Lady Margaret cradled the wine goblet and stared into the fire, rocking herself backwards and forwards.
‘Madam, how did he leave?’
‘He took one war horse, a sumpter pony, money, provisions and clothing. He was seen by some of the tenants but Reginald often travelled-’
‘They actually saw him?’ Corbett interrupted.
‘Well, my husband seemed to be in a hurry, and did not even pause to raise his hand but they recognised his horse and his livery. No one could mistake those.’
‘He took no groom or manservant?’
‘Nobody. At first I thought he was sulking, indulging in some madcap scheme and that he would soon return. A week passed and I grew alarmed. Sir Stephen was still here. He made careful enquiries. The taverner at the Lantern-in-the-Woods had glimpsed my husband, and he’d also been seen at Hunstanton where he had taken ship for Dodrecht. He paid good silver for he took his horse and sumpter pony with him.’
‘And Daubigny?’
‘I turned on him. I screamed abuse and threats. I told him it was all his fault and that the least he could do was help me. I left stewards in charge of Harcourt and then Sir Stephen and I followed the same route as my husband did. We journeyed to Hunstanton and endured the most vile sea voyage to Dordrecht. At first we met with good news. Sir Stephen went out and spoke to the burgesses and mayor. He brought back a chapman who definitely swore he had seen Sir Reginald and that my husband had declared he was determined to travel to the Eastern March. We followed but could find no trace. Sir Stephen said he could make little sense of it. After three months he left me on the border outside Cologne.’
‘Why there?’ Corbett asked.
‘So far our journey had been relatively easy. However, Daubigny argued that once we entered the wastelands and the deep forests of Eastern Germany, our task would be impossible. He claimed we should stay in Cologne and wait. I refused. We quarrelled and he left. I cursed him as a coward, a varlet, a caitiff but. .’
‘But what?’ Corbett asked.
‘He had done what he could. He had been an honourable companion and, on reflection, years later, I realised he was correct. I hired a small household and continued my search. I was away a full year and then came home. By then Stephen Daubigny had changed. No longer the knight errant, the fearsome warrior, he had given up sword and shield, taken the vows of a monk and entered St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh.’
‘And you never met again?’
‘I wrote him one letter. I reminded him that he was responsible for my husband’s disappearance and that I did not wish to see or hear from him again. He never replied.’
‘And Sir Reginald?’
‘From the moment he left Harcourt to this very hour, I have neither seen nor heard from him again. Sometimes rumours come in, that he has been glimpsed in one place or another; nothing more than fanciful tales, not worth a farthing of sense. I became a widow. I consider myself such.’
‘And Daubigny?’
‘Oh, I watched from afar. The King was bemused but Stephen was able. I watched his ascendancy with the help of royal patronage to sub-prior and eventually Father Abbot. Of course we had business dealings, especially after Cuthbert became Prior. Now, Sir Hugh, there’s a jackdaw in human flesh. He wanted this and he wanted that. Wasn’t Falcon Brook really the property of the abbey? Cuthbert also informed me he was searching for the codicil and I told him he could go hang. Nevertheless, he was insistent. Insults seemed to have as much effect on him as arrows against a shield.’ She smiled. ‘I listened to his chatter. How the Abbey of St Martin’s did not have a relic, about the burial mound, and how Bloody Meadow could be used for the site of a guesthouse.’
‘Were you concerned?’
Lady Margaret laughed and turned to face Corbett squarely.
‘Concerned, Sir Hugh? There’s not a monk under heaven I fear. What do I care if some mouldy bones are placed in a silver casket? As far as I am concerned, they can build a cathedral in Bloody Meadow, provided they do not interfere with my demesne or infringe my seigneurial rights.’
Corbett drained the posset and put the cup back on the table. He paused as he heard shouting outside but Lady Margaret ignored this.
‘And you know nothing about these heinous murders?’
‘Sir Hugh, I know nothing about St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh that you don’t, probably less.’
Corbett felt heavy-eyed, sleepy after the wine. He rubbed his eyes. Just for a moment he felt as if he was back in Leighton Manor and wished to God he was. Lady Margaret Harcourt was of implacable will, yet there was something puzzling about what she had said, as if she was describing a dream rather than what actually happened in the past. He studied her face and, although he could not remember meeting her, now, up close, she looked familiar: the shift in her eyes, the way she spoke. Corbett heard Ranulf cough, and he pulled himself up in his chair.
‘So, you had nothing to do with Abbot Stephen?’
‘Why should I? He was a priest. I am a widow.’
‘But the marshes?’ Corbett insisted. ‘They contain a close community?’
‘There are outlaws in the forest.’ Lady Margaret smiled. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to meet them. Oh, by the way, Sir Hugh,’ she glanced across at Ranulf, ‘I understand your henchmen killed four such men, leaving their bodies like a farmer would rats at the side of a trackway. The news is all over the area. People are pleased, though they hide their smiles behind their fingers. Nevertheless, you should be careful. Oh yes,’ she paused, ‘the outlaw leader, Scaribrick, claims to be a small tenant farmer. My steward Pendler believes he organises and leads these wolf’s-heads. You have been to the Lantern-in-the-Woods?’
‘No, but my henchmen have.’
‘Well, according to common report,’ Lady Margaret seemed more relaxed now they had moved away from the bloody doings at the abbey, ‘Scaribrick was at the Lantern-in-the-Woods last night, breathing threats and curses. You killed four of his men, and made the rest look fools; they are bullyboys used to swaggering around, receiving admiring glances from that hot-eyed wench Blanche.’
Corbett hid his unease.
‘You seem very well informed, Madam.’
‘I am a seigneur in my own right, Sir Hugh. I look after my tenants and they tell me what’s going on.’
‘You don’t have tenants at the Abbey of St Martin’s?’
‘No, but I do have the Watcher by the Gates, our self-proclaimed hermit. He worked here once, you know. What was his name? Ah yes, Salyiem! He claims to be the descendant of a French lord. He was a minor official, a bailiff or reeve, I forget which. Sir Reginald liked him. Salyiem’s wife died of some contagion so he went on his travels. When he returned, I offered him a cottage and some work, but the sun had turned his wits. He built that bothy against the abbey wall, with Abbot Stephen’s permission. I don’t know what Salyiem really is. A man of God? A warlock? Or a madcap? He often comes to our kitchens when, as he says, he tires of the monks. He gives us all the news. For the last few days he has been chattering like a magpie.’
‘And does he tell you about the mysterious horn-blower?’
‘Ah yes.’
‘Have you searched for him?’ Corbett demanded.
Lady Margaret shrugged. ‘I don’t believe, Sir Hugh, in legends about wood-goblins and sprites. Or that the demon ghost of Sir Geoffrey Mandeville prowls the marshes.’
‘So, the horn-blower is flesh and blood?’
‘Of course! Apparently,’ she continued, ‘Mandeville used to have a standard-bearer, a herald, a trumpeter who always proclaimed his evil lord’s arrival in the area. As you know, Mandeville was killed and his soul gone to hell. However, Daubigny, when he was a young knight, rather liked the story. Whenever he approached Harcourt Manor, he’d stop and bray his hunting horn.’ Her lips compressed in annoyance. ‘He used to come at all hours. Sir Reginald thought it was a great joke. He’d go to the window and answer, blowing likewise on a hunting horn.’