Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

Corbett shook his head. 'It would be hard to prove, Ranulf. As the porter said, the corpses might have been lying there for days, even weeks. If it was the priory, why should a nun murder two travellers? And our noble lords at the palace would certainly have done a more professional job.' Corbett narrowed his eyes and squinted up at the sky. I suggest we are talking about a murderer rather than murderers. One person acting hastily who dragged the bodies to the marsh and hurried away.' He made a face and tapped his man on the shoulder. 'But, my dear Ranulf, that too causes a problem. Could one person overcome two able-bodied people?'

Ranulf rose and stretched. 'There're tensions at the priory, Master.'

Corbett grimaced. 'Of course there are. The Lady Amelia is unpopular. She put an end to the nuns' little treats and tricks, whilst at the same time allowing a whore to take up residence there. Moreover, we know our master the King, Ranulf. One day, I am sure, he will ask Lady Amelia to account for her stewardship.'

'And where to now, Master?'

'Well, I think we have finished at the priory for the moment, and the good villagers of Godstowe know very tittle. Perhaps it's time we visited our noble Prince of Wales and the Lord Gaveston at Woodstock.'

Ranulf groaned and closed his eyes.

'Look on the bright side,' Corbett sang out, walking briskly away. 'Where there's a palace there are pretty girls!'

Ranulf glared at his master's retreating back.

'Aye,' he muttered. 'And where there's Gaveston, there's the Devil!'

King Edward of England sat in his purple silken pavilion which stood at the centre of his great camp on the green meadows beneath the formidable mass of Nottingham Castle. He was listening to the sounds of his army gathering; brown-jerkinned archers; men-at-arms in conical helmets carrying long spears and quilted jackets; the shouted orders of his Serjeants and the neighing and whinnying of the proud-blooded warhorses.

The King, just past his sixtieth year, sat on one of the great pay chests, tapping the wood beneath him. He hoped his barons would bring the men he needed. He was intent on taking north the largest army he had ever gathered, to crush the Scottish rebels, hang their leader, the Red Comyn, trap the Scots in their glens and burn their villages. He would cover Scotland in a sea of flames, and teach those traitors a lesson they would never forget. He just wished his son were here…

Edward's heart, hardened against tears of self-pity, beat a little faster. Where had he gone wrong? He loved the boy, always had and always would. Perhaps it was his mother's death? Perhaps he had expected too much of him? Edward closed his eyes and remembered those golden summers now an eternity away. His son, stiver-haired, delighted to see his father, tottering across some green meadow, sent to embrace him by his dark-eyed, ohve-skinned mother, Eleanor. Oh, Christ! Edward closed his eyes tightly as memories came flooding back. Oh, good God, he prayed, why did such memories always turn so bitter-sweet in his soul?

I'd give everything I have,' he muttered aloud, 'for all that back.'

Edward's mood shifted quickly and he ground his teeth in rage. Gaveston would hinder that The warlock, the perverted son of a perverted mother! Edward had considered banishing him but behind him loomed the spectre of civil war, his son would resist and there were those amongst his barons, especially the younger ones, who would be only too willing to follow his son. If there was civil war, the Scots would spill across the Northern March, the Welsh would rebel, and Philip of France would have his ships off Dover within a week. But Edward knew the real reason for his not banishing Gaveston – he could refuse his son nothing. Those blue eyes, their shimmer of innocence, the memories of sweeter, softer days…

'Your Grace! Your Grace!'

Edward opened his eyes. John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, stood, legs apart, at the mouth of the tent, a flagon of beer in one hand, a half-eaten chicken breast in the other.

'You are too early, John.'

De Warenne saw the tears on the King's cheeks and looked away.

'What does it profit a king, John, if he conquer the whole world and suffer the loss of his beloved son?'

De Warenne stared blankly back and Edward grinned. Good old de Warenne, he thought, with his bluff red face and treacherous black heart. A good soldier but a bad general. His answer to everything was to mount and charge. He had even offered to kill Gaveston.

'What is it, John?'

'Nothing, except de Craon.'

Edward raised his eyes heavenwards.

'So Philip's envoy has searched me out,' he muttered.

'Snap out of your maudlin mood, Your Grace!' de Warenne rasped. 'Dry your eyes like a good girl and grasp your longest spoon, for the Devil has come to sup!'

'The Godstowe business?'

De Warenne nodded.

'It must be. The rumours are growing thick and fast as weeds and de Craon must be their sower. There is a whispering campaign Even in the city they are saying the Prince killed his mistress to please his lover. De Craon is snuffling about for the juicier morsels, then it's back to Paris and heigh ho for Rome and our Holy Father.'

'Shut up, de Warenne!'

Edward kicked the earth with the toe of his boot. Oh, he could just imagine Philip's display of outraged innocence and then the letter would come from the Pope. Edward knew how it would begin.

'Per venit ad aures nostras – It has reached our ears, most beloved Son in Christ…', followed by the usual sanctimonious phrases, then the allegations of sodomy, murder, the unsuitability of the Prince of Wales for an innocent French princess, the dissolution of the treaty, all culminating in bloody war. Hell's teeth! Edward thought What was that inquisitive bastard Corbett doing, sending him warnings about an assassin, another de Montfort on the loose in England? Edward smirked. He did not fear that Perhaps it was time he told Corbett so. No, it was the Godstowe business which really troubled him. The crown had to be defended. His son had been protected. What on earth was his own spy at Godstowe doing?

'If Your Grace wishes to go back to sleep…?'

'I'll have your bloody balls, de Warenne!' The King grinned.' Show the bastard in!'

A few seconds later de Craon bustled in, his face wreathed in an unctuous smile, bobbing and bowing while his snakelike eyes scrutinised the King. Edward thought the Frenchman looked slightly ridiculous in his soft sarcenet gown and tawny-coloured boots, but he kept his face impassive. De Craon had strange tastes. One of these days…

'Monsieur de Craon,' Edward deliberately dropped the 'Seigneur'. 'We are pleased to see you. Your journey was comfortable? We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.'

De Craon half bowed.

'Not half as eager, Your Grace, as I have been to see you! My master, King Philip, sends fraternal greetings. He is deeply distressed by your problems in Scotland. He offers to mediate and will do anything to assist.'

Like send a hundred ships full of men and munitions to help the bastards, Edward thought. He hooked a foot under a camp stool and dragged it over.

'Will you sit, Monsieur?'

De Craon noticed the stool's crooked leg.

'Your Majesty is too kind. I insist on standing. You deserve that respect.'

De Craon decided to keep a wary eye on Edward. He studied the cruel falcon face framed by the iron-grey hair, watching those slightly slanted eyes, one half-closed – a mannerism Edward had acquired as a young man. It indicated a violent temper. De Craon decided to be more circumspect

'Your Grace,' he began, 'my master sends greetings. He hopes all is well with his beloved sister Margaret?'

Edward thought of his whey-faced new bride, and grunted.