‘You’ve seen what you had to?’ she asked.
Corbett ignored the stool but stood, arms folded, looking down at her while Ranulf leaned against the door and whistled softly under his breath. He intended to annoy and it had the desired effect. Lady Madeleine, looking daggers at him, pushed back her chair so she was forced to look up at Corbett.
‘You have questions for me, master clerk?’
‘No, my lady, the King has questions for you. Your brother’s death?’
‘He was killed while hunting,’ Lady Madeleine replied tartly. ‘He loved blood, did Henry. Blood and destruction! Showing off, as he always did, to his French visitors.’
‘You are not the grieving sister?’
‘Half-sister, master clerk!’
‘But still not grieving?’
‘Grief is a private thing. Lord Henry lived in his world and I in mine.’
‘And you have no knowledge of his death?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Corbett stared coolly back. ‘Why should someone want your brother dead?’
Lady Madeleine threw her head back and laughed.
‘Master clerk, you have seen our church, yes? I could fill the nave with people who wanted him dead. His cruelty, his lechery. Oh, I grieve for him, for the boy he once was as well as his immortal soul.’
‘You were informed of his death immediately?’
‘I was here in my own chamber when Sir William sent a messenger.’ Her face softened. ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh.’ She gripped the edge of the desk. ‘Look.’ She pointed to a chair in the far corner. ‘Would you like to sit? Some wine?’
Corbett went across and pulled the chair over.
‘Your sisters in the kitchen were most kind,’ he replied, settling himself. ‘But my stomach is still queasy after what I have seen. So, you cannot help me with your brother’s death or that of the young woman whose corpse I have viewed?’
Lady Madeleine shook her head.
‘Did you meet Lord Henry often?’
‘Sometimes I would visit Ashdown Manor. When I travelled to Rye, he or Sir William would accompany me. We have property there managed by a steward.’
‘The priory is wealthy,’ Corbett confirmed.
‘On certain afternoons we open the gates to pilgrims. Their offerings are generous,’ she replied, glaring at Ranulf, who was still whistling softly.
Corbett glanced across, winked and the whistling stopped.
‘Did Sir Henry believe in St Hawisia, I mean her relic?’
‘Henry believed in nothing!’
‘But he refurbished the shrine?’
‘The Fitzalans have always maintained it!’
‘But it was generous of him to do it?’
Lady Madeleine yawned. ‘I nagged him.’ She put her hand to her mouth, stifling another yawn. ‘Henry always had to be nagged to do his duty.’
‘And this Owlman?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, I know about him. I suspect he is the killer rather than poor Verlian.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I believe the Owlman is someone from Lord Henry’s past,’ she continued. ‘Both Henry and William were feckless young men. They seduced and they lechered to their hearts’ content. No man’s sister, wife, daughter, even mother, was safe from them.’
‘You know of this?’
‘I heard stories. Rumours of a young wife who hanged herself somewhere on the outskirts of Rye.’
‘Do you know what the Rose of Rye is?’ Corbett asked.
‘Ah yes.’ Her fingers flew to her lips. ‘Lord Henry mentioned that. The Owlman left messages, asking if he remembered such a name.’
‘And did Lord Henry?’
‘Yes, I think he did. What’s more, I think William does as well.’ She paused. ‘I heard a vague rumour about a tavern or alehouse called the Red Rose. It’s supposed to have stood on the road leading out of Rye. It was owned by a married couple, a taverner and his pretty young wife. According to the gossip, Henry and William stayed there years ago. Henry is said to have seduced her, made the young wife his mistress, but then abandoned her.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
He started as a black shape jumped on Lady Madeleine’s lap. The cat was black as night; it nestled, purring deep in its throat.
‘Now, now, Lucifer.’ Lady Madeleine stroked it gently. ‘My constant companion.’ She smiled. ‘The scourge of our mice and other vermin.’
‘The young wife?’
‘According to the gossip, she committed suicide, hanged herself from a beam in the taproom. I had entered the priory when that occurred. Father, then in his last years, hastily covered the story up.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Oh, it must be some twenty or twenty-five years. They say that the ghost of the young woman haunted that tavern, so the name was changed.’
‘And this Owlman could be the dead woman’s husband?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘And the corpse which lies buried in your churchyard?’ Corbett asked. ‘You know nothing of her?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
‘She never visited here?’
‘I’ve told you, Sir Hugh, I know nothing.’
Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘She had a lily, like a brand mark, on her shoulder.’
Lady Madeleine shook her head. ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot help you.’
‘And His Highness the Prince of Wales visits here?’
‘The shrine of St Hawisia is visited by many nobles. The King himself has been here.’
‘And the King comes with a retinue?’
‘One or two of his household.’
‘But no man comes here unannounced?’
Lady Madeleine coloured. ‘Sir Hugh, you go too far! But why do you ask that?’
‘I am sorry,’ Corbett apologised. ‘But the King demands answers to the mysteries here, my lady, and I have to deliver them.’ He got to his feet and bowed. ‘I thank you for your time and courtesy. If there are further questions, I shall, of course, return.’
Lady Madeleine didn’t answer. She picked up a quill from the ink pot and pulled across a piece of vellum as if returning to her duties.
‘Then I bid you farewell, Sir Hugh. One of the sisters will show you to the stables.’
A short while later Corbett and Ranulf left the priory. They took directions from one of the lay brothers and found the forest path which would lead them back to the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern.
‘A high born lady,’ Ranulf commented. ‘Full of arrogance and a liar to boot!’
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett reined back his horse.
‘Master, with all due respect, Edward of Carnarvon may be many things, but a pilgrim?’ Ranulf snorted with laughter. ‘If he came here, he’s up to devilry and we both know that. But,’ he continued, ‘at least we know who the Owlman is.’
‘I wonder?’ Corbett mused. ‘This is a murky pool, Ranulf. The Fitzalans had their secrets and they won’t be dragged to the top of the mire without a great deal of struggle and hard work.’
They arrived back at the tavern just after midday. Labourers, peasants from the fields, verderers and charcoal-burners had all flocked in. They sat around the cobbled yard, backs to the wall, sunning themselves. A group were laying wagers on a dog baiting a badger. A huckster selling pilgrims’ badges, gewgaws, ribbons and laces, wandered about the yard, trundling his little cart before him. A pickpocket who had been expelled from the town of Rye was sitting by the well bathing the tips of his ears where the town bailiffs had clipped them. Grooms and ostlers brought horses and pack ponies in and out of the stables. At the far end, the small dovecote was being cleaned and the pungent smell of dung filled the yard, raising protests from those eating their midday bread and cheese.