Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘And Sir Stephen?’

‘Ah yes! The briar in the garden patch, the thorn on the rose.’ Lady Margaret took a deep breath. ‘I disliked him from the start: hot-eyed, impetuous, slightly mocking. Sir Hugh, I don’t think he believed in anything except the King, Sir Reginald and his own sword arm.’

‘Anything?’ Corbett queried.

‘Oh, he’d go to Mass and chat through it, if he didn’t fall asleep. Daubigny had little time for priests or religion. He wasn’t blasphemous or offensive, just cynical and mocking. Nobody was more surprised than I when he entered St Martin’s.’

‘And you continued to dislike him?’

‘Sir Hugh, sometimes I hated him.’ Lady Margaret turned, her face now harsh, eyes narrowed, lips set in a determined line. ‘Reginald talked about him continuously and they couldn’t bear to be apart for any length of time. Not a Christmas, Easter, Midsummer or Michaelmas passed without Sir Stephen in attendance. Sometimes I felt as if I was married to two not one man.’

‘Was he mocking towards you?’

‘He wasn’t lecherous, just hot-eyed and slightly insolent. I think he resented Reginald’s marriage. The years passed. Sir Stephen was still employed on various tasks by the King. When he went away, I fell to my knees and thanked Le Bon Seigneur but he always came back.’ Lady Margaret spat the words out.

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘We were happy.’

‘How many years were you married?’

‘Five.’

‘And what of Sir Reginald’s disappearance?’

‘In my heart I have always blamed Daubigny. You have heard, Sir Hugh, about the legend of Arthur and his knights. Well, Reginald loved such tales. He collected the stories, and never turned away a troubadour or a minstrel. Stephen fed him these fancies like a man would his dog. I grew alarmed. Sir Reginald nourished a great dream to go on crusade, and then, with the Turks so successful in Outremer, Sir Reginald considered travelling east to join the Teutonic knights in their war against the heathen along the Eastern March. I was aghast. I begged him not to go. It was the only matter over which we quarrelled, sometimes bitterly.’ Lady Margaret sipped the posset cup. ‘One midsummer Stephen arrived here. He and Reginald were like two mischievous schoolboys. They put their heads together and began to plan their crusade. First they would hold a tournament, a tourney here at Harcourt Manor in one of our great meadows. Knights from all over the shire were invited. The feasting and celebrations lasted for days. Reginald was a redoubtable jouster, a master of the tournament. He became full of excitement, talking more and more about his crusade. The wine drank in Sir Stephen’s company did not help matters. On the last day of the tournament Reginald told me he would definitely be leaving. We quarrelled late that evening. He slept in a different chamber. The next morning he was gone.’

Lady Margaret cradled the wine goblet and stared into the fire, rocking herself backwards and forwards.

‘Madam, how did he leave?’

‘He took one war horse, a sumpter pony, money, provisions and clothing. He was seen by some of the tenants but Reginald often travelled-’

‘They actually saw him?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘Well, my husband seemed to be in a hurry, and did not even pause to raise his hand but they recognised his horse and his livery. No one could mistake those.’

‘He took no groom or manservant?’

‘Nobody. At first I thought he was sulking, indulging in some madcap scheme and that he would soon return. A week passed and I grew alarmed. Sir Stephen was still here. He made careful enquiries. The taverner at the Lantern-in-the-Woods had glimpsed my husband, and he’d also been seen at Hunstanton where he had taken ship for Dodrecht. He paid good silver for he took his horse and sumpter pony with him.’

‘And Daubigny?’

‘I turned on him. I screamed abuse and threats. I told him it was all his fault and that the least he could do was help me. I left stewards in charge of Harcourt and then Sir Stephen and I followed the same route as my husband did. We journeyed to Hunstanton and endured the most vile sea voyage to Dordrecht. At first we met with good news. Sir Stephen went out and spoke to the burgesses and mayor. He brought back a chapman who definitely swore he had seen Sir Reginald and that my husband had declared he was determined to travel to the Eastern March. We followed but could find no trace. Sir Stephen said he could make little sense of it. After three months he left me on the border outside Cologne.’

‘Why there?’ Corbett asked.

‘So far our journey had been relatively easy. However, Daubigny argued that once we entered the wastelands and the deep forests of Eastern Germany, our task would be impossible. He claimed we should stay in Cologne and wait. I refused. We quarrelled and he left. I cursed him as a coward, a varlet, a caitiff but. .’

‘But what?’ Corbett asked.

‘He had done what he could. He had been an honourable companion and, on reflection, years later, I realised he was correct. I hired a small household and continued my search. I was away a full year and then came home. By then Stephen Daubigny had changed. No longer the knight errant, the fearsome warrior, he had given up sword and shield, taken the vows of a monk and entered St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh.’

‘And you never met again?’

‘I wrote him one letter. I reminded him that he was responsible for my husband’s disappearance and that I did not wish to see or hear from him again. He never replied.’

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘From the moment he left Harcourt to this very hour, I have neither seen nor heard from him again. Sometimes rumours come in, that he has been glimpsed in one place or another; nothing more than fanciful tales, not worth a farthing of sense. I became a widow. I consider myself such.’

‘And Daubigny?’

‘Oh, I watched from afar. The King was bemused but Stephen was able. I watched his ascendancy with the help of royal patronage to sub-prior and eventually Father Abbot. Of course we had business dealings, especially after Cuthbert became Prior. Now, Sir Hugh, there’s a jackdaw in human flesh. He wanted this and he wanted that. Wasn’t Falcon Brook really the property of the abbey? Cuthbert also informed me he was searching for the codicil and I told him he could go hang. Nevertheless, he was insistent. Insults seemed to have as much effect on him as arrows against a shield.’ She smiled. ‘I listened to his chatter. How the Abbey of St Martin’s did not have a relic, about the burial mound, and how Bloody Meadow could be used for the site of a guesthouse.’

‘Were you concerned?’

Lady Margaret laughed and turned to face Corbett squarely.

‘Concerned, Sir Hugh? There’s not a monk under heaven I fear. What do I care if some mouldy bones are placed in a silver casket? As far as I am concerned, they can build a cathedral in Bloody Meadow, provided they do not interfere with my demesne or infringe my seigneurial rights.’

Corbett drained the posset and put the cup back on the table. He paused as he heard shouting outside but Lady Margaret ignored this.

‘And you know nothing about these heinous murders?’

‘Sir Hugh, I know nothing about St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh that you don’t, probably less.’

Corbett felt heavy-eyed, sleepy after the wine. He rubbed his eyes. Just for a moment he felt as if he was back in Leighton Manor and wished to God he was. Lady Margaret Harcourt was of implacable will, yet there was something puzzling about what she had said, as if she was describing a dream rather than what actually happened in the past. He studied her face and, although he could not remember meeting her, now, up close, she looked familiar: the shift in her eyes, the way she spoke. Corbett heard Ranulf cough, and he pulled himself up in his chair.