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Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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the cliff edge until they came again to the three-branched scaffold. It soared up against the darkening sky, only about seven yards from the cliff edge. Corbett gathered the reins and tried to keep his skittish horse still. He looked up at the great iron hook in each of the scaffold branches.
'I suppose,' he said, more to himself than to his companions, 'if some poor unfortunate's to be executed, he's brought out here, pushed up a ladder, the ladder's turned and he's left to hang. But that's not what happened to the baker's wife.'
He stared down at the ground, where the grass had long been worn away. His horse was so nervous that he wondered whether someone was buried there – it was, he knew, the custom to bury suicides and excommunicants beneath a scaffold. Why, he wondered, had the baker's wife come out here? Why had she allowed someone to place a rope round her neck? How was it that the murderer had left no sign? And who had ridden the baker's horse back to the village?
The sound of hoof-beats made him look round in alarm. Monck came galloping out of the mist; with his black cloak billowing out, he looked like some evil raven. Corbett nodded a dismissal at Ranulf and Maltote.
'Go to the Hermitage,' he ordered. 'I'll meet you back at the manor.'
Ranulf and Maltote galloped away as Monck, his mount slowing to a trot, came up beside Corbett. He pulled back his hood and Corbett saw that his face and hair were soaked. Had he been on the beach, staring into the stinging spray? Monk gestured towards the scaffold.
'A mystery, eh, Corbett?'
'You saw the corpse?' Corbett asked.
'Yes, nothing but a noose mark around her neck. Not like the poor girl we discovered this morning.' Monck pushed his horse closer. 'I thought you'd be either in the village or here. I came to find you.'
Corbett stared at him. 'Why?'
Monck wiped his mouth with the back of his black-gloved hand.
'I came to apologize.'
For a few seconds Monck's face relaxed and Corbett glimpsed a younger, pleasanter man. Monck stared out at the mist-covered sea and spoke softly.
'You've heard the gossip?'
'Aye,' Corbett replied. 'I've remembered. You had a daughter.'
'She was sixteen,' Monck said, still looking out to sea. 'She was pretty as a summer's day. Every time I looked at her I thought of her mother, who died giving her birth. It happened so quickly. My Lord of Surrey had organized a small banquet. It was a most beautiful day. Caterina, my daughter, said she wished to go for a walk in the nearby woods. I was stupid, I let her go. We were on the earl's estates. I thought she'd be safe. An hour passed and she didn't return. I became anxious. I went searching for her. She was like that girl we found this morning, just lying there.' Turning to face Corbett for the first time, he blinked away tears. 'She had been attacked, raped, then choked to death. And there was nothing I could do. I kept talking to her.' His voice faltered. 'I even took my dagger and cut myself in case I was dreaming. My Lord of Surrey was most kind, but the murderer was never found.'
Corbett leaned across and touched him gently on the arm.
'I am sorry, Lavinius. Truly sorry.'
'There were suspects, though,' Monck continued.
'There were Pastoureaux on the other side of the wood. They occupied an old ruined church. They swore they had nothing to do with Caterina's death.'
'The same group?' Corbett asked. 'The people we have here now?' Monck shook his head. 'I don't know. I was prostrate with grief. My Lord of Surrey brought in the sheriff's men but they could discover nothing.'
'Do you think the Pastoureaux killed Marina?'
Monck's face twisted into a sneer. 'That's for you to prove, Corbett! I don't give a damn who murdered Marina. But one day someone is going to pay for my daughter's death!' Monck grasped the reins of his horse and leaned over, pushing his face to within a few inches of Corbett's. 'I know what you | think of me,' he whispered. Corbett saw the murderous hatred blazing
'I suppose,' he said, more to himself than to his companions, 'if some poor unfortunate's to be executed, he's brought out here, pushed up a ladder, the ladder's turned and he's left to hang. But that's not what happened to the baker's wife.'
He stared down at the ground, where the grass had long been worn away. His horse was so nervous that he wondered whether someone was buried there – it was, he knew, the custom to bury suicides and excommunicants beneath a scaffold. Why, he wondered, had the baker's wife come out here? Why had she allowed someone to place a rope round her neck? How was it that the murderer had left no sign? And who had ridden the baker's horse back to the village?
The sound of hoof-beats made him look round in alarm. Monck came galloping out of the mist; with his black cloak billowing out, he looked like some evil raven. Corbett nodded a dismissal at Ranulf and Maltote.
'Go to the Hermitage,' he ordered. 'I'll meet you back at the manor.'
Ranulf and Maltote galloped away as Monck, his mount slowing to a trot, came up beside Corbett. He pulled back his hood and Corbett saw that his face and hair were soaked. Had he been on the beach, staring into the stinging spray? Monk gestured towards the scaffold.
'A mystery, eh, Corbett?'
'You saw the corpse?' Corbett asked.
'Yes, nothing but a noose mark around her neck. Not like the poor girl we discovered this morning.' Monck pushed his horse closer. 'I thought you'd be either in the village or here. I came to find you.'
Corbett stared at him. 'Why?'
Monck wiped his mouth with the back of his black-gloved hand.
'I came to apologize.'
For a few seconds Monck's face relaxed and Corbett glimpsed a younger, pleasanter man. Monck stared out at the mist-covered sea and spoke softly.
'You've heard the gossip?'
'Aye,' Corbett replied. 'I've remembered. You had a daughter.'
'She was sixteen,' Monck said, still looking out to sea. 'She was pretty as a summer's day. Every time I looked at her I thought of her mother, who died giving her birth. It happened so quickly. My Lord of Surrey had organized a small banquet. It was a most beautiful day. Caterina, my daughter, said she wished to go for a walk in the nearby woods. I was stupid, I let her go. We were on the earl's estates. I thought she'd be safe. An hour passed and she didn't return. I became anxious. I went searching for her. She was like that girl we found this morning, just lying there.' Turning to face Corbett for the first time, he blinked away tears. 'She had been attacked, raped, then choked to death. And there was nothing I could do. I kept talking to her.' His voice faltered. 'I even took my dagger and cut myself in case I was dreaming. My Lord of Surrey was most kind, but the murderer was never found.'
Corbett leaned across and touched him gently on the arm.
'I am sorry, Lavinius. Truly sorry.'
'There were suspects, though,' Monck continued.
'There were Pastoureaux on the other side of the wood. They occupied an old ruined church. They swore they had nothing to do with Caterina's death.'
'The same group?' Corbett asked. 'The people we have here now?' Monck shook his head. 'I don't know. I was prostrate with grief. My Lord of Surrey brought in the sheriff's men but they could discover nothing.'
'Do you think the Pastoureaux killed Marina?'
Monck's face twisted into a sneer. 'That's for you to prove, Corbett! I don't give a damn who murdered Marina. But one day someone is going to pay for my daughter's death!' Monck grasped the reins of his horse and leaned over, pushing his face to within a few inches of Corbett's. 'I know what you | think of me,' he whispered. Corbett saw the murderous hatred blazing
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