Copyright © 2021 Paul Doherty

The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2021

by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2021

by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN: 978 1 4722 8476 1

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(Mila Petkova, detchana wangkheeree, Wongsakorn Dulyavit)

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About the Author

Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied History at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now headmaster of a school in north-east London and lives with his family in Essex.

By Paul Doherty
The Author of Over One Hundred Novels

Hugh Corbett Medieval Mysteries

Satan in St Mary’s

The Crown in Darkness

Spy in Chancery

The Angel of Death

The Prince of Darkness

Murder Wears a Cowl

The Assassin in the Greenwood

The Song of a Dark Angel

Satan’s Fire

The Devil’s Hunt

The Demon Archer

The Treason of the Ghosts

Corpse Candle

The Magician’s Death

The Waxman Murders

Nightshade

The Mysterium

The Peacock’s Cry (E-Novella)

Dark Serpent

The King’s Writ (E-Novella)

Devil’s Wolf

Death’s Dark Valley

Hymn to Murder

Mother Midnight

Novels

The Death of a King

Prince Drakulya

The Lord Count Drakulya

The Fate of Princes

Dove Among the Hawks

The Masked Man

The Rose Demon

The Haunting

The Soul Slayer

The Plague Lord

The Love Knot

Of Love and War

The Loving Cup

The Last of Days

Roseblood

E-Novels and Short Stories

Tenebrae

Annals of Ancient Rome

Non-fiction

The Mysterious Death of Tutankhamun

Isabella and the Strange Death of Edward II

Alexander the Great, The Death of a God

The Great Crown Jewels Robbery of 1303

The Secret Life of Elizabeth I

The Death of the Red King

Series

Hugh Corbett Medieval Mysteries

Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

Sir Roger Shallot Tudor Mysteries

Kathryn Swinbrooke Series

Nicholas Segalla Series

The Templar Mysteries

Matthew Jankyn Series

Alexander the Great Mysteries

Canterbury Tales of Murder and Mystery

The Egyptian Mysteries

Mahu (The Akhenaten-Trilogy)

Mathilde of Westminster Series

Political Intrigue in Ancient Rome Series

Visit www.headline.co.uk or www.paulcdoherty.com to find out full details of all his publications

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‘Extensive and penetrating research coupled with a strong plot and bold characterisation. Loads of adventure and a dazzling evocation of the past’ Herald Sun, Melbourne

About the Book

It is 1312 and the kingdom is in turmoil . . .

Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, has returned from the West Country to find Westminster in chaos. Edward II has fled in an attempt to protect his favourite from the wrath of his noblemen; and a royal clerk has been found dead, poisoned in a locked chamber.

Drawn into a maze of murder both at Westminster and at the Convent of Saint Sulpice, where young novices have started to disappear, Corbett quickly establishes a connection between the two mysteries. As other killings follow, Corbett’s investigation leads him to a high-class brothel and its sinister owner, Mother Midnight.

Challenged to a duel and hunted by a guild of ruthless assassins, Corbett and his loyal henchmen, Ranulf and Chanson, face a sea of troubles. And Corbett must call upon his wit and ingenuity to halt the tide of disaster that threatens to engulf him . . .

In memory of the beloved parents of
Linda Gerrish (née Stack),
John and Hannah Stack,
of Cork and Kerry in Ireland

CHARACTER LIST

The Court of England

Edward I
King of England 1272–1307

Edward II
Son and heir of the above,
King of England 1307–1327

Peter Gaveston
Edward II’s Gascon favourite,
created Earl of Cornwall

Thomas, Earl of Lancaster
Cousin to Edward II and his most inveterate opponent

The Royal Clerks

Sir Hugh Corbett
Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal

Ranulf-atte-Newgate
Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, Corbett’s henchman

Chanson
Corbett’s Clerk of the Stables

Ralph Manning
Senior clerk in the Secret Chancery

Luke Faldon
Royal clerk, Manning’s henchman

Faucomburg
Leading clerk in the household of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster

Catesby
Faucomburg’s henchman

John Daventry
Clerk

Simon Mepham
Chief Scrivener in the Secret Chancery

John Benstead
Master of the Keys in the Secret Chancery

The Convent of St Sulpice

Eleanor
Lady Abbess

Margaret
Lady Prioress

Sister Marie

Sister Fidelis

Sister Perpetua

Sister Callista

Sister Constantia

Sister Agatha (Isolda Manning)

Isabella Seymour (Megotta the moon girl)

Katherine Ingoldsby
Ralph Manning’s great love

Agnes Sorrell
Former novice at St Sulpice

Mathilda Blackbourne
Former novice at St Sulpice

Stigand
Leader of the convent labourers

The Queen of the Night

Mother Midnight
Taverner

Janine
One of Mother Midnight’s leading ladies

Sherwin
Captain of The Picardy

Brasby
Sherwin’s henchman

Others

Brother Philippe
Corbett’s physician friend, a member of St Bartholomew’s Priory in Smithfield

Thomas Turbeville
English spy for the French court, executed 1295

Raul Briscoe
Harrower of the Dead, officer of the city council

Lady Maeve
Corbett’s wife

Edward and Eleanor
Corbett’s children

Sir John Kyrie
King’s Admiral

Ap Ythel
Corbett’s friend, Captain of the Tower

HISTORICAL NOTE

In the early spring of 1312, England teetered on the verge of civil war. King Edward II was determined to protect and promote his Gascon royal favourite, Peter Gaveston, whom he had created Earl of Cornwall. Edward’s barons, led by the turbulent Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, opposed the king, fiercely determined on Gaveston’s removal and death. The king hurried north, depriving the royal precincts at Westminster of good governance. The deepening crisis soon made itself felt both at Westminster and in the rest of the city. Lancaster’s bully boys swaggered the streets, whilst other more sinister figures flexed their muscles too, determined to profit from the deepening crisis. Murder was no stranger to Westminster, nor was it a respecter of so-called holy places, be it convent or church. Royal clerks such as Hugh Corbett tried to remain firm in allegiance and loyalty to both king and Crown. Nevertheless, these were murderous times . . .

Please note: the extracts used before each part are from ‘The treason of Sir Thomas de Turbeville’, in Chronicles of the Mayors and Sheriffs of London 1188–1274, ed. H. T. Riley (London, 1863), pp. 293–5.

PROLOGUE

Turbeville who had been taken prisoner by the French . . .

Newgate was the devil’s own manor. A pit of darkness and even deeper despair, especially on a Thursday, the eve of the great hanging days, proclaimed for the morrow at Smithfield, Tyburn Stream or just outside Newgate’s iron doors. These formidable barriers fronted that house of hell, that domain of demons. The great gates overlooked the fleshers’ market with its broad sloping stalls where slabs of meat, fresh and bloodied, were spiked for customers to see and even touch.

Inside the prison, Murder’s Eve, as it was popularly called, truly was a godforsaken occasion. Prisoners who had received notice of hanging, read out by the chief turnkey, prepared for death in many different ways. Some queued to kneel at the shriving pew and confess their sins to a Friar of the Sack, who sat on the makeshift mercy stool to hear litany after macabre litany of the penitents’ sins in all their squalid detail. Murder, infanticide, torture, wounding, theft, adultery, sodomy, fornication, drunkenness . . . the list was endless, reflecting the hunger and violence of the human heart. A few prisoners roistered and became hopelessly drunk on the heavy Newgate ale, hoping this would render them unconscious until they were turned off the ladder to dance in the air at the end of a rope. A good number of the condemned just sat slumped against the filthy, mildewed prison wall, staring at the cesspit that surrounded them like some malignant marsh. The prison floors were in truth a bed of lice and vermin, which scuttled in and out impervious to the great cobwebs, rich with the flies they’d caught, spanning every corner and crevice.

Megotta the moon girl – the child of the sun, as the mummers’ master described her – closed her eyes in desperation. She tried to recall that journey so many months ago, when spring had turned into a glorious summer then a majestically vibrant autumn. She had been with her troupe, their gaily decorated carts festooned with eye-catching ribbons that snapped and fluttered in the welcoming warm breeze. Last year had been a good one. They had enjoyed the nights when they sat in the clearings of Epping Forest, the massive ancient oaks grouped around them, the sky a dark velvet canopy above, the stars hanging low like so many fairy lanterns; a joyful, peaceful time. Megotta loved the world of the mummers. She couldn’t remember her early days, except that she was an orphan, a beggar child, whom the mummers had taken in to become one of their company. They claimed she had a talent, a God-given gift for acting, mummery, mimicking, singing and all the tricks of the masque.

She had lived a happy, contented life until earlier in the autumn, when the mummers had stopped at the White Horse, close to the village of Woodeforde on the road into London. A cold, hard night. They’d camped out as usual in the forest and Megotta had been dispatched to buy fresh milk from the tavern, a common enough occurrence when they were following that route. She had walked into the taproom and, as usual, tried to act the merry maid. Two men, however, changed the lines of that harmless act. They had followed her out into the yard, where she was waiting for the tap boy to ladle milk from the churn. Both men were mawmsy, deep in their cups. One tried to seize her, but Megotta was skilled in using the thin dagger she kept concealed on her belt. She drew this and struck once, a killing blow beneath the ribs and up towards the heart. She had practised such a thrust, being taught it by soldiers her troupe had entertained. Men of war who realised that such a good-looking wench might have to defend her honour. The second assailant was so surprised, he just stood gaping as his comrade staggered back, blood bubbling from nose and mouth. Only when his comrade collapsed to the ground did he draw his own dagger. He lurched forward and almost ran onto Megotta’s knife, a deep, slicing cut that opened his fat belly from end to end.

Megotta had fled, but the two dead men had been the retainers of a local lord, and she was put to the horn, proclaimed to be utlegatum, an outlaw, a wolfshead to be killed on sight. The comitatus of the shire had been raised. Megotta’s description and crime were loudly proclaimed. The swift-moving comitatus caught up with the moon people’s long line of carts just as they passed Bow church, going towards Mile End. They had brought the tap boy with them. He immediately recognised Megotta, and her fate was sealed when the comitatus ransacked her chest and found her smock still streaked with her victims’ blood.

The sheriff’s men had been summoned and Megotta had been taken into a tavern close to the Tower, where three justices of oyer et terminer had been sitting in session, dealing out summary justice to a queue of chained defendants. She had tried to plead self-defence, but this proved futile: her angry-faced judges were determined on her death. They donned their black skullcaps and condemned her to hang till dead on the common gallows above Tyburn Stream. Megotta had kept a brave face. She was determined that she would not plead, though she was intrigued when a young blonde-haired man, dressed in the costly garb of a high-ranking clerk, pushed his way between the justices once sentence had been passed. He stood whispering hoarsely with them, now and again glancing towards Megotta. The justices were evidently in awe of him. They listened to what he said, then the principal justice replied swiftly in Norman French. Satisfied, the clerk stepped away and returned to where he had been standing close to the taproom door.

‘God knows,’ Megotta whispered to the darkness. ‘God knows what that was all about.’ She tried to compose herself, fighting to control the terror seething through her. She attempted to sleep, only to start awake as the chief turnkey slipped, silent as a snake, into the condemned cell. He knelt beside her, unlocking the manacles around her wrists and ankles, heavy irons that rattled ominously. His flushed, brutal face betrayed no emotion. When Megotta asked what was happening, he simply shook his head, pulled her to her feet and pushed her towards the two gaolers standing by the open door. Catcalls and jeers from the other prisoners followed her into the dank, freezing, dimly lit passageway, its slime-drenched walls and hard-stoned flooring covered with insects that crackled under her bruised bare feet.

‘Where am I going?’ She paused, only to be roughly pushed up a stone staircase onto a gallery that did not reek so strongly as the stench below. A door was opened and she was thrust into a cell bereft of all furniture except for a table, with a shuttered lanternhorn creating a glow of light around it. She was ordered to stand quietly. The lantern hid the shadowy figure sitting on the other side of the table. The two gaolers pushed her a little closer, then the door was slammed shut. Glancing swiftly over her shoulder, Megotta realised she was alone with a stranger whom she suspected was the same high-ranking clerk she had glimpsed at the judgement table.

‘You are Megotta, yes?’ The voice was harsh and carrying. ‘A mummer in the Guild of the Holy Spirit. A troupe of moon people who wander this kingdom and go wherever they wish. You are a member of that cohort. Yes or no?’

‘I am.’

‘Megotta, take off your clothes.’

‘I . . .’

‘I will not harm you, I swear that. I am here to save you from hanging. Trust me, I mean you well. You can help me and I can help you. So divest, I need to see your body. Better that,’ the voice added, ‘than swinging by your neck from a Newgate noose.’

Megotta lifted her torn, soiled gown, followed by the stained undergarment. She stood naked, hands hanging by her sides.

‘Turn,’ the voice ordered. ‘Turn slowly so that I can see all of you.’

She reluctantly did so.

‘Very good,’ the voice murmured. ‘Now, Megotta, dress.’

She did so as swiftly as she could, feeling a surge of excitement. She was not to hang, she was sure of that.

‘You perform in the mummers’ plays, yes?’

‘Oh yes, I do.’

‘And you’ve learnt all the roles?’

‘I have.’

‘You have played in The Annunciation,’ the voice continued, ‘so show me, Megotta, play the Virgin Mary. How would she stand or kneel?’

Megotta just blinked.

‘Come,’ the voice urged. ‘Act the part. You are a prisoner, but you can shake yourself free. I need an actress, Megotta. I watched you in the court. You know that.’

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘I am Ralph Manning, senior clerk in the Secret Chancery. I carry the king’s authority. I have the power to enquire and to make judgement. I answer to no one but the king and His Grace’s representative, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal. Mistress, I deal with issues of life and death. I am not here to abuse you but to judge if you can help my cause.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘On second thoughts, Megotta, act the nun. Come, woman, break free of your fear. How does a nun act?’

Megotta stood for a while, eyes closed, then walked to the door and back, slowly, piously, like the nuns she’d seen process into church to sing hymns through their noses. Manning clapped his hands and laughed softly as this young woman transformed herself from a condemned prisoner to an ever-so-devout woman of God.

‘Good, good,’ he breathed. ‘And now I want you to act as Pilate’s wife in the mummer’s masque The Death of Pilate. You remember the speeches, yes? So give me one.’

She did as he asked. Eyes closed, fists clenched against her chest, she played the role of Pilate’s wife as she begged her husband to spare Christ. Manning studied her carefully. He recognised a young lady of great talent who could act the part and play the role. She could deceive and yet she was intelligent enough to remember what she saw and to report everything needed. He stared at this gifted young woman and thought of the good sisters out in their convent of St Sulpice. He was determined to discover the truth of that place. He owed it to his beloved Katherine. She had raised the spectres and he was determined to resolve the mystery. Just as important, his sister, Isolda, was now a member of that community. True, they had taken a solemn vow not to communicate with each other this side of heaven, yet he had a sacred duty to ensure she remained safe in her life of atonement.

‘Master.’ Megotta had now squatted down before the table. ‘Master, I have done what you asked. I am tired, I can do no more.’

‘You have done very well, Megotta, but now you must change. You are no longer Megotta, but Isabella Seymour, from a village in the West Country. You are a novice in the Benedictine order, a member of the community of St Sulpice out on the heathland to the north of London. You are about to enter a place of prayer, of fragrant incense and melodious plainchant. You must learn how to walk, smile, turn and be ever so gracious. Can you do that? I am sure you can,’ he added drily. ‘It’s better than hanging in the air above Newgate yard.’

‘And what is the purpose of this?’

‘Oh, the purpose is very clear. I need to discover what is happening out at that convent. So enclosed, so secretive, so pious, so holy, and yet I believe a place where mortal sin has been committed.’

‘And why should I do this, master? What do I gain?’

‘Oh, Megotta, a rich reward indeed. A royal pardon, full and complete. A purse of coins and the Crown’s protection and patronage wherever you go. Do you accept?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. So let’s begin this mummers’ play.’

Sister Fidelis of the Convent of St Sulpice rubbed her eyes in disbelief. She had come from one of the granges to inspect the carp pond, which stood at the far end of the grounds. The pond – or lake, as Lady Abbess Eleanor liked to call it – had been cleverly constructed many years ago to house the fat carp that could then be caught, gutted and prepared for the convent table. The weather this morning was bitterly cold, the lake almost turned to ice, so Sister Fidelis was amazed when she saw the squat bum boat bobbing in the middle of the water, its oars out, when it should really be tied up against the very jetty she was standing on, close to the sluice gate.

The mist rolling across the water parted abruptly in ghostly wisps. Sister Fidelis, who openly proclaimed that her sight was not as sharp as it should be, peered again. Despite her protests, her eyes were still good enough to pick out a cowled figure, garbed in the earth-coloured robes of the order, bending ever so slightly over the oars. Nevertheless, the boat was not moving. The figure was not rowing, just sitting impervious to the ice-ridden water and a breeze as sharp as any cutting knife.

‘Who are you?’ Sister Fidelis called out, her voice echoing eerily across the water. The only answer to her question was the persistent harsh cawing of the crows in the thick copse of trees that bounded the lake. Fidelis, hands clasped in prayer, gazed up at the sky, but the lowering iron-grey clouds provided neither answer nor comfort. Frustrated, she walked along the jetty and stared down at the second bum boat, chained securely with a heavy, rusty chain and an equally stout padlock. The second boat had no oars, these being kept in a nearby boathouse. The three benches of the second boat were still covered by canvas sheets, stretched tightly and securely nailed. The boat was totally dry, inside. It was obvious it had not been used for months. Curious about what she had seen, Fidelis was tempted to prepare the boat and row out herself. ‘No, no,’ she whispered. ‘Not on a day like this, it’s freezing and it would take me too long.’ She turned and hastened off the jetty, following the path between the trees.

Breathless and flustered, Fidelis reached the main convent buildings, which bounded the great cloisters. She hurried round the garth, then abruptly paused. She had glimpsed something down at the jetty, something amiss, but she couldn’t place it. What was it? She tapped the side of her head. Sometimes her memory failed her, but she’d remember soon enough. She hastened on, asking the good sisters for the whereabouts of Lady Margaret.

Eventually she found the prioress busy in the refectory. She was supervising the movement of the lectern for the novice who would read from the Lives of the Saints whilst the community ate their meal. Lady Margaret, sharp faced and of even sharper eye, told Fidelis in no uncertain manner to sit, calm herself, then explain the cause of all the commotion. When she did so, the prioress also became alarmed. She ordered labourers to be brought in from the granges, stables, fields and gardens to join her at the jetty. Then, with Fidelis accompanying her, she hurried out across the convent grounds, almost running down the woodland path to the edge of the lake and onto the jetty.

‘See, Lady Prioress, it’s not moved.’ Fidelis pointed across to the sinister-looking figure sitting rock still in the boat, hands on the oars.

‘What’s happened here?’ the prioress murmured. ‘What is it? Where are they going? What are they doing?’

‘Perhaps whoever it is was going out to the carp nets.’ Sister Marie pushed herself between the prioress and Fidelis. Elegant and calm, Marie was Lady of the Halls, responsible for the care and upkeep of the convent buildings. Her soft, sweet face was puckered in concern, but even in the brown garb of the order with its snow- white coif, she looked as poised as any court lady, and the prioress was comforted by her presence. Marie was serene and orderly, unlike Fidelis, who could become agitated at the sight of a mouse.

‘It’s possible,’ the prioress agreed. ‘Yet at this hour of the day, and in such terrible weather?’

They heard their names called and all three nuns stood aside, bowing as Abbess Eleanor swept onto the jetty, pausing to grasp a post to steady herself as she stared out across the lake. The good sisters of the convent often whispered amongst themselves about how their lady abbess had all the tenacity and harshness of a hunting falcon. This was certainly mirrored in her long, pallid face with deep furrows either side of her bloodless, thin-lipped mouth, slightly hooked nose and small, darting black eyes.

‘For heaven’s sake and that of St Sulpice, bring the boat in,’ she declared.

As if in answer to her prayer, Stigand, leader of the convent labourers, brought his comitatus out of the treeline and onto the jetty. Big, burly men, surprised by what was happening, they pushed and shoved each other until the abbess’s lashing tongue imposed order. Stigand and three of his companions prepared the second boat, hastening to the boathouse to bring the key to the rusting padlock, as well as a set of heavy-bladed oars. Eventually everything was ready. They undid the mooring ropes, then clambered into the boat. The nuns had to help them push away, for there was no current. The men brought the boat under control, and two of the labourers bent over the oars, moving slowly towards the bank of rolling mist that still obscured a clear view. Eventually they reached the first boat.

Sister Fidelis, who had walked as far as she dared along the jetty, watched the labourers move from one boat to the other, then her heart chilled at the shouts and cries that floated across the water. At last both boats turned and made their way back, coming alongside the jetty. Fidelis glanced at what the first boat contained and wailed like a child, then turned and stared in horror at her abbess.

‘It’s Sister Constantia! She’s, she’s . . .’

‘Dead!’ Stigand declared, climbing onto the jetty. ‘Sister Constantia has been murdered.’ He stepped aside to allow two of his men to lift the corpse out of the boat.

Ignoring the abbess’s orders, Sister Fidelis crouched beside it. She stared in horror at the frozen dried blood that almost masked the dead nun’s snow-white face, then glanced at the cause of it all: a bone-handled stiletto, its long, pointed blade driven deep into the woman’s heart. She could hear the cries and exclamations of the rest; nevertheless, all she could think of was what was hidden away in her secret cache at the top of Devil’s Tower. She wished she was there now. She wanted to sit, reflect and recall what she had seen this morning, which was so amiss, so out of place. But what? If she could only have the comfort of a deep-bowled cup of the best Bordeaux . . .

‘How?’ The lady abbess’s harsh voice made Fidelis flinch. ‘How,’ she repeated, ‘could this happen? Did someone swim out to the boat? Yet the water is freezing. Moreover, such a swimmer would have immediately alarmed Constantia.’

‘Was she killed, then placed in the boat?’ Sister Marie’s words trailed away at the prioress’s abrupt sarcastic laugh. ‘I know, I know,’ she conceded. ‘A dead woman cannot row. So how did the boat reach the middle of the lake? There is no current, whilst it is obvious that the second boat was not used, the heavy chain, the rusting padlock, the canvas sheets have not been removed and the boat is bone dry within.’

‘And yet . . .’ Sister Fidelis murmured.

‘And yet what?’ Sister Marie demanded.

‘I saw something this morning, but I cannot remember what.’

‘Do so,’ Lady Margaret snapped, ‘and do so swiftly. Anything that could resolve this blasphemous murder. Stigand, remove the fishing tackle from the boat and take the corpse to the death house. Sister Marie, you are Lady of the Halls; see that it is dressed properly for burial . . .’

Ralph Manning, senior clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal, sat back in his chair. He stared around the bleak chamber, a room specially reserved for clerks of the Secret Chancery, where they could work without any interruption, well protected against spies or eavesdroppers. A truly stark chamber, its bare walls were plastered white. No decoration, no paintings or gaily coloured cloth to distract, just a crucifix on the far wall. No window, no other entrance, whilst the heavy iron-barred door was, according to custom, firmly locked and bolted.

Ralph gripped his quill pen as he stared down at the notes he had made. He half smiled to himself as he wondered how Megotta, the mummers’ girl, was faring. He truly believed he had chosen the best. Despite the charges levelled against her, she was a good soul, caught up in the swirl of life. She had just been unfortunate. If she’d been able to hire a lawyer from the Inns of Court, she could have successfully pleaded self-defence. She was a born actress with an almost cruel ability to mimic, be it a tavern slattern, a mincing court lady or, most importantly, a devout novice in a nunnery with the ability to sing through her nose, keep her eyes down and adopt the most cringing pose of devotion. She could walk, talk and sing any role he had assigned her. A highly attractive young woman, she had convinced him she would keep her word.

He tapped the scroll on the desk before him that granted her a full royal pardon for all or any crimes she may have committed. Once her task was over, she would be given this as well as a purse of coins and letters of reference sealed and signed by himself. Of course, she might well choose to return to the moon people, but she showed promise and could be assigned other duties. Manning rubbed a finger round his lips. He could have asked for the help of his sister, also a nun at St Sulpice, but to all intents and purposes she too had disappeared, though that was not the full truth. Isolda was a bitter scourge of a memory – of deceit, deception and death. He had killed Daventry, once a bosom comrade, at her insistence, only to discover that the allegations and accusations were false. No, he reasoned, Isolda was best left alone; brother and sister had taken a solemn vow to keep it so.

He picked up his quill pen, nibbling at its end as he recalled the instructions given to the moon girl almost two months ago. Suitably dressed, she had entered the Convent of St Sulpice. She was supposed to watch and listen, and so she had. Every so often, at the appointed time, she would meet Manning in the stairwell of Devil’s Tower, close to the convent wall, and in hushed whispers would tell him all the gossip of the convent, yet she had not reported anything seriously amiss. On one vital issue she could only provide sparse information. Yes, would-be novices presented themselves at the convent; at the same time, others left, though not many – three or four at the very most since she had arrived there.

Manning closed his eyes, rubbing his mouth again. What he had planned for St Sulpice was not really royal business, though he intended to inform his master, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, as soon as his superior returned to Westminster. He truly believed there was something very rotten in that convent. He murmured a prayer as he recalled meeting Katherine, the love of his life, in that same stairwell close to the convent wall. Matters had moved swiftly in their affair. Katherine, an orphan, had lived with her ancient aunt in her mansion along Paternoster Row, beneath the shadow of St Paul’s. Manning had met her after mass on the feast of St John the Baptist last. He was no troubadour or minstrel, yet he and Katherine believed theirs was love at first sight. Secret meetings and hidden trysts soon followed. He had hired this chamber or that chamber in the taverns along Cheapside. Katherine had become pregnant, but lost the child before it was born. Her aunt soon found out. No mercy was given, no compassion shown. Katherine was bundled off to join the good sisters of St Sulpice, and Manning had dutifully followed her there.

They met in secret and discussed the future. Weeks passed, and Katherine began to hint that things were not as they should be in the convent. She talked of young women leaving, but she could not precisely describe what was wrong, and then, most abruptly, she herself disappeared. Manning had returned to the convent time and again, waiting in the usual place, yet Katherine never came. Eventually he approached Lady Abbess Eleanor and said he was concerned about what had happened to her. The abbess simply pulled a face, pointing out that St Sulpice was not a prison. Some young women elected to come and others chose to leave. She informed him that Katherine’s cell had been found in complete order but stripped of all personal possessions. She had shrugged elegantly and said she had no idea what might have happened except that Katherine had left.

Of course Manning had protested. Surely a young woman like Katherine would inform the abbess of her imminent departure? But that hawk-faced, arrogant woman had simply shaken her head. ‘It is quite common that if these young women wish to leave, they do so quietly, mysteriously.’

‘Did anyone see her go?’ Manning queried. ‘She must have made friends. Someone would have known what she intended.’

‘Have you visited her relatives in the city?’

‘She has none: her aged aunt died recently – I believe she gave this convent a most generous bequest. Surely,’ he persisted, ‘you have a care for Katherine Ingoldsby. I mean, she left so swiftly, so quietly.’

‘Master Manning, if a young woman intends to flee, to leave us, then of course she would shroud it in silence, wouldn’t she?’

Manning put the quill pen down, closed his eyes and quietly intoned the Veni Creator Spiritus. He did not know what to do. This was not chancery work and yet he would have to account for what he did and where he went. He had searched high and low. He had talked to his informants, the street spies, the cunning men and their ilk. He had even visited Mother Midnight at her tavern, the Queen of the Night, a place where, according to those who informed him, young women who had escaped from here or there might find refuge. It was all to no avail.

Suddenly he felt a deep discomfort in his belly. He crouched forward, clasping his side as his mind wrestled with this nagging problem. He recalled his conversations with Katherine. He now believed that something hideous had happened to her, and that the root of all this was the Convent of St Sulpice and the tavern. He fully intended to go back to question both the lady abbess and the taverner to discover what was really happening.

He had not informed anyone else about what he was involved in, except for his loyal henchman Luke Faldon. ‘Yet even there,’ he whispered to himself, ‘matters have turned sour.’ He was growing deeply concerned about Faldon: he knew he was visiting that pleasure house the Queen of the Night, and strongly suspected he was becoming increasingly infatuated with one of the young French ladies there. He did not really mind this if Faldon could learn more about the place. Manning himself had revisited the tavern and knew there was something very wrong with it, yet he could not articulate what it was, except that Mother Midnight was too glib, too easy in her answers.

He moved to clear the discomfort in his belly and glimpsed the parchment with the name Turbeville scrawled prominently, beneath it a roughly etched three-stemmed fleur-de-lis. Katherine had glimpsed the same at St Sulpice and promised to bring him a drawing, but then she’d disappeared. He groaned. All of this was taking so much time. He kept reminding himself that it was not chancery business, certainly not a Crown secret. It rose out of his great love for Katherine and his determination to discover what had happened to her. Perhaps when Sir Hugh Corbett returned from the West Country, he could formally ask for his help and assistance.

He paused in his reflections. He did not feel at all well. The pain in his belly had spread to his chest, and he was finding it difficult to swallow, even to breathe. He got to his feet, but the pain had become so intense he had to crouch down beside the chancery desk. He fought for a while, trying to control his breathing, hoping that the pain would pass. He wondered if he could get help, yet the door seemed so far away. It was locked and bolted. He lurched forward, only to fall back and slip into the encroaching darkness.