Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

'What do you know about the friar, Ranulf?' Corbett asked.

His manservant, half-dozing now, shook himself, stood up and stretched.

'Not much,' he whispered, aware how his words would echo in the cavernous sanctuary. 'But have you seen the way he walks, Master? Shoulders back, head up. I believe our Franciscan has seen some military service. And his little finger – I glimpsed it when he was leaning on the pulpit – it's been hacked off, there's only a stump. And there are purple welts on his wrists.' Ranulf smiled, basking in his master's approval. 'Father Reynard undoubtedly wielded a sword. I would wager he was as good with that as he is with his tongue. It's a long time since I heard a sermon like that.'

'Your eyes are sharp, Ranulf. Listen, saddle our horses and seek out Dame Agatha. Tell her I'll meet her and you at the Galilee Gate. We are going down to the village of Woodstock.'

Ranulf threw one last hungry glance round the richness of the sanctuary and swaggered off.

Corbett stared at the light pouring through the multi-coloured windows. What do we have here? he wondered… A priory full of every luxury and home to a once powerful courtesan, now discarded by the Prince of Wales. The woman perished in mysterious circumstances. She had not fallen downstairs but died elsewhere and her body been put there. Rumour had it that she had a malady of the breast

Corbett reflected on what he had seen when he had examined the corpse. True, it was only a cursory examination, but he had seen no tumour or abscess or any other sign of malignancy. He knew little about medicine but Maeve had informed him that such an illness was usually fatal and made its effect felt in the drying of the skin as its victim turned from any nourishment, yet Eleanor had been a well-formed and proportioned woman. Moreover, she had been imprisoned in Godstowe for the last two years. Again, Maeve had assured him how a malady of the breast usually killed its victim within a few months, yet Lady Eleanor had been able to eat, drink, and go for walks. There had been no reports or suggestions that she had been seriously ill or near death's door.

Corbett rubbed his face wearily. So how had she died? Not from suicide. The body would have been more severely marked, and surely a woman like Lady Eleanor would have chosen some swifter road to oblivion.

Corbett looked up, staring hard at the great wooden crucifix which hung above the altar. So it had to be murder. If so, by whom? Lady Eleanor had been last seen walking in the grounds of the priory before Compline. All the sisters, including the Lady Prioress, her two deputies and Sister Agatha, had been in church. No one had left half-way through the service or made an excuse to return to the convent building before the sisters went over to the refectory. Of course, the Lady Prioress might be lying but Dame Elizabeth had remarked that she had heard no one come up the stairs, certainly not whilst Compline was being sung. Nevertheless, even if the old lady was deaf, Corbett concluded, the assassin or assassins must be someone outside the priory.

He gnawed is lip. And who would want her dead? The King would be only too willing to be rid of an embarrassment whilst involved in delicate negotiations over his son's betrothal to a French princess. The royal favourite, Gaveston, detested Lady Eleanor and saw her as a potential rival. He had the malice as well as the means to hire soft-footed assassins. And the Prince of Wales? A feckless youth, had he too tired of his former paramour? Corbett sighed and blew out his cheeks. Did the Prince want to be rid of the Lady Eleanor because of some secret she held, such as a clandestine marriage ceremony between them? Only three years ago the court had been fascinated by the delicious scandal of the young Prince's infatuation with Lady Eleanor.

Corbett stood up and went to sit in one of the nun's stalls. If it could be proved, he thought, that either the King or his son had been involved in murder, the scandal would rock the English throne, cause distress abroad and put Edward of England firmly in the hands of Philip of France. Corbett smiled mirthlessly. He knew Philip, with his public morality and private evil. He would not be above stirring the muddy waters of the English court, and his envoy and master assassin, Amaury de Craon, was now in England. But could de Craon get an assassin in here or did he have an agent in place already? Or was the murderer someone totally unconnected with the murky world of the English court? Such as Father Reynard, a priest who might see himself as the embodiment of Divine Wrath…

'Master Corbett, you wish to join our Order?'

The clerk looked up. Lady Amelia stood in the door of the chancel screen

'My Lady.' Corbett rose. 'Accept my apologies,' he looked around, 'but this is a quiet and beautiful place to think.'

The Prioress walked slowly across, toying with the silver tasselled cord round her waist.

'Sit down, man,' she said wearily.

Corbett looked sharply at her as she slumped in the stall beside him.

'What did you think of Father Reynard's sermon?' Corbett shrugged.

'I took it for what it was – a harsh warning to the rich.' 'He meant us, Corbett,' Lady Amelia retorted. 'And he was a trifle unfair.' 'What do you mean?'

'We are not an Order dedicated to poverty. We are a refuge for women who cannot survive in the harsh world of men. Do you know what it's like, Clerk, to be a woman, married off to some man you hate, or else left alone to fend for yourself? You know the King's court. There we are, like pheasants allowed to play just under a nest of falcons. The church is controlled by men; men go to war, build ships and ply the seas.' She sighed. 'The Daughters of Syon are a refuge, that is why the Lady Eleanor was sent to us.'

'Did you like her?'

'She kept to herself, borrowed books, went for walks -fitted into our normal order and routine. A sad young woman who never came to terms with the sudden shock of her fall from grace. I did not want her here but the King's writ was quite explicit. At first she protested, but in the two years here,' the Lady Prioress made a face, 'she became one of us.'

'So why don't you tell me the truth about her death?'

The Lady Prioress looked quickly at Corbett. The clerk realised how attractive she was without the air of hauteur and arrogance. Lady Amelia stretched over and wiped a thin film of dust from the top of the prie dieu in front of her.

'You're sharp, Corbett. I wondered when you'd return to challenge me.'

'My Lady, I am the King's clerk. The questions I ask are His Grace's. You must answer.' 'You'd best come with me.'

She took a surprised Corbett delicately by the wrist and led him out of the stalls up to the high altar. The red and gold Gospel Book still lay in the centre. She placed her long slender fingers against the cover of the book.

'Ask me your questions, Clerk. I wish to help. I have nothing to hide and, hand on the gospels, swear to tell the truth. When this matter is finished, I don't want to be removed because the King was dissatisfied – though he may well not be pleased with the answers I am going to give.'

Corbett rested against the altar.

'Was the Lady Eleanor suffering from a malady of the breast?'

'She said she was.'

'Did the Prince send potions to her?'

'Yes, he did. And we tasted them and suffered no ill effects.'

'Did the Lady Eleanor receive visitors?'

'No, the Prince never came, though of course he sent messengers with letters and gifts. The letters Lady Eleanor always burnt, the gifts she gave to the community.'

'Why did she not go to Compline the night she died?'

I don't know. She had been very secretive during the previous week but we thought it was due to some evil humour.'

'You are sure that, apart from Dame Elizabeth and Dame Martha, all the community were in Compline and went to the refectory afterwards?'