Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

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 these parts.’ She closed her eyes as if memorising a lesson. ‘Now her father wanted her to marry a powerful thane.’ She opened her eyes. ‘What’s a thane?’
    ‘A nobleman,’ Corbett replied.
    ‘Hawisia said that she was dedicated to God and would not marry this prince. Her father became very angry. Hawisia was beautiful. She was particularly famous for her golden hair. Now.’ Fidelis pointed to the fresco. ‘Hawisia fled her father’s palace but he pursued her with soldiers. Hawisia fled into a wood and reached the well, this very place. She cut off her golden hair and laid it beside a Pool as an offering to God. Well.’ The young novice closed her eyes. ‘Ah, yes, that’s right. When her father reached her, he was so angry at what she had done, he drew his dagger and drove it deep into her heart.’ Sister Fidelis mimicked the action of a soldier striking; Corbett pressed on Ranulf’s toe as a Earning not to laugh. ‘When his rage cooled, yes, that’s right.’ She opened her eyes. ‘He deeply regretted what he had done. He converted to Christianity, Save his daughter honourable burial and founded a house of prayer which later became St Hawisia’s priory.’
    ‘And this is her tomb?’
    ‘Yes, St Hawisia lies beneath the flagstones. This tomb was built by Lady Madeleine’s ancestor. The Fitzalans have always had a great devotion to her.’
    ‘But surely this isn’t Princess Hawisia’s hair?’ Ranulf exclaimed.
    ‘Yes it is,’ Sister Fidelis insisted defensively. ‘You see, that’s why Hawisia’s father converted. The hair remained as it had on the day his daughter died: over the centuries it has never rotted or decayed. If you put your hand on the glass case and say a prayer to St Hawisia, she always answers.’
    Corbett studied the golden tresses. The hair was undoubtedly genuine yet it looked as fresh and lustrous as if it had been shorn off the previous day.
    In his travels he’d seen many a relic. Enough nails from the True Cross to use in the building of a shop. At least three heads of St John the Baptist, five legs of St Sebastian, feathers from Archangel Gabriel’s wing and, on one famous occasion, even the stone Jesus was supposed to have stood on before He ascended into Heaven. Similar relics were found throughout Europe : holy blood which liquefied, statues which wept tears. They ranged front the sublime to the ridiculous, even including a sweat cloth which St Joseph supposedly used in his workshop.
    Corbett tapped the glass case: the work of a craftsman, it was cleverly riveted to the top of the tomb. Was there a logical explanation for this relic? Had it been sealed so as to protect it from the putrefying air? It was undoubtedly a phenomenon. No wonder St Hawisia’s attracted so many pilgrims.
    ‘It’s all very beautiful.’
    ‘Oh, Lord Henry recently refurbished it.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘About three months ago. The shrine was sealed and closed for a while so the walls and ceilings could be painted.’
    ‘Has this reliquary ever been opened?’
    ‘No, it hasn’t.’
    Corbett suddenly felt