A Maze of Murders by Paul Doherty (as C. L. Grace)

Author:Paul Doherty (as C. L. Grace) [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2013-09-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

‘Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe’

—Chaucer, ‘The Franklin’s Tale,’

The Canterbury Tales, 1387

A short while later Kathryn and Colum also rode through the main gates of the manor house, turning onto the rutted lane which would take them past the hedgerows and copses to the crossroads and the main road into Canterbury. Kathryn decided to visit the Vaudois woman, and they eventually found the narrow lane which ran like a needle under a canopy of trees down to a large wood-and-plaster hunting hodge. The house was much decayed, the outside flaking, tiles missing from the roof. Kathryn recalled the tale of how each tile on a roof was supposed to be the resting place of a soul waiting to escape from Purgatory.

‘In which case,’ she murmured, ‘there will be very few ghosts here!’

She wondered how the inhabitants fared when the weather changed and the rain clouds swept in across the downs.

The scene which greeted them was pleasant enough. The front door was open and the Vaudois woman, dressed in her red shift, was seated on a log just outside the door. She was cradling a corn dolly wrapped in swaddling bands. She sat, rocking backwards and forwards, crooning over it. Kathryn and Colum’s arrival did not disturb her. Ursula, her face brick red, came hurrying out, hands and arms white with flour. She stopped and stared at Kathryn, then peered round her at Colum hobbling the horses.

‘We didn’t expect visitors.’ She gestured at two logs, smooth and tarred, which served as seats round a makeshift table. ‘I’ll bring you some ale. I make good ale.’

Kathryn agreed and Colum sat down. The Vaudois woman lifted her head and smiled, her strange eyes crinkling as she peered at them.

‘Baby’s asleep,’ she crooned. ‘He’s been fast asleep for some time. But you talk, you tell me, has the messenger returned? That man galloping hard along the lane bearing news from London?’

‘Hush, Mother!’

Ursula brought out leather blackjacks of ale and handed them to Kathryn and Colum. She stood in the doorway just behind her mother, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Kathryn sipped at the bittersweet ale. Colum murmured his approval and, lifting the blackjack, toasted Ursula.

‘Your kindness is appreciated.’

‘You are Irish,’ Ursula retorted. ‘We had Irishmen here at the time of the troubles; fierce men they were, but they never hurt me or Mother. They just took our chickens and drank our ale.’

Kathryn, cradling her blackjack in one hand, stretched out and gently caressed the Vaudois woman’s lined cheek.

‘Lady, I have come to ask you questions.’

‘Ask no questions, get no lies,’ the Vaudois replied. ‘Though you have a soft touch, Mistress. I had a soft touch. Skin, he said, as soft as shot silk.’ She had forgotten about the doll and now touched the tendrils of her straggly hair. ‘Black as ravens’ wings, skin white as snow.’ The Vaudois moved her head. ‘Do you think we’ll have snow, Mistress? Or is it still too warm? But he’s gone now.’ The Vaudois blinked.

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