Paul Doherty: The Peacock's Cry

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Dame Imelda, you dressed Elizabeth Buchan’s body for burial?’ He gestured at the beautiful casket now resting on purple-draped trestles in the far corner of the corpse chamber.

‘You know I did,’ she replied tartly.

‘And her wounds?’

‘Master Ranulf saw them. The deep death wound in the forehead and the violation here,’ Dame Imelda pointed to her own groin, ‘the result of the ravishment and rape.’

‘And you had to tend to other wounds and abrasions?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Cuts and scratches to her hands. You know what I mean?’

‘Follow his logic, Imelda.’ The novice mistress grabbed the infirmarian’s arm. ‘Poor Elizabeth must have resisted, surely? Marks on her hands as she defended herself? Scrapes to the back of her head or further down as she lay on the ground resisting her attacker?’

Corbett smiled and bowed. ‘Very good, Dame Catherine, very good indeed. Dame Imelda, you did not find any such wounds?’

‘No, I didn’t, not at all.’

‘I thought as much.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Ladies, I thank you and bid you adieu.’

Ranulf paused in polishing the blade of his knife and stared across the chamber, where Old Master Long Face lay stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, hands behind his head. Ranulf had learnt that this was Corbett’s favourite resting pose: as a boy, he used to lie like that in the great meadow of his father’s farm whilst meditating and reflecting on whatever caught his fancy. He had been occupied like that for hours, lost in his own thoughts. The sun had set, the nunnery bells tolling for this and that, a servant had brought food and wine, yet Corbett had ignored all of these. Ranulf returned to his dagger.

‘Ghosts, Ranulf! Ghosts!’ Corbett swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his boots, seized his war belt and swiftly strapped it on, ordering Ranulf to do likewise.

‘Master?’

Corbett, however, was striding down the stairs and into the warm star-studded dusk. Here he paused and came back to Ranulf, standing so close the clerk could smell the crushed mint on his breath.

‘Ghosts don’t walk here, Ranulf, but demons might. The ghost of Rosamund was often seen, yes? However, these fresh sightings took place after the arrival of Beaumont and Buchan. Of course,’ he hurried on, ‘the ghost was the work of those two high-spirited young ladies, bored, resentful and ripe for mischief.’

‘But-’

‘No, Ranulf.’ Corbett gestured at his companion to follow, plucking at his sleeve to draw him close. ‘This ghost does not really concern us, but rather what it looked like: pure white, eye-catching in the moonlight.’

‘But where would they get such robes?’

‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘Everything at Godstow is brown or blue. Where on earth would two young girls, with virtually no status or authority here, find such gleaming apparel? I think I know: follow me.’

Corbett and Ranulf left the guest-house precincts, pausing only to give Chanson an errand before hurrying through the main door of the church, up the darkening nave and into the sacristy: a warm, comfortable chamber smelling of beeswax and candle smoke. The sacristan, Dame Alice, a close-faced woman with watchful eyes and a mouth ready to pontificate on anything and everything, immediately confronted them, demanding their business. Corbett was equally abrupt, showing her his seal of office and chancery signet ring as well as asking whether she would like to test his authority before the king’s own Council at Woodstock. Dame Alice immediately became compliant and opened the huge aumbries built against the outside wall that held the copes, chasubles, albs and stoles as well as a veritable sea of richly coloured vestments: gold, scarlet, purple and green for the major liturgical seasons and high feasts of the Church.

‘Can I help you?’

Corbett turned to greet the handsome-faced Chaplain Norbert. He was clothed in a dark green robe, a cambric shirt beneath displaying a starched white collar. On his feet were slippers of light blue with gold and silver buckles. He bowed in a slightly mocking way before strolling towards them.

‘Father, I would like to see one of your albs, and’ – Corbett held up a hand – ‘tell me is there any other robe, cloak or tunic in this convent that is white from head to toe?’

Norbert’s hand went to his mouth as he made to answer the question. Corbett immediately noticed that the priest was wearing doe-skinned gloves and asked why.

‘I was working in the chantry chapels checking the parchment of certain missals and psalters. Some of these are old, precious, and need real care. Now, Sir Hugh, as far as I can recollect, the alb is the only item of clothing in Godstow that would fit your description. Let me see.’ He crossed to an aumbry, pulled back the heavy curtain and took out a long garment of pure white linen with hood and close-fitting sleeves. It was ornamented across the back with six small pieces of cloth of gold. Ranulf exclaimed in pleasure as Corbett closely examined the alb before handing it back.

‘White from head to toe,’ he murmured. ‘With pieces sewn on to provide a shimmer of light.’

‘What is this?’ Dame Alice demanded. ‘Why are albs so important?’

‘You have two missing?’ Corbett enquired.

‘Why, yes, how did you know?’ asked the sacristan in surprise. ‘They have been missing for some time. I informed Chaplain Norbert.’

‘And I told the lady abbess.’

‘Who would steal two albs?’

‘Sir Hugh, some people would steal anything.’

Corbett murmured his agreement and went back into the church. Norbert followed. The postern gate in the main door opened and Dame Catherine stepped through, sweeping up the nave like a war cog under full sail.

‘Your clerk of the stables said you wanted to see me here.’

Aware of Father Norbert behind him, Corbett walked down to meet the novice mistress, then stopped between the gleaming choir stalls.

‘Dame Catherine, you claim that Elizabeth Buchan and Margaret Beaumont were often reprimanded for laughing, whispering,’ he shrugged, ‘gossiping during divine service?’

‘Yes, yes they certainly were,’ she replied pettishly.

‘Which were their stalls? I understand that each member of this community, as in most religious houses, is given a particular place so that those in authority know immediately who is absent, or distracted or falling asleep instead of participating in the divine office.’

‘Here.’ Dame Catherine crossed to the lowest row of stalls on the gospel side of the sanctuary. She indicated two seats at the far end, close to the sanctuary steps. Corbett went in. He lowered the movable stall and sat down. He felt under the seat, and his fingers touched the misericord, the usual grotesque carving. He got up, crouched down and raised the sedilia of the two stalls occupied by Beaumont and Buchan. There was a carving or misericord on each. The first depicted an ale wife being carried off by demons to be tossed into hell’s mouth. The second showed a pig with tonsured hair and dressed in monkish robes being birched by a devil.

Corbett lowered both seats and sat down. He stared at similar carvings on the bench rail in front of him and smiled: those two novices would have had to stare at such images five or six times a day. He glanced up. Chaplain Norbert and the two nuns stood in the sacristy door, gaping curiously across at him. He hid his satisfaction at what he had seen. He rose, thanked them for their help, genuflected towards the pyx and left the church, followed by Ranulf.

‘Master, what was all that about?’

Corbett stopped and pressed his forefinger gently against Ranulf’s mouth. ‘My friend, soon,’ he whispered. ‘For the moment let us proceed circumspecte agatis – with great care, prudence and cunning.’