Paul Doherty: The Peacock's Cry

‘And?’ Corbett turned to Dame Catherine.

‘Her chamber was empty, swept clean. Not a trace or the slightest vestige remained of Margaret Beaumont’s presence. Nothing to indicate her leaving or where she might have gone. We searched the nunnery, scoured the grounds, sent our couriers along the dusty roads enquiring at taverns, ale houses and hostels.’ Dame Catherine pulled a face. ‘Margaret Beaumont had vanished like the summer’s dew at daybreak.’

‘And her companions, her friends?’

‘Margaret’s only friend was Elizabeth Buchan. They knew each other from court; I think they were slightly related. They arrived here at the same time, not so long ago.’

‘How long?’

‘Around Twelfth Night and the Feast of the Epiphany.’

‘Of course,’ Lady Joan added archly, ‘they realised they were here for the same reason.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Sheltering from the harsh world of men.’

‘So Margaret’s only confidante …’ Corbett paused at the shrill shrieking of the peacocks.

‘They always draw closer around this hour,’ murmured Lady Joan. ‘It’s time I fed them.’

Corbett nodded. He knew that he would remember those shrieks, the way they shattered the harmony of this serene place. ‘So Margaret Beaumont’s only confidante was Elizabeth Buchan?’

‘And Elizabeth, despite her closeness to Margaret, claimed to know nothing about her good friend’s disappearance, as I am sure your colleague’ – Lady Joan gestured to Ranulf, sitting next to Corbett – ‘will inform you in due course. He and Elizabeth had numerous conversations.’ Ranulf stiffened at the implied criticism in the abbess’s voice. Corbett gently nudged his companion, a silent warning to remain calm.

‘So nobody here knows anything about Margaret Beaumont’s disappearance. But surely,’ Corbett turned to Father Norbert, ‘she sought advice from you? Did you shrive her?’

‘If I did,’ the chaplain retorted sharply, ‘such matters are-’

‘Covered by the seal of confession.’ Corbett finished his sentence. ‘Father, I know my canon law. I am simply asking for help. A young woman has disappeared. Rest assured, we will talk again. Lady Joan, Dame Catherine, was Margaret Beaumont happy here?’

‘She was sent to Godstow.’ The abbess folded back the cuffs of her pure wool robe. Corbett hid his amusement as he glimpsed the quilted satin underlay and recalled the rich gowns the young Joan Mortimer loved to display at court. In truth, little had changed. ‘She was sent here,’ the abbess repeated, ‘against her will, but for her own protection. She balked at that. After all, she was a pretty young woman with a host of admirers in London.’ The abbess shook her head. ‘More than that I cannot say.’

‘What was she like? I mean in character.’

‘She was of good heart,’ Dame Catherine replied. ‘High-spirited, mischievous. She and Elizabeth teased each other and loved practical jokes. They both found it difficult to keep silent. They would giggle in church, chatter in the schoolroom and be all restless in the library.’

‘So Margaret disappeared that night after compline. She took her collation in the refectory and retired to what you, Dame Catherine, called her narrow chamber?’

‘Yes, though Rainald the gardener claims to have glimpsed her close to the entrance to the maze.’

‘Ah yes!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The maze. I need to see that, and to thread it.’

‘I would advise against that, Hugh,’ the abbess declared. ‘Well, at least until we have Rosamund’s twine played out.’

‘Rosamund’s twine?’ Corbett leaned his elbows on the table. ‘I know something about the history of this house, but apparently not enough.’

‘Godstow nunnery,’ Lady Joan began, ‘is an ancient foundation. There was a convent here long before the Conquest. Anyway, over a hundred and fifty years ago, during the reign of Henry II, it became the refuge of one of that king’s most beautiful and notorious mistresses, Rosamund Clifford. Henry’s wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, plotted furiously to kill Rosamund; she sent assassins here, dagger men, the brotherhood of the knife, the fraternity of the garrotte, professional killers. Henry, alarmed and wishing to protect the beautiful Rosamund, hired the most skilled architects and gardeners to lay out the maze that now occupies most of the great meadow. At its centre was a bower, where Rosamund could shelter against danger.

‘Rest assured, Sir Hugh, I will show you the maze. It is easy to become lost in that labyrinth of high, prickly hedges and tortuous tangle of narrow paths that turn and twist, a true defence against attackers and insurgents. Stories abound of people losing their way then losing their wits, collapsing from hunger, thirst, exhaustion and the sheer terror of not being able to escape. You have to thread your way most carefully, or you could die there.’ Lady Joan sat back in her chair.

‘It can be a truly dreadful place,’ Dame Catherine murmured. ‘Dark and narrow. You believe that those hedges towering either side of you are closing in to crush you, choke off your breath.’

‘To thread the maze correctly can take hours,’ Lady Joan shook her head, ‘even days if you become lost. Once I heard of your imminent arrival, I ordered Rosamund’s twine to be unrolled from the centre. A scarlet cord that runs from the bower along the correct paths to the one and only entrance. If you follow this cord, threading the maze becomes easy enough.’

‘A maze built for a whore!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Should Godstow nunnery entertain such a place?’

‘Oh, Rosamund’s bower may be at the centre,’ the abbess replied. ‘But now there is also the Creeping Cross: those who are unable to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem may instead, by papal indulgence, creep through the maze on their hands and knees to worship before the cross and the pieta that stands close to the bower.’

Corbett nodded his understanding. Such practices, encouraged by papal indulgence and episcopal licence, were becoming increasingly widespread. A private penance being accorded the same spiritual benefits as a public pilgrimage. Due to wars in the east, travelling to certain shrines, such as the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the Virgin’s house in Ephesus or the Sacred Cloths at Oviedo in Moorish Spain, had become increasingly difficult. In turn, this had led to the spiritual enhancement of places like the Sacred Blood of Hailes, the Thorn of Glastonbury and the Holy Family House at Walsingham.

‘So,’ he sipped from his goblet, ‘Margaret Beaumont simply disappeared. Are you sure no belongings were found?’

‘None,’ the abbess replied.

‘So she must have taken them with her?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

He placed his goblet down. ‘So a young woman flees this nunnery in the dead of night with all her possessions. I do find that strange. I mean, she wanted to get away from here; that, presumably, was why she fled. So why be so meticulous in ensuring she took everything, even scraps of clothing? In my experience, people who flee normally leave traces, but she didn’t. My next question is: where would she go? Her family, her kin, those young men of the court who sighed for her favour? Yet nobody – and I repeat, nobody – has seen Margaret Beaumont or knows anything about her since that evening here after compline. We can make no further progress; that path is completely blocked.’

Corbett was half speaking to himself, trying to hide his frustration. He glanced up quickly. Ranulf looked as if he sympathised with his master’s difficulties, a fair reflection of what he himself had experienced since his arrival at Godstow. Corbett decided he must take no nonsense. The king and Gaveston wanted a swift resolution to these mysteries. Of course he would be blocked, impeded, obstructed, but he would not give up.