Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘No, Madam, that was a jest or, perhaps it was more a tale to cover up what you had done. Decades ago in Paris the famous theologian Abelard fell in love with Heloise, a woman he was tutoring. Abelard was a brilliant scholar, a subtle theologian, a Master in the Schools. Heloise’s relatives, however, were furious. They seized Abelard and castrated him. He later withdrew from society but, in spite of all the protests and violence, Abelard and Heloise continued to love each other. Heloise entered a convent at Argenteuil. You took her name to create this fictitious woman whom Stephen Daubigny was supposed to have loved and lost. In reality, it was just to divert suspicion.’

Lady Margaret didn’t disagree. A smile appeared on her bloodless lips as if she was relishing a tale she’d once delighted in.

‘Reginald Harcourt was your husband,’ Corbett continued, ‘but Stephen Daubigny was the knight of your heart. You concealed it well under what others considered to be mutual dislike, even contempt. In truth you were lovers. Sir Reginald may have been a personable man but what of his virility?’ Corbett glimpsed the surprise on Lady Margaret’s face. ‘The old infirmarian from St Martin’s remembers him well. Stephen Daubigny became a constant visitor at Harcourt Manor and everyone thought it was for love of Sir Reginald, whereas in fact, it was for love of Harcourt’s wife. Daubigny played out a game.’ Corbett glanced across at the Watcher. ‘Whenever he approached the house, he blew three long blasts on his hunting horn. Sir Reginald considered it a jest and, like Charlemagne’s knights at Roncesvalles, he would answer back. If Sir Reginald was absent, the lack of any reply was enough for Daubigny to know he was safe. When he and you were closeted alone together, you could continue your deep love for each other.’

Lady Margaret sat upright, clutching the table. She wasn’t staring at the fire but gazing straight across at the Watcher. Corbett followed her gaze.

‘No, no, Lady Margaret. He has not betrayed you. What I tell you is merely surmise but based on a logic.’

‘Then continue with your logic, clerk!’

‘I suspect Sir Reginald never knew of your affair until it was too late. Something occurred during the great tournament held here the summer he disappeared. To cut a long story short, he and Daubigny met late one evening in Bloody Meadow. By then Sir Reginald was highly suspicious and accusations were hurled. God forgive them, perhaps these former friends were even drunk. Swords were drawn and, known for his prowess, Daubigny killed Harcourt instantly. His body was stripped of as much as possible so, if discovered, there would be little indication of who he really was. Daubigny removed the top soil from the burial mound, and dug a makeshift grave. He wrapped Sir Reginald’s body in its cloak, eased it in and covered it up. Before Bloody Meadow became a matter of contention between the Abbot and his monks, it was a lonely place, where few people would ever go. Any trace of a furtively dug grave was soon well hidden. Daubigny had chosen well. Local lore regarded the grave as something sacred: protected by its own sanctity as well as the religious fervour, or superstition, of others. Sir Stephen, however, was consumed by guilt. Sir Reginald’s death had not been planned or wished for: more a matter of hasty words, red wine and hot blood. The next morning Daubigny left Harcourt manor pretending to be Sir Reginald. Dressed in his clothes, cloaked and hooded, he travelled to the Eastern ports, before slipping quietly back.’

Lady Margaret closed her eyes, breathing in deeply.

‘Sir Stephen accompanied you abroad to search for Sir Reginald,’ Corbett continued. ‘He might as well have been chasing moonbeams. He left you in the Low Countries and returned to England. By now he was a changed man. Consumed by remorse, Daubigny entered the Abbey of St Martin’s and became to all appearances a model monk. However, his life was haunted by the hideous murder of his friend. He had only to walk a short distance through the Judas Gate to see that threatening funeral mound, reminding him of his great sin. Abbot Stephen viewed Bloody Meadow as a symbol of his life, in fact a wheel, its hub being the burial mound containing the corpse of his murdered friend. He often drew it, probably sub-consciously, for that meadow in the shape of a wheel was never far from Abbot Stephen’s thoughts.’

‘And the mosaic?’ Ranulf called across.

‘Yes, when Abbot Stephen found that he must have regarded it as a sign from God. He must have been fascinated by the similarity between an ancient picture and an image which dominated his very being, his soul, his heart, his mind, his every waking moment. He’d betrayed you not only by taking the life of your husband but also, of course, there was the well-proclaimed story of his abandoning you abroad and returning to England. No wonder there was enmity, a barrier of silence between you — it had its roots in the past.’ Corbett paused. ‘Of course, Madam, my story is incomplete, isn’t it? You were also there when your husband was killed. You, and I suspect Salyiem the reeve, the faithful squire, were both party to it. You must have been. You yourself told me that Sir Reginald had left that morning. You made no mention of not seeing him the night before, whilst Salyiem actually claimed he helped Sir Reginald leave the manor house and watched him go.’

Lady Margaret opened her eyes.

In the window seat the Watcher by the Gates had jumped up as if to protest. Lady Margaret gestured for him to re-take his seat. She sat chewing the corner of her mouth.

‘God forgive you, clerk, you are sharp. I’ll not deny it. You have the truth. I loved Stephen Daubigny from the day I met him. I committed two great sins. I should have followed my heart and married him but, I didn’t, I married Sir Reginald. Harcourt was, as you say, likeable but he was not a lady’s man. He was impotent.’ She sighed. ‘Our lovemaking wasn’t how the troubadours describe the act of love. I tried my best.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘I desperately wanted to remain faithful to Sir Reginald and, to be fair, so did Stephen. Yet, we might as well have tried to stop the sun from rising. We concocted a story that we disliked each other, couldn’t abide to be in one another’s company. And Stephen, to make it even safer, fabricated the tale about being in love with some young noblewoman called Heloise Argenteuil. At the time we considered it a piece of trickery to distract others. Sir Reginald never suspected, not till late that hot, sun-filled summer’s day.’

‘You told him?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, he found out that I was pregnant. Stephen asked to meet both of us under the shade of the oak trees in Bloody Meadow. Sir Reginald had enjoyed a good day at the tournament but he’d drunk more than he should have done. We met by Falcon Brook. Salyiem, here, was Stephen’s squire and held the horses. Daubigny went down on his knees, like a penitent before his confessor. He told Reginald the truth. I shall never forget my husband’s face. He stood like a man stricken, all colour drained away from his face, his tongue searched for words. Then it happened, like a fire bursting up. He suddenly drew his sword and raised it in one sweeping arc. Daubigny moved, nimble as a dancer. He rolled aside and drew his own sword, as Reginald rushed in. Daubigny tried to disarm him. It happened in the twinkling of an eye — more of an accident than an intended blow. Sir Stephen’s sword entered here,’ she tapped her left side, ‘where the chainmail shirt was tied, deep up into his chest. I watched in horror, as did Daubigny. My husband took one step forward, blood bubbling at his lips. He was dead before he hit the ground. What could we do on that beautiful summer’s evening, with the brook gurgling by! Salyiem had heard the clash of swords and came running over.’