Paul Doherty: The Peacock's Cry

‘Ravished, raped and killed in the dark?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which makes me wonder.’ Corbett turned back to the abbess. ‘Elizabeth Buchan was certainly not skilled in threading that maze. She would have had little if no chance of reaching the centre by herself.’

‘That is correct,’ murmured the abbess.

‘Yet on that night, when darkness had fallen, she apparently found her way to the centre of the maze. Which makes me ask how and why. Was she taken there, and by whom?’ Corbett fiddled with his gauntlets. ‘One other matter. Both Margaret and Elizabeth were last seen close to the entrance of the maze. Why the coincidence?’

‘It is no coincidence,’ Dame Catherine replied quickly. ‘The two of them used to meet within the entrance, where they could talk or just sit in silence. They seemed to like being there.’ She shrugged. ‘It meant they could gossip and giggle and not be overheard.’

‘Both young ladies seemed fascinated by the maze,’ Fulbert declared. ‘They regarded it as a great novelty and were often seen nearby.’ Others murmured their agreement to this.

‘Very well.’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘This may be a convent, a nunnery dedicated to God, protected by Holy Mother Church and lavishly supported by the Crown. But,’ he held up a hand, ‘it is also a place of murder, sacrilege and blasphemous abuse. I shall continue my investigation. None of you must leave Godstow, and you must all hold yourselves ready for further questioning. Now,’ he lowered his hand and smiled at Lady Joan, ‘madam, if you could show me this maze. Master Fulbert, Rainald and Chaplain Norbert, please accompany us.’ He picked up his gauntlets from the table and thrust them into his war belt. ‘Before we go, has anything else occurred, anything untoward: visitors who have now left, disturbances, trespassers?’

‘Rosamund’s ghost,’ the novice mistress declared, then laughed self-consciously.

‘Rosamund’s ghost?’

‘An ancient legend.’ The abbess rose to her feet. ‘Every so often there are sightings. After all, Rosamund’s body does lie buried under its own shrine in our principal chapel.’

‘And the time of these hauntings?’

‘Oh, some weeks ago there were fairly constant sightings at dusk and dawn, the grey time when ghosts return to walk amongst the living.’

‘Can you describe them?’

‘Quite eerie. A figure in brilliant white,’ Fulbert declared. ‘I glimpsed it one evening from a window. It had no face, nothing to distinguish it, a white column from head to toe. Whiter than the purest chalk. The light seemed to dazzle in it before disappearing into the gathering murk.’

‘And others saw this?’

The rest murmured that they had.

‘Then the hauntings stopped as abruptly as they had begun?’

‘Indeed,’ the abbess replied.

‘But ghosts don’t really walk, do they?’ Corbett tapped the side of his head. ‘They only walk here, where the living and the dead throng noisily.’

‘True,’ Lady Joan teased back, her face softening, ‘that’s where the true ghosts lurk. Nevertheless, Sir Hugh, Rosamund’s ghost seems real enough. The chronicles of this house mention its appearance over the last hundred years. Some maintain that high-spirited, perhaps even bored young ladies with plenty of time on their hands helped such a legend to grow. Others believe a ghost truly walks both the maze and the priory. But come, Sir Hugh, you wish to see Rosamund’s maze. First let me show you where she lies buried.’

The abbess extended her hand for Corbett to take, squeezing his fingers and leading him out of the Magdalena chamber along beautiful stone passageways to the east of the nunnery. The main chapel stood separate from the rest of the convent buildings in a hollow surrounded by ancient beech and oak trees, their gleaming trunks and the mass of interlacing greenery giving the church a romantic allure, like some forest-circled shrine housing the Holy Grail in the legends of Arthur. For a while they paused as a line of novices in their light-blue headdresses and brown robes filed two by two out of the chapel, eyes down, hands joined, under the watchful scrutiny of senior nuns. Corbett studied these intently whilst he recalled certain remarks and observations, promising himself to challenge what he had been told regarding a number of matters. Once the novices were gone, he followed Lady Joan down a set of steps and in through the main door of the convent church.

He was immediately struck by the sheer beauty of the place. Undoubtedly of Norman origin, with its rounded, dog-tooth-framed arches, the church had been both extended and enhanced over the years. The Cotswold stone glowed gold, whilst the tiled floor was exquisitely decorated with eye-catching motifs of green men of the forest with vines sprouting from their mouths, their wild, twisted hair festooned with yellow broom, the insignia of Henry II, the first Plantagenet. The walls, rounded pillars, arches, capitals and bosses were decorated with a profusion of wild creatures and exotic plants, the constant theme of this artistry being a profusion of roses, a tribute to the long-dead royal mistress, Rosamund. The nave was breathtaking, with its soaring roof and a large window at the far end full of painted glass, which turned the sunlight into a range of brilliant colours to gleam and dazzle in the oaken rood screen dominated by the Cross of Subiaco, with life-size figures of St Benedict and Scholastica either side.

Through the door of the rood screen, Corbett glimpsed the majestic sanctuary with its high altar of snow-white stone, its scarlet and gold carpets and silver-chased crucifixes, pyxes, candlesticks and other sacred objects. The northern transept was filled with small chantry chapels, each enclosed behind a trellised wooden screen. The south transept, however, held memorials to the dead, the most resplendent being that of Rosamund, a table tomb of Purbeck marble with a life-size effigy of a young woman portrayed as a beautiful wanton. The artist had conveyed this in his carving of her flowing hair, the languorous poise of her body and the way her long, slender legs and firm breasts were clearly emphasised. An oriel window above the tomb filled with brilliantly hued stained glass depicted Rosamund kneeling, hands extended, as she venerated a blazing cross. Corbett peered up at this, entranced by its beauty. The cross was Celtic in form, its centrepiece being a large roundel full of cryptic symbols. A similar cross had also been carved in the stonework beneath the window and just above the tomb. The end of this cross was rounded, whilst the footrest carved for the crucified Christ’s feet jutted out.

‘Strange designs,’ Corbett murmured.

‘Rosamund Clifford was Welsh, like the Lady Maeve.’ The abbess squeezed his fingers. Corbett withdrew his hand to concentrate on the inscription written in a scrolled motto beneath the carving and in the actual window painting itself.

‘ Clavis secreto Rosamundi – the key to Rosamund’s secret.’ He turned to the abbess. ‘What is that?’

‘If I told you,’ she laughed, ‘it wouldn’t be a secret. In truth, I don’t really know. They say it is passed from one abbess to another, but,’ she smiled, ‘that too could be a secret.’

Corbett realised that the lady abbess had decided to be as enigmatic as possible, so he walked around the tomb into the gap between Rosamund’s sepulchre and the outside wall in order to scrutinise both carving and painting more closely. The others joined them.

‘Sir Hugh, you have read about the so-called secret?’ Vicomte called out. ‘I have studied the Godstow chronicle. This has always been an ancient, mysterious place.’

Corbett came back from around the tomb and beckoned Vicomte out of the shadows. The chancery clerk blinked and wetted his lips as Corbett studied those clever eyes in the furrowed face. A young man in an old man’s body, he concluded, shrewd and astute. Very skilled at what he did.