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
‘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
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