Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (11 page)

‘It’s women,’ he said. ‘Every scene depicts women! There are hardly any men, apart from Adam’s head and Christ. And look, master, even the Saviour, with his long hair and delicate face, has a girlish cast about him.’

‘And have you noticed the damned?’ Corbett asked. He pointed to the dark shadowy forms, each of whom was dressed in battered armour. ‘Look, Ranulf, all those cursed by God are male but the saved are . . .’

‘They are all women!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Even the angels!’

They walked along the church. On the one hand the paintings were lavish, brilliant in their colours and expertly depicted but their message was the same. In Heaven as on earth, the woman was good, the male worthy of condemnation.

Corbett looked up the nave. He saw the Lady Chapel to the left and, to the right, a gleaming oak wood sarcophagus, the glass case at its head shimmering in the light of dozens of beeswax candles.

‘St Hawisia’s last resting place,’ he explained.

He was about to go up and investigate when from the choir stalls in the sanctuary came a young woman’s voice intoning the
Salve Regina
: ‘
Salve Regina, Mater Misericordia, Vita Dulcedo et Spes Nostra, Salve!
’

Corbett raised his finger to his lips and, followed by Ranulf, entered the gorgeously decorated sanctuary with its polished wooden choir stalls on either side. At the far end stood a marble altar on a raised dais which was carpeted in thick blue and gold wool. Silver candlesticks stood on the altar and, above them, a jewel-encrusted pyx which held the Blessed Sacrament hung by a filigree chain. The nun standing in the stalls was facing the altar, hands by her sides. Corbett expected her to continue singing but she faltered and began again.

‘
Salve Regina, Mater Misericordia, Vita Dulcedo et Spes Nostra, Salve
.’

‘Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Hail Our Life, our Sweetness and Our Hope.’

‘
Ad te clamanus
. . .’ But then her voice faltered off.

‘
Ad te clamanus, exules filii Evae
,’ Corbett sang in a rich baritone voice. ‘
Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes
.’

‘To you, we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To you we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this Vale of Tears.’

The young nun turned. Her pretty face, framed by its coif, was white with shock.

‘I . . . What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for Lady Madeleine.’ Corbett walked forward. ‘You seem to be having trouble with the hymn. Do you not have a Book of Hours?’

The young nun, more composed, grinned impishly at Ranulf.

‘I’m Sister Fidelis,’ she said in a rush. ‘I’m only a novice. I just cannot remember the words. So Lady Johanna, the choir mistress, not to mention the Lady Marcellina the novice mistress, have told me to stand here and sing it until I’ve learned it correctly.’

Corbett bowed. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, special emissary from His Grace the King.’

Sister Fidelis’ eyes rounded in amazement.

‘We are not as important as we sound.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Indeed, we have just met your Sister Veronica, who regarded us as two marauders.’

‘She would! I asked her for help but she says she’s too busy.’

‘Then we’ll help,’ Corbett replied. ‘Won’t we, Ranulf?’

‘Men aren’t supposed to sing here,’ Sister Fidelis simpered.

‘I don’t think the good Lord will object,’ Corbett replied. ‘And you must learn the words.’

‘It’s something I will talk about for days,’ Sister Fidelis laughed. ‘You begin, I’ll repeat each line.’

Ranulf, too surprised to join in, watched his master stand next to the young nun and, in a deep, rich voice, begin the
Salve Regina
. At the end of each line he paused and the young sister repeated it; at the very end Sister Fidelis triumphantly joined in the last line.

‘
O Dulcis! O Pia! Virgo Maria!
’

‘I sang it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know it now. You won’t tell them, will you?’

Corbett turned to Ranulf. ‘Our lips are sealed, aren’t they?’

Ranulf just gaped and wondered, not for the first time, if the arrow which had struck his master in Oxford had damaged more than his chest bone.

‘Thank you.’ Sister Fidelis smiled. ‘I never can remember the words in choir, Lady Johanna is so hard. She beats my knuckles with a ferrule.’

She held up a white, delicate hand; nasty red bruises marred the knuckles. Corbett kissed her fingertips.

‘Such harshness is ill fitting,’ he murmured.

Sister Fidelis blushed and withdrew her hand.

‘So, you are awaiting Lady Madeleine. I tell you this, you’ll tarry a long while! Lady Madeleine loves to keep people waiting. Even Lord Henry, when he came here, had to kick his heels in the guest house.’ She paused. ‘And he paid generously to refurbish the shrine!’

‘Does the priory have many such noble visitors?’ Corbett queried.

‘Oh yes. The Prince of Wales came here.’

‘I didn’t know Prince Edward had a devotion to the St Hawisia?’ Corbett asked innocently.

‘Well, he has, he came in here. But I’m only a novice, sir,’ she trilled on. ‘Such comings and goings do not concern me.’

‘What comings and goings?’ Corbett quietly prayed that Lady Madeleine would indeed tarry a while, since this fresh-faced young novice seemed eager to chatter.

‘Lady Johanna shouldn’t hit me with a ferrule.’ Sister Fidelis sucked on her knuckles.

Corbett studied her intently. He wondered if the young lady had been placed here, not for any vocation but because she was slightly fey.

‘What were you saying?’ she asked.

‘You were going to tell me about strange comings and goings.’

‘Well, I am! Oh, sir, what is your name?’

‘Sir Hugh Corbett, I’m the King’s emissary.’

‘Well, you see, Sir Hugh, I often daydream, particularly in the refectory; I never finish my food! So, I’m given tasks, little punishments. I hate leaves!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Leaves,’ Sister Fidelis repeated. ‘Because I don’t eat my food quickly enough, when the other novices go to recreation, I have to sweep the yard. I’m given a thick, heavy apron which scores my neck and a broom that’s far too heavy. I’m told to sweep the cobbled yard which divides our refectory from Lady Madeleine’s house.’

‘I don’t like leaves either,’ Corbett told her. ‘And, I promise you, I’ll have a word with Lady Madeleine not to punish you so rigorously.’

‘Oh, would you, sir, and would you also mention Lady Johanna’s ferrule?’

‘For the love of God!’ Ranulf whispered.

‘The leaves?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, one night, I think it was on the eve of St Matthew.’ Her fingers flew to her lips. ‘Or was it the feast of St Cornelius?’

‘You were sweeping leaves in the yard?’

‘Yes. I went into a corner when it was growing dark and no one would see me. I’d stolen a piece of marchpane from the refectory and my fingers were cold. Anyway, I ate the marchpane. I was very cross because the novices were in their house and all the other sisters were enjoying themselves. Suddenly.’ Her head came forward and Corbett nearly jumped. ‘Suddenly,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘I saw a man, cowled and cloaked, cross the yard.’

‘You are sure it wasn’t one of the sisters?’ Corbett asked.

‘They don’t wear spurs which clink nor do they carry swords! They certainly don’t walk with a swagger. Anyway, he enters Lady Madeleine’s house. Oh, I say to myself, what goes on here? In he goes, just opens the door. Now downstairs is her own refectory and chambers; upstairs is her own bedchamber. No one ever goes up there! I put the broom down and stole across the yard. I looked through the window but saw no one there.’

‘So, the man must have gone upstairs?’ Corbett asked.

‘He must have done. Do you know, sir, I swept that yard time and again but he never came out. A week later, it was the end of the month because we had celebrated the feast of St Jerome, he was the man who . . .’

‘Yes,’ Corbett intervened. ‘I know who St Jerome was. And you were sweeping the yard again?’

‘No, sir, I was sweeping the refectory floor all by myself, another punishment. I am sure,’ Sister Fidelis confided, ‘that I saw the same man cross the yard.’

‘But surely, the prioress would not entertain male friends?’

‘But that’s it, sir, she has no male friends! Lady Madeleine believes men are no better than devils.’

‘Has she said as much?’

‘No, it’s just in her warnings to us. How we should act when male guests arrive.’

‘Like me?’

‘Oh, you’re the King’s emissary and you have helped my singing. You are also going to tell Lady Johanna not to use that ferrule!’

‘And do you know who this stranger was?’ Corbett asked.

The young novice shook her head. ‘Perhaps I’ve said wrong,’ she mused. ‘The stranger could have left the other way?’

‘What way?’

‘Lady Madeleine’s house is a little palace. It has its own kitchen and stables beyond, with a yard and a small postern door in the forest wall.’

‘And this stranger could have left by that?’

‘It’s possible!’

‘Have you seen anything else suspicious?’ Ranulf insisted.

Sister Fidelis gazed round fearfully.

‘Oh no! I haven’t told anyone else. I daren’t! Lady Madeleine’s rages are terrible to behold.’

‘Does she ever leave the convent?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, the priory owns properties in the town of Rye. She sometimes goes there with the almoner or one of her brothers to collect the rents and inspect the steward’s accounts. She’s gone four or five days, it’s always a relief. However, in many ways Lady Madeleine is kind and very proud of her shrine.’

‘Yes, I was going to ask about that.’ Corbett looked over his shoulder at the door. Lady Madeleine was sure to arrive soon and he didn’t want to get this young, very naive novice into trouble. ‘I know little about St Hawisia.’

‘Oh, then let me tell you. I’ve learned everything.’

Sister Fidelis took them out of the sanctuary and around to the side chapel. Corbett stared appreciatively at the long oaken tomb.

‘How old is that?’

‘Lady Johanna says at least two hundred years. The oak was brought specially from the West Country.’

Corbett looked round the side chapel. On the marble altar built into the far wall stood a statue of what must be St Hawisia, a young woman, hair falling down to her shoulders, dressed in royal robes of purple and white. In her outstretched hands lay a sword. On the walls huge frescoes depicted scenes from the saint’s life in a gorgeous array of colours. These showed a young woman in flight, pursued by knights armed with clubs, swords and maces. Another scene showed a wood where the young saint knelt beside a pool, a lily in her hands.

‘Who was St Hawisia?’ Corbett tapped the glass case at the head of the coffin into which Ranulf was peering.

‘It’s hair!’ his manservant exclaimed. ‘Look, Sir Hugh, beautiful golden tresses!’

Corbett removed the purple, gold-edged cloth covering half of the glass and saw the locks coiled in a circle, lustrous and golden as full-grown wheat.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘It’s the relic,’ Sister Fidelis explained. ‘It’s St Hawisia’s hair.’

Corbett stared at the fresco behind him. He noticed the date, painted in silver gilt at the bottom of the picture: A.D. 667.

‘St Hawisia lived centuries ago!’ he exclaimed. ‘Almost seven hundred years ago but this hair . . .!’

‘That’s because it’s a miracle,’ Sister Fidelis said. ‘You see, sir, Hawisia was a Saxon princess. Her father was king of these parts.’ She closed her eyes as if memorising a lesson. ‘Now her father wanted her to marry a powerful thane.’ She opened her eyes. ‘What’s a thane?’

‘A nobleman,’ Corbett replied.

‘Hawisia said that she was dedicated to God and would not marry this prince. Her father became very angry. Hawisia was beautiful. She was particularly famous for her golden hair. Now.’ Fidelis pointed to the fresco. ‘Hawisia fled her father’s palace but he pursued her with soldiers. Hawisia fled into a wood and reached the well, this very place. She cut off her golden hair and laid it beside a pool as an offering to God. Well.’ The young novice closed her eyes. ‘Ah, yes, that’s right. When her father reached her, he was so angry at what she had done, he drew his dagger and drove it deep into her heart.’ Sister Fidelis mimicked the action of a soldier striking; Corbett pressed on Ranulf’s toe as a warning not to laugh. ‘When his rage cooled, yes, that’s right.’ She opened her eyes. ‘He deeply regretted what he had done. He converted to Christianity, gave his daughter honourable burial and founded a house of prayer which later became St Hawisia’s priory.’

‘And this is her tomb?’

‘Yes, St Hawisia lies beneath the flagstones. This tomb was built by Lady Madeleine’s ancestor. The Fitzalans have always had a great devotion to her.’

‘But surely this isn’t Princess Hawisia’s hair?’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Yes it is,’ Sister Fidelis insisted defensively. ‘You see, that’s why Hawisia’s father converted. The hair remained as it had on the day his daughter died: over the centuries it has never rotted or decayed. If you put your hand on the glass case and say a prayer to St Hawisia, she always answers.’

Corbett studied the golden tresses. The hair was undoubtedly genuine yet it looked as fresh and lustrous as if it had been shorn off the previous day.

In his travels he’d seen many a relic. Enough nails from the True Cross to use in the building of a shop. At least three heads of St John the Baptist, five legs of St Sebastian, feathers from Archangel Gabriel’s wing and, on one famous occasion, even the stone Jesus was supposed to have stood on before He ascended into Heaven. Similar relics were found throughout Europe: holy blood which liquefied, statues which wept tears. They ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, even including a sweat cloth which St Joseph supposedly used in his workshop.