The sanctuary was small, cordoned off by a simple Eucharist rail rather than a rood screen. Beyond that, to the left, was an ancient Lady Chapel with a carved wooden statue of the Virgin Mother holding her child, and on the right a Chantry Chapel to St Peter, a statue of whom stood on a plinth, in one hand the keys of the Kingdom, in the other a net. The sanctuary itself was simple, niches and small alcoves to the right and left for the Offertory cruets and other sacred vessels. The high altar was built against the end wall with steep steps before it. On the right of the altar hung the silver pyx in its Corpus pouch, and beneath that a candle glowed under its red glass cap. Corbett genuflected towards this and crossed himself. He was fascinated. Most churches smelt of incense and wax, but this one was different. A sharp, acrid tang which he couldn’t place.
Corbett went through into the small sacristy, a bare limewashed chamber with a large aumbry, coffers and chests, and, beneath a black crucifix, the vesting table where the robes for Mass were laid out. He turned the key in the side door, drew back the bolts and looked out. This part of the church land was reserved for the priest. At the far end stood a simple grey-brick two-storey house, steps leading up to the main door, the windows on either side boarded up. The house looked old, but the slated roof was gleaming black in the patches not yet covered by snow. From the trellis fences and raised mounds of earth, Corbett deduced that Father Matthew was a keen gardener. He glimpsed a statue of a saint and wondered if it was one of the many holy men or women the church claimed as patron saints of gardens and herb plots.
‘What are you looking for, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett walked back to the sacristy and stood before the small gate in the Eucharist rail.
‘I’m thinking of those young women who have been murdered. The one thing which binds them together, apart from their age and sex, is that they all meet here. I wonder if their deaths . . .’
Corbett let his words hang in the air. He returned to the Galilee porch, made sure the door was secure, and walked down towards the main entrance, stopping to admire the font and the image of St Christopher holding the Christ Child painted on a nearby pillar. He opened the door and walked out into a flurry of snow. There was a sound like the rush of bird-wings and a crossbow bolt smacked into the stonework above him. Corbett stepped back hastily, slamming the door behind him. Ranulf, alarmed, drew his sword, Chanson his dagger. The groom was now fully alert but blinking and muttering to himself.
‘They know we have no bows. Whoever it is, they don’t mean to attack us! That crossbow bolt was meant as a warning.’
‘King’s man.’ The voice carried through the closed door. ‘King’s man, we intend no harm.’
Corbett lifted the latch, only to be pushed aside by Ranulf, who opened the door and stepped through before Corbett could stop him. He and Chanson went out on to the top step. A figure moved from behind a battered gravestone. He was hooded, snow covered his cowled head and shoulders. Corbett glimpsed ragged hose, though the boots were good, whilst there was no mistaking the arbalest he held. Other men appeared, at least half a dozen in number.
‘King’s man.’ The hooded one walked closer, lowering his crossbow. Ranulf, sword drawn, clattered down the steps. ‘No further,’ the man shouted harshly. He lifted his head; a ragged mask covered his face. ‘King’s man, whatever you hear in the castle, we are not responsible for the deaths of those maids, nor for what you might see in the forest.’
‘What might I see?’ Corbett shouted, joining Ranulf at the bottom of the steps.
‘The horror hanging in the woods,’ answered the man. ‘But we are poor people, truly dust of the earth; we only kill to eat, remember that.’ The cowled figure lifted his hand, and the outlaws turned and ran, scaling the cemetery wall and disappearing into the trees beyond.
The three companions stared into the falling snow for an instant, before gathering their horses and turning back towards the castle. The sombre greyness of the day deepened as the light faded. The snowstorm was subsiding, but it had turned the countryside into a silent white wasteland, emphasising the blackness of the trees and bushes above which solitary birds soared, whilst the gorse and undergrowth crackled as the snow dripped and slipped to the ground. They reached the path stretching across the open downs up to the main gate of the castle, where pitch torches and braziers glowed fiercely along the battlements.
‘It looks like a donjon from Hell,’ Ranulf muttered, yet he was eager enough to reach the gateway and escape from the chilling stillness of the countryside.
They clattered across the drawbridge where Corbett reined in. Leaning over to Ranulf and Chanson, he gave strict instructions not to tell anybody about the confrontation in the cemetery. Chanson took their horses, while Ranulf went to the buttery claiming he was still famished and Corbett returned to his chamber. A servant was waiting outside. Corbett unlocked the door and the man busied himself lighting the capped candles. He used a pair of bellows to fire the brazier and quickly strengthened the weak fire in the hearth, placing fresh logs over a bank of charcoal strewn with herbs which gave the chamber the smell of summer.
‘My Lord.’ The man sweated as he used the bellows, urging the flames to spurt up and fire the wood. ‘You’ll be as comfortable soon as a pig in its sty.’
Corbett grinned at the analogy. He helped the servant until he was satisfied, then gave him a coin and, when he had gone, locked the door behind him. He kicked off his boots and was about to settle before the fire when he heard a faint singing. Going to the window, he opened the shutter and listened intently. He recognised plainsong drifting up from the chapel of St John’s Within the Gates and all exhaustion forgotten, quickly thrust his boots back on, left the chamber and ran down the stairs. He met Ranulf just outside the tower, and grabbing his henchman by the arm, they hurried into the icy gloom, slipping and slithering as they made their way to the castle chapel. Ranulf made to protest but knew it was futile. As he had remarked to Chanson, ‘The one thing Master Longface loves is the opportunity to sing.’
The chapel of St John was a long, whitewashed barn-like structure, though the walls had been covered by paintings and the raised floor of the sanctuary was tiled with beautiful stone. The altar, of Purbeck marble, seemed to glow from the light of the candles placed either side. Father Matthew, assisted by Father Andrew, was busy organising members of the garrison into a choir to rehearse the hymns of Advent.
‘Why, Sir Hugh.’ Father Matthew beckoned them forward. ‘You heard the chanting?’
‘Angels’ teeth,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Of course he did.’
Corbett immediately became involved in the singing, and for a while stood and listened as the choir, under Father Matthew’s direction, sang the ‘Puer Natus Nobis’, ‘A Child is Born For Us’. The choir was composed of young boys and old men, but the real chanting was provided by the Welsh archers, whose voices Corbett particularly admired. He stood tapping his foot, gently moving his fingers as if he could catch the very essence of the hymn. Ranulf quietly conceded that the choir, the archers in particular, had beautiful carrying voices. In his manor at Leighton Sir Hugh had organised his own choir, composed of servants and manor tenants, and once the hymn was over Corbett was drawn into a passionate argument with the two priests over what they termed the ‘arrangement of voices’. Sir Edmund and his officers drifted in and stood fascinated as the sombre Keeper of the Secret Seal argued vehemently about who should stand where, and whether the choirs should alternate or sing together. Ranulf’s heart skipped a beat as the Lady Constance, with her damsels-in-waiting, also entered the little chapel now thronged with people and ablaze with light as Father Matthew lit more candles and tapers.