Paul Doherty: Prince of Darkness

'Lady Amelia?'

The Lady Prioress sat with arms crossed, staring down at the floor. Corbett crouched down beside her.

'Lady Amelia, tomorrow, in your chapter meeting after the morning Mass, tell your sisters that before Vespers I will speak to them and explain all that has happened.' He touched her gently under the chin and made her look up. 'My Lady, you must do that.'

'Yes, of course,' she mumbled, her once proud face now crumpled in fatigue and worry. She smiled wanly at Corbett and, like a sleepwalker, rose and left him.

Corbett sat down on the truckle bed, lay back, and though he did not intend to, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning he was roused early by the clanging of the priory bells. He felt cold, his arms and legs aching from the rough ride of the previous day. He went and roused a grumbling Ranulf and Maltote. Corbett then cleaned his boots, washed, changed his tunic and ravenously ate the bread and cheese brought up on a platter by an aged lay sister. He gave both Ranulf and Maltote careful instructions; he was going to inspect the burnt-out novice house. After a while they must follow him and be armed with dagger and sword.

'Ranulf, you bring a crossbow. Try not to be seen by anyone. Keep yourself hidden. But should you see anyone, threaten to attack. You are to shoot twice: once as a warning; the second time, make sure you kill whoever it is.'

Corbett repeated his instructions and, throwing his cloak about him, went downstairs. A thick sea mist had rolled in, obscuring most of the priory buildings. Corbett remembered the autumn sun during his previous visit and marvelled how quickly the weather had changed. Nevertheless, the mist helped his cause. He saw shadowy figures slip by him, their faces and footsteps muffled by the fog, as he made his way across to the blackened timber of the novice house. Corbett vaguely recalled the building as a pleasant two-storeyed affair: the fire must have caught the sun-dried timbers and turned it into this blackened mess. He picked his way carefully around the fire-scarred timbers of what was once the Kitchen. Here the blaze had started, Killing Dame Frances whilst the rest of the nuns, given some warning, had managed to jump out of the windows or find their way down the outside stairs.

Corbett could imagine the scene. The fire raging, greedily licking into the timbers and beams, while the sisters, the serenity of their lives shattered by the roaring flames, fled for safety. Against the far wall were the remains of the hearth. The stone here was so badly scorched the brick had turned to a blackened powder. Corbett stood before the hearth and looked around. Crouching down he dug his fingers into the now cold coal dust, picking it up, sniffing at it carefully. He glimpsed the twisted, molten remains of the metal water bucket: one of the sisters, hearing Dame Frances' screams, had hurried down, opened the scullery door, and had seen her companion, nothing more than a human torch, the iron water bucket lying at her feet.

'The poor woman,' Lady Amelia had told him, 'could do nothing to save Dame Frances, who was being consumed by a sheet of fire. The sister saw the bucket near Dame Frances' feet before she closed the door and ran to raise the alarm for help. Thank God,' Lady Amelia had murmured, 'otherwise more lives would have been lost!'

Corbett now examined the blackened remains of the water bucket He already had a vague idea of how Dame Frances had been killed and, sniffing carefully at it caught the foulsome stench of burnt animal fat He threw the thing away, brushed his fingers and left the blackened ruin. Through the mist he could see the vague outlines of the priory church and followed its outline round to the ruined oak stump where Lady Eleanor had received her mysterious messages. He leaned against it, staring across at the priory wall, shuddering when he remembered how Gaveston's dogs had nearly tore him to pieces. He heard a sound behind him. The snapping of twigs as someone moved over the thick, soggy mass of fallen leaves.

I wondered when you would come?' he called, not bothering to turn. 'I knew you would. Once the Lady Prioress made her announcement. It's always the way with assassins, they hate the light of day.'

Corbett spun round quickly and stared at the cowled, shadowy figure before him.

'Let me warn you,' he continued softly, 'my manservant is here somewhere in the mist He has a crossbow and his orders. So any knife you might have in your hand had better be put back in its sheath!'

The figure moved forward and one white hand came up, clawing back both hood and wimple as Dame Agatha shook her lustrous blonde hair free. Corbett had rarely seen such beauty. The mass of silver hair framed a perfectly formed face, though the lips seemed thinner, the eyes above the high cheek bones cold and unsmiling.

I knew it was you,' he said. 'It had to be. You killed the Lady Eleanor. You then slew the old one, Dame Martha, and finally Sister Frances. But who are you?' he whispered.

'My true name is Agatha de Courcy, so I always told only half a lie!' She laughed, though her eyes never faltered in their steady gaze.

'And what happened to the real nun who left Gascony?'

'Oh, come, Master Corbett, don't be so coy! Let me see how much of the truth you really know.'

Corbett's hand went beneath his cloak, touching the hilt of the dagger he had hidden there. The young woman moved closer and Corbett realised her hands were still concealed. He took a deep breath and prayed that Ranulf was somewhere watching this small drama being played out.

'Let me see.' He leaned against the old oak tree. 'Eighteen months ago, Mistress Deveril, though she used another name, left Gascony and landed at Dover. She was an orphan of noble lineage with no immediate family. She was accompanied to England by a young page – his name does not concern us. Mistress Deveril took the road skirting London on to the old Roman highway bound for Oxford, Woodstock, and then Godstowe. You knew of her arrival and followed her discreetly. You joined them, probably after they left Godstowe village. You struck up an acquaintance, your offer to accompany them being gratefully accepted. I suspect you were disguised as a personable young man, a merry companion for the Gascons, after what must have been a long and gruelling journey. You were very clever, Agatha, your disguise was perfect Only the landlord glimpsed you. He, like others, mentioned some young gallant who passed through the village about the same time. But, of course, he can help us no further, being torn to death by Gaveston's dogs. I am correct, am I not?'

The young woman pursed her lips and, for a few brief seconds, smiled sweetly, reminding Corbett of the pious, beautiful, young nun he once knew.

'How did I know?' she asked. 'Who lands at Dover and takes the road to Oxford?'

'Oh, I'll answer all that in due course. But for the rest? Well, you managed to persuade the young lady to leave the Godstowe road for a spot you had previously chosen. Perhaps take a noonday rest and sip some wine. She and her page boy probably dozed. Indeed,' Corbett stirred, staring behind the nun into the mist, 'they may have slept more deeply than they ever intended. The wine you proffered was probably drugged. Once asleep they were easy victims. You slit both their throats, stripped the corpses, changed your own robes and took Deveril's name as well as the letters of introduction. Your only mistake was mat the small lap dog Deveril carried was either overlooked or ran away. The woman's belongings you kept for yourself. The rest, including your own clothes, now lie at the bottom of some deep, evil-smelling swamp. The horses?' Corbett shrugged. 'Naturally, you kept one, that and a sumpter pony. The other two were turned loose. A nice gift for some peasant farmer who would keep his mouth firmly shut Then you come to Godstowe, armed with letters proclaiming you to be Deveril You take your vows, you are personable, you ingratiate yourself both with Lady Amelia and Lady Eleanor. And who would suspect you?'