Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

'Oh, Christ!' he murmured.

He heard a click and stepped back quickly as the bolt thudded into the wall of the derelict house behind him. Corbett lost his footing and went down, his flailing hands seeking something to grip. He touched a lump of rotting offal and, scooping it up, throwing it at the first assassin now tripping towards him. The handful of dirt caught the dwarf in the face, making him gag and drop his guard. He stopped to wipe away the excrement which blinded his eyes and coated his lips. Corbett rose swift as an arrow.

'Aidez moi!' he shouted. 'Ranulf!'

And, using all his force, he ran and crashed into the second assassin, who was winching back the arbalest for another bolt. Both clerk and dwarf roiled and scrabbled in the mud. Corbett felt as if he was in a nightmare; the very smallness of the man made him a false opponent, almost cutting off Corbett's blood lust and desire to protect himself. The dwarf strained against him as they rolled and struggled in the mud. Corbett, determined the dwarf wouldn't reach the dagger in his belt, was trying to tighten his grip round his assailant's throat He looked up desperately as he saw the other assassin now approach, his dagger raised, waiting to strike.

'Ranulf!' Corbett yelled.

The dagger began to descend. Corbett heard the whirr of a crossbow. Was there another attacker? But when he looked up, the dwarf above him was standing, arms limp like a ragged doll, staring dully down at the crossbow bolt buried in his stomach. Corbett regained his strength and scrambled to his feet, dragging the dwarf in his grasp with him as the latter's accomplice slumped wordlessly to his knees. He heard the patter of feet behind him and turned, his captive slid from his hands like an eel. The manikin threw a malevolent look at Corbett and fled into the darkness. Maltote came running up, Ranulf behind him. The manservant dropped to one knee, brought the crossbow up, again the death-bearing click, and the whirring crossbow bolt caught the second assassin just before he slipped into the darkness. It caught him full in the middle of his back, throwing him into the air before he crashed down on the cobbles.

Corbett went over and examined the bodies, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he turned each of the corpses over. He still felt strange, as if he was bending over the bodies of children, but one look at the dead faces calmed such scruples. They were almost identical in looks and equally steeped in depravity. Even in death their lips were curled in a snarl; their wizened faces and staring, blank eyes seemed to gloat over the evil they had planned. Professional assassins, Corbett thought. He recognised the type. They could come in many guises; a beautiful woman, a troubadour, a pedlar, even a priest or monk. Something stirred in his memory but he was too tired and disturbed to concentrate. Ranulf came up and expertly went through their wallets and pockets but there was nothing except a few coins.

'The mark of a true assassin,' Corbett observed drily. 'They carry nothing and wear nothing to identify them, where they come from or who sent them.'

'Except this, Master!'

Ranulf returned from the corpse of the second dwarf, some stiver in his hands. He sifted through it with his fingers.

'Some English pennies,' he observed. 'But the silver's French.'

Corbett stared at the coins.

'De Craon!' he muttered. 'That bastard of a Frenchman sent them!'

He suddenly remembered Father Reynard's corpse and stooped down to examine the leather-heeled boots of the assassins.

'Well,' he said, 'at least I know how Father Reynard died. Remember the boot marks in the cemetery?'

'But there was only one set!'

Corbett rose and gulped the cool night air.

'But both these were there. Remember the angle of the crossbow bolt in the priest's body? An assassin's ruse: one would knock on the door, the other would be waiting in the darkness. It's an old trick played in many ways. Sometimes it's a beggar stretching out a hand for coins whilst the other conceals the knife. Or, in my case,' he added wearily, 'a dwarf pretending to be a boy. I almost walked on to the bastard's knife!'

Corbett looked back at the tavern doorway now thronged with onlookers. Doors were opening up and down the street, casement windows were flung wide and shouts were heard. A small portly figure swathed in robes waddled out of the darkness.

'My name's Arrowhead!' he bellowed. 'John Arrowhead, alderman of this ward.' He pointed a finger at Corbett. 'You, Sir, are under arrest until the watch arrive!'

Corbett leaned against the corner of the house, trying to stop the trembling in his legs.

'And you, Sir,' he retorted, 'are a pompous fool who acts before he thinks. My name is Hugh Corbett, I am senior clerk in the King's Chancery and his special emissary. The two corpses are Frenchmen. They were assassins. Now, if you still wish to arrest me, do so – but tomorrow I will be free and you will be in prison!'

Corbett dusted himself down, and with as much dignity as he could muster, walked back to the tavern.

They sat and finished their meal, Corbett chewing his food carefully and downing two cups of heady claret to calm his nerves. Ranulf was full of himself, rather peeved that his master did not thank him properly for his rescue, making sly references to his own archery.

'You took your time,' Corbett muttered ungraciously.

Maltote coughed and looked away.

'Master Corbett,' he said, 'that was my fault. One of the customers heard the fight We took the crossbow from the landlord. I shot a bolt' He looked away and swallowed hard. 'It completely missed.' His eyes flickered nervously at Corbett I just hope it didn't hit anyone else. Ranulf snatched it from me. You know the rest.' Corbett stared at his bold-faced servant. 'How many times, Ranulf?' 'How many times what. Master?' 'How many times have you saved my life?' Ranulf shrugged.

'It's my duty,' he replied so piously that Corbett leaned back and roared with laughter. He took his purse and emptied the coins on to the table.

'They are for you, Ranulf. My regards to your son. Maltote, you had better go with him.'

He put his hand over the young messenger's.

'Just promise me you'll never handle a crossbow whenever I am anywhere near you.'

Maltote smiled nervously and, led by Ranulf, left the tavern for a night of revelling.

Corbett sat muttering to himself, going over the questions which still vexed him. He realised that in his discussions with Ranulf he had not mentioned old Martha's death. Why did she die? What was so important about the phrase 'Sinistra non dextra'. Corbett stared down at his hands gripping the table edge. He had thought of it before. Was the old nun referring to hands? But whose? What did she mean by the phrase? He shook his head.

'On the left, not the right!' he muttered.

The landlord, passing by the table, stopped and looked strangely at Corbett but the clerk smiled and shook his head so the fellow wandered off. Corbett remained sitting for hours following various trains of thought whilst Ranulf, having seen his son, was bouncing about on the broad, silk-canopied bed of Mistress Semplar. The young merchant's wife, her old husband away at a Guild meeting, had been delighted to see her amorous gallant. How pleased Ranulf was now finding out, whilst outside the front door a drunken Maltote kept watch.

A day later, Corbett sat on the edge of his own bed in Leighton Manor watching Maeve busy herself round the room. He had returned earlier in the day and Maeve was as ecstatic to see him as he had been hungry for her. A hollow-eyed Maltote had taken a strangely exhausted Ranulf off to their own lodgings so the clerk and his wife had dined by themselves in the small hall below and spent the rest of the time here in their bedchamber. As usual Maeve had been full of questions. Whom had he met? Where had he been? How long would they stay?