Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

Ranulf didn't know whom he disliked the most – the preening prioress with her false, smiling coyness or this long-visaged, sour-faced priest. Ranulf always felt uncomfortable in the presence of clergy – they seemed always to be patronizing him or sharing some private joke at his expense. This time was no different. Deliberately he pushed his muddy boots forward towards the fire and stretched. He smiled as he saw the prioress quiver with annoyance at such boorishness.

'We are going to Bishop's Lynn,' he announced. He yawned, pushed his hands towards the fire, rubbed them, then smacked his thighs. 'You may be assured of one thing, mind you.'

'What's that?' Father Augustine asked sharply.

'Sir Hugh Corbett is a terrible man,' Ranulf declared. 'A digger for the truth, a searcher out of secrets, God's vengeance on murderers.'

'Then it's time he met with more success!' Dame Cecily snapped. 'Believe me, Master…?'

'Ranulf.'

'Ah yes, Ranulf. I intend to write to the king. I object to the peace and harmony of my house being shattered by these peremptory visits!'

Ranulf smiled sweetly. 'With all respect, Dame Cecily, you may write to the Holy Father himself, but Sir Hugh Corbett will come here when he thinks proper.'

The prioress's doughy face flushed with anger. Just a little more provocation, Ranulf thought.

'Of course,' Father Augustine intervened, 'Dame Cecily wishes to be helpful. But this is a nunnery.'

More like a molly-shop, Ranulf thought, peering around the luxurious chamber, with its velvet tasselled tapestries, gold and silver ornaments, shining furniture and beeswax candles.

'Does the name Alan of the Marsh mean anything to you?' he asked abruptly.

He could have hugged himself with pleasure. Dame Cecily started back in her chair and nervously toyed with the crucifix hanging round her neck.

'Well?'

'Alan of the Marsh?' Dame Cecily stammered. 'Who's he?' 'With respect, that wasn't the question. Does the name mean anything to you?'

'Of course not!' she snapped. 'You seem troubled by it.'

'Well, of course.' She forced a smile. 'Why should a man's name mean anything to a prioress in a convent? What are you implying?'

'Nothing,' Ranulf cheekily replied. 'So, I can report back to Sir Hugh that Alan of the Marsh means nothing to you?' 'I have never heard of him.'

Ranulf sniffed and got to his feet. Maltote followed suit. 'In which case, I'll bid you adieu.'

Ranulf stalked out of the chamber, softly chuckling to himself.

The old lay sister would have taken them straight back to the stable yard but Ranulf, nudging Maltote, now had the devil in him. 'Madame?'

The lay sister paused, flattered by this pleasant, charming, red-haired, young man whose green, cat-like eyes danced with merriment.

'Yes?'

'I have never been in a convent before and this is such a beautiful place. Is it possible to be shown around?'

The lay sister's head went back in reproach.

'But this is a convent!' she gasped. 'A house of prayer for ladies!'

Ranulf shook his head. 'No, I don't mean within the house itself, but the grounds?' He dipped his finger into his purse. The lay sister's eyes became greedy.

'I suppose I could take you back to the stables by the long route, perhaps show you the cloisters, the chapel and some of the grounds?'

Ranulf smiled. 'Madame, I am your servant.'

He grasped her cold, vein-streaked hand and raised it to his lips, making sure she gripped the coin in his hand. The lay sister simpered and, despite her age, quickly led them along galleries and passageways. She chattered like a squirrel as she showed them the cloisters and the chapel, guest house and refectory. After that they visited the herb gardens and orchard and walked back round the church towards the stables. Ranulf greedily stared at everything. Dame Cecily had been lying and Ranulf just hoped that he could take some evidence back to old Master Long Face that might be of use. They passed the lychgate of the small cemetery and Ranulf caught a flash of russet-brown. Ignoring the lay sister's pleas, he pushed the gate open and walked into the cemetery. He stared at the Pastoureaux working amongst the graves, gathering up piles of rotting leaves, cutting back the brambles and reeds. One of them turned, resting on his hoe, and pulled back his hood.

'Master Joseph!' Ranulf smiled. 'So, this is how you spend your time?'

The Pastoureaux leader smiled and walked towards him.

'We all do God's work, Master Ranulf. Why are you here?'

'Oh!' Ranulf shrugged. 'Like you, Master Joseph, I'm doing God's work but in a different way.'

Master Joseph's face became serious. 'We heard about Master Monck's death. Please accept our condolences.'

Ranulf nodded.

'Have you discovered anything about his death?'

'No, Master Joseph, we have not. It's as much a mystery as anything around here.'

'Will Sir Hugh continue Monck's work?'

Ranulf smiled and nodded. 'Of course. We are leaving soon for Bishop's Lynn, but Sir Hugh will return.' He stared into the man's face. 'I am sure,' he continued, 'I have met you before but I can't remember where.'

The Pastoureaux leader pulled back his hood and returned to his hoeing.

'Perhaps in another life, Master Ranulf! But I think your guide is becoming anxious.'

Ranulf looked over his shoulder. The old lay sister was comically hopping from one foot to another.

'I have shown you enough! I have shown you enough!' she bleated. 'The prioress would be angry. Please come!'

Ranulf and Maltote followed her. They collected their horses and left the convent. Laughing and joking over Dame Cecily's discomfort, they rode down past the church and into the village. They stopped at the "Inglenook" to sample some ale. Ranulf chattered a little with Robert the reeve and Fulke the tanner but their dark looks and surly replies showed they were not welcome. Ranulf and Maltote left and returned to the manor house, where Corbett was poring over a piece of parchment. Every so often he would scribble a little and, throwing his quill down, he'd sit, head in hands, and stare at what he had written. He listened quietly as Ranulf described what had happened at the convent. Corbett picked up his quill and tapped the table top.

'Bishop's Lynn!' he said. 'Are the bags packed?'

Ranulf nodded.

'Then we should leave. I want to be there by nightfall.'

Ranulf and Maltote went down to the stables. Corbett followed with the saddlebags. He stopped to take leave of Gurney who seemed agitated that they were going so abruptly. He insisted that they should take some refreshment and allow his cooks to prepare food for the journey. Corbett was reluctant to alienate his host any further and so he agreed. The steward laid out a table in the main hall and served a range of meats and cheeses, whilst Catchpole gave them directions on which roads to take.

An hour later they left, Corbett quietly cursing. The sky had become overcast and the cold, wet sea mist was creeping in over the cliffs. By the time they reached the crossroads the mist was swirling about them. Maltote and Ranulf debated on which road to take.

'Follow the directions on the post,' Corbett rudely interrupted. 'That's what Catchpole told us.'

He led them on. Within the hour Corbett had serious misgivings. According to Catchpole, the road ought to be broader and they should have passed through a series of small hamlets. However, because of the lowering sky and thickening mist, Corbett believed they were heading further inland across the moors. At last they stopped, cursing and muttering. The horses caught their unease and pawed the ground, snorting and whinnying against the black stillness of the moors. Corbett moved his horse round.

'How long have we been travelling from Mortlake?'