Paul Doherty: Prince of Darkness

'No,' she teased.

'You'll look after the fencing in the long meadow?'

'No, I'll break it down.'

'And the grange with loose slats?'

Maeve shook her head.

'I'll burn that as well, together with the tithe bam. And I'll tell Father Martin, with his usual litany of complaints about his congregation using the graveyard as a playground, to go hang himself. After that,' she shook her head, 'God knows what I'll do!'

Corbett grabbed her, kissing her passionately.

'Then I'll bid you adieu, wife.'

He winked at her, smiled, and slipped through the door to the waiting horse.

Corbett and Ranulf travelled north, passing through small villages, little more than a cluster of rickety, thatched cottages clustered around some church or manor house. Soon harvest time would be over. Corbett remembered such days from his youth as he saw the crops standing high and yellow, next to fields of fallow green and the narrow ribs of turf which separated one village's strip from another. The cottages themselves were no more grand than that owned by his father with their walls of wattle and daub and the small patch of garden to grow onions, cabbages, garlic and shallots.

His horse stumbled and Corbett cursed, Ranulf quietly admiring his master's grasp of some of the filthiest oaths he had ever heard. The roads were ruined by huge potholes filled with makeshift clumps of brushwood or mounds of earth which would be washed away in the first heavy shower. They stopped at a village inn for a dish of spiced eels and a few gulps of heady local ale. The place was packed with men and women, country folk, falconers, huntsmen, lackeys from the stables, bakers, brewers, cooks and kitchen scullions. They all crowded in for their pottle of ale, rubbing shoulders with shepherd and hog-herds, teasing and slapping the laundresses and dairy maids who came to exchange gossip or catch the eye of their favourite swain.

Corbett sat in a corner and listened to Ranulf's description of affairs in London before quietly informing him of what awaited them at Godstowe Priory. Ranulf's face paled. Gaveston and the Lord Edward were twice as dangerous as the old King; Gaveston in particular, a spiteful, powerful lord who had made his presence felt in both court and city. For the first time since attending Mass at Christmas, Ranulf closed his eyes and really prayed that his master would not fail or slip from royal favour. Corbett was truly caught in the raging animosity between Edward and his truculent heir. If he failed the King, Corbett would certainly feel the royal displeasure, but the Prince of Wales was irrational, veering like a bird on the wing, one moment the cheerful companion, the common man; the next standing on every inch of his authority. Gaveston was worse; he was just downright dangerous. Ranulf loved his master, even though he might quietly cheat him of the odd coin or two and silently mock his solemn ways but, if Corbett fell, so would he. Ranulf stood up and ordered another black-jack of ale from the greasy aproned slattern to drown the panic curdling his stomach.

'All of us know about Eleanor Belmont!' he exclaimed. 'They were talking about her death at the Guildhall and in St Paul's Walk.' He looked enquiringly at his master.

Corbett sat up and dragged his eyes away from the relic-seller who had now moved into the tavern with his bag of goods.

'Who do they say is responsible?'

'They blame the Prince, or even the old King.'

'What else do they say, Ranulf?'

'How the Prince loves Gaveston more than any man does his wife. The old ones talk about the return of civil war, and the armourers and fletchers are doing brisk business.'

Corbett nodded and sat back on the bench. His spies had told him the same; up and down the country the great lords were seeing to the repair of their castles, laying in provisions and arms against a possible siege. Would war come? Godstowe might hold the answer.

Corbett looked out of the door and saw the daylight was beginning to fade so they continued their journey, keeping a wary eye as the sun began to sink and they followed the old Roman Road north into Oxfordshire. Earlier it had been busy with merchants, students in their tattered gowns, mountebanks, or the occasional friar wheeling his portable altar from village to village. Now, as evening fell, despite the warm summer closeness, Corbett knew the road was a dangerous place. The woods and desolate moorlands were inhabited by landless and lawless men, filthy verminous beings dressed in tattered, weather-stained garments, disfigured by every sore and disease under the sun. Such men plagued this highway, even boasting of their deeds, telling their bruised and wounded victims how they had been robbed and beaten by 'Rawhead', 'Bloody Bones' or 'Robin Badfellow', or whatever such name the outlaws assumed. Corbett touched the sword and dagger strapped to his belt and, feeling more comfortable, urged his tired horse into another canter.

They arrived late at night at the village of Woodstock, which lay between the palace and the priory. They lodged in a chamber of The Bull tavern, which stood at the far edge of the town on the forest fringes. Corbett, ever prudent, spent his money carefully; the room they obtained was really a garret, furnished with a trestle straw bed which he and Ranulf would share, together with a woollen coverlet, chest, table and two stools. They were promised a pot of watered ale in the morning, a mess of oats and a meal at night. The poxy-faced landlord also agreed to provide stabling and fodder for their horses.

After his master had retired, Ranulf went down to the taproom, taking with him a small bag of goods he always carried in such rural areas; a few jars filled with coloured water and crushed flower petals, hair from a boiled red dog, crushed skin from a dead man's head, mixed with grease. These and other delicacies Ranulf sold to the landlord and his customers as cures for every known ailment under the sun Satisfied that he had at least recouped some of his master's losses, he pocketed their money, stole back upstairs and, lying on one edge of the trestle bed, slept the sleep of the just

At Godstowe Priory, however, murder had once more taken up camp. The aged Dame Martha was busy arranging an unaccustomed bath in her large spacious chamber. A screen had been set up around it and cooks from the kitchen had brought up great earthenware jugs, filling the wooden tub with scalding hot water. Dame Martha wanted to look her best She was sure the Lady Prioress would be very interested in what she knew.

Dame Martha had taken off her brown serge robe lined with blue, the habit of her Order, the Daughters of Syon, and was busy, dressed only in her white linen shift, placing the screen more closely round the bath. She made sure the chamber door was locked and bolted, picked up the wine goblet and sipped it greedily.

She would have liked some soap, the perfumed type, fragrant and sweet-smelling which the priory had imported from Castille. She had used some three months previously when she had last bathed just before the Easter celebrations.

Dame Martha touched her hair, noticing how greasy the grey locks were. She stood, sucking on her gums, and her little black eyes hardened. Yes, she had to look her best when the Lady Amelia saw hen Dame Martha wanted to impress her as being perceptive and clever and not be dismissed as some garrulous old nun lost in stupid daydreams. She didn't want one of those bitches, Dame Frances or Dame Catherine, pooh-poohing her information as some fevered phantasm of an ageing mind. No, Dame Martha had seen something the night the royal whore had died, something which just didn't fit into place, and she would use her knowledge to get more for herself; some sweetmeats, perhaps linen sheets or bigger portions from the refectory. After all, she deserved them; she had given long years of service to the Order.