Paul Doherty - The Magician

Sir Edmund had sent out a cart to bring in the corpses, laying them out on a sled just within the gateway to the inner ward. De Craon and his retinue had excused themselves, whispering their condolences. The crowds around the sled had turned ugly, and Corbett had been reminded in no uncertain way of his vow to bring the killer to justice.

‘Well, sir?’ he asked now, breaking from his reverie.

‘Well, sir,’ the leech replied drily, ‘both girls are dead. Phillipa, you can tell,’ he pointed to the corpse, ‘in life must have been comely and plump.’

The leech had covered her face with a coarse linen cloth. He had been pressing the girl’s tummy and examining very carefully the purple weal around the throat before scrupulously inspecting the girl’s hands. He got to his feet and covered his nose and mouth with a perfumed cloth, breathing in deeply.

‘I have tended the dead on battlefields in Wales and Scotland; I’ve seen more corpses,’ he blinked his watery eyes, ‘than some people have seen summer days, but the horror never escapes you. Phillipa killed herself; she climbed that oak tree and used the fabric from her own gown. It’s made of hempen, thick and coarse, strong as any rope. There is no other wound to the body, no blow, no bruise. Alive her flesh must have been as white as marble, and yet so soft and warm. A loving girl.’ He edged up closer. ‘I will not whisper this aloud,’ he added. ‘The girl should be given honourable burial. Father Matthew will see to that. She’ll not be treated as a suicide, buried at the crossroads under a gibbet with a peg driven through her heart.’

‘There’s something else?’

‘I am only a leech, Sir Hugh, I am not a physician.’

‘Whatever you are, you are very astute.’

‘Phillipa was expectant, possibly in the early stages. The lower part of her belly is swollen. I think her monthly courses must have stopped for at least two months; that’s why she may have killed herself, steeped in shame, or what she thought was shame.’

‘And Alusia?’ Corbett glanced around the leech at the other corpse, the bloody quarrel lying beneath the sled.

‘The same as the rest, but her killer must have been very close; it’s a wonder the bolt didn’t pierce her entire body. Yet what was she doing out in the forest, Sir Hugh? I’ve heard the whispers; Alusia was terrified of going there. Why should a young woman who knows about these deaths, who found one of the victims on a forest trackway, leave the safety of our castle?’

‘Unless she was killed elsewhere?’ Corbett mused. ‘They say the marsh is near the Tavern in the Forest.’

Ranulf walked to the doorway and leaned against the lintel, sucking in the icy fresh air.

‘Why should a girl kill herself,’ he asked without turning, ‘because she was expecting a baby? Phillipa’s mother is most loving.’ He gnawed on the knuckle of his hand. His journey into the forest hadn’t frightened him, yet he’d felt a deep oppression as he brought these corpses in, as if the souls of the two girls were earthbound, clustering by his side, begging ghostly for justice. He felt disgusted at what he’d seen. These were his people. He had grown up with girls like this in the fetid alleyways of London. They were full of life, eager for love, desperate to secure a grip on life, to marry well and settle down. Why should such a girl hang herself? To conceive a child was a natural thing and, whatever the Church said, blessed by God. He recalled what Chanson had told him about Corbett’s interview with the man-at-arms and the red-haired Marissa; he imagined Phillipa that autumn Sunday morning walking into the forest to meet her Goliard.

‘Sir Hugh, would you excuse me?’

Before Corbett could reply, Ranulf, taking his sword belt off the peg just inside the doorway, strode across the castle yard, strapping it about him. He approached the well where servants were filling buckets; he glimpsed the tap boy who had been brought from the tavern, crouched beside a fire, gnawing greedily on a piece of meat. He raised his hand. Ranulf replied, ignoring the dark looks of the servants.

‘Marissa!’ he shouted. ‘Marissa, the King’s man wishes words with you again.’

The red-haired girl stepped away from the group, fearful of this clerk with his sword belt clasped around his black leather jacket, those cat-like eyes studying her intently.

‘Come here, girl.’ Ranulf gripped her by the shoulder. ‘I want to see you, and the man-at-arms known as Martin, in the council chamber on the bottom floor of the keep. You know where it is.’ He took out his Ave beads from his wallet. ‘I shall recite five of these; by the time I’ve finished you must be there.’

In fact Ranulf had reached only the fourth when Marissa and Martin, gasping for breath, hurried into that cold, murky chamber, the only light being the squat tallow candle in the centre of the table.

‘Good, good.’ Ranulf ushered them in, then kicked the door shut, pulling across the bolts. As he drew his sword and dagger, Martin’s hand fell to the knife in his own belt. ‘Please don’t do that,’ Ranulf asked. ‘You’re in no danger if you tell the truth. I want the truth.’

‘About what?’ Marissa stammered, stepping behind Martin for protection.

‘Come here.’ Ranulf beckoned to Martin. The man-at-arms edged forward and Ranulf grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him to the far end of the hall, then brought the flat of his sword down on the man’s shoulder.

‘I have done no wrong,’ Martin declared.

‘Except for Phillipa,’ Ranulf replied. ‘You are considered gallant with the ladies, aren’t you, with your leather jacket and proper boots? You wear a sword belt and swagger like the rest of us. Phillipa lived in dreams, didn’t she? You and she used to meet. Did you know she was pregnant? I am keeping my voice to a whisper so only you and I know what is being said here. Now, according to my law, there are two pleas, guilty or very guilty. Guilty is you and Phillipa lay together and she conceived. Very guilty is you and Phillipa lay together, she conceived but now you are going to lie.’

Martin gazed back, stricken-eyed.

‘It’s not a crime,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘I’m not saying she killed herself for that. I think I know why she killed herself. But are you the father of her child?’

Martin began to tremble and Ranulf moved the sword swiftly to the other shoulder, bringing it down with a slap.

‘God have mercy on me,’ the man-at-arms replied, ‘but it must be me. She was a maid when I met her, her head full of dreams and fantasies. It was after Midsummer’s Day; I followed her into the forest. I took some wine and bread, but after that . . .’

‘Did you boast about it?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I dared not.’ The man-at-arms glanced down the hall at Marissa, who sat on the edge of a bench. Ranulf followed his gaze.

‘I was fearful,’ the man-at-arms continued. ‘Mistress Feyner has a fiery temper. I was supposed to be her Goliard. I did not know what to do, then Phillipa disappeared.’

‘She wasn’t liked by the other girls, was she?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Phillipa was a dreamer,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘She had listened to tales about knights and squires; she even knew the tale of Arthur. She was clever with the horn book, she could count to one hundred and read the words of the missal. She was even learning some Latin and French.’

‘And the other girls teased her?’

‘They teased her,’ Martin agreed. ‘Harassed her like sparrows would an owl caught in the daylight.’

Ranulf resheathed his sword. ‘And of course,’ the clerk smiled thinly, ‘once she had fled, they’d simply dismiss it, wouldn’t they, as part of Phillipa’s madcap dreaming?’ Ranulf grasped the man-at-arms by the shoulder. ‘One day in your sorry life, Martin, make a pilgrimage. Walk barefoot to some shrine, spend good silver for a Mass to be sung for the souls of that woman and her child who died before God’s plan for them was complete.’