Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘So, the man must have gone upstairs?’ Corbett asked.

‘He must have done. Do you know, sir, I swept that yard time and again but he never came out. A week later, it was the end of the month because we had celebrated the feast of St Jerome, he was the man who. .’

‘Yes,’ Corbett intervened. ‘I know who St Jerome was. And you were sweeping the yard again?’

‘No, sir, I was sweeping the refectory floor all by myself, another punishment. I am sure,’ Sister Fidelis confided, ‘that I saw the same man cross the yard.’

‘But surely, the prioress would not entertain male friends?’

‘But that’s it, sir, she has no male friends! Lady Madeleine believes men are no better than devils.’

‘Has she said as much?’

‘No, it’s just in her warnings to us. How we should act when male guests arrive.’

‘Like me?’

‘Oh, you’re the King’s emissary and you have helped my singing. You are also going to tell Lady Johanna not to use that ferrule!’

‘And do you know who this stranger was?’ Corbett asked.

The young novice shook her head. ‘Perhaps I’ve said wrong,’ she mused. ‘The stranger could have left the other way?’

‘What way?’

‘Lady Madeleine’s house is a little palace. It has its own kitchen and stables beyond, with a yard and a small postern door in the forest wall.’

‘And this stranger could have left by that?’

‘It’s possible!’

‘Have you seen anything else suspicious?’ Ranulf insisted.

Sister Fidelis gazed round fearfully.

‘Oh no! I haven’t told anyone else. I daren’t! Lady Madeleine’s rages are terrible to behold.’

‘Does she ever leave the convent?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, the priory owns properties in the town of Rye. She sometimes goes there with the almoner or one of her brothers to collect the rents and inspect the steward’s accounts. She’s gone four or five days, it’s always a relief. However, in many ways Lady Madeleine is kind and very proud of her shrine.’

‘Yes, I was going to ask about that.’ Corbett looked over his shoulder at the door. Lady Madeleine was sure to arrive soon and he didn’t want to get this young, very naive novice into trouble. ‘I know little about St Hawisia.’

‘Oh, then let me tell you. I’ve learned everything.’

Sister Fidelis took them out of the sanctuary and around to the side chapel. Corbett stared appreciatively at the long oaken tomb.

‘How old is that?’

‘Lady Johanna says at least two hundred years. The oak was brought specially from the West Country.’

Corbett looked round the side chapel. On the marble altar built into the far wall stood a statue of what must be St Hawisia, a young woman, hair falling down to her shoulders, dressed in royal robes of purple and white. In her outstretched hands lay a sword. On the walls huge frescoes depicted scenes from the saint’s life in a gorgeous array of colours. These showed a young woman in flight, pursued by knights armed with clubs, swords and maces. Another scene showed a wood where the young saint knelt beside a pool, a lily in her hands.

‘Who was St Hawisia?’ Corbett tapped the glass case at the head of the coffin into which Ranulf was peering.

‘It’s hair!’ his manservant exclaimed. ‘Look, Sir Hugh, beautiful golden tresses!’

Corbett removed the purple, gold-edged cloth covering half of the glass and saw the locks coiled in a circle, lustrous and golden as full-grown wheat.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘It’s the relic,’ Sister Fidelis explained. ‘It’s St Hawisia’s hair.’

Corbett stared at the fresco behind him. He noticed the date, painted in silver gilt at the bottom of the picture: A.D. 667.

‘St Hawisia lived centuries ago!’ he exclaimed. ‘Almost seven hundred years ago but this hair. .!’

‘That’s because it’s a miracle,’ Sister Fidelis said. ‘You see, sir, Hawisia was a Saxon princess. Her father was king of these parts.’ She closed her eyes as if memorising a lesson. ‘Now her father wanted her to marry a powerful thane.’ She opened her eyes. ‘What’s a thane?’

‘A nobleman,’ Corbett replied.

‘Hawisia said that she was dedicated to God and would not marry this prince. Her father became very angry. Hawisia was beautiful. She was particularly famous for her golden hair. Now.’ Fidelis pointed to the fresco. ‘Hawisia fled her father’s palace but he pursued her with soldiers. Hawisia fled into a wood and reached the well, this very place. She cut off her golden hair and laid it beside a pool as an offering to God. Well.’ The young novice closed her eyes. ‘Ah, yes, that’s right. When her father reached her, he was so angry at what she had done, he drew his dagger and drove it deep into her heart.’ Sister Fidelis mimicked the action of a soldier striking; Corbett pressed on Ranulf’s toe as a warning not to laugh. ‘When his rage cooled, yes, that’s right.’ She opened her eyes. ‘He deeply regretted what he had done. He converted to Christianity, gave his daughter honourable burial and founded a house of prayer which later became St Hawisia’s priory.’

‘And this is her tomb?’

‘Yes, St Hawisia lies beneath the flagstones. This tomb was built by Lady Madeleine’s ancestor. The Fitzalans have always had a great devotion to her.’

‘But surely this isn’t Princess Hawisia’s hair?’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Yes it is,’ Sister Fidelis insisted defensively. ‘You see, that’s why Hawisia’s father converted. The hair remained as it had on the day his daughter died: over the centuries it has never rotted or decayed. If you put your hand on the glass case and say a prayer to St Hawisia, she always answers.’

Corbett studied the golden tresses. The hair was undoubtedly genuine yet it looked as fresh and lustrous as if it had been shorn off the previous day.

In his travels he’d seen many a relic. Enough nails from the True Cross to use in the building of a shop. At least three heads of St John the Baptist, five legs of St Sebastian, feathers from Archangel Gabriel’s wing and, on one famous occasion, even the stone Jesus was supposed to have stood on before He ascended into Heaven. Similar relics were found throughout Europe: holy blood which liquefied, statues which wept tears. They ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, even including a sweat cloth which St Joseph supposedly used in his workshop.

Corbett tapped the glass case: the work of a craftsman, it was cleverly riveted to the top of the tomb. Was there a logical explanation for this relic? Had it been sealed so as to protect it from the putrefying air? It was undoubtedly a phenomenon. No wonder St Hawisia’s attracted so many pilgrims.

‘It’s all very beautiful.’

‘Oh, Lord Henry recently refurbished it.’

‘When?’

‘About three months ago. The shrine was sealed and closed for a while so the walls and ceilings could be painted.’

‘Has this reliquary ever been opened?’

‘No, it hasn’t.’

Corbett suddenly felt he was being watched and turned to see that two nuns stood at the entrance to the side chapel. The foremost was tall, severe-looking, dressed in a snowy-white habit. A gold medal hung from a filigree chain around her neck. Behind her the other nun was similarly dressed, though smaller, more anxious. If looks could kill, the young novice would have dropped dead on the spot.

‘Lady Madeleine Fitzalan?’ Corbett asked, coming forward.

Lady Madeleine didn’t even shift her gaze from the petrified novice.

‘What are you doing here, Sister Fidelis?’

‘I was practising the Salve Regina .’

‘And she sang beautifully,’ Corbett declared. ‘Even though her knuckles were very sore.’