Corbett started at the shouting from outside.
‘Woe unto you who has done this! Limb of Satan, fiend of Hell, innocent blood cries for vengeance and justice! Cursed be ye in your thinking and in your drinking . . .’
The rest of the proclamation was drowned by a soul-chilling scream, followed by shouts and yells. Corbett and Ranulf hurried to the door. The snow was swirling under a biting wind, but the flurry of winter was ignored as members of the castle, men, women and children, ran towards a tall balding man, his lower face covered by a luxuriant beard and moustache, who stood, dressed all in black, beside a small hand barrow. Corbett ran down the steps, forcing his way through the throng. On the hand barrow sprawled the corpse of a young woman, the sheet which had covered her pulled back to reveal a bloodless face, staring eyes and a quarrel high in the chest which had rent flesh and bone. A line of blood coursed down from the girl’s gaping mouth. A woman knelt beside the hand barrow, fingers combing her grey hair as she threw her head back and shrieked at the low grey sky. A man beside her, dressed in a leather jerkin, tried to comfort her. Others were gathering around, shouting words of comfort and condolence. Another young woman, hysterical with grief and fear, crouched holding on to the barrow until others prised her fingers loose and led her away. The crowd was turning ugly with shouts and curses, and Corbett became aware that the main accusations were levelled against an outlaw band and its leader, Horehound.
Sir Edmund, along with his wife and daughter, had arrived. Constance, her beautiful face shrouded by the hood of her cloak, took the distraught mother, lifting her up and pressing her body next to hers as she led her away. Lady Catherine hastened to help. Sir Edmund ordered his men-at-arms to keep the crowd away, shouting at them to go back to their business. After a while order was imposed. The grieving parents were taken into the long hall. The young woman’s corpse was inspected by the dry-faced castle leech, who introduced himself simply as Master Simon. He carefully examined the body and shook his head.
‘No bruises, no violation; death must have been instant. Sir Edmund, there is nothing I can do.’ He pointed to the quarrel dug deep into the flesh. ‘Except take that out and prepare her for burial.’ He walked away shaking his head, muttering about the girl’s death being similar to the rest.
Corbett crouched down beside the barrow, whilst Sir Edmund led the black-clad priest away, having introduced him to Corbett as Father Matthew, parish priest of St Peter’s in the Wood. Father Matthew had a strong face, lined and ashen, and hollow eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He was shaking slightly and muttered an apology about his outburst, putting it down to the horror of what he had seen. Sir Edmund called for a servant to bring a cup of posset. The snow was falling heavily now, covering the sheet-white face of the murdered girl. A flake settled on her half-open eye; others mingled with the dry blood. Corbett’s finger brushed the feathered quarrel, a stout, ugly dart, embedded so deeply the feathers mingled with the ruptured flesh. When he glanced up, the priest had returned and was staring down at him.
‘So you are the King’s man?’ Corbett noticed the fear in the priest’s eyes. ‘I apologise once again, but . . .’ Father Matthew stumbled as he gestured at the corpse. ‘It was in the lane outside the church, crumpled like a bundle of rags. I was in my sacristy when I heard Alusia’s chilling scream. She’s the girl who found the corpse. Apparently she’d arranged to go down to the cemetery to visit the grave of another victim, her friend Marion. This lass,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘was meant to go with her. Poor Rebecca! Anyway, Alusia left on Mistress Feyner’s cart, thinking Rebecca would join her later. Of course, she didn’t. When Alusia left the cemetery she stumbled across her corpse.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Such horror! I’d forgotten the warning of the ancients, Praeparetur animus contra omnia.’
‘Prepare your soul for the unexpected,’ Corbett translated. ‘You are a student of Seneca, Father?’
‘Many years ago.’ The priest seemed pleased at the arrival of the old chaplain Father Andrew, who came hobbling across almost hidden by his cloak, a walking stick in one hand, a small reed basket in the other.
‘Have you performed the rites?’ the old priest asked.
‘No, Father, I haven’t. I forgot.’
Father Matthew knelt, the snow swirling around him, and whispered the words of absolution, ‘Absolvo te a peccatis tuis,’ ‘I absolve you from your sins.’
‘And now the anointing,’ Father Andrew cackled. ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t forget the anointing. Extreme unction is one of the Sacraments of the Church. I can’t do it myself.’ Father Andrew’s light blue eyes peered at Corbett. ‘It’s the rheums in my legs, you know.’
Father Matthew snatched the phial of holy oil from the basket and began to anoint the palms of the dead girl’s hands, then her feet, slipping off the coarse leather sandals, before anointing her eyes, ears and mouth. Corbett looked over his shoulder. Ranulf stood watching avidly. Corbett recalled his henchman’s ambition, one he voiced now and again, that if the path of preferment meant ordination as a priest, he would seriously consider it.
Once the anointing was finished, Sir Edmund ordered some men-at-arms to take the corpse down to the small shed which lay behind the castle chapel, St John’s Within-the-Gate, near the entrance to the first bailey. Then he stared up at the sky, a sea of iron grey, the snowflakes shifting in the sharp breeze.
‘Sir Hugh, my apologies, you haven’t eaten, well, not properly.’
He invited the priests to join them, but the old castle chaplain declared he would watch by the corpse and pray. They watched him go, then hurried across to the Constable’s quarters. The hall was a welcome relief from the bitter cold and the grim, sombre council room. It was a long vaulted chamber, its beams painted a deep black, its walls covered in white plaster as background for a series of beautiful paintings of angel musicians, all playing different instruments: lutes, harps, viols, pipes, clarions and shawms. Sir Edmund, to ease the tension, explained how Lady Catherine had a fascination with angels, adding that the hall’s tapestries and gaily coloured cloths celebrated similar themes.
‘We call it the Hall of Angels.’ He gestured around. The hall was certainly comfortable and tastefully decorated, its hardwood floor polished and free of the reeds and rushes which collected filth and could reek like a midden heap. At the far end was a minstrel’s gallery, and down either side long trestle tables of good stout walnut, polished until they shone in the light of cresset torches and candles. In the centre of the hall, almost facing the principal doorway, was a large mantled hearth, a yawning cavernous fireplace protected by a wire mesh grille, behind which a stack of logs burned merrily. At the other end of the hall, under heraldic banners, stood the high table on its dais, and in the centre of the table rested a beautiful silver castle which served as the great salt holder. Sir Edmund, pointing out various features of the hall, took them up to the table and grouped them round it. Servants hurried from the kitchens behind the dais with steaming bowls of barley soup, followed by platters of towres, a delicious veal omelette, with buttered bread and a dish of diced vegetables. Sir Edmund poured the wine, a sparkling white, especially imported from vineyards of the Rhine. To keep their fingers warm, small ornamented chafing dishes, filled with charcoal and sprinkled with thyme, were placed along the top of the table. Father Matthew, declaring himself famished, ate quickly, and when he had finished accepted a dish of rather fatty lamb cutlets served in a mint sauce.
‘You are fasting, Father?’ Ranulf teased.
‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Sir Edmund,’ Father Matthew nodded towards the Constable, ‘insists that I dine with him here.’ He grinned. ‘So I thank him by prayer, good works and fasting for the next meal.’