Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

Corbett had tried to give her reasonable answers, deliberately omitting any reference to the attack in Catte Street or the murder of Father Reynard. Nevertheless, Maeve's sharp eyes had missed nothing; her husband looked exhausted, troubled, and now she felt agitated. Hugh had referred to de Craon and Maeve knew enough about the Frenchman to realise he meant nothing but ill for her husband. However, she had kept a brave face, telling him about the affairs of the manor, assuring him that the child growing in her belly was as well as could be expected. She kept her own bad news to the last

'Hugh…' Maeve straightened up and pulled her shift around her. 'There's a letter for you. It came earlier this morning. It's from the King. He's coming south, he's at Bedford.'

'Bedford! He should be on the Scottish march. Maeve, the letter!'

His wife went over to a casket and took out a small roll of parchment.

I broke the seal, Hugh.' She stared coolly at him. 'What concerns you, concerns me.'

He undid the scroll carefully. The King's message was sharp and cool: he was both sad and angry that his 'beloved clerk, Hugh Corbett, has failed to report any progress on our business at Godstowe'. The letter continued in a taunting, angry fashion, insults thinly veiled, about how the King's trust had not been repaid. The King was so concerned, the letter concluded, he had left his army under the command of others and was journeying south to resolve the matter himself. Corbett crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it angrily at the wall. He glared at his wife.

'Hell's teeth, Maeve! St Bernard was right. The Plantagenets come from the Devil, and to the Devil they will surely go! Is it my fault if the King has spoilt his son and made him a laughing stock in Europe? What does he know about bloody-mouthed dogs, silent assassins and…' His voice faltered off at the frightened look on Maeve's face.

'You didn't tell me!' she accused, and took her husband by the hand.' But now you will.'

Corbett had no choice but told her from the beginning of the events at Godstowe. Maeve heard him out, quiedy holding his hand.

'This Dame Agatha,' she asked pointedly, 'is she beautiful?'

'Yes, almost as beautiful as you.'

'Is she fair of face?'

'Yes.'

'Did you like her?'

Corbett knew Maeve would sense any lie and, when angry, his wife could be frightening.

'Yes, I did,' he replied slowly. 'But that does not matter. Everything I have seen, Maeve, is what I am supposed to see. It may be real but it is not the truth.'

'Do you have any suspicions?'

Corbett haltingly told her what he had discovered. Maeve agreed that the old nun had probably been referring to Lady Eleanor's hands.

'That's the key, Hugh,' she observed.

'What is?'

'The old nun's death. Tell me about it.' Corbett shrugged.

'Dame Elizabeth came up and found the door unlocked. She went in behind the screen and discovered the old lady's body half immersed in a tub of water. There were no marks on the corpse. It could have been a seizure or the falling sickness.' He paused. 'There was also a trail of water on the floor, but would an assassin be so clumsy as to leave that?'

Maeve sat silent for a while. 'I don't know. Will you let the matter rest?' 'No.' Corbett patted her on the hand. 'Let me think for a while.'

He crossed the room, pulled back the arras on the far wall and went into his own secret chamber. He took a tinder, lit the candles on his desk and stared at the bundles of letters awaiting him. They had arrived during his absence and he had scanned them quickly. News from foreign courts, spies, envoys, merchants and other clerks. Only one of them concerned the business at Godstowe. A short note from a spy in Paris: Eudo Tailler's head had been fished from the Seine where it had been thrown in a sack.

'Christ have mercy on his soul,' Corbett whispered.

Tailler had sent his master the news about the mysterious de Montfort assassin. Had that cost him his life? If so, the price seemed too steep. Corbett had discovered no trace of any assassin active in England. He put the letter aside and took a fresh piece of parchment, smoothing it out and rubbing it clear with a pumice stone. He then began to itemise the problems and questions which confronted him. He worked for hours, taking each name and trying to draw up evidence to prove that person the murderer. Outside the dark woods and fields were silent as if waiting patiently for the approach of winter. Corbett dozed for a while and was suddenly awakened by a knocking on the chamber door. It swung open to reveal Maeve.

'The old nun, Hugh… isn't it strange?' She smiled. 'Remember I talk as a woman. Dame Martha wanted a bath and put a screen round the tub?'

Corbett rubbed his eyes and nodded.

'But if you go to the trouble of putting a screen round the tub, what else do you do?'

Corbett shook his head wearily.

'For God's sake, Hugh, any lady would do it! Your famous logic. She would lock the door!'

'So?'

'Oh, Hugh, think! You said the door was open.'

Corbett fed back in his chair and smiled.

'So, the old nun must have let her murderer in. She must have been in the bath, heard the knock and got out; the trail of water was not left by the murderer but the nun herself when she crossed to open the door.'

Corbett stared down at his piece of parchment.

'Thank you, Maeve,' he mumbled. But when he looked up, the door was closed and his wife had gone.

Corbett bathed his hands and face in the bowl of water standing on the lavarium. He reviewed his notes in the tight of what Maeve had said, and began to follow it through. He forced his arguments on, jumping gaps, circumventing difficulties or problems. The cold hand of fear pinched his stomach. He knew the murderer! Was it possible? He scratched his tousled hair and went back again, taking in all the facts and like the lawyer he was, drawing up a summary bill of prosecution. He shook his head. A jury might not accept that he had proved his case, but they would agree there was a case to answer.

Corbett suddenly remembered his last meeting with the nuns at Godstowe and his heart began to pound. They were all in danger, every one of them! He got to his feet, threw his cloak round him and went down to rouse Ranulf and Maltote, dragging both of them, sleepy-eyed, into the dark kitchen. He gave them instructions: they were to break fast, saddle the swiftest horses from the stables and leave with him.

'We go to London first,' he declared. 'Then,' he grinned, 'visit every tavern along the Oxford road.'

Of course they protested, but Corbett was adamant Within an hour he had kissed Maeve adieu and they were on the road south to Westminster. Corbett was determined to seek out the truth. He might not be able to stop murder at Godstowe, but at least he might trap the assassin who stalked the priory.

Corbett was right in his dread premonition. At Godstowe Priory Dame Frances was only a few minutes away from death. The self-important Sub-prioress was both disturbed and fearful. She was troubled, distracted in meditation, and often found herself staring into the middle distance when the other sisters were chanting Divine Office. She had told her confidante but she had been no help, and how could she approach the Lady Amelia? No, she thought, that was out of the question Dame Frances gazed round the small kitchen of the novitiate. Upstairs the young postulants were now retiring to bed in the long dormitory. Each knelt in her partitioned alcove, commending heart and soul to God and praying that Satan, who wandered around like a lion seeking his prey, did not harm their bodies or souls that night

Dame Frances sat down on a stool, her face in her hands. What that dour clerk had announced must be connected with the death of Lady Eleanor, and, perhaps the death of old Martha. Dame Frances had seen that motto, 'Noli me tangere' here, in Godstowe, but could not remember where or when. Should she flee the priory? Go to Westminster and seek an audience with Corbett or one of the King's Officers? But whom could she trust? Gaveston had his spies everywhere and the common jest was true, England had three kings; old Edward, his son and Gaveston. She stared dully at the logs crackling in the hearth. Perhaps she should wait her mind was tired. A good night's sleep and tomorrow she would plot and plan.