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Paul Doherty: Prince of Darkness

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Paul Doherty Prince of Darkness

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Lady Eleanor Belmont sat on the edge of the bed, her heart-shaped face pale and drawn except for the red flush on her cheeks. She wove her fingers together, turning and twisting them as if to vent the excitement which flooded through her. She rose and walked over to the diamond-shaped window. A beautiful August day; the sun was now beginning to set, the stillness of the priory broken only by the clear birdsong from the trees beyond the nunnery walls. Eleanor stopped, straining her eyes as she peered through the casement window. She was sure she had seen men-at-arms – horsemen amongst the trees – her attention drawn by the flash of steel from their weapons. She leaned against the glass, her hot cheek welcoming its coolness. Was someone there? Had they come? No, she could hear nothing except for the chatter of the nuns as they filed through the cloisters before Compline. Eleanor sighed, dismissing what must have been another phantasm of her fevered imagination.

She looked around the chamber. All was ready. She drew herself up, gulping in air. Her friend, whoever he was, would surely send help. Soon she would be out of this benighted place, be reunited with her lover and working hard to recapture his affection. Edward might be Prince of Wales and heir to the English crown, but Lady Eleanor had decided she was made of sterner stuff. Hadn't her father reminded her on many occasions that the Belmonts were of noble stock, sturdy and sure?

She would ignore the rumours. Eleanor laughed abruptly to herself then froze as she heard a sound, a slither of footsteps in the corridor outside. She shook her head.

'Surely,' she whispered to herself, 'the Lord Edward means me no harm?'

They were evil people who claimed he wanted her dead but she could not believe that of him. Oh, of course, others might wish it, members of the Prince's secret council -Eleanor would believe anything of them, especially the ubiquitous silken-tongued Piers Gaveston, who had ensnared the Prince's heart. Eleanor stamped her foot at the thought of him.

'Gaveston the demon-worshipper!' she hissed. 'Gaveston the limb of Satan! Gaveston the sodomite!'

She calmed herself. And the rest of the coven? Lady Amelia Proudfoot, Prioress, in whose nunnery she was now staying, and Proudfoot's silent shadows, Dames Frances and Catherine? They would do anything to keep her here; poison, the dagger, the garrotte, or the sudden fall…

Eleanor smiled and hugged herself. Oh, she had been so careful, so cautious, watching what she had eaten and drunk, where she had walked, politely refusing any offer to go hunting. After all, the Lady Eleanor smiled sourly to herself, hunting accidents were common. True, she had been sick but this was due to evil humours of the mind caused by loneliness and anxiety. Indeed she had begun to despair, but at last help had come. Some weeks ago, she had found a message here in her chamber, bidden in a small leather wallet. The writer had told her to be of good heart, not to worry, and to look for further messages in the hollowed oak tree near the Galilee Walk on the far side of the chapel. Her well-wisher, whoever he was, had promised to deliver her today so she had told her companions to leave her and go to Compline. Only the ancient ones, Dame Elizabeth and Dame Martha, had remained whilst Lady Amelia and her henchwomen would soon be enthroned in the chapel glorying in their power. Lady Eleanor turned as she heard the old building creak beneath her. A haunted place, people said, apparently ghosts walked here. It was certainly no abode for a young lady, mistress to one of the greatest men in the land.

Eleanor sat back on the bed, chewing her Up, then got up agitatedly, putting her cloak on and playing with the ring on her finger, the Prince's last gift to her, a huge blue sapphire which always shimmered in the light. She turned her head, straining to hear. Surely there was another sound, not just the creaking of the stairs? Someone was outside. She heard the slither of footsteps along the gallery. Surely they were approaching? Lady Eleanor looked at the door. Good, the key was turned in the lock. She patted her hair and pulled up her hood. She wished Dame Agatha was here. Perhaps it had been foolish to dismiss her. Again the sound. Lady Eleanor stood transfixed. She watched the latch of the door go down Suddenly she panicked, but too late! She heard the soft knock and knew she would have to answer.

Lady Eleanor was in the minds of other people that day. Edward, Prince of Wales, and his favourite, Piers Gaveston, had once again quarrelled violently about her and then become reconciled, swearing they would divert themselves by a hunt. They had left Woodstock Palace with their soldiers, grooms, huntsmen and retainers. A gaudy, colourful masque, their horses sleek and well fed, resplendent in their scarlet and blue dressings and silver-gilt saddles and housings. Amidst shouts, the bray of silver trumpets and the glorious fluttering of gold-encrusted banners, the royal hunting party made its way down the dusty tracks of Oxfordshire which wound around the great, unfenced cornfields where the stocks were piled high as farmers laboured to bring the harvest in.

The sun was still brilliant in a light blue sky. The grass on either side of the track was alive with the sound of crickets and the scurrying of mice and voles fleeing from the harvesters. Above them a lark soared, singing for sheer pleasure, whilst in the distant trees, blackbird and thrush trilled their hearts out. Suddenly, a darkened scarecrow of a man seemed to step from nowhere on to the track, his long hair black as night, flapping like raven's wings around his gaunt face, his clothes more like bandages around his emaciated body. Prince Edward lifted a hand and the cavalcade stopped.

The Lord Edward had immediately recognised the man: a mad prophet who had been stalking round the walls of the palace for the last few days. The fellow claimed he came from the Devil's Anvil, the hot burning sands which lay to the south of the Middle Sea; his dirty and rag-attired figure now stood motionless though his eyes flamed like burning coals.

'I bring a warning!' the prophet boomed. 'A warning of death and disgrace. A warning against the soft perfumed flesh of the whores who lounge on feathered beds and bawl of their lust!' The fiery eyes flashed again; one sinewy arm was raised in quivering anger. 'You bawds who gulp wine from deep-bowled cups, be warned! This age will be cleansed by Death himself! Mark my words, he lurks in these sombre forests. He mounts his pale horse and soon he will be here. Be warned, you strumpets and whores!'

The group of silk-clad courtiers behind the Prince simpered, laughed softly, and turned away. The mad prophet searched out the tall, blond figure of the Prince as he slouched on his horse under the blue and gold banner of England. The prophet's eyes narrowed.

'Repent!' he hissed. 'You young men who lust after each other's flesh and seek comfort in forbidden love!'

The Prince grinned and, raising one purple-gloved hand, touched his smaller, darker companion.

'He talks of us, Piers.'

The young Gascon's expression grew harsher though it was nonetheless a girlish face with its smooth olive cheeks, perfect features, and neatly cropped, dark red hair. Girlish, innocent, except for the eyes – a surprisingly light blue like a spring sky fresh washed by the rain. These were hard and empty.

'I do not think so, My Lord,' Gaveston rasped. Prince Edward shook his head and took a silver coin out of his purse.

'A wager, Piers. The fellow is bound to be speaking about me.' He stroked his moustache. 'Let's be frank. I am the only one here worth talking about.'

The prophet must have heard him.

'You, Edward, Prince of Wales!' he roared. 'Son of a greater father, bearer of his name but not his majesty. Yes, I warn you, you and your grasping catamite, Gaveston, son of a whore!' The prophet's voice fell to a hiss. 'Son of a witch, you come from the Devil and to the Devil you will go. Be sure, Prince Edward, you do not go with him, for all of Satan's army bays for Gaveston's sin-drenched soul!'

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