‘My father has answered for me. What are you implying, clerk?’
‘My name is Sir Hugh Corbett.’
Alicia shrugged her shoulders prettily.
‘I’d call you all lords of the forest,’ Corbett said humorously. ‘You probably know its pathways and trackways better than Lord Henry ever did. Nevertheless, that puzzles me because, in the forest, we have the Owlman, an outlaw different from the rest. Indeed, he intrigues me. When I was sitting in the taproom this morning I thought about him. He is an outlaw who does not prey on travellers, at least, there’s no proof that he does. He does not hunt the King’s venison. Indeed, his only quarrel seems with the Fitzalan family. He sends them threatening messages tied to a yard shaft but no one ever sees him! No one ever hears him! No one even knows what he looks like.’
He glimpsed the puzzlement in Verlian’s eyes, glanced quickly at Alicia then swiftly up at the friar. Brother Cosmas had turned away as if distracted by the candle spluttering on the altar. Corbett got to his feet.
‘Now this is truly a conundrum.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ Verlian declared. ‘It’s now autumn and the Owlman has been in this forest since spring. I have never seen anything suspicious nor have any of my verderers or huntsmen.’
‘Are you saying that he’s someone else?’ Alicia asked.
‘That’s one possibility,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He might even be one of you three. But, I tell you this. .’
‘Sir Hugh! Sir Hugh Corbett!’
Ranulf went to the mouth of the rood screen. The door of the church was flung open and archers wearing the Fitzalan livery stood in the entrance, a woman behind them. She had her arm round someone’s shoulder. Ranulf couldn’t see clearly because the figure was cloaked and cowled.
‘Ah, our guests have arrived.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Brother Cosmas, if you could help us?’
‘And you will reach your conclusions, clerk?’
‘In time, but, if I could use that as my desk?’ Corbett pointed to the offertory table.
Brother Cosmas helped Corbett and Ranulf move the table and place it at the top of the nave. He then brought benches from the transepts and a stool for himself. Corbett made himself comfortable. Ranulf opened his writing bag and laid out his sheaf of parchments, an ink pot carefully sealed and a velvet pouch of ready-sharpened quills.
‘Who have you there?’ Corbett called.
The archers shuffled their feet.
‘The woman Jocasta, her daughter and the hermit who calls himself Odo.’
‘I would be grateful if you would bring Jocasta forward. No, no!’ Corbett got to his feet and leaned over the table. ‘You stay in the porch, Brother Cosmas. Bring another bench for the lady to sit on.’
Ranulf was already writing down the woman’s name and that of her daughter Blanche according to Chancery regulations.
Jocasta took her seat on the bench opposite him, one arm round her slack-jawed, wary-eyed daughter. Corbett quietly cursed the poor light. Jocasta’s face was hidden in the shadow yet there was strength in those high cheekbones, the sharp, slightly slanted eyes, the strong mouth and firm chin. Her black hair was unveiled and slightly tinged with grey. Corbett noticed the strong fingers and clean nails. The woman wore a dark-brown smock; a silver chain with a small gold crescent moon hung round her thick brown neck.
‘You are the woman Jocasta?’
‘And who are you?’ The voice was low and throaty.
‘You know who I am, mistress: Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk, and Ranulf-atte-Newgate. .’
‘By what authority am I brought here?’ she interrupted. ‘Am I on trial?’
Corbett took the King’s commission from his pouch and spread it out on the table.
‘You are not on trial, mistress, but I have the right to question you as my commission attests.’
‘I cannot read, clerk, but I know letters bearing seals are important.’ She glanced at Brother Cosmas. ‘Good morrow, priest.’
‘Good morrow, Jocasta. It is good to see you here at last.’
Ranulf’s pen was moving across the page; when its tip broke, he quietly cursed, took another one out and dipped it in the ink pot.
‘You are not one of Brother Cosmas’ parishioners?’
‘She is most welcome here,’ the Franciscan interrupted.
‘I do not come to St Oswald’s,’ Jocasta replied sharply, her arm protectively round her daughter. ‘They say,’ she closed her eyes, ‘this is the House of God and the Gate of Heaven: a terrible place.’
‘Why do you not come?’
‘I am unworthy and my daughter becomes frightened.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Do you know any different, clerk?’
‘They say you are a witch.’
‘Who do?’
‘So, you don’t deny it?’
‘Don’t play words with me, clerk!’
Corbett raised his head. ‘I am sorry, mistress. I tease rather than question. Let me begin again. Why do you not come to church?’
‘I have led an unworthy life. My daughter is witless so I keep her away from others who might point the finger.’
‘And these gossips who say you are a witch?’
‘They are liars, as Brother Cosmas will attest. I know cures, I can distil potions, fashion a poultice, but I am no witch. I don’t dig up the mandrake root or pay bloody sacrifice to the midnight moon.’
‘So, why do you live in Ashdown?’
‘It’s the place I call home.’ The woman sighed; she whispered softly into her daughter’s ear and withdrew her arm. ‘You’ve kind eyes, clerk, no malice in them. You are here because of Lord Henry’s death, yes? Well, I shall tell you about Lord Henry. He is the father of this child.’ She ignored the Franciscan’s gasp of astonishment. ‘Oh yes, Lord Henry in his youth was known the length and breadth of the Cinque Ports, not a brothel or house of whores was left untouched by his presence. In my youth I played the role of a Magdalene.’ She half-smiled. ‘Before that great saint’s conversion. I have Spanish blood in me. I was married to a sailor, who got himself killed in a tavern brawl. The captain would not let me back on board, not even after I had favoured him with my body. So I became a streetwalker, a whore in the town of Rye. In my youth, clerk, I was considered beautiful.’
‘I would say the same now,’ Corbett commented. He caught the glint of amusement in Jocasta’s eyes.
‘Golden-tongued, eh clerk?’ She lowered her head, placing her hands in her lap. ‘Lord Henry Fitzalan was that. Oh, in many ways he had a soul of steel, locked and closed, with a heart of stone. But, when the fancy took him, he was generous with his praise and lavish with his purse. He came tripping into Rye. And bought my favours.’ She nodded at her daughter. ‘I was still unskilled. I became pregnant. Some kindly sisters took me in, not like the high-stepping ladies at St Hawisia’s!’
‘You’ve been to the priory?’ Corbett broke in.
‘Just once to ask for help. I swore never again.’
‘What help?’
‘Clothing and food for my daughter.’
‘Lady Madeleine,’ Cosmas said quietly, ‘is not known for her charity.’
‘And eventually you settled in Ashdown?’ Corbett asked.
‘I brought the child with me. At first, Lord Henry wouldn’t believe me but I took a great oath. Blanche.’ She stroked her daughter’s silvery-white hair.
Corbett looked pityingly at the child: the vacant eyes, the drooling mouth, the look of a frightened rabbit as she crouched next to her mother.
‘Blanche was born witless. God’s judgement against me. But, Lord Henry studied her; he believed me. He provided a cottage and a small pension.’
‘And he came to visit you?’
‘Sometimes.’ Jocasta’s gaze shifted. ‘Lord Henry was a man of fleshly desires. He did not lie with me but, how can I put it, clerk?’ She lifted her hands. ‘Sometimes I acted the whore for him.’
‘Did you hate him?’
Jocasta glanced behind Corbett, studying the crude, wooden cross on the altar. Her gaze moved to where Verlian and his daughter still sat, heads together, at the far side of the sanctuary.