Paul Doherty - The Peacock's Cry

‘You said this place was ancient?’

‘Very ancient, Sir Hugh. There have been churches here since the Romans left. After all, it’s an ideal place, richly wooded and well watered. One chronicler called it a true refuge from the world.’

‘And Rosamund’s secret?’

Vicomte grinned. ‘If there is a secret, why proclaim its existence? That has always fascinated me.’

‘So how do we know there is one?’

‘According to tradition …’ The abbess smiled, gesturing at Vicomte, who took up the story.

‘When Rosamund was dying, she demanded that all the other nuns leave the death chamber except her successor, as she wished to impart a great secret.’ Vicomte tapped the tomb. ‘Ever since then, rumours have persisted. Most people think this church houses the secret, but so far no one has discovered it.’

‘And what could it be?’

‘Speculation runs rife,’ Vicomte replied. ‘Some claim Rosamund had a treasure trove, a chest crammed with precious objects and the most sacred relics. But I don’t know.’ He laughed. ‘Such riddles, puzzles and conundrums fascinate me.’

‘Why?’

‘No matter how complex or complicated the actual mystery may be, the solution is usually breathtakingly simple.’

‘Sir Hugh, the hour is drawing on,’ Lady Joan declared. ‘You wish to see the maze?’

‘Of course.’

The abbess grasped his hand once more and led him out through the devil’s door. They followed a pebble-dashed path that wound around the buildings to what should have been the great common meadow to the east of the convent. Corbett stopped in amazement. The entire grassland, at least a square mile in acreage, was occupied by a maze, a soaring block of towering green hedge. For a while he just stood staring.

‘Daedalus,’ he murmured at last, breaking free from his reverie. He let go of the abbess’s hand and walked towards the maze. ‘Daedalus,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He built a great maze on Crete for King Minos’s hideous monster, the Minotaur. What monsters does this maze conceal, I wonder?’

He stood shaking his head in astonishment at the sheer wall of green rising at least three yards into the air. The abbess came and joined him.

‘It’s kept fresh by rich soil and being open to the rain and snow. They also talk about underground springs and rivulets. I understand it was first planted with hornbeam, but other species were included: whitehorn, privet, holly, sycamore and yew. These help to thicken and repair the walls.’

Corbett looked back at the others trailing behind, all deep in conversation.

‘Come, Sir Hugh,’ said the abbess.

‘Into the maze?’

‘There was a time,’ she teased, ‘when you vowed you would follow me into hell itself and fight Satan and all his liveried retainers.’ She paused. ‘I see you blush. We won’t go deep into the maze, just-’

‘I was a mailed clerk,’ Corbett replied, ‘a rash youth when I swore such an oath.’

‘Full of passion,’ the abbess replied as she led him into the entrance of the labyrinth.

Corbett fell silent. This was a different world, eerie and strange, the close-packed hedges rising either side to tower over him. He stared at the pathways that broke off in different directions to wind even deeper into this mesh of greenery. A brooding, silent place. No birdsong, no sound, no movement. Nothing but a brooding stillness. He felt as though the maze was suffocating him, stifling, closing in on either side. He pressed against the hedge, and it bent to receive his weight.

‘Like a ship’s sail,’ he murmured, ‘billowing in the wind.’ He attempted to climb, but could find no secure hold for foot or hand. He turned at the abbess’s laugh.

‘Hugh, it’s impossible.’

‘Could ladders be used?’

‘It’s been tried, but as you say, it would be like resting a ladder against a billowing sail.’

Corbett walked further down the pathway.

‘Be careful,’ she called. ‘Do not turn to the right or left.’

Corbett paused. He could hear the murmured conversation of his companions and the strident calls of the peacocks. He turned and walked back to join the abbess, who was sitting on a turf seat just inside the entrance.

‘Why did you leave the court?’ he asked abruptly. He still didn’t have the measure of this woman who had, an eternity ago, dominated his every waking moment before disappearing so swiftly from his life.

‘The world of men,’ she whispered, ‘drove me away. Oh, there was the flirting and the coy glances. I’d give some young knight or mailed clerk my colours to wear at a tournament. Now chivalry is all well enough, but the real world, the harsh realities of life? Tied to some lord who might beat me and reduce me to no more than a brood mare?’ Face all severe, she watched Corbett, then, as the clerk made to protest, burst out laughing and clasped his wrist. ‘I tease and mock you. Hugh, you were always courteous and gentle. If I could have married any man, it would have been you. But forget the world of men. I found my vocation, I discovered I had a calling.’

She shrugged prettily and rose to her feet, tugging at Corbett’s hand so he would follow her. They left the maze and strolled back towards the others. Corbett stopped, turned and looked back at the labyrinth, a massy, ominous presence, like some monster frozen by a magician’s spell. He half expected it to erupt into life, spring forward and devour everything in its path. He’d felt threatened along that narrow path cutting between walls of greenery that seemed as hard as any castle bulwark yet, when pushed, billowed into nothingness.

‘Do not enter,’ the abbess commanded. ‘Do not enter the maze until Rosamund’s twine has been fully laid out. Hugh, heed my warning.’ She walked back to join him.

‘Oh, I do,’ Corbett retorted. ‘That truly is a place of murder.’

A short while later, Corbett convened a meeting in the small guest-house refectory. For a while he just sat listening to the sounds of the nunnery: the tolling of bells, the patter of sandalled feet, the occasional refrain of a psalm or hymn, the barking of dogs in their distant kennels, the neigh of horses, and above them all, the piercing shriek of the peacocks. He smiled even as he mentally beat his breast. In many ways he felt a hypocrite, a liar, a sinner. He had closeted himself at Leighton Manor, locked in his love for Maeve and their children, absorbed in studying bees, but now, as he quietly confessed to himself, he was back to what he enjoyed most: the hunting of a murderer, the unmasking of a killer.

‘Master? What are you thinking? What are your suspicions?’

‘Ranulf, my friend, as God made little apples, Elizabeth Buchan was murdered and so was Margaret Beaumont. I am sure of it. Now,’ Corbett clapped his hands softly, ‘let us begin. Vicomte, Chanson, perhaps you could stand on guard outside whilst I converse with my learned friend here.’ Both men left. ‘Ranulf, I haven’t seen you since Twelfth Night past. You are my brother, my comrade. You have a weakness for a pretty face, yet you possess a good heart and, if you could control your lust, a logical mind and sharp wits. So, my friend, shall we use those?’ Ranulf nodded his agreement. ‘Good.’ Corbett sat down at the table, indicating that Ranulf sit next to him. ‘First,’ he leaned closer, ‘did you have intercourse with Elizabeth Buchan?’

‘No. She protested when I tried to kiss her, claiming she was a virgin.’

‘Second, was she killed by a bolt from your crossbow?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you claim that was stolen from your chamber here at Godstow?’

‘Yes. I protested, but-’

‘But that was a lie, wasn’t it, Ranulf? You are very careful, most prudent about your weapons.’ Corbett sighed. ‘Well, except for the one hanging between your legs.’ Ranulf coloured. ‘The truth?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Your crossbow bolts can only be loosed by your arbalest. That wasn’t stolen. You gave it to her, didn’t you?’