‘What is it, Master?’
‘“In youth I served my time”,’
Corbett began.
‘“In kissing and making love.
Now that I must retreat,
I feel my heart breaking.
Ah God, it is your food today
That feeds me, not kisses.”’
‘Who wrote that?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Abbot Stephen did as a young monk.’
‘You can recognise his hand so well?’
Corbett smiled, turned the book and tapped the foot of the page. Ranulf peered at the drawing.
‘It’s the wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Look, the hubs, spokes, and rim! It’s like the mosaic down in the cellar. Why should Abbot Stephen have written that?’
‘A monk besotted by love, Ranulf. As Brother Dunstan is now, Abbot Stephen in his time was no better. I wonder-?’ Corbett weighed the book in his hands.
‘Do you want some food?’ Chanson called out.
‘Of course he does!’ Ranulf snapped.
Chanson placed a strip of pork on a trauncher, cut up the bread and served it. Corbett balanced it on his lap.
‘Before I left the King,’ Corbett paused as if distracted, ‘ah, yes, His Grace informed me that there were many theories as to why Stephen Daubigny entered a religious order. One of the most popular was that he fell in love with a young woman who became a nun and died rather young. Now the King said he had little proof of this except for an incident one day when he visited Abbot Stephen here in St Martin’s. Now you know our noble King likes nothing better than teasing a churchman, especially when he’s in his cups. The Queen was present with her beautiful ladies-in-waiting,’ Corbett winked at Ranulf, ‘who are always smiling at you. “Stephen”, the King declared. “Are you not distracted by beauty such as this?” The abbot replied that he was but he had his calling and they had theirs. His Grace laughed. “Have you ever loved, Stephen?”. The abbot grew sad. “Once, my lord, I did but the rose withered in a cold hard frost.” “Dead?” the King asked. “Oh yes,” Abbot Stephen replied. “And gone to God”.’
Ranulf listened with interest. He wished he had met Abbot Stephen, who seemed to have been a man after his own heart. Deep down Ranulf nursed great ambition. He wanted to be like Abbot Stephen: a warrior, a poet, a lover of fine things and beautiful women.
‘Ranulf, what’s the matter?’
‘Sorry, Master, just distracted.’
‘Aye.’ Corbett put the books down and picked up a piece of pork with his fingers. ‘Do you know, Ranulf, I suspect Abbot Stephen was distracted all his life. At first I thought it was by demons or all things Roman. Now, I’m beginning to believe it may have been by love.’
SEMPER IN ABSENTES
FELICIOR AESTUS AMANTES
PASSION IS ALWAYS STRONGER
FOR ABSENT LOVERS
Chapter 9
Corbett led Ranulf and Chanson out of the line of trees which fringed the trackway to Harcourt Manor. Snow had fallen heavily during the night, blanketing everything in its white stillness. It lay heavy on ledges and cornices, swept up deep against the wall of this great timber and stone mansion. Harcourt Manor was well situated on the brow of a gently sloping hill, surrounded by its own demesne. Corbett had passed barns and granges, seen labourers out in the fields doing what they could in such inclement weather. A line of hunters had greeted them, the corpses of rabbits and other game slung from a pole. Corbett now studied Harcourt Manor: the old house had probably been destroyed and replaced with this three-storeyed building of grey ragstone, red-tiled roof and large windows, some of them filled with coloured glass. The stonemasons had added gargoyles and statues, and it was a place of obvious wealth and power. The manor was approached by sweeping stone steps which led up to double oaken doors. One of these was now pulled apart, as grooms and ostlers hurried round to take their horses. Corbett glimpsed a lady with a white wimple on her head, dressed in a dark-blue dress with a silver belt round her waist.
‘My name is Pendler.’
A small, red-faced man bustled up, cowl pulled tightly over his head to protect his ears from the cold. He looked Corbett over from head to toe. He could tell this visitor was important.
‘I know who they are.’ The woman’s voice cut clean through the air. ‘The King’s emissaries are always welcome. Sir Hugh. .’
Lady Margaret came and stood at the top of the steps. Corbett smiled, his breath hanging heavy in the air. He went up and kissed Lady Margaret’s proffered hand. It was soft and warm. She wore mittens against the cold but on one finger he glimpsed a sparkling amethyst ring.
‘Very much the courtier.’ Lady Margaret grasped his hand and led him forward. ‘And your companions, they are welcome too.’
At first glance Corbett considered Lady Margaret beautiful, despite the greying hair peeping from beneath the wimple, the furrows and lines in her creamy-skinned face. Her lips were full and red, her nose slightly pointed, her eyes large, grey and lustrous, amused but watchful.
‘You knew I was coming, Lady Margaret?’
‘Sir Hugh, everybody in the shire knows you are here with your henchmen Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson the groom. You are at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh? We have heard of the terrible murders there.’ Her eyes were no longer amused. She picked up the hem of her skirt. ‘You’d best come in.’
She stepped over the lintel and led Corbett into a dark oak-panelled hallway, warm and fragrant-smelling, its light was mirrored in the polished oak walls, the balustrade and newel post on the wide sweeping staircase. Servants hurried up to take Corbett’s cloak and war belt, after which Lady Margaret led her visitors into a small parlour. There was a window seat at one end, with the the shutters pulled back. The chamber was dominated by a huge carved hearth where a fire roared gustily. Lady Margaret gestured at a chair in front of this whilst she took the other. A servant led Chanson and Ranulf over to the window seat. A small table was set between Corbett and Lady Margaret. Plates of sweetmeats and sugared almonds were served whilst a scullion brought deep bowled cups of posset. Corbett took a cup and drank. The wine was hot, laced with nutmeg and other herbs: a welcome relief from the chill of his journey from St Martin’s. Lady Margaret sipped at hers, sitting back in the chair with her face slightly turned away. You have a great deal to hide, Corbett thought, you are welcoming but secretive. He stared round the chamber: its walls were half-panelled and above hung paintings, a crucifix and richly coloured cloths. Behind him a large Turkey carpet covered most of the floor. On each side of the fireplace were cupboards and, above these, rows of shelves bearing ornaments, statues, a gold crucifix and a triptych. He glanced back at the fire; its warmth made him relax and he stretched out his legs. Corbett was amused by the gargoyles on either side of the fireplace, which had women’s faces framed in chainmail and war-like helmets.
‘A fanciful notion of Sir Reginald’s father,’ Lady Margaret observed, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘The manor house is full of them. He had more than a fair sense of humour.’
She put the goblet on the table and laid the white napkin across her lap, smoothing it out, folding it and unfolding it.
‘Well, Sir Hugh, I am sure you aren’t here just out of courtesy.’ She turned to face him fully. ‘There is other business?’
‘Your friend Stephen Daubigny is dead.’
‘I had no friend called Stephen Daubigny,’ she replied quietly.
Lady Margaret stared across at Ranulf and Chanson in the window seat, both pretending to be distracted by something in the garden outside.