As she talked, Corbett stared at the lady seated at the top of the table. I have to be careful here, he thought. The de Lacey woman must be at least seventy summers old, the widow of one of Edward’s great mentors, whilst Fitzwarren’s husband had been one of the King’s most successful generals in Wales. Corbett drew in his breath and glanced warningly at Ranulf.
‘My Lady,’ he stepped forward. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal and Chief Clerk of the Chancery.’
Lady Catherine immediately extended a white, thin hand for Corbett to kiss, which the clerk did, choosing to ignore Ranulf’s muffled snigger.
‘The King himself has sent me here to investigate the deaths of Lady Somerville and,’ Corbett stammered, ‘the other unfortunates you mentioned.’
‘Well, Sir Hugh,’ she snapped, ‘you are welcome but do we really need the monks?’
Adam of Warfield and Brother Richard needed no second bidding but fled from the room like frightened rabbits.
‘Well?’ Lady Catherine turned with a prim smile on her face. ‘We need more chairs.’ She clapped her hands and serving women, seated in a darkened window recess, scurried to do her bidding. Corbett had to keep a straight face as the serving women, mumbling and muttering, dragged three high-backed chairs away from the wall to the near end of the long, oval table. Corbett ordered Cade and Ranulf to help. Lady Catherine swept back to her place whilst the three self-conscious men took their seats.
‘Perhaps it’s best,’ old de Lacey announced in a surprisingly clear voice, ‘if we tell the King’s Emissary,’ the words were tinged with sarcasm, ‘something about the Sisters of St Martha. We are a group of lay women,’ she continued heartily. ‘Widows who, following the counsels of St Paul, now devote ourselves to good works. We take a solemn vow of obedience to the Bishop of London and our work is amongst women who walk the streets and alleyways of London. Women,’ her gimlet eyes glared down at Corbett, ‘who have to sell their bodies to satisfy the filthy lusts of men.’ She paused and stared at Corbett as if he was personally responsible for every whore in London.
Corbett chewed the inside of his lip to avoid a smile. Ranulf lowered his head and received a kick from beneath the table.
‘Ranulf, if you laugh,’ Corbett hissed out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I’ll personally break your neck!’
‘What was that? What was that?’ de Lacey cupped her ear again.
‘Nothing, my Lady. I wanted to make sure my servant had stabled the horses correctly.’
The old woman rapped the top of the table with a small mallet.
‘You’ll bloody well listen when I address you!’
Corbett steepled his fingers before his face, his lower lip clenched firmly between his teeth as he recalled stories of de Lacey: how this woman had often campaigned with her husband and was not averse to using language which would make a hardened mercenary blush. He glanced quickly around the table. Surprisingly enough, except for Lady Catherine Fitzwarren, the rest of the group were now sitting, heads bowed; a few shoulders were shaking and Corbett was relieved that he was not the only one to see humour in the situation. He sat motionless as Lady Imelda finished her caustic description of the Order’s work.
‘At the end of this meeting and only when we have finished,’ Lady Imelda announced imperiously, ‘our sub-prioress, the Lady Catherine, will provide you with any further help. She and her companion the Lady Mary Neville.’ De Lacey clicked her fingers and pointed down the table at one of the women who now lifted her head and gazed straight at them.
Corbett and Ranulf looked at the petite, olive-skinned features of the Lady Mary. Ranulf took one glimpse of the dark blue eyes and gulped as his throat went dry and his heart beat faster. He had never seen anyone so beautiful and, although Ranulf had been with many women, he knew, sitting in this strange Chapter House, that for the first and possibly the last time in his life, he had fallen deeply in love. The woman smiled gently then looked away. Ranulf just gazed back hungrily and, for him, the rest of the meeting was a distant hum.
Corbett also watched the young widow turn away. It can’t be? he wondered. No, it couldn’t be! He felt shocked, his hands turning cold as ice. The Lady Mary bore the same Christian name, the same looks, the same demeanour of his own first wife, now years dead. Corbett couldn’t believe it, he was so shocked he lost his usual alertness and didn’t realise that the Lady Mary had had a similar effect on his manservant. Cade, however, glanced at both suspiciously and nudged Corbett gently with his elbow.
‘You, sir,’ Lady Imelda shouted down the table. ‘Are you, Master Corbett, some coxcomb, some cloth-eared knave? I am speaking to you!’
Corbett smiled thinly and bowed. ‘My Lady, my apologies, but my ride from Winchester was a harsh one.’
He studied the old, imperious face, the firm cheeks and hawkish look and resisted the urge to give this lady as good as he got. He forced himself to concentrate and, despite the eerie atmosphere of the room, began to quietly admire these courtly bred ladies; the only people in London who seemed to care about the droves of young women forced into prostitution.
The meeting moved from one item of business to another. The Lady Imelda described how they divided the city amongst them; each had a certain quarter to look after; how they had established refuges near St Mary of Bethlehem, in Mark Lane near the Tower; in Lothbury and at the junction of Night Rider and Thames Street. How they provided money and clothing, arranged marriages for some of the younger girls whilst others were clothed, given food, a few pennies and sent back to the villages and hamlets from whence they came.
Corbett sensed the sheer compassion beneath de Lacey’s curt description, a genuine concern for others less fortunate then her. He gathered the Order had been in existence for at least twenty years and already the ladies had established close ties with the hospitals at St Bartholomew’s and St Anthony’s where the physicians gave their services free whilst the Guild of Apothecaries sold them herbs and medicines at much reduced prices. Better this, Corbett thought, than the dizzy-headed butterflies at court, dripping with jewellery, clothed in satin, with no thoughts in their empty noddles other than how their faces looked and their bellies were filled.
The meeting eventually finished with a prayer and, whilst the other sisters made to leave, smiling shyly at the men and whispering amongst themselves, the Ladies Catherine and Mary led them across to a small deserted chamber just off the Chapter Room. Lady Imelda suddenly bellowed at Corbett, how she hoped the King kept his shoulders warm and drank the herbal potions she sent to him.
‘The King always suffered from rheums,’ the old lady trumpeted for half of Westminster to hear. ‘And as a boy he was always sniffing with colds. By the Mass, I wish I was back with him! A good strong horse between my legs and I’d teach those bloody Scots a lesson!’ Her voice faded as the door closed behind them.
Lady Catherine smiled wanly but her companion leaned against the wall, hand to her face, giggling uncontrollably.
‘You really must excuse the Lady Imelda,’ Lady Fitzwarren murmured as they sat down on stools around a low, rickety table. ‘She’s going as deaf as a post, her language can be ripe but she has a heart of gold.’ Lady Catherine blew her lips out. ‘Well, I am afraid we have no wine.’
Corbett shrugged and said it didn’t matter. He was now more interested in his servant who was staring fixedly at the Lady Mary. He followed Ranulf’s gaze. She is beautiful, Corbett thought, and seems gentle as a dove. He clenched his fists in his lap, he had to forget the past as well as warn Ranulf that Lady Mary Neville was not some trollop to be teased and flirted with.