the Tower; in Lothbury and at the junction of Night Rider and Thames Street. How they provided money and clothing, arranged marriages for some of the younger girls whilst others were clothed, given food, a few pennies and sent back to the villages and hamlets from whence they came.
Corbett sensed the sheer compassion beneath de Lacey’s curt description, a genuine concern for others less fortunate then her. He gathered the Order had been in existence for at least twenty years and already the ladies had established close ties with the hospitals at St Bartholomew’s and St Anthony’s where the physicians gave their services free whilst the Guild of Apothecaries sold them herbs and medicines at much reduced prices. Better this, Corbett thought, than the dizzy-headed butterflies at court, dripping with jewellery, clothed in satin, with no thoughts in their empty noddles other than how their faces looked and their bellies were filled.
The meeting eventually finished with a prayer and, whilst the other sisters made to leave, smiling shyly at the men and whispering amongst themselves, the Ladies Catherine and Mary led them across to a small deserted chamber just off the Chapter Room. Lady Imelda suddenly bellowed at Corbett, how she hoped the King kept his shoulders warm and drank the herbal potions she sent to him.
‘The King always suffered from rheums,’ the old lady trumpeted for half of Westminster to hear. ‘And as a boy he was always sniffing with colds. By the Mass, I wish I was back with him! A good strong horse between my legs and I’d teach those bloody Scots a lesson!’ Her voice faded as the door closed behind them.
Lady Catherine smiled wanly but her companion leaned against the wall, hand to her face, giggling uncontrollably.
‘You really must excuse the Lady Imelda,’ Lady Fitzwarren murmured as they sat down on stools around a low, rickety table. ‘She’s going as deaf as a post, her language can be ripe but she has a heart of gold.’ Lady Catherine blew her lips out. ‘Well, I am afraid we have no wine.’
Corbett shrugged and said it didn’t matter. He was now more interested in his servant who was staring fixedly at the Lady Mary. He followed Ranulf’s gaze. She is beautiful, Corbett thought, and seems gentle as a dove. He clenched his fists in his lap, he had to forget the past as well as warn Ranulf that Lady Mary Neville was not some trollop to be teased and flirted with.
‘Well,’ Lady Catherine leaned forward. ‘Your questions, Clerk?’ She coughed and glanced at her companion. ‘We knew you were coming,’ she continued. ‘The King informed us but the Lady Imelda always acts like that.’ Fitzwarren smoothed the blue tabard over her knees. ‘You want to ask us about the deaths of the girls?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’
‘We know nothing. Oh, we have tried to find out but even amongst the women we work with there’s not a hint, not a whisper, not a suspicion of who the killer could be.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘You see, we work amongst the unfortunates, those who, by appearances anyway, even God has forsaken. Of course, we believe He has not. Now, we are not interested in what they do or who they know, where they go, which men have used their bodies. We are not even interested in their souls. We care for them as people, as women caught in a trap of poverty and ignorance, then lured to false wealth by empty promises. We believe that if we rescue them from that then all will be well.’
Corbett studied the woman. He could not understand her. She was harsh, yet gentle; idealistic but at the same time pragmatic. He glanced sideways and wished Ranulf would stop staring at the Lady Mary and that she would stop looking at him with those dark, doe-like eyes which stirred such memories in his own soul.
‘So, you know nothing?’ he asked.
‘Not a jot, not a tittle.’
‘Lady Mary, is that true?’
Corbett turned, ignoring Fitzwarren’s hiss of annoyance. The young woman
Corbett sensed the sheer compassion beneath de Lacey’s curt description, a genuine concern for others less fortunate then her. He gathered the Order had been in existence for at least twenty years and already the ladies had established close ties with the hospitals at St Bartholomew’s and St Anthony’s where the physicians gave their services free whilst the Guild of Apothecaries sold them herbs and medicines at much reduced prices. Better this, Corbett thought, than the dizzy-headed butterflies at court, dripping with jewellery, clothed in satin, with no thoughts in their empty noddles other than how their faces looked and their bellies were filled.
The meeting eventually finished with a prayer and, whilst the other sisters made to leave, smiling shyly at the men and whispering amongst themselves, the Ladies Catherine and Mary led them across to a small deserted chamber just off the Chapter Room. Lady Imelda suddenly bellowed at Corbett, how she hoped the King kept his shoulders warm and drank the herbal potions she sent to him.
‘The King always suffered from rheums,’ the old lady trumpeted for half of Westminster to hear. ‘And as a boy he was always sniffing with colds. By the Mass, I wish I was back with him! A good strong horse between my legs and I’d teach those bloody Scots a lesson!’ Her voice faded as the door closed behind them.
Lady Catherine smiled wanly but her companion leaned against the wall, hand to her face, giggling uncontrollably.
‘You really must excuse the Lady Imelda,’ Lady Fitzwarren murmured as they sat down on stools around a low, rickety table. ‘She’s going as deaf as a post, her language can be ripe but she has a heart of gold.’ Lady Catherine blew her lips out. ‘Well, I am afraid we have no wine.’
Corbett shrugged and said it didn’t matter. He was now more interested in his servant who was staring fixedly at the Lady Mary. He followed Ranulf’s gaze. She is beautiful, Corbett thought, and seems gentle as a dove. He clenched his fists in his lap, he had to forget the past as well as warn Ranulf that Lady Mary Neville was not some trollop to be teased and flirted with.
‘Well,’ Lady Catherine leaned forward. ‘Your questions, Clerk?’ She coughed and glanced at her companion. ‘We knew you were coming,’ she continued. ‘The King informed us but the Lady Imelda always acts like that.’ Fitzwarren smoothed the blue tabard over her knees. ‘You want to ask us about the deaths of the girls?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’
‘We know nothing. Oh, we have tried to find out but even amongst the women we work with there’s not a hint, not a whisper, not a suspicion of who the killer could be.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘You see, we work amongst the unfortunates, those who, by appearances anyway, even God has forsaken. Of course, we believe He has not. Now, we are not interested in what they do or who they know, where they go, which men have used their bodies. We are not even interested in their souls. We care for them as people, as women caught in a trap of poverty and ignorance, then lured to false wealth by empty promises. We believe that if we rescue them from that then all will be well.’
Corbett studied the woman. He could not understand her. She was harsh, yet gentle; idealistic but at the same time pragmatic. He glanced sideways and wished Ranulf would stop staring at the Lady Mary and that she would stop looking at him with those dark, doe-like eyes which stirred such memories in his own soul.
‘So, you know nothing?’ he asked.
‘Not a jot, not a tittle.’
‘Lady Mary, is that true?’
Corbett turned, ignoring Fitzwarren’s hiss of annoyance. The young woman
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