Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

Edward threw a sly glance at his favourite and nodded. 'Yes, we do,' he replied slowly. 'We insist you dine with us.'

Gaveston motioned to the steward. 'Take Master Corbett and his servant to the kitchen. Feed them well. They are our special guests.' Gaveston rose and came over, taking Corbett gently by the hand. 'Hugh,' he murmured, his soulless eyes fixed on those of the clerk, 'we do insist you stay. There are other matters we wish to discuss.'

The steward took them down beyond the Great Hall into a vast, stone-flagged kitchen. The place was scrubbed clean though flies feasted on the huge globules of red blood spattered across the white-washed walls. Under its vaulted ceiling the place was a frenzy of activity; a baker and two apprentices, red-faced, the sweat streaming off them, laboured before a huge brick oven, sliding trays of soft white dough into it. Servants and other domestics scurried in and out, carrying roast and grilling trays, dripping pans, fire shovels, brass pots, pewter vessels, and baskets full of herbs. A surly cook with an open sore on one wrist served Corbett and Ranulf pots of milk laced with nutmeg, two rather stale chicken pies and a dish of over-cooked vegetables. Corbett merely toyed with the food though Ranulf, hungry enough, munched away.

'We didn't learn much there, Master.'

Corbett smiled.

'We still might, Ranulf. Let's make hay while the sun shines.'

They finished eating and sauntered back upstairs. Corbett stopped the steward who was scurrying along a corridor, a pile of costly turkey cloths under his arm.

'My apologies,' Corbett smiled, 'but will the Prince go to Godstowe? I mean, to the Lady Eleanor's obsequies?'

The fellow stepped back, affronted by the question, but Corbett opened his hand and showed the two silver coins.

'Some money for your time, sir.'

The fellow looked furtively round, licked his lips, and beckoned Corbett and Ranulf into a shadowy window recess.

'What do you want to know?'

'Simple enough, How did the Prince learn of Lady Eleanor's death?'

The steward stretched out his hand and Corbett placed one piece of silver in it

'A porter came from Godstowe.'

'Is that all?'

The man wetted his tips, looking hungrily at the second silver coin.

'There is a rumour,' he replied slowly, 'stories in the palace, that the Prince knew much earlier. One of his body squires heard him whispering about it to his Gascon favourite.'

Corbett stepped closer.

'You are sure?' he hissed.

'Sir, now you know what I do.'

Corbett handed over the coin, let the man go and leaned against the wall.

'Oh, God,' he muttered. 'Ranulf, if the Prince knew before the porter arrived here, there can only be one explanation. He must have had a hand in Lady Eleanor's death. And how,' he whispered, 'do we tell the King that his son is a murderer?'

'Corbett! Master Clerk!'

They both turned. Gaveston stood at the end of the gallery, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

'Master Corbett!' he called. 'I have come to apologise. Your reception was not courteous, but the Prince and I had other matters to discuss. Come! Let me show you Woodstock.'

Corbett glanced warily at Ranulf and raised his eyes heavenwards.

Gaveston sauntered over. He smiled dazzlingly at Ranulf and linked his arm through that of the clerk.

I understand the King has granted you a manor? You have stables? You like hunting?'

'I am more of a farmer, My Lord. More interested in the planting of crops and the clearing of scrubland, though, yes, I hunt.'

'Then I must show you something,' Gaveston replied. 'New hunting dogs from Ireland, great shaggy beasts. They are the Prince's pride and joy. Well,' he added mockingly, 'besides me!'

The Gascon led Corbett and Ranulf through a maze of corridors which led out to the back of the palace, across a deserted dusty yard into one of the large outbuildings there. Inside, the walls were cold, dank and rather slimy. Gaveston bustled about in the darkness, found a tinder, and a cresset torch flared into life.

Corbett became uneasy. He heard a howl which seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth: long, cruel and haunting. He shuddered, his hand going to the bone handle of his dagger though he dare not pull back. Gaveston opened a door in the far wall and led them down some steps, dimly lit by torches fixed in iron brackets. These flickered and danced wildly as if blown upon by unseen lips.

Corbett glanced at Ranulf. In the pale tight he noticed his servant's face was ashen, covered with a sheen of sweat. Corbett sensed menace and malevolence, and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. They went down the dark tunnel. They had not gone far when again the clerk heard that long, moaning howl. He quietly drew his dagger and braced himself. They turned a corner and Corbett had to hide his trembling at the appearance of the small, squat, one-eyed man who seemed to rise out of the darkness before them. His head was covered by a tarred leather hood. He wore a dirty brown apron and sweat gleamed on his naked forehead. The black patch hiding one eye gave his cruel, sharp face an even more sinister aspect

'Ah, Gyrth!' Gaveston talked as if they were in some pleasant garden 'I have brought our guests to see the dogs.'

The fellow grinned. He had no teeth; nothing except dripping black-red gums. He opened his mouth wider, making a strange grunting noise.

'Gyrth has no tongue,' Gaveston observed. 'The unfortunate result of a disagreement, is it not, Gyrth?'

The mute looked warily at the Gascon and nodded his head.

'Come, man!' Gaveston said. 'We wait. The door!'

The creature scuttled ahead of them like some small black spider, opened the padlocked door and waved his guests forward. As he did so the most furious howling broke out. Corbett walked forward. Beyond the door was a slight recess blocked by a thick metal iron grille, and behind it four pairs of cruel red eyes gleamed in the darkness. Gaveston pushed Ranulf behind him.

'You stay,' he whispered, and walked gingerly forward

The four huge black mastiffs came to life, smashing their great muscular bodies against the grille, lips curled, white teeth flashing, jaws slavering. They would have torn Corbett to shreds if the grille had been raised. He stood his ground, carefully inspecting the dogs. He had seen this breed before. King Edward had used them in Wales as war dogs but later had them killed because, in their blood lust, they had failed to distinguish between friend and foe.

The four dogs were massive, the muscles bunched high in their shoulders above long, strong legs. Their heads were rounded, ears flat. They gave the impression of being nothing more than killing machines with their huge jaws, white jagged teeth and mad, red eyes. They stopped their howling, eyes fixed on Corbett, and again, as if controlled by one mind, threw themselves against their iron cage, the leader of the pack standing on his hind legs and pounding his muzzle against the grille.

Corbett estimated the dogs were taller than any man. He smelt their fetid breath and tried to control the shuddering of his body, fighting against the nauseous panic which curdled his stomach and made his legs so weak he longed to sit down. Gaveston was playing with him, testing his nerve in this cruel game. He could hear the Gascon behind him, taunting Ranulf, inviting him to draw closer, and his servant's angry refusal.

'Ranulf does not like dogs.' Corbett turned and spoke over his shoulder. 'Ever since he was a boy he has had a fear of them. He was attacked by a vicious mongrel.'

Corbett looked around: near the foot of the grille was a tub packed with juicy red chunks of meat. He stepped over, pierced one of the raw chunks with his dagger and held it up before the mastiff. The dog whimpered. There was a square in the grille larger than the rest, probably used to feed the dogs. Corbett pushed the meat through and watched the leading dog seize it in his huge jaws, throwing it up and devouring it, the blood streaming down his black, slavering mouth. Corbett cleaned his knife on the toe of his boot, re-sheathed it and walked back.