Emissary,’ the words were tinged with sarcasm, ‘something about the Sisters of St Martha. We are a group of lay women,’ she continued heartily. ‘Widows who, following the counsels of St Paul, now devote ourselves to good works. We take a solemn vow of obedience to the Bishop of London and our work is amongst women who walk the streets and alleyways of London. Women,’ her gimlet eyes glared down at Corbett, ‘who have to sell their bodies to satisfy the filthy lusts of men.’ She paused and stared at Corbett as if he was personally responsible for every whore in London.
Corbett chewed the inside of his lip to avoid a smile. Ranulf lowered his head and received a kick from beneath the table.
‘Ranulf, if you laugh,’ Corbett hissed out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I’ll personally break your neck!’
‘What was that? What was that?’ de Lacey cupped her ear again.
‘Nothing, my Lady. I wanted to make sure my servant had stabled the horses correctly.’
The old woman rapped the top of the table with a small mallet.
‘You’ll bloody well listen when I address you!’
Corbett steepled his fingers before his face, his lower lip clenched firmly between his teeth as he recalled stories of de Lacey: how this woman had often campaigned with her husband and was not averse to using language which would make a hardened mercenary blush. He glanced quickly around the table. Surprisingly enough, except for Lady Catherine Fitzwarren, the rest of the group were now sitting, heads bowed; a few shoulders were shaking and Corbett was relieved that he was not the only one to see humour in the situation. He sat motionless as Lady Imelda finished her caustic description of the Order’s work.
‘At the end of this meeting and only when we have finished,’ Lady Imelda announced imperiously, ‘our sub-prioress, the Lady Catherine, will provide you with any further help. She and her companion the Lady Mary Neville.’ De Lacey clicked her fingers and pointed down the table at one of the women who now lifted her head and gazed straight at them.
Corbett and Ranulf looked at the petite, olive-skinned features of the Lady Mary. Ranulf took one glimpse of the dark blue eyes and gulped as his throat went dry and his heart beat faster. He had never seen anyone so beautiful and, although Ranulf had been with many women, he knew, sitting in this strange Chapter House, that for the first and possibly the last time in his life, he had fallen deeply in love. The woman smiled gently then looked away. Ranulf just gazed back hungrily and, for him, the rest of the meeting was a distant hum.
Corbett also watched the young widow turn away. It can’t be? he wondered. No, it couldn’t be! He felt shocked, his hands turning cold as ice. The Lady Mary bore the same Christian name, the same looks, the same demeanour of his own first wife, now years dead. Corbett couldn’t believe it, he was so shocked he lost his usual alertness and didn’t realise that the Lady Mary had had a similar effect on his manservant. Cade, however, glanced at both suspiciously and nudged Corbett gently with his elbow.
‘You, sir,’ Lady Imelda shouted down the table. ‘Are you, Master Corbett, some coxcomb, some cloth-eared knave? I am speaking to you!’
Corbett smiled thinly and bowed. ‘My Lady, my apologies, but my ride from Winchester was a harsh one.’
He studied the old, imperious face, the firm cheeks and hawkish look and resisted the urge to give this lady as good as he got. He forced himself to concentrate and, despite the eerie atmosphere of the room, began to quietly admire these courtly bred ladies; the only people in London who seemed to care about the droves of young women forced into prostitution.
The meeting moved from one item of business to another. The Lady Imelda described how they divided the city amongst them; each had a certain quarter to look after; how they had established refuges near St Mary of Bethlehem, in Mark Lane near
Corbett chewed the inside of his lip to avoid a smile. Ranulf lowered his head and received a kick from beneath the table.
‘Ranulf, if you laugh,’ Corbett hissed out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I’ll personally break your neck!’
‘What was that? What was that?’ de Lacey cupped her ear again.
‘Nothing, my Lady. I wanted to make sure my servant had stabled the horses correctly.’
The old woman rapped the top of the table with a small mallet.
‘You’ll bloody well listen when I address you!’
Corbett steepled his fingers before his face, his lower lip clenched firmly between his teeth as he recalled stories of de Lacey: how this woman had often campaigned with her husband and was not averse to using language which would make a hardened mercenary blush. He glanced quickly around the table. Surprisingly enough, except for Lady Catherine Fitzwarren, the rest of the group were now sitting, heads bowed; a few shoulders were shaking and Corbett was relieved that he was not the only one to see humour in the situation. He sat motionless as Lady Imelda finished her caustic description of the Order’s work.
‘At the end of this meeting and only when we have finished,’ Lady Imelda announced imperiously, ‘our sub-prioress, the Lady Catherine, will provide you with any further help. She and her companion the Lady Mary Neville.’ De Lacey clicked her fingers and pointed down the table at one of the women who now lifted her head and gazed straight at them.
Corbett and Ranulf looked at the petite, olive-skinned features of the Lady Mary. Ranulf took one glimpse of the dark blue eyes and gulped as his throat went dry and his heart beat faster. He had never seen anyone so beautiful and, although Ranulf had been with many women, he knew, sitting in this strange Chapter House, that for the first and possibly the last time in his life, he had fallen deeply in love. The woman smiled gently then looked away. Ranulf just gazed back hungrily and, for him, the rest of the meeting was a distant hum.
Corbett also watched the young widow turn away. It can’t be? he wondered. No, it couldn’t be! He felt shocked, his hands turning cold as ice. The Lady Mary bore the same Christian name, the same looks, the same demeanour of his own first wife, now years dead. Corbett couldn’t believe it, he was so shocked he lost his usual alertness and didn’t realise that the Lady Mary had had a similar effect on his manservant. Cade, however, glanced at both suspiciously and nudged Corbett gently with his elbow.
‘You, sir,’ Lady Imelda shouted down the table. ‘Are you, Master Corbett, some coxcomb, some cloth-eared knave? I am speaking to you!’
Corbett smiled thinly and bowed. ‘My Lady, my apologies, but my ride from Winchester was a harsh one.’
He studied the old, imperious face, the firm cheeks and hawkish look and resisted the urge to give this lady as good as he got. He forced himself to concentrate and, despite the eerie atmosphere of the room, began to quietly admire these courtly bred ladies; the only people in London who seemed to care about the droves of young women forced into prostitution.
The meeting moved from one item of business to another. The Lady Imelda described how they divided the city amongst them; each had a certain quarter to look after; how they had established refuges near St Mary of Bethlehem, in Mark Lane near
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