Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

He looked up at the priest. 'You'll bury her, Father?' 'Aye, Fulke, I will, in God's acre.'

Fulke pushed his way forward to where Master Joseph stood silently watching.

'You said you'd look after her,' he said bitterly.

Master Joseph stood his ground, ignoring the dark mutterings that had broken out around him.

'Fulke, I did. But Marina insisted on returning to the village last night. She had to see you, or so she told me. Perhaps she wanted to visit someone else? '

'Where's Gilbert, the witch's son?' someone shouted.

'He's not here,' someone else replied.

Corbett leaned over. 'Father Augustine, who is this Gilbert?'

'The girl's sweetheart. Or at least he was sweet on her. A simple lad, a woodcutter's son. He and his mother live on the edge of the village beyond the church, as you go out towards the headland. She's a wise woman. She knows simples and cures, remedies and potions.' Father Augustine lowered his voice. 'But you know how it is Sir Hugh – there's gossip that she dabbles in the black arts and, at night, rides the wind with other demons.'

The crowd's mood had suddenly turned ugly. Gurney remounted and shouted for silence. Then: 'There is no proof against any man!'

'Well, who else could it be?' a voice asked.

A tight inner group of villagers had gathered around Fulke and his wife; A small, pot-bellied man stepped forward from amongst them. His wart-covered face was sour, the anger spots high on his cheek bones. He walked with a swagger, running thick fingers through wispy blond hair. He took up position before Gurney's horse.

'You know the custom, Sir Simon, and the ancient usage? I, Robert Fitzosborne, reeve of this village, demand that a jury be assembled and the murderer named!'

So this was the reeve. Corbett studied the man carefully, remembering the gossip of the night before. He noticed how Fitzosborne's boots and jerkin were of a better quality than those of the other villagers. The reeve now extended his arms and half-turned towards the villagers. 'We demand it,' he shouted. 'It is the custom and the law.'

The crowd of villagers shouted their approval. Corbett felt beneath his cloak for the hilt of his sword and glanced warningly at Ranulf and Maltote. The villagers moved forward. Corbett turned at the sound of hoof beats on the track and saw Catchpole and other liveried servants galloping towards them. Gurney's henchman had been astute enough to guess what might happen for, beneath his cloak, he wore chain mail and the five servants who accompanied him were also well armed.

At their arrival, Robert Fitzosborne lost some of his arrogance, though he refused to be cowed.

'Sir Simon, the manor's custom is well known,' he shouted defiantly. 'One of your tenants has been murdered, brutally. You have the power.'

Gurney turned to Corbett and smiled weakly at him.

'Fitzosborne is right,' he said. 'I have the power of sword and gallows. But you are the king's representative here, what do you advise?'

Corbett looked at the throng of peasants milling by the cart with its pathetic burden. He felt the justice of Fitzosborne's demand. A young girl had been brutally murdered. Moreover, if a jury was empanelled and he was present, he might discover more about this mysterious place with its strange murders. More than one type of mist hid the place, not only from the eyes of men but from the eyes of God as well. He looked at Gurney.

'A jury,' he declared firmly, 'must be summoned!'

Within the hour Marina's corpse had been removed to the death house on the edge of the village. At the same time the nave of the long, solidly built church had, according to custom, been turned into a court. Corbett stood outside, staring up at the squat tower, at the base of which yawned the main door to the church. He admired the sculptures over the door and round the windows. These were carefully carved with animals, flowers and strange beasts. He looked over his shoulder at the priest's house, a large cottage with plastered walls and a thatched roof. Corbett shivered; a place of secrets, he thought, why had this village now become a place of shadows and sudden death? Ranulf, Maltote and he walked around the church and stared at the gorse, weeds and creeping brambles.

'A sad place,' Ranulf remarked.

Corbett studied the battered wooden crosses and crumbling headstones. He wondered what any grave robber would find so interesting there and walked back into the entrance of the church. Father Augustine came bustling from the death house, wiping his hands on his robe, his thin face creased in concern. Corbett and his companions followed him in to the church. Staring up, they admired the wooden ceiling, painted in bright lozenge patterns. The walls and pillars of the nave had also been painted, with bizarre, gaudy zig-zag or dogtooth designs and the flickering cresset torches revealed vivid scenes from the life of Christ painted on the transept walls.

The church was quiet now. A long trestle table had been placed in the nave. Six men sat on either side of it. At the far end Gurney sat enthroned in the heavily ornate sanctuary chair, which had been moved from beneath the rood screen. At the near end Father Augustine, who also served as parish clerk, had laid out parchment, inkhorn and pumice stone ready to record the proceedings. Behind Gurney stood a forbidding-looking Catchpole, Giles Selditch and Master Joseph. Villagers squatted on the ground around the table. Gurney waved Corbett forward, indicating a stool on his right.

'Sir Hugh, you will be my witness to the proceedings.'

Gurney got to his feet and formally pronounced the court to be in session.

Corbett watched fascinated. He had often acted as a royal justice or commissioner, but he had never seen a serious matter dealt with in a manor court.

'The death we are here to enquire into,' Gurney began, 'is that of Marina, daughter of Fulke the tanner, who was barbarously murdered out in the moorlands. She had been raped and strangled' – he raised his hands to still the clamour – 'by a person or persons unknown. Now,' he continued hurriedly, 'you know the ancient customs and usages. First, the death may be recorded. Secondly, if enough information is brought, a person or persons may be indicted.' His voice rose. 'If the latter is the case, then such a person or persons must be arrested and given fair trial before their peers at the next assize.'

A low chorus of protests greeted his words. Gurney wiped his hands nervously on the edge of his gown. He looked down the line of jurors on either side of the table, staring hard at Robert the reeve.

'You have all sworn the oath on the book of the gospels.' He pointed to the heavy tome on the table. 'Anyone who wishes to give evidence must swear on the gospels. I need not remind you that perjury can be a capital offence.'

Gurney's last words rang like a death knell through the church, a harsh reminder to his tenants of the danger of lying on such an important occasion.

After that the questioning began. Gurney's huntsman took the oath and described how he had found the girl. Next came Giles Selditch, who graphically described the girl's wounds. Corbett glimpsed the ugliness in the faces of the jurors and the rest of the villagers.

'When do you think the girl was killed?' Gurney asked.

The doctor, standing at the far corner of the table, shrugged.

'Her flesh was cold, covered in frost, she must have been slain last night.'

'What was she doing out on the moorland?' one of the jurors asked.

Gurney told the man to shut up.

Master Joseph was called next. 'Marina was a member of our community,' he began. 'No one forced her to join us.' He stared around, nodding at the murmur of assent that greeted his words. 'No one forced her to stay.' He held one hand up. 'Indeed, the very fact that she was out on the moorland proves she had the freedom to move as she wished.'