Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (34 page)

Lady Margaret didn’t disagree. A smile appeared on her bloodless lips as if she was relishing a tale she’d once delighted in.

‘Reginald Harcourt was your husband,’ Corbett continued, ‘but Stephen Daubigny was the knight of your heart. You concealed it well under what others considered to be mutual dislike, even contempt. In truth you were lovers. Sir Reginald may have been a personable man but what of his virility?’ Corbett glimpsed the surprise on Lady Margaret’s face. ‘The old infirmarian from St Martin’s remembers him well. Stephen Daubigny became a constant visitor at Harcourt Manor and everyone thought it was for love of Sir Reginald, whereas in fact, it was for love of Harcourt’s wife. Daubigny played out a game.’ Corbett glanced across at the Watcher. ‘Whenever he approached the house, he blew three long blasts on his hunting horn. Sir Reginald considered it a jest and, like Charlemagne’s knights at Roncesvalles, he would answer back. If Sir Reginald was absent, the lack of any reply was enough for Daubigny to know he was safe. When he and you were closeted alone together, you could continue your deep love for each other.’

Lady Margaret sat upright, clutching the table. She wasn’t staring at the fire but gazing straight across at the Watcher. Corbett followed her gaze.

‘No, no, Lady Margaret. He has not betrayed you. What I tell you is merely surmise but based on a logic.’

‘Then continue with your logic, clerk!’

‘I suspect Sir Reginald never knew of your affair until it was too late. Something occurred during the great tournament held here the summer he disappeared. To cut a long story short, he and Daubigny met late one evening in Bloody Meadow. By then Sir Reginald was highly suspicious and accusations were hurled. God forgive them, perhaps these former friends were even drunk. Swords were drawn and, known for his prowess, Daubigny killed Harcourt instantly. His body was stripped of as much as possible so, if discovered, there would be little indication of who he really was. Daubigny removed the top soil from the burial mound, and dug a makeshift grave. He wrapped Sir Reginald’s body in its cloak, eased it in and covered it up. Before Bloody Meadow became a matter of contention between the Abbot and his monks, it was a lonely place, where few people would ever go. Any trace of a furtively dug grave was soon well hidden. Daubigny had chosen well. Local lore regarded the grave as something sacred: protected by its own sanctity as well as the religious fervour, or superstition, of others. Sir Stephen, however, was consumed by guilt. Sir Reginald’s death had not been planned or wished for: more a matter of hasty words, red wine and hot blood. The next morning Daubigny left Harcourt manor pretending to be Sir Reginald. Dressed in his clothes, cloaked and hooded, he travelled to the Eastern ports, before slipping quietly back.’

Lady Margaret closed her eyes, breathing in deeply.

‘Sir Stephen accompanied you abroad to search for Sir Reginald,’ Corbett continued. ‘He might as well have been chasing moonbeams. He left you in the Low Countries and returned to England. By now he was a changed man. Consumed by remorse, Daubigny entered the Abbey of St Martin’s and became to all appearances a model monk. However, his life was haunted by the hideous murder of his friend. He had only to walk a short distance through the Judas Gate to see that threatening funeral mound, reminding him of his great sin. Abbot Stephen viewed Bloody Meadow as a symbol of his life, in fact a wheel, its hub being the burial mound containing the corpse of his murdered friend. He often drew it, probably sub-consciously, for that meadow in the shape of a wheel was never far from Abbot Stephen’s thoughts.’

‘And the mosaic?’ Ranulf called across.

‘Yes, when Abbot Stephen found that he must have regarded it as a sign from God. He must have been fascinated by the similarity between an ancient picture and an image which dominated his very being, his soul, his heart, his mind, his every waking moment. He’d betrayed you not only by taking the life of your husband but also, of course, there was the well-proclaimed story of his abandoning you abroad and returning to England. No wonder there was enmity, a barrier of silence between you – it had its roots in the past.’ Corbett paused. ‘Of course, Madam, my story is incomplete, isn’t it? You were also there when your husband was killed. You, and I suspect Salyiem the reeve, the faithful squire, were both party to it. You must have been. You yourself told me that Sir Reginald had left that morning. You made no mention of not seeing him the night before, whilst Salyiem actually claimed he helped Sir Reginald leave the manor house and watched him go.’

Lady Margaret opened her eyes.

In the window seat the Watcher by the Gates had jumped up as if to protest. Lady Margaret gestured for him to re-take his seat. She sat chewing the corner of her mouth.

‘God forgive you, clerk, you are sharp. I’ll not deny it. You have the truth. I loved Stephen Daubigny from the day I met him. I committed two great sins. I should have followed my heart and married him but, I didn’t, I married Sir Reginald. Harcourt was, as you say, likeable but he was not a lady’s man. He was impotent.’ She sighed. ‘Our lovemaking wasn’t how the troubadours describe the act of love. I tried my best.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘I desperately wanted to remain faithful to Sir Reginald and, to be fair, so did Stephen. Yet, we might as well have tried to stop the sun from rising. We concocted a story that we disliked each other, couldn’t abide to be in one another’s company. And Stephen, to make it even safer, fabricated the tale about being in love with some young noblewoman called Heloise Argenteuil. At the time we considered it a piece of trickery to distract others. Sir Reginald never suspected, not till late that hot, sun-filled summer’s day.’

‘You told him?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, he found out that I was pregnant. Stephen asked to meet both of us under the shade of the oak trees in Bloody Meadow. Sir Reginald had enjoyed a good day at the tournament but he’d drunk more than he should have done. We met by Falcon Brook. Salyiem, here, was Stephen’s squire and held the horses. Daubigny went down on his knees, like a penitent before his confessor. He told Reginald the truth. I shall never forget my husband’s face. He stood like a man stricken, all colour drained away from his face, his tongue searched for words. Then it happened, like a fire bursting up. He suddenly drew his sword and raised it in one sweeping arc. Daubigny moved, nimble as a dancer. He rolled aside and drew his own sword, as Reginald rushed in. Daubigny tried to disarm him. It happened in the twinkling of an eye – more of an accident than an intended blow. Sir Stephen’s sword entered here,’ she tapped her left side, ‘where the chainmail shirt was tied, deep up into his chest. I watched in horror, as did Daubigny. My husband took one step forward, blood bubbling at his lips. He was dead before he hit the ground. What could we do on that beautiful summer’s evening, with the brook gurgling by! Salyiem had heard the clash of swords and came running over.’

‘It was my plan,’ the Watcher called out. ‘My scheme. Sir Stephen would have surrendered his sword to the King but I warned him not to. What use would it be?’

Salyiem approached and, pulling up a stool, sat by Corbett’s chair.

‘We waited till darkness. We stripped the body but the chainmail and the surcoat proved too difficult to remove so we left them. I went to the burial mound. It was summer but there had been rain and the soil was soft. As a reeve, I knew about cutting and planting, so I removed the top soil, folding back the grass verge and, helped by Sir Stephen using sword and dagger, we hollowed out Sir Reginald’s grave. We slipped the corpse inside, wrapped in its cloak, and covered our makeshift grave as best we could. The peasants, even some of the monks, regarded Bloody Meadow as a haunted place. Any sign of our digging was soon covered over. We went back to Falcon Brook and washed ourselves, cleaned away bloodstains. Sir Reginald’s clothes, boots and hose were put in a sack, tied with a cord, and burnt. Now the corpse was hidden we were all committed to one plan.’ Salyiem glanced at Corbett; he smiled coldly, combing his straggling beard with his fingers. ‘Once Sir Reginald was buried, we knew that any discovery could lead to the execution of Sir Stephen, if not all three of us. We then devised our plan and returned to the manor. Early the next morning, Daubigny, cloaked and cowled, and pretending to be Sir Reginald, left Harcourt on his warhorse with his sumpter pony.’

‘But wasn’t Sir Stephen missed?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘I gave out he had to leave,’ Lady Margaret declared. ‘Who would object? At that time the mystery had not begun. Daubigny rode disguised as my husband, to the Eastern ports. He created quite a fuss so that people would remember him. In looks and colouring, Daubigny and my husband were like brothers. He then got rid of his disguise, sold the horse, pony and harness and, buying the fastest mount, rode swiftly and secretly back to Harcourt.’

‘So,’ Corbett took up the story, ‘Sir Reginald was dead and you were pregnant. You could have claimed the child was posthumous.’

‘It would have been too dangerous,’ she replied with a shake of her head. ‘The pregnancy had hardly begun. People would later think it was a remarkable coincidence. And, as you have discovered, Sir Hugh, Sir Reginald’s impotence, his lack of virility, had not remained a chamber secret.’

‘So, you pretended to go searching for Sir Reginald?’

‘The child was growing within me. Daubigny felt responsible. We crossed the Narrow Seas, through Hainault and Zeeland and into the German states. We deliberately took no servants. We stopped near Cologne, where I stayed in one of the pilgrim taverns. Daubigny went searching and at last discovered a merchant and his wife, who were English and had moved to Germany because of trade. She had always wanted a child but was barren. They accepted Daubigny’s suggestion as a parched man would water. I went and lived with them. They never knew who I was: I had changed my name, as had Stephen, and was well furnished with money. We both decided it would be too suspicious if Sir Stephen stayed until I was birthed. Before he left, we discussed the future. Daubigny was distraught. A man who had believed in neither God nor man, a young warrior with his head full of glory, he was now solemn and silent, broken in spirit. He was overcome by guilt at Sir Reginald’s death. We both vowed to make reparation.’ She tapped the walking cane on the floor. ‘The rest you know. Daubigny travelled back to England and entered St Martin’s. I gave birth to a beautiful boy. To surrender him broke my heart but that was the price of my sin. When I was ready I left Germany. The merchant furnished me with retainers who took me to the border. There I hired fresh servants and came back to England. Daubigny was already in the monastery.’ She pointed across at the Watcher. ‘He, too, was consumed with guilt.’ She paused. ‘I couldn’t forget my child. I begged Salyiem to travel back to Cologne to see what had happened to him.’

‘I did as my lady asked,’ the Watcher interrupted, ‘but, when I arrived, the family had gone and a wall of silence greeted me.’

‘They suspected that I might return,’ Lady Margaret declared, ‘so they’d moved elsewhere. Salyiem searched far and wide before coming back. He thought of entering the abbey but,’ she gazed sadly at the hermit, ‘our Watcher by the Gates had a soft spot for the ladies; the celibate life wasn’t for him.’

‘He was your go-between, wasn’t he?’ Corbett asked. ‘Between Abbot Stephen and yourself?’

She nodded. ‘We had taken a vow never to meet again. Salyiem was our messenger: nothing in writing, just words. We pretended to be enemies, arguing over Falcon Brook. I am sure you guessed, clerk, that I couldn’t give a fig for Falcon Brook. I took a vow to entertain no other man. You saw those travellers, the beggars who visited the manor the last time you visited us? They too are part of my reparation. Poor Stephen!’ She sighed. ‘He became a priest even though he believed in nothing. He was an avid scholar and proved to be a skilled theologian. He thought that by hunting demons he could exorcise his own and find something substantial on which to build his faith.’

Lady Margaret began to cry, not loudly but dramatically; an old woman, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘God forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I loved Daubigny more than life itself, I still do. One night of passion, Corbett.’ She held up her hand. ‘Just one night and our entire world was shattered. I thought I had made reparation but always, deep in my heart, I knew the demons would return. Sir Reginald’s body lay in unhallowed ground. Blood demands blood. Vengeance seeks retribution. Murder shrieks for justice.’

‘And Abbot Stephen’s death?’

‘It came as a bolt out of the blue, like a thunderstorm on a summer’s afternoon. I assure you, clerk, I know nothing of it.’ She gripped Corbett’s hand. ‘You do though, don’t you?’

Corbett smiled sadly.

‘You won’t tell me?’

‘Not now, not till it’s over. Tell me, my lady, did you ever meet Abbot Stephen, by day or night, here or elsewhere?’

‘Never! We kept our vow!’

‘Did he ever ask about his son?’

‘Not at first. But, about three or four years ago, through Salyiem, he began to question me closely. I realised that the loss of his son hurt as much as the death of Sir Reginald.’

‘I brought messages,’ the Watcher spoke up. ‘Abbot Stephen wanted the names of the foster parents, everything Lady Margaret knew about them.’

‘He went searching, didn’t he?’ Lady Margaret asked.

‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Abbot Stephen was used by the King to lead embassies to many of the courts of Europe. He had a wide circle of friends, people who could help him.’

Lady Margaret closed her eyes.

‘I . . . I think . . .’

‘You suspect what happened,’ Corbett finished the sentence for her.

She glanced at him sharply, opened her mouth to reply but paused at a sound from outside.

‘How did you get to know, Corbett? When I heard of your arrival I thought it would take you years even to suspect the truth.’