‘The King told me you had visitors, Maeve. The Frenchman, de Craon and his companion, de Nevers.’
Maeve made a face. ‘De Craon was charming. Oh, I know Hugh, he is a fox but he brought me a scarf, pure silk from the looms of Lyons and a silver spoon for Eleanor.’
‘Get rid of them!’ Corbett rasped.
‘Hugh!’
‘De Craon is a cruel bastard who wishes me nothing but ill.’
‘Hugh, he was courteous.’
‘And how was his companion?’
‘De Nevers?’ Maeve made a face. ‘He was handsome, quieter than de Craon, diplomatic and affable. I liked him.’
Corbett glared at his wife, then realised how ridiculous he must look. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But de Craon always makes me uneasy.’
Maeve grasped him by the hand. ‘Then forget him like I have. Come and see your daughter.’
Corbett followed her and stared down at his baby daughter. At three months, Eleanor already looked like Maeve: beautiful soft skin, clear regular features. He touched one of her tiny fingers. ‘So small!’ he whispered. The baby’s hand felt warm, soft as a satin cushion. He squeezed gently and, under her small quilted blanket, Eleanor moved and smiled in her sleep.
‘She is well?’
‘Of course.’
Corbett placed his hand gently against the baby’s forehead and Maeve watched him guardedly. Her husband, usually so calm, even cold, harboured the most terrible fears of what might happen to the child. Maeve looked away. Much as she could try, her husband’s mind was still plagued by ghosts. The most frightening, surprisingly enough for a man so detached, was of losing those close to him, of being left alone. She seized him by the hand.
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered. ‘Our chamber is ready. There is wine, bread and fruit, next to the bed.’ Maeve grinned. ‘A bed covered in red silk,’ she whispered. ‘And in the centre, two embroidered turtle doves.’ Her face became serious. ‘You may want to rest? Drink something sweet? You must be tired after your long journey.’
Corbett grinned back. ‘Call Anna,’ he murmured, pulling Maeve close to him. ‘Let her sit with Eleanor and I shall show you, Madam, how tired I am!’
Chapter 3
The next morning Corbett rose early. He doused the light in its sconce holder and opened the small latticed window which looked out over the gardens and small orchard at the back of the house. The day was about to break, the sky already scored with gashes of bright light. He could hear the bells of St Lawrence Jewry clanging as dawn broke, the usual sign for the city gates to be opened and a fresh day’s business to begin. He returned to his bed and kissed his still sleeping wife on the side of her face then stood over Eleanor’s cradle for a while and watched his little daughter gaze solemnly back. Corbett was fascinated. The child was so placid, so even-tempered. Before he had risen he had heard her gurgling to herself, smacking her little lips and chatting to the wooden doll Maeve had placed on the small bolster beside her. Corbett reluctantly turned away and dressed hurriedly in the clothes Maeve had laid out over the chest the night before; leggings of dark blue, a soft white shirt, with a sleeveless cote-hardie with a cord to fasten round the waist. Corbett threw the latter aside. He knew the horrors which might confront him so he took his sword-belt off the peg on the wall and buckled it round his middle. He picked up his boots and cloak, tiptoeing gently out of the room just as Eleanor suddenly realised she was hungry and began to bellow as if she wanted to show her father some new aspect of her character.
‘Her mother’s daughter,’ Corbett whispered to himself as he crept up the stairs and pushed open the door to Ranulf’s chamber. As usual, the room looked as if a violent struggle had taken place. Corbett could only tell his servant was there by a series of loud snores. Corbett enjoyed shaking him awake, then went down to the buttery to wait. Scullions had not yet started the fire so he poured himself a jug of watered ale. Ranulf appeared, bleary-eyed and unshaven. Corbett let him quench his thirst before pushing the still half-sleeping manservant out of the house and across the street to the tavern. There was the usual commotion of mocking argument until a burly ostler brought out and saddled their horses. Ranulf splashed water over his face from the huge butt and gave the fellow the rough edge of his tongue, bluntly informing him that some people had to work and not just loll around in warm straw. This provoked a stream of abuse from the ostler which Ranulf thoroughly enjoyed. He was still throwing catcalls over his shoulder when they rode out into the Mercery and down towards the Guildhall.
The day would be a fine one and apprentices and traders were already pulling out their booths in front of the houses, fixing up poles, putting up the awnings and laying out their goods. The air was thick with the wood smoke of the artisans in their little huts behind Cheapside. Carts bringing their produce into the city crashed along the cobblestones, the drovers cracking the air with their whips and cursing their horses. Apprentices, wearing canvas and leather jerkins, kept a wary eye on the beggars moving about in the shadows between the houses. These were the upright men: not the real poor but the cranks and counterfeiters looking for easy pickings before the day’s business began. Four of the city watch marched by, leading a line of night-walkers, drunkards, thieves, blowsy whores and roaring boys, towards the great water tank, or Conduit, where most of them would stand in a cage all day to be abused by the good citizens whose sleep they had disturbed.
Corbett looked up as the bells in the steeple of St Mary Le Bow began to chime and he saw the great night-light, the beacon which guided Londoners during the hours of darkness, being doused. Now other bells began to toll, calling the faithful to early-morning mass. Ranulf stared round and drank in these sights, then, glowering at Corbett, began to complain loudly about the lack of food and how he was starving. They stopped at a cook shop, the reins of their horses looped through their arms as they gulped small bowls of hot spiced beef. Ranulf chattered about his son, the illicit fruit of one of his many amours. Corbett listened attentively. Ranulf wished to bring the boy for a short stay at the house in Bread Street. Corbett smiled bravely but his heart sank with despair. Lord Morgan, Ranulf and Ranulf’s young son would utterly destroy the peace and quiet of his household.
Corbett finished chewing the meat and washed his hands in a small bowl of rose water brought out by a thin-faced urchin. The lad looked half-starved, his eyes almost as big as his face. Corbett pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. ‘Buy some food yourself, lad.’
He dried his hands on a napkin and waited to make sure the boy did as he was told. Then, leading the horses, they walked down Cheapside. Corbett, half-listening to Ranulf’s glowing description of his son, recalled the events of the night before: after their wild, passionate love-making, Corbett and Maeve had gone down for a meal in the kitchen before going back to bed. He recalled Maeve’s teasing and his idle chatter about affairs at court. His wife, however, became anxious as Corbett described the reasons for his return to London.
‘I have heard of these murders!’ Maeve commented, sitting up and drawing the sheets round her body. ‘At first no one noticed. In a city like this, girls are killed or disappear and no one cares but,’ she shook her head, ‘the deaths of these women, the manner of their dying — is it true?’ she asked.
Corbett, lying flat on his back, suddenly stirred.
‘Is what true?’
‘They say the murderer-’ Maeve shivered and brought her knees up under her chin. ‘They say the killer mutilates the bodies of the girls.’
Corbett looked up in surprise. ‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s common gossip. Most women are frightened to go out at night but that last death was during the day.’ Maeve went on to tell him of the recent killing and the mutilated corpse of a whore being found in the porch of a church in Greyfriars.