Paul Doherty: The Peacock's Cry

‘Good, good.’ Corbett rose to his feet, putting the glass away and rubbing his hands. ‘Tell me, before you go. Elizabeth Buchan’s clothes were thrown back, she suffered a rape wound when her virginity was violated and a death blow to her skull caused by the crossbow bolt. Anything else?’

‘What else could there be?’

‘Wounds to her hands, legs or knees?’

‘You must see the infirmarian, Dame Imelda.’

Corbett said he would. Both men asked if he wanted them to stay, warning that despite Rosamund’s twine, the maze was still a place where one could easily become distracted and lost. Corbett assured them that he would heed their words. Once the two men had left, Ranulf and Vicomte drifted across.

‘Master?’

‘Most curious,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Most curious indeed. First, what was Elizabeth Buchan doing in the centre of this maze in the dead of night? How did she get here after dark? Who followed her in, and why?’ Corbett breathed out noisily. ‘She certainly wasn’t killed here. I need to talk to the infirmarian who dressed the corpse. But for the moment …’

Corbett and his two companions spent at least another hour examining Rosamund’s bower, the Creeping Cross and the pieta. Corbett sat for a while on the steps leading up to the cross, deep in thought. He was roused now and again by various sounds: soft scraping, the crack of a twig, the rustle of the hedge in the breeze. Were they alone? He got to his feet. He felt anxious, wary, as he used to during those days when he served as a mailed clerk along the marches of Scotland and Wales. Ranulf had also picked up this unease.

‘Let us return,’ Corbett declared. ‘It’s time.’

They left the centre of the maze, going down one of the narrow pathways. Vicomte went first, holding the red twine, letting it slip through his fingers as if threading a set of Ave beads. They rounded a corner. Vicomte stopped and turned. The red twine had been severed.

‘In God’s name!’ Ranulf exclaimed. Corbett stared down the path. There was no sign of the twine or the person who’d cut it.

‘Master?’

Corbett stared up at the cloudless sky. ‘You have a tinder, Ranulf?’

‘Yes.’

He pointed to the dry grass, twigs and leaves lying at the foot of the hedge.

‘Collect that,’ he ordered. ‘Light a fire, create as much smoke as possible. Then start shouting the alarm.’

Ranulf hastened to obey. Vicomte confessed his voice was reedy, so Ranulf raised the alarm whilst Vicomte assembled a miniature pyre of twigs, dry leaves and bark. A flame was struck. Vicomte lightly wetted the debris with spittle, and puffs of dark smoke rose whilst Ranulf continued to bellow. Corbett relaxed as he heard the sound of voices.

‘Sir Hugh?’

He whirled round. Vicomte was pointing down the pathway. ‘What in God’s-’

The figure standing there knelt abruptly, and before Corbett could react, a crossbow bolt whirled through the air. It hit Vicomte full in the chest, sending him staggering back into the hedge. Corbett yelled a warning at Ranulf, and both men fell flat on their faces as another bolt whirled above them. The sound of voices drew nearer. Corbett glanced up. The assassin had disappeared; pursuit was impossible. He crawled over to join Ranulf, who was tending Vicomte, yet there was nothing to be done. Blood dripped through the clerk’s half-opened lips; his eyes were already dulling, a weak death rattle in his throat. Ranulf fingered the feathered bolt embedded deep in Vicomte’s chest and groaned.

‘It is yours?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, it is. God punish the bastard, it is one of mine.’

Vicomte shuddered, legs flailing, then his head fell to one side and he lay still. Corbett intoned a ‘Miserere’ and rose as Lady Joan, Fulbert, Rainald and others hastened up.

‘How?’ he asked. ‘How in hell’s name?’ He flailed a hand and walked away. He must wait, watch and learn.

He stood listening to the exclamations and prayers of the others. Two garden labourers brought a stretcher and a canvas sheet. Vicomte’s corpse was placed on this and taken out of the maze by Fulbert and Rainald, with Corbett and Lady Joan following behind, whispering prayers. At last they were free of the maze. Corbett had a quiet word with Ranulf, then beckoned the abbess away. He stared down at her severe but still beautiful face.

‘Joan,’ he whispered, bending down to kiss her brow, ‘what possessed those two young ladies to call you the Gargoyle?’

‘I have been named worse.’ She grinned impishly.

‘Lovely of face,’ he murmured, ‘lovely of form. Tell me now, how could anyone enter that maze and not be seen?’ He stood back. ‘After all, Vicomte created that fire, yes?’

‘We saw the smoke.’

‘So you and the others were alerted by the alarm. You hurried to the entrance and threaded the labyrinth, yet you saw no one else?’

‘No, Hugh, we did not, and those who came with me stayed with me.’

‘I have asked Ranulf to remain on guard at the entrance for anyone coming out after us.’

‘I do wonder …’ the abbess began.

‘What?’

‘Has Margaret Beaumont truly disappeared? Was she murdered?’ She suppressed a shiver. ‘Or is she still with us?’

‘A young maiden with an arbalest?’

‘You and Ranulf may be skilled in that weapon,’ the abbess replied, ‘but so are we war maidens – myself, Lady Maeve. We women have had to fight for ourselves and what is ours. The Welsh march is no nunnery. I have manned castle walls along with my father’s soldiers.’

‘True.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Well, my little shield maiden.’ He bowed. ‘I must leave and see to poor Vicomte.’

Dame Imelda had already stripped Vicomte’s corpse, helped by the novice mistress, who had brought two of her charges with her to educate them, as she proclaimed, in that great corporal work of mercy, the care of the dead.

‘We are here to prepare for death and our own eternal destiny. So the death of others should come as no great surprise,’ she explained to Corbett, then gestured at the two whey-faced novices, ill at ease yet morbidly fascinated by the bloodied corpse on the slightly sloping mortuary table. Corbett grunted his agreement as he studied the hard-faced, wiry novice mistress. Lady Joan was correct, he conceded: the likes of Dame Catherine and Dame Imelda were tough, resolute women used to violence and tending to corpses.

He wandered away across the chamber, its limewashed walls decorated with painted cloths extolling the lives of the saints – or more precisely their deaths. He studied these before sitting down on a bench. He watched as Dame Imelda finished washing Vicomte’s corpse, pulling a canvas sheet soaked in pine juice across it then lighting the small incense bowls at head and foot. He would make enquiries about Vicomte’s family, but given the heat, it might be best if the unfortunate clerk were buried here in Godstow. Ranulf slipped in, whispering how no one had come out of the maze after them.

‘My condolences,’ Corbett grasped Ranulf’s hand, ‘on the death of your comrade. A good man?’

‘A good man,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘A bachelor, a skilled clerk. He had not been with me very long. He deserved a better death.’ Ranulf’s fingers fell to the hilt of his dagger and Corbett glimpsed the roaring boy, the riffler whom he had taken under his wing so many years ago. He felt a deep stab of pity at the sorrow Ranulf was trying to hide behind that cold white face and cat-like eyes.

‘I promise you,’ he whispered, ‘we will hunt Vicomte’s killer and trap whoever it is. The hunt must go on. Dame Imelda,’ he called out. The infirmarian hurried across; the novice mistress came with her, but Corbett decided not to object.