Paul Doherty: Song of a Dark Angel

The room contained three beds with thick mattresses and heavy bolsters, probably of swan feather. Woollen rugs were strewn across the wooden floor and so many candles were lit that the chamber reminded Corbett of a church. After his gruelling journey, Corbett found it warm, sweet-smelling and comfortable. A chest stood at the foot of each bed, a large cupboard against the wall. There were two wall-paintings. One was of Christ arguing with Satan, done in brilliant, vivid colours so that in the flickering candelight the black demon seemed to writhe before Christ. The other was more restful; it was of a young lady working on a piece of tapestry beneath a window which looked out on to a light blue sea.

Ranulf and Maltote were already chatting. They sat on the edge of a bed, bemoaning the cold, wild emptiness of the countryside. The servants had already unpacked their saddlebags. Corbett's chancery pouch was, of course, untouched – it was buckled and secured with his personal seal. Corbett walked across the room and unfastened the shutters on one of the windows. There was a small, opening panel in the leaded glass. Ignoring Ranulf's protests, Corbett pushed it open, allowing the cold night air to seep in. The window must have overlooked the cliffs, for he could hear the faint murmur of the sea. The mist parted. He caught a glimpse of water and heard the faint cry of gulls. He closed the window against the cold, just as a huge moth, attracted by the light, fluttered in.

'Why are we here, Master? I mean, why are we really here?' Ranulf spoke up for himself and Maltote.

'I don't know,' Corbett replied. 'All I know is that the king and John de Warenne have some secret stratagem, that is why Monck is here. But time will tell.' He stared at the leaden-paned glass. 'It will be dark in London. Maeve will still be at table. Uncle Morgan will be singing his heart out.'

Corbett chewed his lip. Maeve's uncle had come for a few weeks and stayed almost a year. The boisterous Welsh lord was for ever on the move, drinking in the scenes of London as well as every pot of ale on offer. He'd then stagger home to take his great-niece, the baby Eleanor, and sing her to sleep with some Welsh lullaby.

'I should be there,' Corbett said only half aloud.

'What was that. Master?'

Corbett, not bothering to turn, shook his head. Ranulf pulled a face and winked at Maltote.

'Old Master Long Face,' he whispered, 'is in one of his moods!'

For once, Ranulf was correct. Corbett was worried. He had spent too much time away from Maeve and his daughter. Oh, his wife could more than cope. She ran their business affairs with a shrewdness that made her the terror of every merchant and the manor at Leighton was rich and prosperous in its crops. But the king was growing old, his moods becoming more sharp and cruel. And when he died, what then? Would the Prince of Wales, with his love of hunting, music and handsome young men, still need Corbett's services? The war with France would end – the Prince of Wales was already betrothed to Philip IV's daughter Isabella. In Scotland, Wallace would be beaten – it was only a matter of time before the king's troops hunted him down and either killed him or brought him south for execution.

Perhaps, Corbett thought, I should leave the royal service now – follow the example of Gurney and retire to my manor, raising crops and tending sheep, and turn merchant and sell the wool to the looms of Flanders. He smiled to himself. When he had said as much to Maeve, she had shrieked with laughter, falling back on to the bolsters, her silver hair fanned out around her. She had giggled so much Corbett couldn't even kiss her quiet. 'You a farmer!' she'd teased him. 'I can just imagine that. You'd be drawing reports up on what the rams were doing, how the apples grew and whether the orchard was in the best place.'

'Sometimes I tire of my job,' Corbett had replied heatedly.

Maeve had sobered up. She lay in the four-poster bed, hugging the blankets around her.

'You don't like your job, Hugh? You may hate the tasks the king assigns you but perhaps that's what makes you so good at it?' She leaned over and took her husband's dark face in her hands. 'Whatever you say, Hugh Corbett, you have a hunger for the truth and…'

'And what?' Corbett had asked.

Maeve had giggled.

'As Ranulf says, a very long face!'

Corbett looked up as the moth beat against the window pane.

'It's very dark,' he muttered. 'God knows when we will see the light again.'

Ranulf looked at him strangely. He wondered whether his master was talking about the weather or the mysteries that now confronted them.

Marina was running for her life, eyes wide, heart pounding, mouth dry. The icy gorse caught her legs and clutched at the brown robe she wore. She stopped, chest heaving, cursing the mist. She stared round like a frightened doe. 'Where can I go?' she moaned to herself. The mist closed in more thickly around her. She crouched on all-fours, sobbing for breath. She had to get to safety. She squatted like an animal, ears straining into the darkness. An owl hunting over the flat headlands made its sombre cry and a vixen prowling near the village yipped in frustration at the mist-covered sky.

The young woman licked dry lips. Where could she go? The villagers would drive her out. Father Augustine? He would only shout at her. Perhaps she should go back to the Hermitage! She might get help there, if she told her friends what she knew. But which way? She looked around, vividly remembering her younger days when she and the other village children used to play along the cliff tops pretending to be elves or fairy queens. They would close their eyes and build make-believe palaces. But what could she do now? She moved forward, then froze as a twig snapped behind her.

'Marina!' a soft voice called. 'Marina!'

She could stand it no longer. She ran blindly, not caring whether she blundered into pool or marsh. As long as she ran she was safe. The ground beneath her feet, however, seemed to take on a life of its own. The briars and brambles clutched like cruel sharp fingernails at her ankles. She saw a light beckoning and could have shouted with joy. Her legs were growing heavy. She ran, but a bramble bush caught her ankle like a noose. She crashed to the hard, cold ground. She was beginning to scramble to her feet when she heard the soft footfall behind her. She half-turned, but the garrotte tightened around her neck.

The loud knocking of the steward summoned Corbett and his two companions down to the manor hall. Gurney's servants had laid the great table down the centre of the room. They'd covered it with green samite cloth and judiciously placed two-branched candlesticks to provide soft pools of light. The place smelt sweet – aromatic herbs had been placed in small pots beneath the table and scattered on the roaring fire and on the small capped braziers that stood in each corner. On the floor lay some of the most luxurious rugs Corbett had ever seen. Costly Turkey cloth, emblazoned pennants and bright banners hung from the hammer-beam roof. The air was thick with fragrant odours from the nearby kitchen and buttery. Instead of the usual hard-baked traunchers and pewter spoons, silver plates, golden knives and jewel-encrusted condiment pots decorated the table..

Gurney and his wife had changed. Alice now wore a murrey-coloured dress whose high collar emphasized her swan-like neck; a gold cord bound her slim waist and a thick white gauze wimple, circled by a silver cord, hid her beautiful hair. Sir Simon was dressed in a russet gown with green hose and brown leather boots. The gown was slashed with green silk on either side of the chest, the sleeves were puffed out with dark-blue taffeta. Corbett hoped he and his party would pass muster. He felt rather dowdy in his dark-brown gown till he glimpsed Monck who, as usual, was dressed completely in black.