by Paul Doherty
'Woe to you!' the Franciscan began. 'You rich and pampered ones who ignore the needy, the poor folk, prisoners in dungeons created by your wealth. What they scrimp by spinning, they pay out to you in rents and times so they have only watered porridge to satisfy their young ones who groan aloud for food.' He drew back the sleeves of his gown, exposing his strong brown wrists. Eyes half-closed, he rocked to and fro. 'Woe to you rich, you pampered ones who ignore the peasants, too ashamed to beg, who wake at night to rock the cradle, to patch and wash!'
Corbett looked along the line of nuns. Even the most somnolent had now stirred themselves.
'Woe to you, the pampered ones with your secret lusts, who do not revere the Madonna but pine after the secret mysteries of Queen Mab and the harlotries offered by hobgoblins, be they human or demoniac. Can you not read the signs? Satan walks and has already made his mark!'
Corbett now sat up, seeing the fury in Lady Amelia's face so apparent, he thought the Lady Prioress would rise and walk out of the church whilst Father Reynard's litany of woes only grew stronger. The priest's eyes now gleamed with fanaticism; his tongue lashed the rich, a veil for his warnings against the Priory of Godstowe. Behind him Corbett heard the peasants stir and murmur their approval. Ranulf was openly grinning. A self-confessed sinner from the gutters of Southwark, he had one virtue: he was totally devoid of hypocrisy. Corbett hoped the sermon would benefit him as well, something to take back to London with him.
At last Father Reynard finished, gave his final benediction and swept into the sanctuary. Lady Amelia rose, genuflected before the altar step and led her sisters out, their hauteur and arrogance now dimmed. None dared raise her eyes as they filed down the nave. Only Dame Agatha, with an impish wink to Ranulf, indicated her approval of what the Franciscan had said Corbett remained seated. The friar's words had affected him also. Was he, so eager for royal justice, ready to show the same to his tenants or had he forgotten his own roots? He remembered the words of his old comrade, de Couville, who now worked in the royal records office at Westminster.
'What does it profit a man, Hugh,' his aged mentor had cackled, 'if a clerk pleases his King but loses his soul?'
Corbett smiled and shifted on the bench. So far his King would hardly be pleased with him. The clerk's sharp, suspicious mind probed at what lay underneath Father Reynard's sermon. Did the Franciscan believe Lady Eleanor had been struck down by God? If so, was Reynard the type of man whp passionately believed that Divine Justice should be given a helping hand? He thought of the friar's strong hands and wrists. If Lady Eleanor had been murdered, her neck expertly broken and the body dumped at the bottom of those stairs, a man like Father Reynard was well suited to be her assassin.
'What do you know about the friar, Ranulf?' Corbett asked.
His manservant, half-dozing now, shook himself, stood up and stretched.
'Not much,' he whispered, aware how his words would echo in the cavernous sanctuary. 'But have you seen the way he walks, Master? Shoulders back, head up. I believe our Franciscan has seen some military service. And his little finger – I glimpsed it when he was leaning on the pulpit – it's been hacked off, there's only a stump. And there are purple welts on his wrists.' Ranulf smiled, basking in his master's approval. 'Father Reynard undoubtedly wielded a sword. I would wager he was as good with that as he is with his tongue. It's a long time since I heard a sermon like that.'
'Your eyes are sharp, Ranulf. Listen, saddle our horses and seek out Dame Agatha. Tell her I'll meet her and you at the Galilee Gate. We are going down to the village of Woodstock.'
Ranulf threw one last hungry glance round the richness of the sanctuary and swaggered off.
Corbett stared at the light pouring through the multi-coloured windows. What do we have here? he wondered… A priory full of every luxury and home to a once powerful courtesan, now discarded by the Prince of Wales. The woman perished in mysterious circumstances. She had not fallen downstairs but died elsewhere and her body been put there. Rumour had it that she had a malady of the breast
Corbett reflected on what he had seen when he had examined the corpse. True, it was only a cursory examination, but he had seen no tumour or abscess or any other sign of malignancy. He knew little about medicine but Maeve had informed him that such an illness was usually fatal and made its effect felt in the drying of the skin as its victim turned from any nourishment, yet Eleanor had been a well-formed and proportioned woman. Moreover, she had been imprisoned in Godstowe for the last two years. Again, Maeve had assured him how a malady of the breast usually killed its victim within a few months, yet Lady Eleanor had been able to eat, drink, and go for walks. There had been no reports or suggestions that she had been seriously ill or near death's door.
Corbett rubbed his face wearily. So how had she died? Not from suicide. The body would have been more severely marked, and surely a woman like Lady Eleanor would have chosen some swifter road to oblivion.
Corbett looked up, staring hard at the great wooden crucifix which hung above the altar. So it had to be murder. If so, by whom? Lady Eleanor had been last seen walking in the grounds of the priory before Compline. All the sisters, including the Lady Prioress, her two deputies and Sister Agatha, had been in church. No one had left half-way through the service or made an excuse to return to the convent building before the sisters went over to the refectory. Of course, the Lady Prioress might be lying but Dame Elizabeth had remarked that she had heard no one come up the stairs, certainly not whilst Compline was being sung. Nevertheless, even if the old lady was deaf, Corbett concluded, the assassin or assassins must be someone outside the priory.
He gnawed is lip. And who would want her dead? The King would be only too willing to be rid of an embarrassment whilst involved in delicate negotiations over his son's betrothal to a French princess. The royal favourite, Gaveston, detested Lady Eleanor and saw her as a potential rival. He had the malice as well as the means to hire soft-footed assassins. And the Prince of Wales? A feckless youth, had he too tired of his former paramour? Corbett sighed and blew out his cheeks. Did the Prince want to be rid of the Lady Eleanor because of some secret she held, such as a clandestine marriage ceremony between them? Only three years ago the court had been fascinated by the delicious scandal of the young Prince's infatuation with Lady Eleanor.
Corbett stood up and went to sit in one of the nun's stalls. If it could be proved, he thought, that either the King or his son had been involved in murder, the scandal would rock the English throne, cause distress abroad and put Edward of England firmly in the hands of Philip of France. Corbett smiled mirthlessly. He knew Philip, with his public morality and private evil. He would not be above stirring the muddy waters of the English court, and his envoy and master assassin, Amaury de Craon, was now in England. But could de Craon get an assassin in here or did he have an agent in place already? Or was the murderer someone totally unconnected with the murky world of the English court? Such as Father Reynard, a priest who might see himself as the embodiment of Divine Wrath…
'Master Corbett, you wish to join our Order?'
The clerk looked up. Lady Amelia stood in the door of the chancel screen
'My Lady.' Corbett rose. 'Accept my apologies,' he looked around, 'but this is a quiet and beautiful place to think.'
The Prioress walked slowly across, toying with the silver tasselled cord round her waist.
'Sit down, man,' she said wearily.
Corbett looked sharply at her as she slumped in the stall beside him.
'What did you think of Father Reynard's sermon?' Corbett shrugged.
'I took it for what it was – a harsh warning to the rich.' 'He meant us, Corbett,' Lady Amelia retorted. 'And he was a trifle unfair.' 'What do you mean?'
'We are not an Order dedicated to poverty. We are a refuge for women who cannot survive in the harsh world of men. Do you know what it's like, Clerk, to be a woman, married off to some man you hate, or else left alone to fend for yourself? You know the King's court. There we ar
e, like pheasants allowed to play just under a nest of falcons. The church is controlled by men; men go to war, build ships and ply the seas.' She sighed. 'The Daughters of Syon are a refuge, that is why the Lady Eleanor was sent to us.'
'Did you like her?'
'She kept to herself, borrowed books, went for walks -fitted into our normal order and routine. A sad young woman who never came to terms with the sudden shock of her fall from grace. I did not want her here but the King's writ was quite explicit. At first she protested, but in the two years here,' the Lady Prioress made a face, 'she became one of us.'
'So why don't you tell me the truth about her death?'
The Lady Prioress looked quickly at Corbett. The clerk realised how attractive she was without the air of hauteur and arrogance. Lady Amelia stretched over and wiped a thin film of dust from the top of the prie dieu in front of her.
'You're sharp, Corbett. I wondered when you'd return to challenge me.'
'My Lady, I am the King's clerk. The questions I ask are His Grace's. You must answer.' 'You'd best come with me.'
She took a surprised Corbett delicately by the wrist and led him out of the stalls up to the high altar. The red and gold Gospel Book still lay in the centre. She placed her long slender fingers against the cover of the book.
'Ask me your questions, Clerk. I wish to help. I have nothing to hide and, hand on the gospels, swear to tell the truth. When this matter is finished, I don't want to be removed because the King was dissatisfied – though he may well not be pleased with the answers I am going to give.'
Corbett rested against the altar.
'Was the Lady Eleanor suffering from a malady of the breast?'
'She said she was.'
'Did the Prince send potions to her?'
'Yes, he did. And we tasted them and suffered no ill effects.'
'Did the Lady Eleanor receive visitors?'
'No, the Prince never came, though of course he sent messengers with letters and gifts. The letters Lady Eleanor always burnt, the gifts she gave to the community.'
'Why did she not go to Compline the night she died?'
I don't know. She had been very secretive during the previous week but we thought it was due to some evil humour.'
'You are sure that, apart from Dame Elizabeth and Dame Martha, all the community were in Compline and went to the refectory afterwards?'
'Yes, you saw me this morning. I check each stall personally. Some of the sisters, such as Dame Agatha and Dame Frances, were here just before Compline. After the ceremony we processed to the refectory. Again, there were no absentees. I particularly noticed Dame Agatha because she was reading that evening from the homilies of Saint Jerome whilst the other sisters were eating. '
'And afterwards? You and the two Sub-prioresses returned to the priory and found Lady Eleanor?'
'Yes and no.'
Corbett looked up sharply.
The Lady Prioress gazed evenly back, her hands still on the Gospel Book.
I mean,' she replied slowly, 'we went back to the convent building. I was very concerned about Lady Eleanor's prolonged absence. The hall was dark and deserted. We went upstairs. Dames Martha and Elizabeth, as usual, were fast asleep. We hurried to Lady Eleanor's room. The door was unlocked, the chamber dark. Lady Eleanor was lying on the floor. She wore a cloak, its hood pulled well over her head. I thought she had fainted but Sister Frances pronounced her dead.'
The Lady Prioress looked away.
'I panicked. The King had entrusted me with Lady Eleanor's safety and security and I had failed. So we took her corpse downstairs and placed it at the foot of the steps to look as if she had fallen or committed suicide. I sent for Dame Agatha and a messenger to Father Reynard. That is all,' she whispered.
Corbett sensed the woman was not telling lies but what she said was not the full truth.
'So Lady Eleanor was murdered?'
The Prioress nodded.
'By whom?'
'I don't know,' she muttered. 'Anyone could have sent assassins to climb over the wall and await their chance.'
Corbett reflected on what she had told him: the murder would explain the bruises on each side of the neck and on the leg when Lady Eleanor probably lashed out in her death throes. Corbett had no doubt that a professional assassin had killed the wretched woman.
'Do you know what the ancient one, Dame Martha, wanted to see you about?' be asked.
Lady Amelia shook her head.
'Or the meaning of her phrase – "Sinistra non dextra"?' 'No,' she muttered. 'But Dame Martha was senile. She often gabbled nonsense.' 'And afterwards?'
'Father Reynard anointed Lady Eleanor's body, the Prince sent his servants to take away all the jewellery. He was quite insistent: it was rather pathetic to see the corpse stripped of its finery, particularly the great sapphire ring he bad given her. A symbol,' she added tartly, 'of his supposedly undying love! I can tell you no more, Cleric.'
She walked around the altar.
'My Lady,' Corbett asked softly, 'did anything strange happen in Godstowe or its neighbourhood during the two years Lady Eleanor was with you?'
Lady Amelia frowned and looked down the church.
'Yes, two things.' She turned quickly. 'First, about eighteen months ago, two corpses were found – a young man and woman Both had their throats cut; their naked bodies were discovered dumped in a shallow marsh deep in the forest Nobody recognised them as being from the area or came forward to claim their bodies. No clothes or possessions were found. I believe they were given a pauper's funeral in the village churchyard. It caused some stir at the time.'
'So no one ever found out who they were? Or why they had been murdered?' 'That's correct' 'And the other matter?'
'A Frenchman,' Lady Amelia replied. 'An envoy from the King in Paris. He wished to come here to pay his respects but he had no licence or permission to do so. King Edward was most insistent on that so I turned him away at the gates.'
'When was that?'
'Why?' she asked. 'Do you know him?'
Corbett just shook his head and watched the Prioress turn and walk out of the sanctuary in stately fashion. Only then did he smile. Of course he knew who it was. His old enemy, that bastard Seigneur Amaury de Craon, had been pushing his snout into a matter which did not concern him.
'Oh, Master Clerk?'
Corbett looked up. The Lady Prioress had walked back under the entrance of the chancel screen. 'Yes, Lady Amelia?'
'Father Reynard,' she replied. 'He was near the Priory the night Lady Eleanor died. Every Sunday evening, as a penance, he walks barefoot from the village to the Galilee Gate.' She smiled. 'Ask him if he saw anything suspicious as he mumbled his psalms.'
And before Corbett could answer, she spun on her heel and flounced out of the church.
Chapter 5
Ranulf and Dame Agatha were waiting for him near the Galilee Gate, the young nun apparently enjoying an account of one of his manservant's many escapades in London.
'Ranulf, we are ready? Dame Agatha?'
His man nodded and scowled. Solicitously he helped the young nun to mount, muttering under his breath about how certain clerks seemed to turn up when they were least expected or wanted. Corbett just grinned over his shoulder and led them out on to the beaten track down to the village of Woodstock. He felt tempted to continue through the village to visit the young Prince at Woodstock Palace but, considering what he had just learnt, thought he had better wait for a while.
The day proved to be a pleasant one and Corbett, with Ranulf in tow, humming some filthy ditty, enjoyed the quiet ride down the winding country lane, the trees on either side forming a green canopy above their heads. The countryside was peaceful under a late autumn sun, the silence broken only by the liquid song of a bird, the chatter of insects and the loud buzz of honey-hunting bees. Dame Agatha, elegant in her tight brown riding habit, sat sidesaddle on a small gentle cob from the priory stables. Corbett allowed their conversation to be as desultory as possible, wanting h
is companion to relax and feel safe in his presence.
At last they reached the village and joined the rest of the crowd as they thronged towards the green in front of the parish church. They paused to watch the rustics, bedecked with scarves, ribbons and laces, dance and carouse around their makeshift hobby horses to the raucous noise of pipers, drummers and other musicians. Corbett assisted Dame Agatha to dismount. She pointed towards a large, two-storey building on the other side of the green.
'I have business with the merchant who imports our wine,' she remarked. 'Afterwards I'll go to the church and meet you there.'
Corbett agreed, telling Ranulf to accompany her whilst he stabled their horses at The Bull. For a while he sat outside on one of the benches, ordering a pot of ale and relaxing in the sunshine. He looked again at the church and remembered Father Reynard's sermon. He went up through the wicket gate and into the cemetery, a quiet, surprisingly well-kept plot. The grass was scythed, the elm trees well-pruned and vigorous in their growth. Corbett went past the church towards the priest's house and knocked gently on the half-open door. He heard voices and Father Reynard suddenly appeared.
'Come in! Come in!'
The friar's smile was welcoming and genuine. He told Corbett to sit on a bench and went back to where he and a young man, a villein from the village, were poring over a great leatherbound book open on the table. Corbett stared around. An unpretentious place: two rooms downstairs with possibly two small chambers above. The floor was of beaten earth, the walls washed white with lime to keep off the flies. A crude stone hearth, a few sticks of furniture, chests and coffers and a shelf full of kitchen implements were all the friar's apparent possessions. Corbett was impressed. Many village priests insisted on living in luxury, dressing in the best garb, jerkin and multi-coloured hose, and making every effort to palliate the hardships of their lives. A few were downright criminal: Corbett had seen cases in King's Bench of priests who used their churches to brew beer, as gambling dens, or even worse.