Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

'Fine beasts, My Lord! You are to be complimented, though I urge caution. They may well be animals who trite the hand which feeds them!'

Gaveston laughed and clapped his hands gently.

'Un bon mot, Clerk,' he said. 'Come! You have seen enough.'

They walked slowly back up the tunnel. Behind them the howling of the dogs rose like some demonic music. Gaveston led them back to the heart of the palace whence a servitor took them up to a chamber high in the building. A simple room with stark white plaster, but at least they were provided with rosewater, a set of clean napkins, and a jug of wine which Corbett told Ranulf not to touch. They whiled away the time, Ranulf playing dice against himself, the only time he ever lost. Corbett lay dozing on the bed, idly wondering what Maeve was doing, and thought again of Sister Agatha. She and the other nuns would still be involved in the official mourning for Lady Eleanor and Dame Martha. He stirred uneasily at the suspicions the steward had provoked. How could the Prince have known of Lady Eleanor's death so early? Corbett viewed the mystery as a logical problem. There were two routes to follow: on the one hand he could try and solve the murder, but that might make a bad situation worse. On the other he would concede the Prince was involved, perhaps even guilty of Lady Eleanor's death, in which case, for the sake of the crown, the scandal would have to be hidden.

Swallows fought under the eaves outside the window, a lonely bell sounded, and Corbett heard faint shouts from the courtyard. He dozed but woke with a start, dreaming that the Hell-hounds he had just visited were snuffling at the door, but it was only Ranulf dragging a stool across the dusty rushes. A servant knocked and announced that the banquet would begin in an hour. Corbett rose, washed, and made himself as presentable as possible. Ranulf scooped his dice into his leather wallet and they went down the spiral wooden staircase and into the hall.

The banquet was a sumptuous, luxurious meal. Huge banners hung from the heavy, black beams bearing the Royal Arms of England, the Golden Leopards snarling next to the White Lilies of France and the Red Dragon of Wales. Trestle tables had been arranged in a square and covered with white lawn sheets. Multi-bracketed candelabra placed along the centre helped the sconce torches to bathe the room in light Corbett could smell the heavy, thick fragrance of those mouth-watering dishes he had seen being prepared in the kitchen. Servants in the blue and gold livery of the Prince and the Lord Gaveston scurried round with silver plates which the guests would use as dishes instead of the usual traunches of thick square slabs of stale bread. Musicians played quietly on tambour, rebec and lute in the minstrel gallery at the far end of the hall, accompanied by a group of beautiful young boys all dressed in silver and gold who softly sang some troubadour's lay. A greyhound cocked his leg against the table and was promptly shooed away.

A chamberlain showed them to their seats just beneath the high table, which was dominated by a pearl-encrusted silver salt cellar. Corbett looked around. The other diners were all henchmen of either the Prince or Lord Gaveston: clerks, household officials, captains from their mercenary retinues, and the occasional priest or almoner. He and Ranulf were ignored, which made him uneasy. A flourish of silver trumpets, their shrill fanfare stilling the chatter, and the Prince entered, holding Gaveston's hand. Both wore silver chaplets and were clothed from head to toe in robes of gold. Their appearance drew 'Oohs' and 'Ahs' from the group of sycophants. The Prince acknowledged their greetings as he and his favourite sat in the two great throne-like chairs at the high table. Corbett shuddered and looked away. If the old King saw this he would have apoplexy, for the Prince was openly treating Gaveston as if he was his wife. Another braying of trumpets and the banquet began. The French chefs in the Prince's kitchen had used all their arts and skills; soups and broths thick with herbs, pheasant and quail meat, were served, followed by salmon, turbot, pike and tench. Boar's heart stuffed with cloves, lamb garnished with mint and marjoram, a swan cooked and restored so it sat upon the sdver platter as if swimming on some magical pool. Haunch of venison, jellies and sugared pastries, and jug after jug of the best Bordeaux or chilled white wine from the Rhinelands completed the feast.

Of course, Ranulf ate as if there was no tomorrow, Corbett more sparingly. He felt uncomfortable, uneasy at the way the Prince and Gaveston hardly spared them a glance whilst their companions at table treated them as if they simply did not exist. The wine bowl circulated more freely, the conversation and laughter grew louder, the silver-white cloths became stained. A jester, a tiny woman no taller than three foot, appeared, doing somersaults along the table whilst dodging the bowls and bits of food thrown at her. Corbett suddenly realised he was in the comer of the hall. If a quarrel was provoked, he and Ranulf would be trapped. Gauging a suitable moment he dragged his servant to his feet, bowed towards the Prince and quietly withdrew. Once outside he sent Ranulf back to their chamber. The servant came hurrying down with his cloak but only one glove.

I could only find one, Master.'

The clerk shrugged.

'No matter. I may have lost it, and I am certainly not wandering around the palace looking for a glove!'

'We could go and try to borrow horses from the stables?' Corbett shook his head.

'No, Ranulf, I feel uneasy. The sooner we are out of here, the better. The night is fine, the walk short, and the evening air will clear both our heads.'

They slipped through a side door and made their way out via one of the postern gates of the palace. They easily found the track they had followed earlier in the day. A full harvest moon bathed the sleeping countryside in a silver light, the night air was warm and the fields slept under clear autumn skies. Corbett and Ranulf followed the dusty track past green hedgerows and up a hill. The clerk listened with half an ear to Ranulf's chatter about the banquet and the Prince's open display of affection for Gaveston. They had reached the top of the hill when they heard the first soul-chilling, baying call. Both stood still, the warm blood freezing in their veins. Corbett felt his head and neck tense as if someone had slipped an iron helm over his hair. He wanted to turn round but dared not do so. Again the howl, as if one of Satan's demons was rising from the pit of Hell. Corbett turned and looked back down the moonlit path. He felt he was in a nightmare. His heart hammered in terror as he glimpsed those shaggy, hulking shapes of shadowy grey speeding across the meadows. He remembered those mad, red eyes which had glared at him earlier that day through the grille, and those great death-bearing, slavering jaws. He grabbed his servant.

'Run, Ranulf!'

Corbett undid his cloak and dropped it on the ground. Ranulf hesitated as if intending to pick it up.

'Leave it!' Corbett screamed. 'It will divert the dogs for a while. Run!'

Ranulf needed no second bidding but sped off like an arrow. Corbett followed, past the dark, open fields and into the trees that stood like silent soldiers in some bewitched army. They fled for their lives as the great Hell-hounds caught their scent and bayed in savage glee. A howl showed that the dogs were beginning to close. The cool night air burned in Corbett's straining lungs. The trees thinned and they fled across an open meadow. He looked up and, in the clear moonlight, glimpsed the roofs and towers of Godstowe Priory. They stopped just over the brow of a hill.

'Ranulf!' he gasped. 'It's my scent. The glove – it was taken. You go for some tree. Climb and hide!'

Ranulf, his face white as a sheet, hair matted with sweat shook his head.