Paul Doherty - Nightshade

Corbett had scarcely returned to Mistleham when there was a tap on his door. He answered it to find a servant hopping from foot to foot in the gallery outside.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he declared, ‘Lady Hawisa sends her regards and asks you to join her in the chapel.’

Corbett went back into his chamber, picked up his cloak and followed the servant along the gallery, down the steps and into the chapel, where Lady Hawisa sat on the mercy seat near the lady altar. The servant ushered Corbett over, then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Lady Hawisa didn’t even turn in her chair. ‘I’d be grateful if you would bolt that door.’ He did so, then walked towards the sanctuary. Lady Hawisa rose to meet him. She was dressed in full black, and as he drew closer, she lifted up her veil and smiled serenely at him.

‘You must think I am in mourning, Sir Hugh, but I’m not. I am actually giving thanks for my deliverance.’

‘From what, my lady?’

‘From evil, from my loveless marriage, from the snare that bound me. I came here early today to give thanks and I walked into the sanctuary.’ She took Corbett by the wrist and led him to the foot of the steps leading up to the altar. To the right hung the silver bejewelled pyx next to the glowing red sanctuary lamp and, directly above the altar, a crucifix on the end of a silver cord tied to the rafters above.

‘They say the wood of the cross is made from the cedar of Lebanon,’ she explained. ‘Imported especially from Outremer. However, look at the figure of Christ, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett did so: a beautiful bronze carving of the Saviour, arms extended, body twisted in agony, head drooping, the hair hiding his face.

‘You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Study it, Sir Hugh. What is missing?’

Corbett stared at the figure, the feet nailed over each other, the small sign Pilate had pinned above the cross.

‘Nothing that I can see.’

‘What does the Saviour have on his head on any crucifix you’ve seen?’

Corbett stood on tiptoe, peered then gasped. ‘There’s no crown of thorns; that’s what is missing.’

‘That’s how my husband ordered the figure to be carved,’ she explained. ‘Instead of a crown of thorns, he put a ring on the Saviour’s head.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘As I’ve said, Sir Hugh, my husband hardly informed me about anything. When I used to kneel here, I would study that ring andwonder. It was made of silver, with jewels along the rim. I suspect the ring belonged to his cousin Gaston, killed at Acre.’

‘And now it’s gone?’ Corbett turned, sat down on the sanctuary steps and stared up at her.

‘I noticed it was missing this morning. On the afternoon before he was murdered, my husband complained that something had disappeared from this chapel. That’s what he was referring to.’

Corbett rose to his feet and left the sanctuary. He walked over and stared up at the wooden carving nailed to the wall depicting St George killing the dragon, which writhed under the hooves of his horse.

‘Beautiful wood,’ he murmured. ‘An exquisite carving. Lady Hawisa, I thank you for bringing me here. I don’t understand the significance of that ring disappearing. All I do know is that the events here at Mistleham thread back through the years to what happened at Acre. However, I have a question for you. On the morning your husband was found murdered, on the table next to him in the reclusorium was that beautifully carved cup brimming with claret. Deadly nightshade had been mixed with that, as well as with the jug of wine on the waiting table. We know from Physician Ormesby that your husband never drank that poisoned wine. Indeed, I suspect the wine was poisoned not before he was murdered but afterwards.’

Lady Hawisa gasped.

‘A nasty trick,’ Corbett explained. ‘A decoy, a device to distract our attention and perhaps point the blame at you. Think,’ he continued. ‘It was you who gave him the cup, pretending it was fashioned out of elm but actually made of ill-omened yew. You are also known for being responsible for the herb garden here atthe manor, which contains nightshade and other poisons. Now I ask you this, as a matter of confidence between the two of us. Have you ever confessed or told anyone of your secret, murderous desire to poison your husband?’

Lady Hawisa swallowed hard and glanced fearfully at him.

‘My lady,’ Corbett continued, ‘I am not accusing you. I truly believe you had no hand in the murder of your husband, but that cup was poisoned! You have confessed your secret desires, your temptation to do just that.’

Lady Hawisa closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. ‘On the afternoon before my husband was murdered,’ she began, ‘I was out in the herb garden tending certain plants. I approached what I call the Hortus Mortis, the Garden of Death. I studied those noxious plants and the old temptation returned.’

‘Why?’

‘I saw the clouds of smoke rising above Mordern. I realised you were burning the corpses of those unfortunates. On that afternoon, Sir Hugh, I truly wanted to kill my husband. Such temptations disturbed the humours of my soul. I fled the garden and came here. I sat in the mercy chair and confessed my thoughts aloud where someone else could have heard.’

‘But there was no one here?’

‘No, of course not.’ Lady Hawisa shook her head. ‘It’s possible someone was hiding away, but I doubt it.’

‘And is that the only time you have ever voiced such murderous thoughts?’

Lady Hawisa nodded.

‘Are you sure?’ Corbett insisted.

‘Sir Hugh, I am, but …’ Her voice faltered.

Corbett walked over, took her mittened hand and gently kissed the fingertips.

‘Lady Hawisa, thank you.’ He’d reached the chapel door when she called his name.

‘My lady?’

She walked slowly towards him, her lower lip trembling, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Sir Hugh, I’ve just remembered. I have voiced such thoughts to my confessor, Father Thomas, but surely …’

Corbett stepped out of the shadows. ‘Anyone else, my lady?’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Only once did I turn on my husband, years ago. We were alone. I had visited him in the reclusorium. I screamed how one day I hoped he would drink the poison I gave him.’

‘And what was his reply?’

‘As always, the curling of the lip, the shrug of a shoulder as if I was some noisome bird pecking at the window, a matter of little importance.’

‘And whom might your husband tell?’

‘He may have confided in Brother Gratian. However, if my husband trusted in anyone, it would be his creature Claypole.’

She startled at a sudden tapping on the chapel door. Corbett pulled back the bolt and opened it. Ranulf stood there with a servant beside him.

‘Sir Hugh, I apologise,’ Ranulf glanced over Corbett’s shoulder and bowed at Lady Hawisa, ‘but Chanson has urgent business with us. He has something to report.’

The Clerk of the Stables could hardly contain his excitement. He kept pacing up and down Corbett’s room. It took some time forthe royal clerk to pacify him. Chanson, full of glee, rubbed his hands and kept grinning triumphantly at Ranulf, who just glared back.

‘Master, the Mary loaves and Brother Gratian.’

‘Yes?’

‘He went down mid-morning, just after Nones, to distribute the loaves. The poor gather at the manor gates. Gratian was there acting the benevolent pastor distributing bread. I watched carefully. Sir Hugh, when the hungry receive food, they eat immediately, but I noticed three sturdy beggars … oh, they were dressed in rags, their hair and beards all matted, but when they took their loaves, they simply grasped them and hurried away.’