‘Why, Sir Hugh, I was about to go for a walk.’ She grasped a cane in her hand, tapping it on the floor. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have news about your husband Sir Reginald. I can say it no other way, my lady. He did not leave for an Eastern port. His remains have been discovered in the burial mound at Bloody Meadow.’
Lady Margaret swayed. Corbett hastened to steady her. She lowered her head, gasping as if she found it difficult to breathe and, when she glanced up, Corbett was shocked at the sudden change. Her face seemed to have narrowed, the skin tight on the high cheekbones, her eyes haunted and fearful. Pendler came hurrying up the steps.
‘Madam, what is the matter?’
Lady Margaret, grasping Corbett’s arm, just lifted the cane, gesturing at him to go away.
‘You’d best come in.’
She took a deep breath, pushed away Corbett’s arm and led them into the parlour. Corbett sat where he had on his last visit. Lady Margaret, still grasping the cane, sat opposite. The three others came in behind and Corbett waved them to the window seat.
‘Do you wish some wine, my lady?
‘No. Tell me of Sir Reginald. You say you’ve discovered his remains? How did he die?’
‘Why, Madam, he was murdered.’
‘By whom?’
‘Madam, we both know that.’
OMNIBUS IGNOTAE MORTIS TIMOR
IN ALL CREATURES THERE IS THE FEAR OF
UNKNOWN DEATH
Chapter 13
Lady Margaret didn’t move. She sat gripping her stick, staring at the weak fire, where the flames spluttered around the slightly damp logs.
‘You heard what I said, Madam?’
‘I heard what you said, clerk. You’d best say your piece.’
‘You loved Sir Stephen Daubigny, didn’t you?’
Lady Margaret started, as beads of sweat laced her forehead under the wimple.
‘Loved!’ she murmured harshly.
‘You know you did,’ Corbett continued matter of factly. ‘You were betrothed to Sir Reginald but your heart was Daubigny’s, as his was yours.’
‘He had a lover, Heloise Argenteuil.’
‘No, Madam, that was a jest or, perhaps it was more a tale to cover up what you had done. Decades ago in Paris the famous theologian Abelard fell in love with Heloise, a woman he was tutoring. Abelard was a brilliant scholar, a subtle theologian, a Master in the Schools. Heloise’s relatives, however, were furious. They seized Abelard and castrated him. He later withdrew from society but, in spite of all the protests and violence, Abelard and Heloise continued to love each other. Heloise entered a convent at Argenteuil. You took her name to create this fictitious woman whom Stephen Daubigny was supposed to have loved and lost. In reality, it was just to divert suspicion.’
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.’