to drown the panic curdling his stomach.
'All of us know about Eleanor Belmont!' he exclaimed. 'They were talking about her death at the Guildhall and in St Paul's Walk.' He looked enquiringly at his master.
Corbett sat up and dragged his eyes away from the relic-seller who had now moved into the tavern with his bag of goods.
'Who do they say is responsible?'
'They blame the Prince, or even the old King.'
'What else do they say, Ranulf?'
'How the Prince loves Gaveston more than any man does his wife. The old ones talk about the return of civil war, and the armourers and fletchers are doing brisk business.'
Corbett nodded and sat back on the bench. His spies had told him the same; up and down the country the great lords were seeing to the repair of their castles, laying in provisions and arms against a possible siege. Would war come? Godstowe might hold the answer.
Corbett looked out of the door and saw the daylight was beginning to fade so they continued their journey, keeping a wary eye as the sun began to sink and they followed the old Roman Road north into Oxfordshire. Earlier it had been busy with merchants, students in their tattered gowns, mountebanks, or the occasional friar wheeling his portable altar from village to village. Now, as evening fell, despite the warm summer closeness, Corbett knew the road was a dangerous place. The woods and desolate moorlands were inhabited by landless and lawless men, filthy verminous beings dressed in tattered, weather-stained garments, disfigured by every sore and disease under the sun. Such men plagued this highway, even boasting of their deeds, telling their bruised and wounded victims how they had been robbed and beaten by 'Rawhead', 'Bloody Bones' or 'Robin Badfellow', or whatever such name the outlaws assumed. Corbett touched the sword and dagger strapped to his belt and, feeling more comfortable, urged his tired horse into another canter.
They arrived late at night at the village of Woodstock, which lay between the palace and the priory. They lodged in a chamber of The Bull tavern, which stood at the far edge of the town on the forest fringes. Corbett, ever prudent, spent his money carefully; the room they obtained was really a garret, furnished with a trestle straw bed which he and Ranulf would share, together with a woollen coverlet, chest, table and two stools. They were promised a pot of watered ale in the morning, a mess of oats and a meal at night. The poxy-faced landlord also agreed to provi
de stabling and fodder for their horses.
After his master had retired, Ranulf went down to the taproom, taking with him a small bag of goods he always carried in such rural areas; a few jars filled with coloured water and crushed flower petals, hair from a boiled red dog, crushed skin from a dead man's head, mixed with grease. These and other delicacies Ranulf sold to the landlord and his customers as cures for every known ailment under the sun Satisfied that he had at least recouped some of his master's losses, he pocketed their money, stole back upstairs and, lying on one edge of the trestle bed, slept the sleep of the just
At Godstowe Priory, however, murder had once more taken up camp. The aged Dame Martha was busy arranging an unaccustomed bath in her large spacious chamber. A screen had been set up around it and cooks from the kitchen had brought up great earthenware jugs, filling the wooden tub with scalding hot water. Dame Martha wanted to look her best She was sure the Lady Prioress would be very interested in what she knew.
Dame Martha had taken off her brown serge robe lined with blue, the habit of her Order, the Daughters of Syon, and was busy, dressed only in her white linen shift, placing the screen more closely round the bath. She made sure the chamber door was locked and bolted, picked up the wine goblet and sipped it greedily.
She would have liked some soap, the perfumed type, fragrant and sweet-smelling which the priory had imported from Castille. She had used some three months previously when she had last bathed just before the Easter celebrations.
Dame Martha touched her hair, noticing how greasy the grey locks were. She stood, sucking on her gums, and her little black eyes hardened. Yes, she had to look her best when the Lady Amelia saw hen Dame Martha wanted to impress her as being perceptive and clever and not be dismissed as some garrulous old nun lost in stupid daydreams. She didn't want one of those bitches, Dame Frances or Dame Catherine, pooh-poohing her information as some fevered phantasm of an ageing mind. No, Dame Martha had seen something the night the royal whore had died, something which just didn't fit into place, and she would use her knowledge to get more for herself; some sweetmeats, perhaps linen sheets or bigger portions from the refectory. After all, she deserved them; she had given long years of service to the Order.
Dame Martha doffed the linen shift and climbed into the bath, allowing her vein-streaked, decaying body to sink into the hot, relaxing water. She leaned her head back, then sat up as Murder tapped on her door.
Chapter 3
Corbett and Ranulf arrived at Godstowe late in the morning, just after Dame Martha's drowned cadaver was sheeted and moved to the death house, a small brick building which stood behind the priory church. The two riders studied the convent buildings which nestled at the foot of a shallow, wooded valley. Facing them was a high, double-gated entrance and further along the steep curtain wall, the postern door or Galilee Gate leading to the forest
Corbett patted his horse as it stirred restlessly at the faint tolling of the priory bell calling the lay workers in from the fields beyond the walls for their mid-day meal. The priory was a grand building built from the yellow stone carved from local quarries. The main house, a two-storeyed building, was built in a square around the cloister garth. Beyond this was the church with its red-tiled roof and soaring towers. Corbett identified the other buildings: the infirmary, the novitiate, the chapter house built above the refectory, the Prioress' house at the far side of the church, and then, huddled up against the walls, the maltings, kiln room and other outbuildings. A place of ostensible serenity, contemplation and prayer, Corbett thought Still, he must force himself to see it as a place soaked in blood and intrigue.
'Ranulf.' He turned in the saddle and looked across at his servant. 'Godstowe is a nunnery, the women reputedly consecrated to God. Be prudent and remember my advice -nothing will be what it appears. Oh, by the way, what was in that bag you took down to the taproom last night?'
'Nothing, Master.' Ranulf gazed back in round-eyed innocence.
Corbett grunted and they cantered down the hill following the path up to the main gate. Ranulf pulled at the bell cord hanging there and kicked his boot against the small postern door. A tall, thin pole of a man with a face as white as snow, bleary eyes, and a nose so red it flared like a beacon, opened the small door and stepped out, half-closing it behind him.
'What do you want?' he snapped. He studied the dark face of the clerk, noting the expensive quilted cote hardie, woollen hose and costly Spanish riding boots. 'I mean,' he added more politely, 'what business brings you here?'
He was joined by two men-at-arms dressed in the blue and gold livery of the Prince of Wales, well armed with sword and dagger, their faces hidden by the noseguards of their conical helmets.
'Bugger off!' one of them shouted.
He swayed slightly and, behind Corbett, even Ranulf could smell the stench of ale.
Corbett urged his horse forward, freed his foot from the stirrup and pushed the guard up against the gate, pressing his boot firmly into the man's chest
'My name is Corbett,' he announced quietly. 'Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery of the King and his special envoy to Godstowe Priory. I treat you courteously so I resent your bad manners. Now,' he turned to the porter, 'you will either open that gate or I will kill one of you!'
He smiled. 'After all, it is treason to interfere with a royal envoy.'
Corbett withdrew his foot and both soldiers scuttled away like rabbits whilst Red Nose hastily unlocked one of the great gates and led them in. He didn't even stop to lock it behind him, so eager was he to show them to the stables. After that one of the soldiers, mumbling a profuse apology, led them across to the Prioress' lodgings. Word of the debacle at the gate must have preceded them for Lady Amelia was already awaiting their arrival in her cool upper chamber with its painted blue walls, polished wooden floor and oval-shaped windows filled with precious coloured glass. The Lady Prioress sat in the centre of the chamber on her favourite throne-like chair. She rose as Corbett entered, extending one elegant hand for him to kiss.
'You are most welcome, Master Corbett. We heard you were coming. I must apologise for the greeting.' She smiled falsely. 'But we have so many curiosity seekers. Lady Eleanor's death draws constant visitors here. Anyway you are most welcome, Master Corbett. I did think His Grace would send…' Her voice trailed off,
'Someone more important than a clerk, My Lady?'
She nodded her head.
'Then, My Lady, you are disappointed!'
Corbett looked at the haughty face framed by its white starched wimple: the gimlet eyes, imperious nose, and a mouth no more than a line. Lady Amelia smelt of perfume, crushed herbs, and something deeper, more cloying. This lady, Corbett thought, would kill if her honour or pride were at stake. Lady Amelia, however, disregarded his answer and graciously introduced her two companions, the Sub-prioresses, who had been sitting on either side of her like two fire dogs: Dame Frances, tall, thin and dry, hard-eyed, and sour-faced with twisted lips; Dame Catherine, comely, plump and pert, cheery-faced and with a generous mouth though her eyes were like two black pebbles in her rosy face. Lady Amelia indicated a chair for Corbett. She clapped her hands and a servant brought in cups of malmsey and a plate of sweetmeats. Ranulf she ignored and left to stand behind his master. He swallowed his pride as he studied the nuns. Hell's teeth, a most unholy trinity! Dame Catherine, however, drew his glance; she was studying Corbett intently, her small pink tongue constantly wetting her lips. Ranulf grinned to himself. A wanton one there, he thought, and began to daydream quietly of what would happen if he and the good dame were alone in some small, cosy chamber. The Prioress settled herself, allowing a faint smile to grace her face. She nibbled at the doucettes.
'What does His Grace the King command?' she began. 'His Grace requires nothing save a full explanation of the Lady Eleanor's death.' Lady Amelia made a face.
'We regret Lady Eleanor's death, as we do that of the unfortunate Dame Martha. One of our sisters,' she added quickly, noting the puzzlement in Co
rbett's face. 'She was found drowned in her bath this morning. Remember, Master Clerk, in the midst of life we are in death.'
'Yes, but it makes a difference how Death comes.'
'In Lady Eleanor's case, by accident.'
Corbett adjusted his belt and settled himself more comfortably.
'Was she melancholic?' he asked.
'A little. She was often heard praying to be delivered from her sickness. She had a malady of the breast Dame Catherine?' She turned to her cheery-faced companion.
The fat nun shrugged as if freeing herself from a daydream. 'Lady Eleanor,' she piped up, 'had a malignancy in her breast The Prince sent her medicines.'
'Did he bring them himself?' Corbett asked. 'Oh, no.'
'Did any visitors come?'
'Of course not!' Lady Amelia snapped. 'We are a convent, not a guest house.'
'These medicines – why should the Prince be so concerned?'
'The Prince is a caring man.'
'How do you know that?'
'My father was steward in his household.'
'Which is why you got preferment here?'
'Naturally.' Lady Amelia's smile faded. 'Though one approved by both the bishop and the community.'
Corbett noticed how Dame Frances pursed her lips in silent but eloquent repudiation of her mistress' claims to merit.
'These medicines?'
'Oh,' Dame Catherine spoke up, 'bought from a physician in London, distilled by the best apothecary.'
Lady Amelia saw the flicker of doubt in the clerk's eyes and forced a more gracious smile. She must be wary of these quick answers. She had been warned about this inquisitive clerk with his abrupt questions and reputation for honesty. She scrutinised him more carefully. Yes, more than some petty official, with his hair black as night, that sardonic face and those clever eyes which didn't seem to accept a single thing she said. Perhaps attack was the best form of defence. She could be as abrupt as he.
'Be careful, Master Corbett,' she retorted. 'The Prince may have ended his relationship with the Lady Eleanor but he wished her well. The medicines were potions not poisons.'