Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

'The question of Gascony…'

'There is no question!' Edward snapped.

'Its rights and appurtenances?' de Craon meekly asked.

'They are mine.'

'By what right?'

Edward sighed.

'My dear de Craon, my troops are all over it.'

'Your troops have not been paid.'

'They will be!' the King bellowed.

'Yet, Your Grace,' de Craon spread his hands, 'all should be resolved by die marriage of your beloved son to the Princess Isabella.'

'You have seen my beloved son?'

'At Woodstock, Your Grace.'

'"At Woodstock, Your Grace"!' Edward mimicked back.

'Your Grace, has your son been detained there?'

'No, I just bloody well want him there!'

'To be near Godstowe?'

'To be near Oxford.'

'He mourns the death of Lady Eleanor.'

'Who is she?' Edward asked tartly.

De Craon smiled.

'Your Grace jests with me.' The Frenchman's face grew serious.

Here it comes, Edward thought.

'Your Grace, I am most anxious and deeply troubled by the rumours put about by evil men Malicious, slanderous stories which claim the Lady Eleanor was murdered by your son so he could be with his beloved companion, the Gascon, Piers Gaveston.'

'They are lying traitors. I'll have any man who says that hanged, drawn and quartered!'

'Of course, Your Grace. But they whisper about how could a woman fall downstairs, break her neck, and yet keep the hood on her head undisturbed? They say that your son was sending potions, that the lady may have been poisoned.'

'My son knows nothing about Lady Eleanor's death. She died on a Sunday evening. The first the Prince of Wales knew of the unhappy event was the following Monday morning.'

De Craon blinked, his face now a mask of concern.

'Your Grace, I am sorry – your son knew about Lady Eleanor's death on Sunday evening.'

De Craon pushed his foxy face closer. Edward sat frozen, one of the few times in his life he had been genuinely frightened. My son a murderer! That's the rumour which will begin to circulate: a poisoner as well as a sodomite. A slayer of innocent women. I'll have Corbett's head! Edward thought

Behind de Craon Edward saw de Warenne quietly pull a dagger from his sheath. All the King had to do was raise a finger and the Frenchman would be dead. Edward shook his head and de Warenne sheathed his knife.

'How do you know this?'

'Your Grace, your own son told me.'

'There must be some mistake.'

'No, there is not. His exact words were…' de Craon closed his eyes. 'I asked him about the Lady Eleanor and he replied: "She is near to death, a fall, an accident. She must have fallen downstairs."' De Craon smiled politely. 'It was after midnight. Your Grace. The Prince was in his cups, yet I thought it strange because the porter from Godstowe Priory did not arrive until the early hours of the morning.'

Edward turned to the jewel box beside him, opened it and took out a small gold ring with a precious ruby winking in the centre.

'Monsieur, please accept this as a gift. I will think about what you have said.'

De Craon stretched out his hand. The King grasped his wrist tightly, squeezing hard, not satisfied until he saw the Frenchman wince.

'A gift, Monsieur,' he whispered. 'And a warning to those who spread malicious rumours. If I can prove such scandalous stories are a tissue of lies, I will tell both my brother the King of France and His Holiness of their source. They will not be pleased.'

De Craon shook his head and the King released his grip. De Craon's face was red with embarrassment.

'Your Grace,' he replied hoarsely, 'I thank you for your gift and your message.' And, spinning on his heel, he strode out of the pavilion.

Edward gestured de Warenne forward.

'John, your fastest horseman?'

'Ralph Maltote, Your Grace.'

I want him to go south immediately, to Godstowe. He is to take our swiftest horse as well as a fresh mount. He is to ride without stopping and take a message to my clerk, Corbett at Godstowe Priory. That message must be delivered. You understand? Now get out!'

As soon as de Warenne had left, Edward put his face in his hands as he tried to control both his anger and his terror. What was happening? he wondered. Why hadn't Corbett cleared this mess up? And his own spy at Godstowe…? Edward's left eye now drooped almost to closing as he gnawed at his lip. Both Corbett and his spy would pay dearly if de Craon gained the upper hand.

Whilst Edward of England sat fuming over what he had learnt, Sir Amaury de Craon was nursing his bruised wrist and shouting orders to his retinue for a swift return to Oxfordshire. He had played his card. Now he must wait Oh, he recognised Edward of England's warning and could only close the game if he had proof. But he had let his arrow fly, now he must see where it fell. He believed he could outmanoeuvre and trap the English King; he too had his spy at Godstowe to keep an eye on Corbett. Moreover, de Craon had received an urgent message from his master. Another shadowy player was also in the game: the de Montfort assassin. De Craon nursed both his pain and his pride. Soon Edward of England would be checkmated. The only danger was Corbett. The English clerk would work doubly hard, either to resolve the problem or carefully to hide it behind a tissue of half-truths. De Craon nibbed his wrist, Corbett he would have to stop. He looked into his tent at the two dark cowled figures squatting there.

'We go south again. There is something I have planned for you,' he called.

A few days after Ranulf's encounter with the drunken porter, Corbett decided that, for the moment, there was little else he could learn in the priory. He also wished to leave because the nuns were still engaged in the obsequies preceding the funerals of their two dead colleagues. The storm was over, the weather still held fine, so he and Ranulf decided to walk rather than ride to Woodstock Palace. The porter, now half-sober, greeted them as old friends and, taking them out of the priory, sketched a description of the track across the fields and meadows.

Corbett enjoyed the walk, glad to be free of the baleful, mournful atmosphere at Godstowe. The route was simple to follow, cutting across the open meadows and farming land, past dark copses, and well within the hour the crenellated walls and turrets of Woodstock Palace came into view. They followed the track which ran on to the road. The main gate was open. A serjeant-at-arms wearing the royal livery stopped them and asked their business before allowing them through. The courtyard was a hive of activity. Grooms, ostlers and farriers were taking horses in and out of the stables; scullions and kitchen boys carried huge slabs of freshly cut meat into the kitchen.

'The Prince must be expecting us,' Ranulf sardonically observed. 'A banquet perhaps?'

'A feast certainly,' Corbett answered. 'But I doubt if he will be pleased to see me.'

Grooms took their horses whilst a pompous steward of the Prince's household led them up the main steps into the spacious hall. Corbett knew the King loved his luxury, and Woodstock, a large, timbered building, was the pleasantest of royal palaces. Its outside had been renovated recently: the black gables newly embossed with gilt, the wooden beams painted a rich dark brown, and the stucco plaster clean and white. Inside, the palace's splendour made Ranulf catch his breath. Bright tapestries gleamed with gold and silver motifs; rich silk cloths were placed over tables, the backs of chairs and the massive open sideboards. Jewelled cups, their precious stones glinting in the sunlight, and silver dishes were laid out on handsome chests and cabinets. In the great hall henchmen were laying tables for the banquet and the air was thick with the tangy wholesome odour of cooking from the kitchen which made both men's mouths water. They were not allowed to tarry, however, but were taken upstairs, along a gallery and into a small chamber, its simplicity in stark contrast to the splendour they had just witnessed.