Paul Doherty: Prince of Darkness

'Why should I do that?'

'Oh, come, My Lady, you know full well. The King ordered Eleanor Belmont here and you hated it. It disturbed the harmony and peace of this little priory. It brought the unwanted attention of the Prince and Lord Gaveston as well as the unexpected intrusion of the French envoy, Monsieur de Craon, who could not be lightly turned away. Now, the Lady Eleanor was a young woman. She could have lived for years. In time she might even have threatened your own position. So you hired horsemen, God knows from where, though there are enough ex-soldiers around to do anything for silver.'

Corbett rose and filled a goblet of wine. He looked at Lady Amelia questioningly but she shook her head. Corbett gulped the rich, red wine, relishing the way it warmed his stomach.

'You prepared the ground well – those messages hidden away in the old oak tree. At first I thought someone climbed the wad and put them there, but on the night I was chased by Gaveston's dogs, I found that was an impossible feat The walls are sheer and any intruder would eventually be noticed, as he would if he came through the gate. I concluded the writer must be inside the priory.' Corbett paused. 'At first I thought it was Dame Agatha, but only you had the power and money to hire horsemen. Moreover, I could never understand why, on the very day horsemen were seen outside the priory, you permitted the Lady Eleanor not to attend Compline. On any other occasion you would have demanded her attendance. Moreover, you must have heard about or seen the horsemen hiding in the trees. Lady Eleanor's absence from Compline and the presence of these riders were no coincidence. You were hoping she would leave. The blame would fall on others and you and your priory would be well rid of her. But, of course, matters went terribly wrong. Lady Eleanor was killed and the riders left empty handed.'

The Prioress just stared back at him.

'You were frightened I might hear about these riders. That's why, the morning the porter took me down to the forest, you sent Dame Catherine after me to see where we were going. My Lady, I am correct?'

'Yes, Corbett,' she replied harshly. 'You are correct. I resented Lady Eleanor Belmont's presence here. We may not be the strictest Order in the realm but Godstowe is a nunnery not a refuge for former whores. Moreover, I disliked the Lady Eleanor intensely, with her sorrowful face and moping ways. I went to Oxford on business. You know the city well. Desperate men can be hired. They had their orders. On that Sunday evening Lady Eleanor was instructed to meet them outside the Galilee Gate. Of course, to achieve that I needed the former whore's co-operation so I secretly sent her the messages.' She shrugged. 'The rest you know.'

'What if she had left?' Corbett asked. 'I know suspicion would fall on the Prince, Lord Gaveston, the French, or even the King. But what was intended?'

The Lady Prioress smiled.

'Oh, nothing terrible. We have a sister house in Hainault just outside Dordrecht Lady Eleanor would have been comfortable but securely kept and I would have been happy.' She pulled a piece of parchment over to her. 'Now, Master Corbett, I am sure you must be as busy as I am.'

She stared blankly down at the desk and, when she looked up, the clerk had gone. Conclusion

In the great hall of Westminster Palace, Edward of England sat on his throne beneath the great hammer-beamed roof. Huge scarlet and gold banners hung overhead and members of his household had covered the walls with silken tapestries and thick silver- and gold-encrusted cloths. The floor in front of the dais had been swept clean and fresh rushes, cut from the river's edge, placed over the boards and sprinkled with herbs. Royal serjeants-at-arms in full steeled armour were ranged in serried ranks on either side of the throne, swords drawn, hilts point down. On each side of the King were the leading magnates and bishops of the realm and in front, seated along a trestle table covered in damask cloths, sat the senior clerks of the Chancery and Exchequer. Corbett was in the centre. The table in front of him had now been cleared of ad parchments except one long document, freshly inscribed and sealed: the betrothal indenture affiancing Edward, Prince of Wales, heir apparent to the English throne, to Isabella, 'the sole and beloved daughter' of Philip IV of France.

Corbett watched de Craon approach and fix Philip IV's seal to the bottom of this document. The French envoy then went across and placed his hand on the huge copy of the gospels held between the gnarled fingers of Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury. De Craon, resplendent in robes of blue and white samite, proclaimed in clipped Norman French: 'How Philip, King of France, rejoiced that the betrothal had taken place which would be the basis of lasting peace and friendship between England and France.'

Corbett, his emotions masked by a diplomatic smile, watched de Craon call on God and his angels to witness how France intended a lasting peace. In any other circumstances the English clerk would have burst out laughing: de Craon, given any opportunity, would break or twist the treaty whenever it suited him or his devious master in the Louvre Palace. At last de Craon stopped speaking. On Edward's behalf, Corbett rose and replied with a similar tissue of official lies, and went round the table to exchange the kiss of peace with his arch-enemy. Behind him Edward of England sat watching through heavy-lidded eyes, though his mind was elsewhere, his body tense with fury that his son had chosen to remain at Woodstock with his catamite rather than attend this solemn betrothal ceremony. His son claimed he was unwell. The King ground his teeth together. By the time the week was over, he would give his son good cause to be unwell! The King leaned forward, watching Corbett and de Craon embrace and exchange the final kiss of peace. After the kiss, de Craon pulled his head back, a false smile on his face.

'One day, Corbett,' he hissed, 'I will kill you!'

Corbett bowed and muttered back, 'One day, Monsieur, as you have recently, you will try and fail!'

Again the false smiles, the perfunctory bows, the trumpets in the gallery braying out their silver din, and the ceremony was over. De Craon bowed towards the throne, snapped his fingers for his colleagues to follow and, turning on his heel, walked quickly out of the huge hall. Edward rose, unfastened his gold-encrusted cloak and tossed it to de Warenne.

'Thank God that mummery is over! De Warenne, I want to see Corbett now in my chamber. No one else to be present!'

'Of course, Your Grace.'

Edward's eyes narrowed.

'Less of the sarcasm, Surrey. And when you have done that, I want your fastest messenger to be on the road to Woodstock within the hour. He is to tell my sweet son that I wish words with him tomorrow – here.' The King jabbed a finger at the Earl. 'And a message for my Lord Gaveston as well. If he is in England by the end of the week, I will proclaim him wolfshead, an outlaw to be killed on sight!' Edward heartily clapped the Earl on the shoulder. 'And after that, we march north to give the Scots a lesson they'll never forget.'

Corbett found the King lounging in a window seat, a huge, deep-bowled goblet of wine in his hands. 'Ah, Hugh.'

Corbett's heart sank. Whenever the King played the bluff, hearty warrior, the clerk always smelt treachery.

'While you and de Craon were kissing each other's arses out there, I was thinking of your report about the business at Godstowe. You did well, Hugh.'

'Thank you, Your Grace.'

The King rose, poured a goblet of wine and thrust it into the clerk's hands.

I am sorry I did not tell you about Mistress Agatha.'

'Your Grace, I have already protested. How can I gather information if there are people like her of whom I know nothing? Such men or women pose a threat They need to be watched and guided.'