‘But Sir Stephen’s dead and the horn can still be heard late at night.’
‘I know, I have sent out bailiffs but they cannot discover who it is. One of these days I’ll send them down to the Watcher by the Gates.’
‘Do you think it’s him?’
‘It must be. I know he has a hunting horn. He is always chattering about what he hears at night. He loves to agitate the maids with his gossip.’
Corbett silently promised himself a visit to this eccentric hermit.
‘The marshes are full of such incidents,’ Lady Margaret continued absentmindedly. ‘Ghastly stories about demon riders, the howling of beasts from hell. You know about the Corpse Candles?’
Corbett nodded.
‘Be wary of them! Scaribrick has been known to use lanterns and lights at night to trick unwary travellers from their paths.’
Corbett sat and watched a log snap and break in the hearth. His conversation with Lady Margaret had provided no light, nothing new, yet he was certain she could tell him more. He felt as if he had entered a dark chamber, with the lights doused, the windows firmly shuttered. He was just stumbling around, feeling his way, tripping and slipping.
Corbett reflected, staring into the fire: Lady Margaret had everything prepared, the story came tripping off her tongue like the lines of some mummery but for what reason? To hide her own grief? To conceal, perhaps, her deep hatred for Abbot Stephen? She showed little grief at his going and no interest in the details of that hideous death: how a man, who once loved her husband, had a dagger thrust deep into his chest.
‘Will you stay the day?’ Lady Margaret murmured.
‘No, my lady. However, I would like to return to the question of Sir Stephen Daubigny. Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘what of the relationship between Sir Stephen and your husband?’
‘What are you implying, clerk?’ Lady Margaret lifted her hand deprecatingly. ‘I shouldn’t really be angry. So many years have passed. But, yes, there were whispers, malicious gossip that the love between them was like that of David and Jonathan in the bible.’
‘And was it true?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Sir Stephen was a lady’s man, heart, body and soul. He loved nothing more than a teasing dalliance. It was all part of being a knight errant, a troubadour. Daubigny knew all about the courts of love, the songs and poems from Provence. Moreover, he did fall in love.’
‘Yes, I thought he did,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I found a book in the abbey library, which had in the back a love poem in Abbot Stephen’s hand.’
‘A poem, Sir Hugh? Do you recall it?’
Corbett closed his eyes. ‘I only read it quickly. Something about: “In my youth I served my time, in kissing and love-making. Now I must retreat, I feel my heart is breaking”. .’
Lady Margaret leaned forward: try as she might she could not stop her lower lip quivering, tears pricking her eyes.
‘So long ago,’ she whispered, ‘Reginald use to write love poetry to me.’ She paused, composing herself. ‘Couplets, quatrains, verses and odes.’
‘And Daubigny’s great love?’
‘I know little about her, Sir Hugh. Reginald told me a few of the details, just before he disappeared. She was a young woman from noble family — I think her name was Heloise Argenteuil. Stephen fell deeply in love with her but she did not respond, and would have nothing to do with him.’ Lady Margaret stared blankly at the wall above the hearth. ‘She forsook the world and entered a convent, I forget which one, but it was an enclosed community which turned Sir Stephen away. I suppose that was another reason for our enmity: whilst Sir Stephen was with me across the seas, Heloise died and was buried in the convent grounds. Perhaps that turned his mind, tipped his wits. He was never the same again.’
‘And all things Roman?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Ah yes.’ Lady Margaret touched the white wimple on her head, re-arranging its drapes and folds. ‘Now, that did fascinate Sir Stephen. During the war against de Montfort, Sir Stephen and my husband had to go into hiding. According to one story, they sheltered in a forest, somewhere in the south-west, and stumbled upon the ruins of a Roman house or villa. Stephen never forgot the beautiful mosaics and pictures. After the war, he spent time visiting the Halls of Oxford and Cambridge, the cathedral schools, begging librarians and archivists for the loan of manuscripts on anything Roman.’
‘Sir Stephen was a scholar?’
‘Yes, both he and Sir Reginald attended Merton Hall in Oxford. When he talked about the ancient times,’ she continued, ‘I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, he became a different man, no longer the arrogant knight or the witty courtier. Apart from his love for Heloise and his regard for my husband, the only time he showed true feelings were for “all things Roman”, which was his favourite expression.’
‘And he continued that interest as a monk, the only link with his former life?’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Margaret put the cup she had been cradling back on the table, ‘I welcome you but I find your visit upsetting. Perhaps, if there is nothing more?’
She got to her feet and extended a hand. Corbett grasped it and kissed her fingers. Despite the fire they felt ice cold.
‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Madam, but. .’
‘I know, I know,’ she retorted, ‘if I recall anything, Sir Hugh, I will let you know.’
Ranulf and Chanson got to their feet. Lady Margaret grasped Corbett by the elbow.
‘There is one thing. The abbey has another visitor, Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby? I heard of his arrival. He had no love for Abbot Stephen.’
‘I know that.’ Corbett laughed. ‘They were rivals on the field of Academe.’
‘They were more than that.’
Corbett stopped, his hand on the latch of the door.
‘Madam?’
‘Hasn’t Archdeacon Adrian told you?’ she teased. ‘He comes from these parts. He and Daubigny went to the same cathedral school. More than just theological disputation separated them. There was some incident in their youth, hot words which led to blows. Abbot Stephen may have forgotten but I don’t think Wallasby did.’
She led Corbett out into the hallway. A steward brought their cloaks and war belts. Lady Margaret asked about what else was happening in the abbey and Corbett replied absentmindedly. They went out onto the steps. A groom brought their horses round. They whinnied and stamped in the ice-cold air, steam and breath rising like small clouds. Corbett stared up at the sky, which was grey and lowering, threatening more snow. A cold wind whipped their faces.
‘A safe journey, Sir Hugh.’
Lady Margaret extended her hand. Corbett kissed it again. He was about to go down the steps when a line of ragged men and women came out of the copse of trees which fringed the path down to the main gate. Corbett stared in amazement. There were thirty or forty people in all, leading short, shaggy ponies, their belongings piled high and lashed with ropes. They walked purposefully towards the manor. Pendler the steward came hurrying from the stables behind the house.
‘My lady, we have visitors.’
‘No, Pendler,’ she called merrily back, ‘we have guests!’
Corbett stared in astonishment as the motley collection of beggars drew nearer. They were followed by a cart, its wheels shaking and creaking, pulled by a thin-ribbed horse which looked as if it hadn’t eaten for days. The beggars were cloaked in a collection of rags, their heads and faces almost muffled. The leader came forward, hands raised, and greeted Lady Margaret. Corbett couldn’t decide whether they were travellers or Moon people, gypsies or an intinerant band of travelling mummers.