Corbett was relieved to be out of the death house. The day was proving beautiful, the sun gathering strength to burn off the morning mist, dance in the clinging dew and glitter in the gurgling brooks and rivulets. Fulbert explained how these had been specially built into the garden to soak the fertile black soil and feed the lily-fringed carp ponds as well as the various hatcheries, fountains, flower beds and herb plots. The Great Garden, as he described it, was divided into three: the physic, where medicinal herbs and shrubs were carefully tended; the kitchen garden; and the orchard garden with its plum, pear and apple trees. Corbett considered it a veritable Eden, an exquisitely laid-out pleasance of flower beds, rose-covered arbours and green-topped turf seats and benches. The air was perfumed with the cloying scent of the flowers now coming to full bloom. A rich, almost opulent place, which emphasised the wealth of the Godstow nunnery. A house of prayer perhaps, but certainly the most luxurious refuge for high-born ladies who wished to flee the world but not its comforts.
‘And that would be Lady Joan,’ Corbett murmured to himself.
They entered the main convent buildings, a sprawl of beautiful stonework; the bricks, hewn out of the honey-toned Cotswold stone, seemed to possess a light and warmth of their own. A serene, harmonious place where the good sisters, in their brown habits, blue veils and starched white wimples, padded softly here and there. Plainchant carried, the voice of a choir raised in praise. Corbett paused for a while to listen, promising himself that he would see if he could indulge his passion for a many-voiced choir chanting the psalms. They passed kitchens, butteries and cook rooms, where the savoury smells of the meals being prepared curled out to tease the palate and delight the stomach. They crossed the great cloisters, where the nuns who scribed and chronicled sat at their sloping desks, taking advantage of the sunlight. Here the air was scented with the smell of beeswax, ink, freshly scrubbed vellum and the delicate paints used in the jewel-like illuminations. At last they went through a small garden, under a cavernous porchway and into the abbess’s lodgings.
Fulbert knocked on an imposing door, a voice answered and the man-at-arms ushered Corbett and his party into the Magdalena chamber, a beautiful, spacious room with three oriel windows at the far end. The coloured glass was positioned to catch the light, which shimmered in the finely carved oak and elm-wood furniture: a long oval council table polished to a sheen, finely wrought leather-backed chairs, cushioned stools, coffers and caskets. The walls were decorated with brilliantly hued cloths, the floor of black-and-white lozenge-shaped tiles scrubbed to gleaming.
A woman seated at the far end of the table rose and walked quickly towards Corbett, who had to shield his eyes against the light. Lady Joan Mortimer did not stand on ceremony, but welcomed Corbett with open arms, standing on tiptoe to kiss him passionately on lips and cheeks.
‘Oh Hugh,’ she whispered, ‘so long and so good to see you.’
Slightly embarrassed, Corbett hugged her close, feeling her full breasts against his chest, his arms circling that lovely slim waist. Then he gently held her away and stared down at this woman who had once dominated and tormented his every waking moment.
‘Alluring as ever,’ he murmured. ‘That’s the truth.’
Despite the veil and wimple and the passage of the years, Lady Joan Mortimer had retained her singularly striking good looks: those strange, beautiful eyes, constantly watching, slightly crinkled as if she was secretly amused by life and everything around her; lips parted ready to laugh; and skin that still retained that alabaster hue that needed no paint or powder to enhance its beauty. A small woman, yet perfectly formed, with delicate, feminine movements. Corbett watched fascinated as introductions were made and pleasantries exchanged. Chanson and Vicomte withdrew. The abbess ushered Corbett and Ranulf to their seats as she beckoned over Dame Catherine, the novice mistress, and Father Norbert, the nunnery chaplain, a most handsome young man with raven-black hair neatly tonsured, his smooth, shaved face richly oiled. Fulbert, the man-at-arms was also instructed to stay.
The kitchener knocked and entered, accompanied by servants who laid platters of diced fresh fruit and soft bread and goblets of chilled white wine before each of the guests. Corbett sat on the abbess’s right and tried to answer her spate of questions about his life, Lady Maeve and Leighton manor. A bell tolled. Lady Joan abruptly paused; only then did Corbett glimpse the change in the mask. Joan Mortimer became very much the lady abbess, a tightening of the mouth, a darting look around the chamber, her long, delicate white fingers beating impatiently against the leather chancery wallet on the table before her. Corbett glanced about him. The others were still sipping their wine or eating the diced fruit.
‘Shall we begin?’ The abbess’s voice echoed sharply. Silence ensued. Corbett sat fascinated. Lady Joan now seemed highly distracted, breathing swiftly and swallowing hard.
‘My lady?’
‘Sir Hugh, let us commence.’ The abbess’s voice was harsh, peremptory.
Corbett had already prepared his schedule of questions. He would not write, transcribe or record any answers; that would have to wait till later.
‘Margaret Beaumont,’ he began. ‘We know why she came here.’ He waved a hand. ‘I do not want to discuss that, but she has disappeared. How? Where? Why?’ He let his questions hang like nooses from a scaffold. He was impatient. The courtesies had been observed; now it was down to business. ‘Margaret Beaumont was a novice here. She vanished about a month ago, and her belongings with her. Everything gone, from psalter to slipper.’
A chorus of agreement confirmed his words.
‘Did anyone see her leave?’
‘Sir Hugh, she had a small, narrow chamber off the petty cloisters,’ replied Dame Catherine, the harsh-faced novice mistress, hook-like fingers emphasising her words. ‘Compline had finished. The novices gathered in their refectory for a collation of bread, fruit and ale, then they retired. Master Fulbert and his assistant, the gardener Rainald, patrolled the grounds with lantern horn and weaponry. Myself and the sacristan do a similar night watch along the cloisters and elsewhere.’
‘Nothing,’ Lady Joan intervened. ‘Nothing untoward occurred that night. No alarm was raised. Yet when the matins bell tolled two hours after midnight, Margaret Beaumont did not appear in the choir stalls of our church. At first we thought she might have been ill or have overslept, so I sent our novice mistress to check.’
‘And?’ Corbett turned to Dame Catherine.
‘Her chamber was empty, swept clean. Not a trace or the slightest vestige remained of Margaret Beaumont’s presence. Nothing to indicate her leaving or where she might have gone. We searched the nunnery, scoured the grounds, sent our couriers along the dusty roads enquiring at taverns, ale houses and hostels.’ Dame Catherine pulled a face. ‘Margaret Beaumont had vanished like the summer’s dew at daybreak.’
‘And her companions, her friends?’
‘Margaret’s only friend was Elizabeth Buchan. They knew each other from court; I think they were slightly related. They arrived here at the same time, not so long ago.’
‘How long?’
‘Around Twelfth Night and the Feast of the Epiphany.’
‘Of course,’ Lady Joan added archly, ‘they realised they were here for the same reason.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Sheltering from the harsh world of men.’
‘So Margaret’s only confidante …’ Corbett paused at the shrill shrieking of the peacocks.
‘They always draw closer around this hour,’ murmured Lady Joan. ‘It’s time I fed them.’
Corbett nodded. He knew that he would remember those shrieks, the way they shattered the harmony of this serene place. ‘So Margaret Beaumont’s only confidante was Elizabeth Buchan?’