Paul Doherty: The Peacock's Cry

‘Master, what is all this?’

Corbett swiftly summarised his indictment. Ranulf listened in astonishment.

‘The great high-born Lady Joan,’ he exclaimed, ‘nothing better than a priest’s whore!’

‘Both will be trapped by deceit,’ Corbett replied. ‘We must now close the trap and seal it. I have left the lady abbess with her thoughts. Now it’s time for Chaplain Norbert.’

They found the priest sitting in his well-furnished, lavishly decorated chamber. All arrogance and hauteur had drained from him. Corbett immediately decided he was the weaker of the two and crouched down beside him.

‘She has confessed,’ he said softly. ‘Listen to what I put to her.’ He then presented his case against the abbess, including details about the entrance to the secret passageway beneath the sacristy. He described how Margaret Beaumont had hidden there and discovered not only his illicit affair with the abbess but where they conducted their lovemaking, hidden from all eyes except God’s.

‘You also used that secret passageway to attack myself and others as we left the maze,’ he continued. ‘You cut the cord and laid an ambush. Easy enough. I suspect you know that labyrinth like the back of your hand. Afterwards, you raced back to the bower and the secret passageway out. You made a mistake, however: you weren’t hunting Vicomte but me. You then made a second mistake. You hastily loosed a second bolt and injured your fingers; that’s why you were wearing those doe-skinned gloves when I met you in the sacristy. You claimed you were wearing them because you had been in the chantry chapels examining missals and psalters with dried, cracked parchment pages, but that was a lie. When I walked up the nave of the church, I saw no one, I heard no one, nor did Ranulf. Moreover, darkness had fallen. Why carry out such a task when the light was so poor? You would have to light many candles, and I didn’t see any …’

The priest sat, head down.

‘I will hand you over to Ranulf,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Vicomte was his friend, his comrade. He will put you to the question. Some of the sheriff’s men will pinion you to the ground. Ranulf will fasten a leather funnel over your face and pour water in, one jug after another, so you think you are drowning. Of course, as I said, your paramour has already confessed. You should do likewise.’ He got to his feet and walked to stare out of the window, as if absorbed by the small enclosed rose garden.

‘I plead benefit of clergy,’ the chaplain declared hoarsely.

Corbett closed his eyes and smiled in satisfaction. ‘I will ensure that is the case,’ he replied over his shoulder. ‘You will not be tried by the secular courts.’

‘It was not my fault. She was mistress in all matters,’ the chaplain sobbed. ‘She told me how dangerous you were, Sir Hugh. How you had to be stopped. She murdered both women. She tricked them into believing our relationship was one of courtly romance, of playing cat’s cradle in Rosamund’s bower. She told them she would show them everything. She promised that each of them would be favoured. She persuaded them of her benevolence. Buchan even handed over the arbalest, but then she panicked and wanted it back.’

‘Where was this?’

‘In the tunnel beneath Rosamund’s bower. Lady Joan had taken her there to wait for me. Anyway, a struggle ensued. The abbess broke free and loosed the bolt, killing her immediately. We intended to take her corpse further down the tunnel, which ends beneath a rocky outcrop deep in the woods.’ The chaplain wetted his lips. ‘Perhaps it was the struggle, the movement, but there was a crack and the tunnel just collapsed.’

‘You had taken Beaumont through there?’

‘Yes, the abbess cracked her skull. We buried her in a pit.’

‘God’s judgement,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I suggest that when you buried Beaumont, you disturbed that tunnel. The situation was worsened by the struggle and murder of your second victim. The soil and earth gave way as the struts and timbers cracked, and of course, you daren’t bury Buchan there. The tunnel is ancient; further disturbance could mean more falls, so you brought the corpse up.’

‘Yes, yes we did.’ The chaplain’s voice faltered. ‘The lady abbess told me to abuse the body. I …’

Corbett stared at this corrupt young man. He curbed his anger; his task was to obtain confessions. Punishment would be left to others. He patted the chaplain on the shoulder and pointed to the chancery desk.

‘I want a full confession. Sit there and write it. Ranulf will stay with you until it is done.’ The chaplain, now sobbing, nodded his agreement.

Secretly elated, Corbett left the chamber. He gave instructions to two of the sheriff’s men, then strolled along the passageways and into the main church. Godstow lay strangely silent; the news of scandal brewing had spread like a mist through the nunnery. The good ladies had retreated to their chambers, shocked, frightened and wary of the sheriff’s comitatus: burly, rough soldiers who seemed to swarm everywhere, secretly amused at the outrage being so vigorously unearthed in this so-called house of prayer.

A few of these soldiers were in the sacristy, guarding the entrance to the passageway. Corbett marvelled how the entrance was so expertly hidden beneath the shelves of the aumbry. The lowest shelf could be lifted by hinges, and the paving stone beneath seemed like all the others except for an indentation at the edge where it met the wall. One of the sheriff’s men showed how this indentation could be used to lift the stone like a trapdoor. Only when he grasped it did Corbett realise it was not stone, but heavy wood finished and painted to pass as paving. Once it was pulled back, he could squeeze his way down on to the narrow steps.

One of the comitatus passed him a sconce torch, whilst another offered to accompany him. Corbett agreed, and carefully went down into the darkness. At the bottom, he lifted the torch, its dancing flame illuminating what looked like an ancient mine shaft – a narrow runnel just over two yards high and about the same across. The floor was of packed dirt, whilst the rock and earth the tunnel cut through was held in place by stout wooden pillars, beams, clasps and crutches. Corbett, his companion following behind, walked quickly forward. The tunnel was hot and reminded him of the maze, with its latent threat to close in on him. Now and again he passed ancient dressed stonework in the walls either side. He stopped to examine this, and his escort murmured how the sheriff, a local man, believed that Godstow was built over an ancient palace used by the Romans.

Corbett hurried on. He felt breathless, sweaty, the tunnel seeming to stretch like an eternity before him. At last he glimpsed torchlight, felt a freshness and heard voices. He called out, announcing himself. Sir Miles replied, telling him to be careful, as both walls and roof were beginning to crumble. Corbett shivered at the light rain of dust in the air. He reached the sheriff’s party clustered at the foot of some steps. Sir Miles explained how they led up to the bower, then pointed to the needle-thin runnel that continued past, stretching into the darkness.

‘We went along there,’ he explained, ‘but it’s now truly blocked.’

‘Let us get out of here,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Enough is enough.’ He climbed the steps and heaved a sigh of relief as he walked through the buttery into the main chamber of the bower, where two of the sheriff’s men stood guarding Lady Joan Mortimer. She looked as if she had aged, her face all stricken. Corbett went up close. She lunged, but the sheriff’s men held her fast. Corbett grasped her face between his hands and squeezed gently.

‘Your accomplice has confessed. Ranulf will read his admission to you soon enough.’