‘And the time of these hauntings?’
‘Oh, some weeks ago there were fairly constant sightings at dusk and dawn, the grey time when ghosts return to walk amongst the living.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘Quite eerie. A figure in brilliant white,’ Fulbert declared. ‘I glimpsed it one evening from a window. It had no face, nothing to distinguish it, a white column from head to toe. Whiter than the purest chalk. The light seemed to dazzle in it before disappearing into the gathering murk.’
‘And others saw this?’
The rest murmured that they had.
‘Then the hauntings stopped as abruptly as they had begun?’
‘Indeed,’ the abbess replied.
‘But ghosts don’t really walk, do they?’ Corbett tapped the side of his head. ‘They only walk here, where the living and the dead throng noisily.’
‘True,’ Lady Joan teased back, her face softening, ‘that’s where the true ghosts lurk. Nevertheless, Sir Hugh, Rosamund’s ghost seems real enough. The chronicles of this house mention its appearance over the last hundred years. Some maintain that high-spirited, perhaps even bored young ladies with plenty of time on their hands helped such a legend to grow. Others believe a ghost truly walks both the maze and the priory. But come, Sir Hugh, you wish to see Rosamund’s maze. First let me show you where she lies buried.’
The abbess extended her hand for Corbett to take, squeezing his fingers and leading him out of the Magdalena chamber along beautiful stone passageways to the east of the nunnery. The main chapel stood separate from the rest of the convent buildings in a hollow surrounded by ancient beech and oak trees, their gleaming trunks and the mass of interlacing greenery giving the church a romantic allure, like some forest-circled shrine housing the Holy Grail in the legends of Arthur. For a while they paused as a line of novices in their light-blue headdresses and brown robes filed two by two out of the chapel, eyes down, hands joined, under the watchful scrutiny of senior nuns. Corbett studied these intently whilst he recalled certain remarks and observations, promising himself to challenge what he had been told regarding a number of matters. Once the novices were gone, he followed Lady Joan down a set of steps and in through the main door of the convent church.
He was immediately struck by the sheer beauty of the place. Undoubtedly of Norman origin, with its rounded, dog-tooth-framed arches, the church had been both extended and enhanced over the years. The Cotswold stone glowed gold, whilst the tiled floor was exquisitely decorated with eye-catching motifs of green men of the forest with vines sprouting from their mouths, their wild, twisted hair festooned with yellow broom, the insignia of Henry II, the first Plantagenet. The walls, rounded pillars, arches, capitals and bosses were decorated with a profusion of wild creatures and exotic plants, the constant theme of this artistry being a profusion of roses, a tribute to the long-dead royal mistress, Rosamund. The nave was breathtaking, with its soaring roof and a large window at the far end full of painted glass, which turned the sunlight into a range of brilliant colours to gleam and dazzle in the oaken rood screen dominated by the Cross of Subiaco, with life-size figures of St Benedict and Scholastica either side.
Through the door of the rood screen, Corbett glimpsed the majestic sanctuary with its high altar of snow-white stone, its scarlet and gold carpets and silver-chased crucifixes, pyxes, candlesticks and other sacred objects. The northern transept was filled with small chantry chapels, each enclosed behind a trellised wooden screen. The south transept, however, held memorials to the dead, the most resplendent being that of Rosamund, a table tomb of Purbeck marble with a life-size effigy of a young woman portrayed as a beautiful wanton. The artist had conveyed this in his carving of her flowing hair, the languorous poise of her body and the way her long, slender legs and firm breasts were clearly emphasised. An oriel window above the tomb filled with brilliantly hued stained glass depicted Rosamund kneeling, hands extended, as she venerated a blazing cross. Corbett peered up at this, entranced by its beauty. The cross was Celtic in form, its centrepiece being a large roundel full of cryptic symbols. A similar cross had also been carved in the stonework beneath the window and just above the tomb. The end of this cross was rounded, whilst the footrest carved for the crucified Christ’s feet jutted out.
‘Strange designs,’ Corbett murmured.
‘Rosamund Clifford was Welsh, like the Lady Maeve.’ The abbess squeezed his fingers. Corbett withdrew his hand to concentrate on the inscription written in a scrolled motto beneath the carving and in the actual window painting itself.
‘Clavis secreto Rosamundi – the key to Rosamund’s secret.’ He turned to the abbess. ‘What is that?’
‘If I told you,’ she laughed, ‘it wouldn’t be a secret. In truth, I don’t really know. They say it is passed from one abbess to another, but,’ she smiled, ‘that too could be a secret.’
Corbett realised that the lady abbess had decided to be as enigmatic as possible, so he walked around the tomb into the gap between Rosamund’s sepulchre and the outside wall in order to scrutinise both carving and painting more closely. The others joined them.
‘Sir Hugh, you have read about the so-called secret?’ Vicomte called out. ‘I have studied the Godstow chronicle. This has always been an ancient, mysterious place.’
Corbett came back from around the tomb and beckoned Vicomte out of the shadows. The chancery clerk blinked and wetted his lips as Corbett studied those clever eyes in the furrowed face. A young man in an old man’s body, he concluded, shrewd and astute. Very skilled at what he did.
‘You said this place was ancient?’
‘Very ancient, Sir Hugh. There have been churches here since the Romans left. After all, it’s an ideal place, richly wooded and well watered. One chronicler called it a true refuge from the world.’
‘And Rosamund’s secret?’
Vicomte grinned. ‘If there is a secret, why proclaim its existence? That has always fascinated me.’
‘So how do we know there is one?’
‘According to tradition …’ The abbess smiled, gesturing at Vicomte, who took up the story.
‘When Rosamund was dying, she demanded that all the other nuns leave the death chamber except her successor, as she wished to impart a great secret.’ Vicomte tapped the tomb. ‘Ever since then, rumours have persisted. Most people think this church houses the secret, but so far no one has discovered it.’
‘And what could it be?’
‘Speculation runs rife,’ Vicomte replied. ‘Some claim Rosamund had a treasure trove, a chest crammed with precious objects and the most sacred relics. But I don’t know.’ He laughed. ‘Such riddles, puzzles and conundrums fascinate me.’
‘Why?’
‘No matter how complex or complicated the actual mystery may be, the solution is usually breathtakingly simple.’
‘Sir Hugh, the hour is drawing on,’ Lady Joan declared. ‘You wish to see the maze?’
‘Of course.’
The abbess grasped his hand once more and led him out through the devil’s door. They followed a pebble-dashed path that wound around the buildings to what should have been the great common meadow to the east of the convent. Corbett stopped in amazement. The entire grassland, at least a square mile in acreage, was occupied by a maze, a soaring block of towering green hedge. For a while he just stood staring.
‘Daedalus,’ he murmured at last, breaking free from his reverie. He let go of the abbess’s hand and walked towards the maze. ‘Daedalus,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He built a great maze on Crete for King Minos’s hideous monster, the Minotaur. What monsters does this maze conceal, I wonder?’
He stood shaking his head in astonishment at the sheer wall of green rising at least three yards into the air. The abbess came and joined him.
‘It’s kept fresh by rich soil and being open to the rain and snow. They also talk about underground springs and rivulets. I understand it was first planted with hornbeam, but other species were included: whitehorn, privet, holly, sycamore and yew. These help to thicken and repair the walls.’