Paul Doherty - Prince of Darkness

Corbett threw the quill down in disgust The priory contained many nationalities and all the nuns, even Lady Amelia and Dame Agatha, spoke in the Frenchified manner after the fashion of the court That young fop… Perhaps it had been the Prince or Gaveston? Corbett went back to his notes about Lady Eleanor's death, twisting and turning them. Daylight had long broken when he reached the inevitable conclusion: he was ready to confront the murderer. One final piece of the puzzle remained. A protesting Maltote was roused and ordered to ride as fast as he could to the royal camp outside Bedford. Corbett entrusted Mm with a short letter in which he asked the King to supply simple answers to what Corbett considered simple questions. Nevertheless, the clerk was still uneasy: his theory was well argued but there was little evidence and he wondered if the royal answer would come in time to prevent another murder at Godstowe Priory.

After Maltote had gone, Corbett paced the chambers and galleries of his manor, making himself a nuisance to both Maeve and his household. He found it difficult to sleep at night, anxious lest his delay might cause further tragedy at Godstowe. Should he leave, he wondered, take the swiftest horse in his stable and gallop into Oxfordshire? He dismissed the thought as nonsense. It would be like charging an unknown, hidden enemy. Maeve tried to calm him but Corbett remained uneasy. Early on the morning of the third day after his return, his worst fears were realised. A young groom, spattered from head to toe with mud, half-falling out of the saddle of an exhausted, blown horse, reached Leighton Manor. He gasped out his news even as Corbett, who had hurried down from his chamber, helped him out of the saddle.

'The Lady Prioress,' the fellow muttered. 'She sends greetings and asks you to come urgently!'

'Who's dead?' Corbett grasped the unfortunate messenger by the jerkin, forcing him to stand and look at him. 'Who's been killed?'

The man licked mud-caked lips, eyes half-closing in weariness. Corbett roughly shook him.

'The name?' he rasped.

'Hugh! Hugh!'

Maeve, a robe wrapped around her, came between them. She looked angrily at her husband.

'The poor man's half-dead with fatigue, Hugh!'

Corbett released the messenger whilst muttering his apologies and allowed Maeve and two of the servants to drag the fellow down the hallway into the buttery. Maeve ordered him to be stripped of his travel-stained jerkin and leggings. She forced a cup of watered wine between the fellow's lips whilst Corbett paced up and down,

'Master Clerk!' the fellow rasped hoarsely. 'The Prioress wants you now. Dame Frances is dead!'

'How?'

'A fire in the novice house. She died immediately. The rest of the nuns escaped.'

Corbett went and knelt beside the man.

'And who is the murderer?'

The man blinked red-rimmed eyes.

'Murderer?' he muttered. 'No murder, Master Corbett, an accident.'

Corbett snorted in disbelief,

'And any other news?'

'That's all,' the messenger murmured. 'Except you must go quickly.' And lolling back in the high chair, he promptly fell asleep.

Corbett would have packed his saddle bags immediately and left but Maeve was insistent he wait until the rain storm abated. She had her way and Corbett went back to his chamber, staring out through the window, glaring at the blue-black clouds gathering over the Epping Forest

In the end he was glad he had waited. Late that evening Maltote returned. Again Maeve intervened. She sensed Corbett's mood and insisted Maltote change out of his rain- drenched clothes and have something to eat before her husband began to interrogate him as if he was the King's Master Torturer in the Tower. After Maltote was rested Corbett and Ranulf met him in the hall. They sat round a huge log fire, the flickering flames casting long shadows against the far wall.

Maltote was exhausted and had some difficulty remembering certain minor details, but, at last, a full account was given. Corbett, ignoring Ranulf's pleas and remonstrances, told them both to get a good night's sleep in preparation for the next morning. Even if the Devil himself was riding the wind which howled and sobbed outside, they would take the road back to Godstowe.

Corbett returned to his own chamber. Maeve sat crouched over a table using a pool of light from a huge candelabra to stab furiously with her needle at a piece of embroidery she had been working on for years. The clerk took a deep breath and hid his smile. Maeve hated needlework, detested it. So whenever she was busy sewing, Corbett always recognised it as a bad sign This time was no different His wife, red spots of anger high on her cheeks, gave him a pithy lecture on the rules of hospitality and gentility, so Corbett, like any good mariner facing a squall, decided he would run before the storm. Matters were not helped by Maeve occasionally pricking her finger with the needle, but at last she had had her say. One final thrust at the embroidery and she tossed it on the table with a muttered oath any of the King's soldiers would have admired.

She stood and came over to sit beside him on the bed. 'So you have your news? This nun who died, Sister…?'

'Frances,' Corbett answered.

'You expected her death, didn't you?'

Corbett nodded.

I knew someone might die.' 'Do you blame yourself, Hugh?' 'Yes and no,' he replied evenly. 'There's murder in Godstowe, and tomorrow I will confront it.' 'And Maltote's errand?'

'He brought me the proof which confirmed my suspicions, but I don't know how to act. There are other pieces still missing.'

He turned and grinned at Maeve. 'If you haven't finished your embroidery,' he continued in mock solemnity, 'you can work at that There are still matters…'

Maeve dug her nails deep into the calf of his leg.

I have had enough of needlework,' she whispered. 'Hugh, you will be gone tomorrow?'

'Yes, at first light'

She rested her head against his shoulder. 'Be careful,' she murmured. I do fear for you.' Corbett held her close and fought to hide his own deep unease.

Corbett and his party reached Godstowe late the following evening. The drunken porter allowing them entrance after the usual altercation. Once inside the priory walls Corbett stayed near the gate, demanding the fellow go and bring Lady Amelia down to meet them.

The Prioress seemed to have aged since Corbett had last seen her. Even in the poor light of the flickering torches, Corbett could see how white and haggard her face had become. Her eyes were red-rimmed and circled with deep, dark shadows.

'Master Corbett.' She took both his hands in hers which felt ice cold and clammy to the touch. 'How was your journey?'

'Gruelling,' he replied. 'I am cold, wet -' he looked down at his boots, '- and caked in mud. The rains have turned everything into a morass.'

'Come with me.'

Corbett shook his head.

I would prefer the guest house, My Lady. The fewer who know I have arrived, the better.'

The Lady Prioress stared back, as if lost in her own thoughts, then shook herself and quickly agreed.

The porter took care of their horses and Lady Amelia, walking like a ghost before them, led them across to the guest house. Dame Agatha was waiting there, her beautiful face pale, eyes concerned. Nevertheless, she greeted Corbett with pleasure.

'Hugh,' she whispered, grasping him by the arm, 'you have returned at last!'

He smiled and touched her gently on the shoulder.

'Dame Agatha, I need a few words alone with Lady Amelia.' He looked over his shoulder at his two servants. 'Ranulf and Maltote need food.' He grinned. 'If they don't eat, I swear they will feed on each other.'

He watched the young nun usher his two companions away and allowed Lady Amelia to take him into the small chamber, really no more than a cell with a table, stool and truckle bed. The Lady Prioress slumped wearily down on the stool as Corbett questioned her about Dame Frances' death. He heard her out in silence, asked a few questions, then went and stood over her.