Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

'De Craon would like that,' he spoke aloud. 'That would warm the cockles of his cold heart. Corbett being so distressed he leaves everything to protect his own kith and kin…'

In a secret chamber high in the Louvre Palace, Philip Le Bel, King of France, knelt before a statue of his sainted ancestor the Blessed Louis, and prayed for the success of his armies in Flanders. The French King was noted both for his beauty and impassivity, his marble white face, strange green eyes and bloodless lips framed by the lustrous Capetian blond hair.

Yet Philip felt both distracted and excited. He closed his eyes and thought about the troops now camped along his northern borders. Squadrons of heavy cavalry. Rank after rank of Genoese bowmen. The great lords with their foot soldiers, the banners, the golden lilies on a sea-blue background and, furled in the tent of his own commander, the Sacred Oriflamme, the King's own banner, usually kept behind the high altar at St Denis. When Philip gave the word, this banner would be taken out and flown as a sign to the rebellious Flemings that Philip's soldiers would take no prisoners.

He breathed in deeply. His spies in the Flemish towns had sent letters south full of good news. How, in each city those Flemings partial to his cause, the 'Lileantists' or Lily Men, were ready to open the gates to his soldiers. Philip could have hugged himself with glee. Those Flemings who resisted were hopping like fleas on a hot plate, sending plea after plea to Edward of England for help and assistance. But Edward couldn't do that, he was bound by treaty. Oh, he could send gold secretly but what use would that be? The Flemings might hire soldiers and buy arms from the princes across the Rhine, but where would they deploy such men? As one of Philip s spies put it, they were like rabbits huddled in their burrow, not knowing through which hole the ferret will come'. Philip knew, his two counsellors seated behind him at the table also, the dark-faced William of Nogaret and pale, red-bearded Amaury de Craon.

Philip crossed himself and got to his feet. He heard a faint cry from the courtyard below and opened the stained-glass window to peer out. For a while he watched the scene below. A huge wheel had been fixed against the wall of the courtyard and a man had been strapped to it, hands and feet lashed to the spokes. One executioner turned the wheel whilst another, using a slim iron bar, broke the man's arms and legs and pounded his naked body. Now and again the prisoner would regain consciousness and scream for mercy as his bruised body quivered in pain, but the torture went on. Philip watched the scene: the soldiers on guard, the great mastiffs near the execution platform barking excitedly at the scent of blood, the careful precise movements of the executioner.

'How long?' he said softly over his shoulder.

'A week, Your Grace.'

Philip nodded and closed the window. The man had suffered enough.

'If he's still alive by tomorrow morning, hang him in the small orchard near the chancery. That will encourage my clerks to be more careful with the secrets entrusted to them.'

'It's good for the man to suffer,' de Craon began slowly. 'But Corbett now has that cipher, Your Grace. If he unlocks the secret…'

'I agree,' Nogaret added harshly. 'Your Grace, I beg you to change your plans.'

'Nonsense!' Philip replied. 'I devised that cipher myself. To change it now would cause confusion, perhaps even delay. Edward of England's envoys are already busy at the papal court, trying to urge that fat lump who calls himself Pope Boniface VIII to issue letters condemning our design on Flanders.'

'And we are paying the Holy Father to delay,' Nogaret replied.

'In which case,' the French King breathed, 'Edward of England may have to wait until hell freezes over!' He sat down in the high-backed chair. 'We still have Achitophel. Has he written back?'

De Craon pulled a face. 'He could find no news in London so forged messages to Corbett's manor at Leighton to discover his whereabouts.' De Craon smiled. 'Achitophel was in Nottingham before Edward's beloved clerk arrived there.'

'Nottingham?' Philip looked puzzled.

'Good news, Your Grace. Edward of England is having difficulties in controlling the roads north to Scotland. There's talk of murder and outlaws.' De Craon grinned. 'Another fly in the English ointment.' His face became hard. 'But is it wise to kill Corbett?'

Philip stared at his enigmatic Master of Secrets then burst out laughing. His two counsellors watched, stony-faced.

'Your Grace?'

Philip wagged a finger at de Craon.

'You are concerned, Amaury! I can follow your mind. If we kill Edward of England's beloved clerk then Edward will retaliate by killing one of mine.' He leaned over and pinched de Craon's wrist. 'In this case, perhaps you?'

De Craon blinked and schooled his features. He had no illusions about his royal master. Men said Philip of France had a stone instead of a heart, dedicated to one pursuit and one pursuit only: the glory of the Capetian name. His dream was to build an empire as great as Charlemagne's. De Craon stared obliquely across the table. He or even Nogaret were mere stepping stones in such a grand design.

Philip shook his head and stared at the alabaster carved statue of St Louis.

'Don't worry about Master Corbett. Achitophel has his orders. The clerk is to die in a way which will provoke very little suspicion, and Edward of England will soon have more to worry about than the death of a mere commoner. Now.' He moved the chess pieces aside and quickly sifted amongst the parchments on the table. 'Everything is ready?'

'Everything,' Nogaret agreed. 'Except the date.'

Philip leaned back in his chair and rocked himself gently. He was sure God would give him a sign. He heard another cry from the courtyard and stared at the number of candles flickering in front of St Louis' statue.

'By the end of June,' he murmured, 'the harvest should be ready and ripe for plucking.' He counted the number of candles again, ten in all. Philip leaned forward. 'Send the cipher to the Marshal. Tell him he is to cross into Flanders at first light on the tenth of July. Oh, by the way,' he jerked his silvery head towards the window, 'the fellow's cries are disturbing me. I have changed my mind. If he's still alive by dusk, hang him!'

Corbett found his reception at Kirklees Priory far from cordial. For a while he was forced to kick his heels in the great gatehouse before a grumbling lay sister led him across the dry grass to the Prioress's private parlour. Dame Elizabeth Stainham was just as frosty in her welcome. Tall and thin, with sharp features, she coldly acknowledged Corbett's greetings. Dame Elizabeth only mellowed, inviting him to sit and partake of some wine and sweetmeats, when the clerk brusquely informed her of his status at court and the King's confidence in him.

'Well, well, well!' she murmured and sat back in her chair, pulling at the sleeves of her dark brown gown. Corbett noticed with amusement how these were edged with white fur and the smock beneath fashioned out of glistening satin. He gazed round the opulent room: the woollen rugs on the floor, the heavy polished furniture, the slender wax candles in their holders, the bowls of rose water, the Venetian glasses on a silver tray and cloths of gold, silver and damask hanging on the walls. Dame Elizabeth, he concluded, lived as grandly as any countess and the white wine she served him was cool and fragrant to the taste, proof that the Prioress bought her wines from the best merchants in York or London.

'Sir Hugh?'

Corbett blinked. The Prioress had asked a question.

'My Lady, I am sorry, the journey was fatiguing.' Again the false smile.

'Sir Hugh, I asked you what has the King's Commissioner to do with our humble house?'