Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

The nuns were just leaving their convent church. Theyglanced shyly at him out of the corner of their eyes and giggled, remembering his appeal of the night before. Lady Amelia, majestic as a queen, swept by. Corbett bowed respectfully and, pushing by the labourers and other villeins coming in from the fields to break their fasts, went out of the Galilee Gate, across the track and into the woods. There he positioned himself, trying to glimpse Dame Elizabeth's chamber from where she had alleged she had seen the horsemen waiting in the trees. At last Corbett achieved the correct position. If Dame Elizabeth, as she surely must be, was staring curiously out of her window now, she would be able to see him.

Corbett squatted down and examined the ground, sifting carefully through the fallen leaves and twigs. At last he found what he was looking for horses had stood there. He picked up the dry droppings and crumbled them in his hand. He could not say when, but the horse dung and the faint indentations in the dry earth showed riders had stood there for some time. Dame Elizabeth had not been dreaming or seeing things.

Corbett rose, wiped his hands and went back into the priory. He heard the lamentations and cries as he walked through the Galilee Gate, and hurried around to the main entrance where a distraught Lady Amelia was being supported by the two Sub-prioresses, their own cheeks wet with tears. A young peasant boy had remounted his lathered horse and was galloping away from the priory.

'Lady Amelia, what is wrong?'

The Lady Prioress raised tearful eyes, shook herself free from the clinging sisters and wiped her cheeks.

'God rest him, we argued enough,' she muttered. 'But the poor man is dead.'

'Who, My Lady?'

'Father Reynard,' she whispered. 'He was found murdered in the cemetery this morning. A crossbow bolt in his heart.' She clasped her hands and stepped closer. 'What is happening, Corbett?' she asked. 'Such a peaceful community once, now murder and death at every turn.' She stepped back, her eyes hard. 'Is it you, Clerk? Are you a death-bringer? Does murder slide behind you?'

'No, My Lady,' he replied sharply. But we are in the eye of a gathering storm. Unless I find a solution to the puzzle, hundreds – perhaps even thousands – more will die in Gascony, on the Narrow Seas, and in our towns along the southern coasts. Now, My Lady,' he took her cold hand and raised it to his lips, I bid you adieu. I will return. If you have further information, send the fleetest messenger you can hire to my manor at Leighton. It can be found by following the Epping road down into London.'

Corbett nodded at the two hard-faced Sub-prioresses and went to order Ranulf and Maltote to saddle their horses as swiftly as possible. He told them briefly what had happened and, satisfied that they had packed everything, led them out towards the Galilee Gate.

'Hugh – Master Corbett!'

The clerk turned. Dame Agatha was hurrying towards him. She, too, had been weeping.

'I heard,' she said breathlessly, 'about Father Reynard's death.' She thrust a small linen-bound bundle into his hand. 'Some food for your journey. Take care!' she whispered. 'You will come back?'

I will come back.'

He glimpsed the tenderness in her eyes and looked away, embarrassed.

'God be with you, Sister.'

Corbett returned to a grinning Ranulf, who was holding the heads of the horses.

'Mount!' he ordered gruffly. 'You find something amusing, Ranulf?'

The mischievous grin disappeared.

'No, Master,' he replied innocently. 'I just wondered if we could invite some of these sisters down to Leighton. The Lady Maeve would relish such company.'

Corbett gathered the reins in his hands and leaned towards Ranulf.

'Mark my words,' he snapped. 'If you so much as whisper a word about Dame Agatha to the Lady Maeve, you will regret the day I ever plucked you out of Newgate!'

Ranulf drew back, eyes rounded innocently.

'Of course, Master, he replied slyly. 'I was only trying to help.'

They cantered down into the village and led their horses into the graveyard. A small crowd had gathered outside the church. Corbett gave a child a penny to hold the horses and they went into the priest's house. The villagers had laid Father Reynard out on the table and an old woman, tears streaming down her face, was gently bathing the corpse before it was sheeted for burial. Corbett went across, saw the horrible wounds and glimpsed the short, feathered quarrel still embedded in the man's chest

'God have mercy on him,' he muttered. 'Did I cause this?' He gazed down at the now peaceful face of the priest 'Why didn't you go?' he whispered. 'Why didn't you go when I told you to?'

'Master?' Ranulf muttered, 'the assassin must have been very close. The quarrel is embedded deep.'

'Strange,' Maltote interrupted, his face drawn and white as he stared down at the gory, blood-spattered wound. 'Strange,' he repeated. 'The assassin must have been lying on the ground or Father standing on some steps? Look, the crossbow quarrel is turned upwards.'

Corbett peered closer and agreed. The quarrel was embedded at an angle.

'Was Father Reynard found in the cemetery grounds?' Corbett asked the grizzled woman. She blinked away a tear and nodded. Corbett dug into his purse and handed her some coins.

'Prepare him wed,' he said. 'He was a good man, a dedicated priest He deserved a better death.'

They went back out into the cemetery. At Corbett's bidding an old man showed them the blood-spattered piece of ground where their priest had been found. Corbett walked over the soft rather damp clay of the cemetery, Ranulf and Maltote on either side.

'Look, Master, here!' Ranulf squatted down and pointed to the small indentation of a boot. He looked up at Corbett 'Like a child's,' he whispered. 'But what child wears boots in an Oxfordshire village?'

'It could have been a woman,' Maltote interrupted.

Corbett just stared back and shook his head. A vague idea formed at the back of his mind.

'Father Reynard's death,' he concluded, 'however distressing, must wait for a while. Come,' he announced, 'we have far to ride.'

Within the hour they were out into the countryside, following the track which would lead them down to the old Roman road. The clear autumn day drew to a close and Corbett made them rest their horses for a while. Ranulf and Maltote, lost in their own thoughts and conversation, allowed him to walk ahead. The clerk wanted peace and calm after the shock of Father Reynard's death. He was glad to be free of Godstowe and the cloying, hidden menace which seemed to permeate the place like some unwholesome stench. Moreover, Corbett loved this time of the year and realised how much he missed Maeve and the serenity of his own manor house. Like here, the leaves at Leighton would be turning a reddish-gold, there would be the faint smell of wood smoke, and Corbett wondered if his wife was also out in the fields enjoying the last lingering warm embrace of summer.

They cleared the thick, wooded hills of Oxford and went down into the open countryside. Corbett stopped his horse to watch some labourers in the fields below working to bring in the last of the crops. In an adjoining field a sower, a basket cradled in his hands, scattered the life-bearing seeds, whilst behind him two young boys danced and cavorted, swinging their slings to drive off the marauding crows and ravens. Somewhere a dog howled and Corbett shuddered. He remembered that ghastly hunt across the fields at Woodstock and bit his lip at the despair he felt So far he had found no way to resolve the conundrum facing him. There were pieces missing. Why were Lady Eleanor's saddle bags packed? Who was her secret admirer or friend? And was Lady Eleanor planning to flee to him? Corbett blinked and felt tired. He must study this mystery, take each strand and follow it through.