Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (24 page)

‘A fanciful notion of Sir Reginald’s father,’ Lady Margaret observed, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘The manor house is full of them. He had more than a fair sense of humour.’

She put the goblet on the table and laid the white napkin across her lap, smoothing it out, folding it and unfolding it.

‘Well, Sir Hugh, I am sure you aren’t here just out of courtesy.’ She turned to face him fully. ‘There is other business?’

‘Your friend Stephen Daubigny is dead.’

‘I had no friend called Stephen Daubigny,’ she replied quietly.

Lady Margaret stared across at Ranulf and Chanson in the window seat, both pretending to be distracted by something in the garden outside.

‘I do regret Abbot Stephen’s death.’

‘Murder, Madam! Sir Stephen Daubigny was murdered.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ Lady Margaret refolded her napkin.

‘He was found in his chamber with his own dagger thrust through his chest.’

‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh – no man should die like that.’ Lady Margaret looked away. ‘Abbot Stephen was a good man but, to me . . .’ She shrugged one shoulder.

‘Did you like him?’

‘Abbot Stephen was my rival. He laid claim to Falcon Brook, and that tiresome Prior Cuthbert has also hinted that a codicil existed whereby St Martin’s could claim more of our land. I informed him that my lawyers would fight such claims tooth and nail in the Court of Chancery.’

‘Did you ever meet Abbot Stephen?’

‘On occasions, from afar. But no, Sir Hugh, I did not like him and he did not like me.’

‘Because he was an abbot who claimed some of your lands? Or because he was Sir Stephen Daubigny?’

‘Both.’

Corbett sipped from his wine and deliberately moved his chair to the side to get a better view. Lady Margaret reminded him of some of the noble widows at Edward’s court: graceful, comely, charming but with a tart tongue and a will of steel.

‘You manage these estates yourself?’

‘I have stewards, bailiffs.’ She smiled impishly. ‘And, above all, lawyers.’

‘And you never married again?’

Lady Margaret blinked. ‘Oh, Sir Hugh,’ she murmured, ‘don’t play games with me.’ She leaned over and patted his hand. ‘I met you at court once. We were not introduced so don’t be embarrassed that you can’t recall my name or face. It was three years ago, on the Feast of the Epiphany, at a Crown-Wearing ceremony. You know how Edward loves such occasions?’

Corbett laughed softly.

‘He was there charging about as he always did. Golden-haired Edward,’ she added wistfully, ‘with a young man’s mind and an old man’s body. Lord, how he’s changed, eh, with his iron-grey hair? I remember him in his youth: he reminded me of a golden leopard.’ She smiled. ‘A magnificent animal, coiled and ready to spring. Anyway, His Grace did as he always did: he hugged and kissed me. I looked over his shoulder and saw a tall, dark-faced, sad-eyed man dressed like a priest near the door. “Who’s that?” I asked the King. “Oh, that’s Corbett my hawk.” Edward replied. “He’d prefer to fly than bow and peck at court”.’

Corbett smiled.

‘You don’t like the court, Sir Hugh?’

‘Sometimes I find it difficult, Madam.’ Corbett ignored Ranulf’s sharp bark of laughter. ‘Everything is shadows with very little substance.’

‘You are married?’ Lady Margaret asked.

Corbett’s smile answered the question.

‘As for my remarriage,’ she continued, ‘I am sure the King told you. Oh, he wanted me to marry this or that person, but I begged him, for the sake of Reginald, to excuse me and he agreed.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘I also quoted canon law, and you know how our King loves the law. There is no evidence, I pointed out, that Sir Reginald is dead so I may not be a widow.’

‘Do you think he is dead, Madam? Do you consider him so?’

‘Yes and no. In the harsh light of reason I know he must be, otherwise he would have returned. But, in my heart, never!’

The words came out almost as a shout.

‘Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘I am here to question you on that, as well as to learn all you know about Sir Stephen Daubigny.’

Lady Margaret put her hands on the arms of the chair and rocked herself backwards and forwards.

‘It is painful,’ Corbett added, ‘but hideous murders are occurring at St Martin’s. Abbot Stephen’s was the first. Now members of the Abbey Concilium are being slain, each hideously branded.’ He paused. ‘They have died by poison, and by arrow, whilst Brother Gildas, the mason, had his brain crushed with a rock.’

Lady Margaret gasped and closed her eyes. She tried to stop it but she began to tremble. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and picked up the posset cup, cradling it in her hands.

‘Please, Madam, tell me of Sir Stephen?’

‘He and Reginald were like brothers. Remember the Book of Proverbs: “Brothers united are as a fortress”? Well, that’s how it was. Stephen came from a noble but poor family. His parents died young and Reginald’s father took him in, as an act of kindness. So,’ she sighed, ‘they were raised as brothers. When civil war broke out between Edward and his barons, led by De Montfort, Reginald and Stephen flocked to the royal banner. Edward called them his young lions. They were his men in peace and war, enduring all the hardships and privations of campaign. As you know, on one occasion, Stephen saved the King’s life. The war ended and, to the victors, came the spoils. Reginald’s estates were extended: he gained meadows and pastures, granges and barns. I own properties in Cornwall, Somerset, South Yorkshire and Kent. Stephen also prospered. He was given rebels’ estates in Lincolnshire and Norfolk. They both became knight bannerets, members of the King’s Council. They shared Edward’s chamber, and were of that select band of knights who were allowed to carry arms in his presence. They loved each other and Edward loved them both: anything they wanted, they could have. My family come from Lincolnshire. The King arranged our marriage. I was only seventeen but when I met Sir Reginald I fell in love. He was kind and gentle, albeit a born warrior. Oh, he could bore you to death with details about the hunt or the virtues of this war horse compared to another, yet he was a good man.’

‘And Sir Stephen?’

‘Ah yes! The briar in the garden patch, the thorn on the rose.’ Lady Margaret took a deep breath. ‘I disliked him from the start: hot-eyed, impetuous, slightly mocking. Sir Hugh, I don’t think he believed in anything except the King, Sir Reginald and his own sword arm.’

‘Anything?’ Corbett queried.

‘Oh, he’d go to Mass and chat through it, if he didn’t fall asleep. Daubigny had little time for priests or religion. He wasn’t blasphemous or offensive, just cynical and mocking. Nobody was more surprised than I when he entered St Martin’s.’

‘And you continued to dislike him?’

‘Sir Hugh, sometimes I hated him.’ Lady Margaret turned, her face now harsh, eyes narrowed, lips set in a determined line. ‘Reginald talked about him continuously and they couldn’t bear to be apart for any length of time. Not a Christmas, Easter, Midsummer or Michaelmas passed without Sir Stephen in attendance. Sometimes I felt as if I was married to two not one man.’

‘Was he mocking towards you?’

‘He wasn’t lecherous, just hot-eyed and slightly insolent. I think he resented Reginald’s marriage. The years passed. Sir Stephen was still employed on various tasks by the King. When he went away, I fell to my knees and thanked Le Bon Seigneur but he always came back.’ Lady Margaret spat the words out.

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘We were happy.’

‘How many years were you married?’

‘Five.’

‘And what of Sir Reginald’s disappearance?’

‘In my heart I have always blamed Daubigny. You have heard, Sir Hugh, about the legend of Arthur and his knights. Well, Reginald loved such tales. He collected the stories, and never turned away a troubadour or a minstrel. Stephen fed him these fancies like a man would his dog. I grew alarmed. Sir Reginald nourished a great dream to go on crusade, and then, with the Turks so successful in Outremer, Sir Reginald considered travelling east to join the Teutonic knights in their war against the heathen along the Eastern March. I was aghast. I begged him not to go. It was the only matter over which we quarrelled, sometimes bitterly.’ Lady Margaret sipped the posset cup. ‘One midsummer Stephen arrived here. He and Reginald were like two mischievous schoolboys. They put their heads together and began to plan their crusade. First they would hold a tournament, a tourney here at Harcourt Manor in one of our great meadows. Knights from all over the shire were invited. The feasting and celebrations lasted for days. Reginald was a redoubtable jouster, a master of the tournament. He became full of excitement, talking more and more about his crusade. The wine drank in Sir Stephen’s company did not help matters. On the last day of the tournament Reginald told me he would definitely be leaving. We quarrelled late that evening. He slept in a different chamber. The next morning he was gone.’

Lady Margaret cradled the wine goblet and stared into the fire, rocking herself backwards and forwards.

‘Madam, how did he leave?’

‘He took one war horse, a sumpter pony, money, provisions and clothing. He was seen by some of the tenants but Reginald often travelled—’

‘They actually saw him?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘Well, my husband seemed to be in a hurry, and did not even pause to raise his hand but they recognised his horse and his livery. No one could mistake those.’

‘He took no groom or manservant?’

‘Nobody. At first I thought he was sulking, indulging in some madcap scheme and that he would soon return. A week passed and I grew alarmed. Sir Stephen was still here. He made careful enquiries. The taverner at the Lantern-in-the-Woods had glimpsed my husband, and he’d also been seen at Hunstanton where he had taken ship for Dodrecht. He paid good silver for he took his horse and sumpter pony with him.’

‘And Daubigny?’

‘I turned on him. I screamed abuse and threats. I told him it was all his fault and that the least he could do was help me. I left stewards in charge of Harcourt and then Sir Stephen and I followed the same route as my husband did. We journeyed to Hunstanton and endured the most vile sea voyage to Dordrecht. At first we met with good news. Sir Stephen went out and spoke to the burgesses and mayor. He brought back a chapman who definitely swore he had seen Sir Reginald and that my husband had declared he was determined to travel to the Eastern March. We followed but could find no trace. Sir Stephen said he could make little sense of it. After three months he left me on the border outside Cologne.’

‘Why there?’ Corbett asked.

‘So far our journey had been relatively easy. However, Daubigny argued that once we entered the wastelands and the deep forests of Eastern Germany, our task would be impossible. He claimed we should stay in Cologne and wait. I refused. We quarrelled and he left. I cursed him as a coward, a varlet, a caitiff but . . .’

‘But what?’ Corbett asked.

‘He had done what he could. He had been an honourable companion and, on reflection, years later, I realised he was correct. I hired a small household and continued my search. I was away a full year and then came home. By then Stephen Daubigny had changed. No longer the knight errant, the fearsome warrior, he had given up sword and shield, taken the vows of a monk and entered St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh.’

‘And you never met again?’

‘I wrote him one letter. I reminded him that he was responsible for my husband’s disappearance and that I did not wish to see or hear from him again. He never replied.’

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘From the moment he left Harcourt to this very hour, I have neither seen nor heard from him again. Sometimes rumours come in, that he has been glimpsed in one place or another; nothing more than fanciful tales, not worth a farthing of sense. I became a widow. I consider myself such.’

‘And Daubigny?’

‘Oh, I watched from afar. The King was bemused but Stephen was able. I watched his ascendancy with the help of royal patronage to sub-prior and eventually Father Abbot. Of course we had business dealings, especially after Cuthbert became Prior. Now, Sir Hugh, there’s a jackdaw in human flesh. He wanted this and he wanted that. Wasn’t Falcon Brook really the property of the abbey? Cuthbert also informed me he was searching for the codicil and I told him he could go hang. Nevertheless, he was insistent. Insults seemed to have as much effect on him as arrows against a shield.’ She smiled. ‘I listened to his chatter. How the Abbey of St Martin’s did not have a relic, about the burial mound, and how Bloody Meadow could be used for the site of a guesthouse.’

‘Were you concerned?’

Lady Margaret laughed and turned to face Corbett squarely.

‘Concerned, Sir Hugh? There’s not a monk under heaven I fear. What do I care if some mouldy bones are placed in a silver casket? As far as I am concerned, they can build a cathedral in Bloody Meadow, provided they do not interfere with my demesne or infringe my seigneurial rights.’

Corbett drained the posset and put the cup back on the table. He paused as he heard shouting outside but Lady Margaret ignored this.

‘And you know nothing about these heinous murders?’

‘Sir Hugh, I know nothing about St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh that you don’t, probably less.’

Corbett felt heavy-eyed, sleepy after the wine. He rubbed his eyes. Just for a moment he felt as if he was back in Leighton Manor and wished to God he was. Lady Margaret Harcourt was of implacable will, yet there was something puzzling about what she had said, as if she was describing a dream rather than what actually happened in the past. He studied her face and, although he could not remember meeting her, now, up close, she looked familiar: the shift in her eyes, the way she spoke. Corbett heard Ranulf cough, and he pulled himself up in his chair.

‘So, you had nothing to do with Abbot Stephen?’