‘They are burning those corpses,’ the maid cried.
Lady Hawisa nodded, indicating with her hand for the maid to withdraw. She stared at the drifting, ominous cloud and the curdle of hate, resentment and fury welled within her. She walked down the path and found herself standing by the Hortus Mortis – the Garden of Death – a special herb plot housing plants that in very small portions, could heal, but used unwisely could also kill in a few heartbeats. Her especial favourite was belladonna or deadly nightshade, a plant that fascinated her and plagued her nightmares. She crouched and stared at the herb: it was midwinter so there were no purple violet trumpets, no dark glossy berries, yet it still remained deadly. Lady Hawisa stretched out her hand as if to caress the plant and stared again at that filthy cloud spreading over the trees like some malevolent miasma. That smoke she thought, bore the flesh and blood of Adam, the beautiful leader of the Free Brethren, with his kissing mouth and laughing eyes, now dead like the rest, all sent into eternal night by her husband.Lady Hawisa breathed in slowly. She recalled Father Thomas’ description of the mysterious stranger who’d come to threaten her husband. He had called himself Nightshade. Well, if that was true, Lord Scrope was Mandrake incarnate, body and soul! Again she stretched out her hand and caressed the belladonna. Some of this would serve! She thought of the blancmange she’d mixed. Just a scattering of powder on his portion …
Lady Hawisa jumped to her feet, staring wildly around as she realised what she was thinking. She glimpsed the clump of coppice aspens trembling in the cold breeze on the far side of her garden. Were they trembling? Or was it something else? Legend had it how the aspen shivered, breeze or not, because it housed the secret guilt of being the wood used for the Saviour’s cross. Yes, Lady Hawisa thought, she was like the aspen, furtively cherishing malevolent thoughts and desires. She’d come here to soothe her soul, but now she was tempted, she had to be free!
Forgetting her basket, Lady Hawisa fled the garden through the coffin-shaped door and down the passageway. Servants stopped and stared curiously at her. She paused and drew a deep breath. She must not betray herself. She walked slowly along the passageways and galleries to her own chamber. Once inside, she tried to control her seething rancour. She lay on her bed, staring across the chamber, and slept for a while, eventually wakened by sounds from the yard below as Sir Hugh and the others returned. Lady Hawisa still felt ill-humoured; she could not meet him, not now. She needed to shrive herself, to pray. She rose, made herself presentable and went out along the passageway to the manor chapel. The door was off the latch. She wondered if someone had entered, so she called out, but there was no one. She closed thedoor and leaned against it, staring at the beautiful jewelled pyx hanging above the altar, shimmering in the red glow from the sanctuary lamp. Beside this was the crucifix, the lowered head of the dead Christ crowned with a ring once owned by Gaston de Bearn, her husband’s cousin. Hawisa idly wondered what this kinsman of her husband, this crusading hero, had truly been like. On the wall of the chapel was a marble plaque to his memory, the valiant Christian warrior who had perished in Acre. She moved down to the place of pity by the lady chapel to the left of the altar. Here the visiting priest would sit in the mercy chair while she knelt on the quilted prie-dieu to confess her sins. She did so now; no one could hear her, she was alone with God. The chapel was dark, brimming with shadows that filled the corners and alcoves. Lady Hawisa stared up at the crucifix.
‘Like my soul,’ she whispered, ‘full of shadows.’ She crossed herself. ‘Absolve me, Father,’ she intoned as if Father Thomas was sitting there. ‘Absolve me from my filthy sins. My last shriving was at Advent. I have sinned as follows: I have committed horrid murder many, many times here in my heart.’ She struck her breast. ‘My husband, Lord Scrope; in my dreams I kill him, time and time again, with rope, dagger and poisoned cup. He is a demon who forsakes my bed except for his lusts, refuses me comfort, hates and despises me as he does every living soul. He has murdered and butchered to hide the dark secrets locked fast in that grim iron soul of his. He dare not sleep with me lest he babbles in his dreams about old sins now ripe to full rottenness. Father, I truly hate him. I loathe his touch, his lifeless eyes like those of a crow. He killed the young ones, beautiful Adam, for what? I have given him a cup, Father, fashioned out of yew, but told him it’s of beech;a gift, in truth a curse. It will bring him ill fortune in that cell he’s had built for himself, the dark hidden corner of a dark hidden life. I dream of feeding him poison, filling that yew cup with some noxious potion.’ Hawisa felt the anger drain from her. She relaxed, bowed her head and, as she muttered the Confiteor, let the tears come. Eventually she composed herself and rose. She felt slightly guilty. A whole host of guests awaited her.
‘Mea culpa, mea culpa,’ she whispered. ‘I have neglected my duties.’ She thought of the chancery pouch sealed with the royal warrant awaiting Corbett. She quickly dried her eyes and left the chapel, oblivious to the watcher hiding in one of the recesses of the sanctuary. A watcher who had observed and heard her secret confession …
Corbett lay on the bed, his boots, cloak and war belt piled on the floor beside him. Ranulf was sitting at the chancery desk laying out a writing tray. He glanced across and smiled. Master Long Face would now be grinding, like an apothecary with his mortar and pestle, all he’d heard, seen and observed. Ranulf was pleased to leave that haunted, lonely forest, away from that macabre village with its ruined church full of ghosts, the funeral pyre, as Sir Hugh said, blazing away the effects of sin but not its cause. They’d ridden swiftly back through the breath-catching cold to the warmth of the manor, a delicious dish of stewed venison, soft white bread and goblets of the finest claret whilst they sat in the buttery warming themselves in front of a roaring fire. Master Benedict, who’d returned to Mistleham Manor like a ghost with his darkringed eyes and pallid face, had slowly recovered. He’d asked Ranulf and Sir Hugh if they could wait on Dame Marguerite,who’d stayed at the manor the previous evening and wished to have words with them. Corbett promised he would go to her later in the day, but first he wanted to rest and reflect. Ranulf wondered when his master would begin. He was about to sharpen a quill when there was a loud knock on the door. Corbett swung his legs off the bed and indicated with his head. Ranulf crossed, opened the door and smiled at Lady Hawisa.
‘I am sorry.’ She stepped out from the shadows. Ranulf noticed the distress in her eyes and face. ‘I apologise, but …’ He stood back and courteously ushered her in. Corbett apologised for not being suitably dressed to greet her. Lady Hawisa brushed this aside, still smiling at Ranulf’s obvious pleasure at seeing her. ‘Sir Hugh, I must apologise.’ She stared unblinkingly at him.
Corbett noticed her red-rimmed eyes. She held up the chancery pouch. ‘This arrived while you were gone. I should have brought it earlier, I …’
Corbett thanked her. Lady Hawisa, hastily recollecting where she was, immediately backed towards the door. Ranulf followed her out into the gallery; when he returned, Corbett was sitting at the chancery desk, his cipher book open as he hastily translated the missive.
‘It’s from Drokensford in the Royal Chancery.’ Corbett smiled. ‘The court is moving to Colchester, and two other items. A spy in New Temple claims the Templars have someone here in Mistleham to collect the Sanguis Christi.’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘He, or she, is under the strict instructions of the Master of the Temple not to wait for Lord Scrope to hand it over but to seize it whenever possible.’