by Paul Doherty
At the table the young man murmured his pleasure at something Father Reynard had pointed out, shook the priest's hand and quickly left. Father Reynard closed the leather-bound book and placed it reverently back inside a huge ironbound chest
'The Blood Book,' he observed, straightening up. 'It says who marries whom in the village. The young man's betrothed is related to him but only in the seventh degree.' He smiled. I am glad I have made someone happy. Now, can I do the same for you?'
'A powerful sermon, Father. The sisters were uncomfortable.'
The priest frowned.
'They need to be reminded,' he replied sharply. 'What will they say when Christ comes and shows his red, wounded body to them? We are Christ's wounds,' he continued, 'the poor and the dispossessed, while the rich luxuriate in their comfortable sties.'
'Did you think Lady Eleanor was one of these rich?'
I have told you already.'
'You were a soldier, Father?'
The priest sat down on the bench next to him.
'Aye,' he replied wearily. 'A master bowman, a royal serjeant-at-arms. I have spilt my fair share of blood in Scotland, Wales and Gascony.' He looked up. 'I have pursued the King's enemies by land and sea but now I understand, killing's no answer.'
'Surely, Father, sometimes it is?'
The priest rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor.
'Perhaps,' he murmured. 'If God wills it, perhaps. He told David to kill the Philistines and raised up heroes to defend his people.'
'Did you think the Lady Eleanor deserved to die?'
'Perhaps. Her sins pursued her but I was not her judge.'
'You were near Godstowe when she died. I understand, as a penance, you walk barefoot from your church here to the Galilee Gate, saying your beads and go back chanting the psalms. A strange practice, Father.'
The priest rubbed his face.
'My sins,' he murmured, 'are always before me. My lusts, my drinking, my killing. How shall I answer to Christ for that, Clerk?'
He turned and stared at Corbett and the clerk glimpsed madness dancing in his eyes. A tormented man, Corbett concluded, struggling to break free from his own powerful emotions.
'You were at Godstowe, Father? When on that Sunday?'
'The nuns were in Compline.' Father Reynard edged closer and Corbett smelt his wine-drenched breath. 'But I did not go into the priory, if that is what you are asking, Clerk. I would not lay hands on the Lady Eleanor, even though my eyes…' His voice trailed off.
'Even though your eyes what, Father? You, a priest, found the Lady Eleanor attractive?'
The priest smiled, stretching out his great body and flexing his fingers.
'Beautiful,' he murmured. 'Of all God's women…' He shook his head, lost in his own thoughts. 'One of the most comely I have seen.'
Corbett watched those hands. Powerful, calloused, sunburnt, they could have twisted the white swan neck of Lady Eleanor as easily as a twig. The friar took a deep breath.
'Do you know, Corbett, if you had insinuated what you are doing now before I became a friar, I would have killed you. I went as far as the Galilee Gate, I turned and came back to my church. I stayed in my house until Lady Arrogance, the Prioress, sent for me. I went to Godstowe, said a prayer for that poor woman's soul, gave her Christ's unction and left But come, you can ask your other questions elsewhere. I have business in church.'
Corbett followed him out of the house. The friar's threats didn't unnerve him. Father Reynard was a man striving for sanctity, though he sensed the priest was hiding something, as if he wanted him out of the house before Corbett noticed anything amiss.
The church was a hive of activity; some villagers had wheeled a huge cart into the nave. This was surmounted by a gilded griffin and bore a crudely painted canvas of hell's mouth. The other two sides were draped with coloured buckram to provide a makeshift stage for a miracle play. The villagers working there greeted Father Reynard warmly and Corbett recognised that they admired, even loved, their priest The clerk stared around the simple church which was freshly decorated. An artist was finishing a vigorous painting of the Angel in the Apocalypse coming from the rising sun. Some of the pews were new and both the chancery screen and the choir loft had been refurbished. Corbett waited until Father Reynard had finished his business with the villagers.
'You admire our church, Clerk?' he asked proudly.
'Yes, a great deal of work has been done. You must have a generous benefactor.' The priest looked away.
'God has been good,' he murmured. 'And works in mysterious ways.'
'Except for the two unfortunates buried in your churchyard.'
The friar narrowed his eyes. 'What do you mean?'
'About eighteen months ago,' Corbett replied, 'two corpses were found – a young man and woman, strangers. They were discovered in the woods completely stripped of all clothing and possessions.'
'Ah, yes.' Father Reynard gazed at a point above Corbett's head. 'That's right,' he murmured. 'They are buried in paupers' graves beneath the old elm tree in the corner of the churchyard. Why do you ask?'
'No reason. I wondered if you knew anything about them?'
'If I did, I would have told the King's Justices, but nothing was ever discovered about them or their dreadful deaths.'
Father Reynard turned away to speak to one of his villagers as Dame Agatha and Ranulf came through the church door. Ranulf's face was flushed and Corbett surmised he had been sampling some of the tavern's heady ale. He glowered at his servant but Ranulf grinned back as he swayed slightly on his feet and looked around, admiring the church. Dame Agatha took Father Reynard by the sleeve and they walked away, the young sister apologising loudly for being late and asking if Father would give her the altar breads as. she must return to the priory. Corbett marched Ranulf out into the porch.
'A good day's drinking, Ranulf?'
He slyly tapped the side of his nose.
I have been renewing my acquaintance with the wench at The Bull. I have learnt a lot, Master, and not just in the carnal sense.' He licked his lips. 'Nothing is what it appears to be around here.'
'I have gathered that,' Corbett replied drily. 'What do you know?'
Ranulf was about to reply when Dame Agatha suddenly emerged, carrying a small wooden box of altar breads, so they went across the green to reclaim their horses. The autumn sun was beginning to set The villagers, tired now, were bringing their festivities to an end and streaming back across the green to the tavern or to their homes in search of other pleasures. Corbett allowed Ranulf to slouch sleepily in the saddle and waited for Dame Agatha to draw alongside him.
I understand Lady Eleanor's funeral is tomorrow?'
The young nun stared soulfully at him, making Corbett catch his breath. Apart from Maeve's, he had never seen such a beautiful face. The autumn sunlight seemed to lend it a glow; her eyes were larger, darker; the half-open lips full and sweet as honey. He coughed and cleared his throat
'A sad day for you.'
'Yes.' She smiled wanly. 'A sad day for me and for the community.'
Corbett looked over his shoulder. Ranulf was now fast asleep and the clerk breathed a prayer that his servant would not fall out of the saddle and break his neck. He also hoped Dame Agatha would shed some tight on the murder at Godstowe.
'Do you blame yourself?' he began softly. 'For leaving Lady Eleanor like that? I mean,' he stammered, 'when I asked about the funeral, you looked shocked and grieved. It's such a mystery,' he continued hurriedly. I believe Lady Eleanor liked you?' Dame Agatha nodded.
'Yet that day she dismissed you. Was she so melancholic?'
Dame Agatha gathered her reins, pushing her mount closer to Corbett
'Everyone says that,' she whispered. 'You know the Lady Prioress was lying when you talked to her on your first day at Godstowe?'
'Yes, I gathered that from your face.'
Dame Agatha smiled to herself.
'Yes, the Lady Prioress is a bad liar. I me
an, would a melancholic woman order everyone to leave her? I tell you this, Master Corbett, in the weeks prior to her death, Lady Eleanor's humour had improved. She was happy, more alert. If she had been really melancholic, I would never have left her alone.'
'What caused this change, do you think?'
Dame Agatha laughed mockingly.
I don't know. Sometimes I think she had a secret lover.'
'What makes you think that?'
Dame Agatha chewed her lip, carefully measuring her words.
'A week before her death,' she began slowly, 'she wrote one of her rare letters to the Prince. A short one. I glimpsed what she had written – nothing extraordinary except that she hoped she would soon find deliverance from her troubles. I think Lady Eleanor was nursing some secret but she would tell no one.'
'Do you think she had a lover?' Corbett persisted. 'I mean, apart from the Prince?'
'Perhaps. But I would not say that in public. The Prince is a dangerous man. I wouldn't want to be the one responsible for proclaiming him a cuckold for the world to laugh at'
'On that Sunday evening,' Corbett asked, 'do you think Lady Eleanor was waiting for this lover? She was seen walking near the church. Perhaps she had a secret assignation?'
Dame Agatha looked at him archly and Corbett panicked. Was the nun going to refuse to answer? 'You swear to tell no one?' she asked. Corbett held one hand high. 'I swear!'
'I believe,' Dame Agatha said in a hushed whisper as if eavesdroppers lurked in the very trees, 'that Lady Eleanor was preparing to flee Godstowe Priory.'
'What makes you say that?'
'She was receiving messages. There's a hollow oak tree behind the church. Lady Eleanor took me into her confidence and told me how every day, late in the evening, she went down there to see if another letter had been left.'
'How often did these messages come?'
'In the month before she died, about two or three arrived. They were delivered in a small leather pouch.'
'You were never curious and opened them?'
'No, the pouch was sealed and the Lady Eleanor would soon have realised if I'd tampered with it But I do know the messages pleased her. She became happier, more settled On one or two occasions she even hinted she would be leaving.'
'But who would send her messages?' The young nun shrugged.
I don't know, but on the night she died the Lady Prioress asked me to help take the corpse back to her own chamber. It was dark and in our haste we only lit one candle. I helped her rearrange Lady Eleanor's body on the bed, drawing the curtains around it. Only then did I notice, lying in the far comer, two sets of packed saddle bags full of clothes and small caskets of personal jewellery. I later unpacked these. I've told no one until today.' 'Why not?'
'Would you be the person responsible for insinuating that Lady Belmont was preparing to flee Godstowe and the Prince? You see,' Dame Agatha continued excitedly, 'I believe that Lady Eleanor, in her haste to leave, stumbled on the stairs and fell to her death.'
Corbett shook his head.
'But she left her chamber without her saddle bags?' he asked, not revealing that the Lady Prioress had already refuted any allegation that Lady Eleanor had fallen downstairs.
Dame Agatha pursed her lips.
'I cannot answer that.'
'You discovered nothing else?'
Dame Agatha smiled and shook her head.
'And the old sister, the one who drowned in her own tub of water? Do you know what she meant by "Sinistra non dextra"?'
'Right not left,' Dame Agatha murmured. 'No, I do not.' 'How long were you Lady Eleanor's companion?' 'My name is Savigny,' the nun replied. 'I was born of a Gascon father and an English mother in the town of Beam near the village of Bordeaux. I was left an orphan at an early age and became a ward of court. I expressed a desire to enter the religious life and decided to come to England.' She narrowed her eyes. 'That was about eighteen months ago. Lady Eleanor was already at Godstowe. I began to talk to her, and she asked the Lady Prioress if I could become her companion.'
Corbett settled his horse as it fidgeted nervously at the rustling of some animal in the undergrowth at the side of the track. Both he and Dame Agatha laughed as the commotion roused Ranulf, who woke with a muttered oath, smacking his lips, apparently quite refreshed after his short slumber. He brought his horse alongside theirs as they rounded the corner and the dark green spire of Godstowe Priory came into sight.
Corbett fell silent as Ranulf began his bantering teasing of Dame Agatha. Once inside the Galilee Gate Corbett bade the nun goodnight, asking Ranulf to take the horses round to the stables. He watched his manservant lead the horses off, still continuing his good-natured teasing, innocently asking the nun if she had heard the story about the naughty friar of Ludlow. Corbett shook his head and went back to the house. He asked the Guest Mistress if any letters had arrived for him.
'Oh, no,' she cried. 'Lettuce? This year's crop has not been good.'
Corbett groaned and went up to his chamber, throwing himself down on the small cot and reflecting on what he had learnt First Father Reynard had secretly admired Lady Eleanor and had been near the Galilee Gate the night she had died. Secondly, Lady Eleanor had been murdered in her own chamber on the night she intended to flee to a secret lover or friend. But who was this? Corbett let his mind drift, feeling guilty because when he thought about Maeve he also kept remembering Dame Agatha's angelic face.
He got up and went back down the stairs, going out into the gathering darkness, across the priory grounds behind the chapel from where he could hear the sweet, melodious chant of the nuns as they sang the first psalm of Compline.
The old ruined oak tree beckoned him like some great finger thrust up from the green grass. He went and in- spected the cavernous interior carefully. There was nothing except a handful of dried leaves and mildewed wood.
'Whoever brought the message must have come across the wall,' Corbett murmured to himself.
He measured out thirty paces and stared up at the crenel- lated boundary wall which was about twenty feet high. The mysterious messenger, Corbett surmised, must have been a very nimble young man to scale that, leave a message and depart There was no other way in except to walk through the priory, but a stranger would be stopped by the porter and seen by any of the community, be it nun or one of the lay workers. Corbett rubbed his face. There was something wrong but he was too tired to reach any conclusion so he went back to his chamber where Ranulf, a fresh cup of wine in his hand, was waiting for him.
'The horses are stabled, and Dame Agatha safely returned to the bosom of her community?'
Ranulf grinned.
'And what did you learn in the village?'
'Well,' Ranulf answered, scratching his head, 'as I have said, nothing is what it appears to be. Father Reynard may be a fierce preacher but he is a source of spiritual and material comforts to his parishioners.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, he not only refuses his tithes but seems to have a source of wealth which enables him to distribute alms, to mend the church as well as have it painted and refurbished.'
'And no obvious benefactor?'
Ranulf shook his head.
'What else?'
'The tavern wench says she saw the young man and woman who were later found murdered in the forest She glimpsed them as they passed the tavern. They were taking the road to Godstowe.'
'And were never seen alive again?' Corbett asked
'The tavern wench also believes the landlord of The Bull is a poacher.'
'So?'
Ranulf grinned.
'She says he met someone from the convent on the night that Lady Eleanor died, and that Father Reynard did go to Godstowe but then disappeared until the next morning.'
Corbett leaned back against the bolster and stared up at the ceiling.
'One person we haven't questioned,' he said, 'is our drunken porter. Perhaps he could shed further light on our mystery?' He looked across at Ranulf. 'Do you wish
to carouse late tonight?'
Ranulf nodded, put the wine cup down, took his cloak and went downstairs. He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard Corbett begin to play gently on the lute he always carried, a sign his master was content, reflecting on his own secret thoughts and not keeping a wary eye on him. Ranulf, too, was content. The tavern wench seemed a promising young lady and he was making a tidy pile of silver out of selling his exotic cures to the villagers and visitors to The Bull.
Outside it had turned dark and rather cold as Ranulf trotted along, following the curtain wall to the porter's lodge near the gate. He tapped gently on the door which was pulled open by Red Nose. Ranulf peeped over his shoulder. Inside the two guards of the Prince's retinue sat at a table, much the worse for drink. Ranulf saw the dice and smiled.
'Good evening, sirs!' he cried. 'I am bored and cannot sleep.' He jingled the coins in his purse. 'I'd pay for a cup of wine and I have dice, though I would love to know the finer points of the game!'
Both the porter and the guards welcomed him like a long-lost brother. Ranulf slumped on to the bench and pushed across a silver piece.
'My donation for the wine.' He smiled. 'And here are my dice. I bought them in London but my master…'
His voice trailed off as his hosts rushed to reassure him. So Ranulf's 'education' began. He acted the fool, losing at first to whet their appetites, but in an hour emptied his three victims' purses. The guards were so drunk they hardly realised they had been outcheated and slunk off to their pallet beds. The porter, however, had a harder head and Ranulf did not like the suspicious look in his bleary eyes.
'Look, man,' he said, 'I'll divide with you on this. It's only fair. I had beginner's luck!'
The porter stretched out his hand.
'Not now! A little information about the Lady Eleanor's death first.'
The porter drew back his hand and rubbed his mouth with the back of his wrist Ranulf refilled their cups. Outside a wind had sprung up, gently moaning through the trees, carrying the distant shrieks of the night creatures from the dark forest beyond the walls. The thatched roof of the lodge creaked as if mourning over the dreadful secrets of the priory. Ranulf let his own eyes droop. He sighed, rose, and began to scoop his winnings into a small leather purse.