The figure standing there knelt abruptly, and before Corbett could react, a crossbow bolt whirled through the air. It hit Vicomte full in the chest, sending him staggering back into the hedge. Corbett yelled a warning at Ranulf, and both men fell flat on their faces as another bolt whirled above them. The sound of voices drew nearer. Corbett glanced up. The assassin had disappeared; pursuit was impossible. He crawled over to join Ranulf, who was tending Vicomte, yet there was nothing to be done. Blood dripped through the clerk’s half-opened lips; his eyes were already dulling, a weak death rattle in his throat. Ranulf fingered the feathered bolt embedded deep in Vicomte’s chest and groaned.
‘It is yours?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, it is. God punish the bastard, it is one of mine.’
Vicomte shuddered, legs flailing, then his head fell to one side and he lay still. Corbett intoned a ‘Miserere’ and rose as Lady Joan, Fulbert, Rainald and others hastened up.
‘How?’ he asked. ‘How in hell’s name?’ He flailed a hand and walked away. He must wait, watch and learn.
He stood listening to the exclamations and prayers of the others. Two garden labourers brought a stretcher and a canvas sheet. Vicomte’s corpse was placed on this and taken out of the maze by Fulbert and Rainald, with Corbett and Lady Joan following behind, whispering prayers. At last they were free of the maze. Corbett had a quiet word with Ranulf, then beckoned the abbess away. He stared down at her severe but still beautiful face.
‘Joan,’ he whispered, bending down to kiss her brow, ‘what possessed those two young ladies to call you the Gargoyle?’
‘I have been named worse.’ She grinned impishly.
‘Lovely of face,’ he murmured, ‘lovely of form. Tell me now, how could anyone enter that maze and not be seen?’ He stood back. ‘After all, Vicomte created that fire, yes?’
‘We saw the smoke.’
‘So you and the others were alerted by the alarm. You hurried to the entrance and threaded the labyrinth, yet you saw no one else?’
‘No, Hugh, we did not, and those who came with me stayed with me.’
‘I have asked Ranulf to remain on guard at the entrance for anyone coming out after us.’
‘I do wonder …’ the abbess began.
‘What?’
‘Has Margaret Beaumont truly disappeared? Was she murdered?’ She suppressed a shiver. ‘Or is she still with us?’
‘A young maiden with an arbalest?’
‘You and Ranulf may be skilled in that weapon,’ the abbess replied, ‘but so are we war maidens – myself, Lady Maeve. We women have had to fight for ourselves and what is ours. The Welsh march is no nunnery. I have manned castle walls along with my father’s soldiers.’
‘True.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Well, my little shield maiden.’ He bowed. ‘I must leave and see to poor Vicomte.’
Dame Imelda had already stripped Vicomte’s corpse, helped by the novice mistress, who had brought two of her charges with her to educate them, as she proclaimed, in that great corporal work of mercy, the care of the dead.
‘We are here to prepare for death and our own eternal destiny. So the death of others should come as no great surprise,’ she explained to Corbett, then gestured at the two whey-faced novices, ill at ease yet morbidly fascinated by the bloodied corpse on the slightly sloping mortuary table. Corbett grunted his agreement as he studied the hard-faced, wiry novice mistress. Lady Joan was correct, he conceded: the likes of Dame Catherine and Dame Imelda were tough, resolute women used to violence and tending to corpses.
He wandered away across the chamber, its limewashed walls decorated with painted cloths extolling the lives of the saints – or more precisely their deaths. He studied these before sitting down on a bench. He watched as Dame Imelda finished washing Vicomte’s corpse, pulling a canvas sheet soaked in pine juice across it then lighting the small incense bowls at head and foot. He would make enquiries about Vicomte’s family, but given the heat, it might be best if the unfortunate clerk were buried here in Godstow. Ranulf slipped in, whispering how no one had come out of the maze after them.
‘My condolences,’ Corbett grasped Ranulf’s hand, ‘on the death of your comrade. A good man?’
‘A good man,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘A bachelor, a skilled clerk. He had not been with me very long. He deserved a better death.’ Ranulf’s fingers fell to the hilt of his dagger and Corbett glimpsed the roaring boy, the riffler whom he had taken under his wing so many years ago. He felt a deep stab of pity at the sorrow Ranulf was trying to hide behind that cold white face and cat-like eyes.
‘I promise you,’ he whispered, ‘we will hunt Vicomte’s killer and trap whoever it is. The hunt must go on. Dame Imelda,’ he called out. The infirmarian hurried across; the novice mistress came with her, but Corbett decided not to object.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘Dame Imelda, you dressed Elizabeth Buchan’s body for burial?’ He gestured at the beautiful casket now resting on purple-draped trestles in the far corner of the corpse chamber.
‘You know I did,’ she replied tartly.
‘And her wounds?’
‘Master Ranulf saw them. The deep death wound in the forehead and the violation here,’ Dame Imelda pointed to her own groin, ‘the result of the ravishment and rape.’
‘And you had to tend to other wounds and abrasions?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Cuts and scratches to her hands. You know what I mean?’
‘Follow his logic, Imelda.’ The novice mistress grabbed the infirmarian’s arm. ‘Poor Elizabeth must have resisted, surely? Marks on her hands as she defended herself? Scrapes to the back of her head or further down as she lay on the ground resisting her attacker?’
Corbett smiled and bowed. ‘Very good, Dame Catherine, very good indeed. Dame Imelda, you did not find any such wounds?’
‘No, I didn’t, not at all.’
‘I thought as much.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Ladies, I thank you and bid you adieu.’
Ranulf paused in polishing the blade of his knife and stared across the chamber, where Old Master Long Face lay stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, hands behind his head. Ranulf had learnt that this was Corbett’s favourite resting pose: as a boy, he used to lie like that in the great meadow of his father’s farm whilst meditating and reflecting on whatever caught his fancy. He had been occupied like that for hours, lost in his own thoughts. The sun had set, the nunnery bells tolling for this and that, a servant had brought food and wine, yet Corbett had ignored all of these. Ranulf returned to his dagger.
‘Ghosts, Ranulf! Ghosts!’ Corbett swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his boots, seized his war belt and swiftly strapped it on, ordering Ranulf to do likewise.
‘Master?’
Corbett, however, was striding down the stairs and into the warm star-studded dusk. Here he paused and came back to Ranulf, standing so close the clerk could smell the crushed mint on his breath.
‘Ghosts don’t walk here, Ranulf, but demons might. The ghost of Rosamund was often seen, yes? However, these fresh sightings took place after the arrival of Beaumont and Buchan. Of course,’ he hurried on, ‘the ghost was the work of those two high-spirited young ladies, bored, resentful and ripe for mischief.’
‘But-’
‘No, Ranulf.’ Corbett gestured at his companion to follow, plucking at his sleeve to draw him close. ‘This ghost does not really concern us, but rather what it looked like: pure white, eye-catching in the moonlight.’
‘But where would they get such robes?’
‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘Everything at Godstow is brown or blue. Where on earth would two young girls, with virtually no status or authority here, find such gleaming apparel? I think I know: follow me.’
Corbett and Ranulf left the guest-house precincts, pausing only to give Chanson an errand before hurrying through the main door of the church, up the darkening nave and into the sacristy: a warm, comfortable chamber smelling of beeswax and candle smoke. The sacristan, Dame Alice, a close-faced woman with watchful eyes and a mouth ready to pontificate on anything and everything, immediately confronted them, demanding their business. Corbett was equally abrupt, showing her his seal of office and chancery signet ring as well as asking whether she would like to test his authority before the king’s own Council at Woodstock. Dame Alice immediately became compliant and opened the huge aumbries built against the outside wall that held the copes, chasubles, albs and stoles as well as a veritable sea of richly coloured vestments: gold, scarlet, purple and green for the major liturgical seasons and high feasts of the Church.