Paul Doherty: Prince of Darkness

Dame Martha doffed the linen shift and climbed into the bath, allowing her vein-streaked, decaying body to sink into the hot, relaxing water. She leaned her head back, then sat up as Murder tapped on her door.

Corbett and Ranulf arrived at Godstowe late in the morning, just after Dame Martha's drowned cadaver was sheeted and moved to the death house, a small brick building which stood behind the priory church. The two riders studied the convent buildings which nestled at the foot of a shallow, wooded valley. Facing them was a high, double-gated entrance and further along the steep curtain wall, the postern door or Galilee Gate leading to the forest

Corbett patted his horse as it stirred restlessly at the faint tolling of the priory bell calling the lay workers in from the fields beyond the walls for their mid-day meal. The priory was a grand building built from the yellow stone carved from local quarries. The main house, a two-storeyed building, was built in a square around the cloister garth. Beyond this was the church with its red-tiled roof and soaring towers. Corbett identified the other buildings: the infirmary, the novitiate, the chapter house built above the refectory, the Prioress' house at the far side of the church, and then, huddled up against the walls, the maltings, kiln room and other outbuildings. A place of ostensible serenity, contemplation and prayer, Corbett thought Still, he must force himself to see it as a place soaked in blood and intrigue.

'Ranulf.' He turned in the saddle and looked across at his servant. 'Godstowe is a nunnery, the women reputedly consecrated to God. Be prudent and remember my advice -nothing will be what it appears. Oh, by the way, what was in that bag you took down to the taproom last night?'

'Nothing, Master.' Ranulf gazed back in round-eyed innocence.

Corbett grunted and they cantered down the hill following the path up to the main gate. Ranulf pulled at the bell cord hanging there and kicked his boot against the small postern door. A tall, thin pole of a man with a face as white as snow, bleary eyes, and a nose so red it flared like a beacon, opened the small door and stepped out, half-closing it behind him.

'What do you want?' he snapped. He studied the dark face of the clerk, noting the expensive quilted cote hardie, woollen hose and costly Spanish riding boots. 'I mean,' he added more politely, 'what business brings you here?'

He was joined by two men-at-arms dressed in the blue and gold livery of the Prince of Wales, well armed with sword and dagger, their faces hidden by the noseguards of their conical helmets.

'Bugger off!' one of them shouted.

He swayed slightly and, behind Corbett, even Ranulf could smell the stench of ale.

Corbett urged his horse forward, freed his foot from the stirrup and pushed the guard up against the gate, pressing his boot firmly into the man's chest

'My name is Corbett,' he announced quietly. 'Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery of the King and his special envoy to Godstowe Priory. I treat you courteously so I resent your bad manners. Now,' he turned to the porter, 'you will either open that gate or I will kill one of you!'

He smiled. 'After all, it is treason to interfere with a royal envoy.'

Corbett withdrew his foot and both soldiers scuttled away like rabbits whilst Red Nose hastily unlocked one of the great gates and led them in. He didn't even stop to lock it behind him, so eager was he to show them to the stables. After that one of the soldiers, mumbling a profuse apology, led them across to the Prioress' lodgings. Word of the debacle at the gate must have preceded them for Lady Amelia was already awaiting their arrival in her cool upper chamber with its painted blue walls, polished wooden floor and oval-shaped windows filled with precious coloured glass. The Lady Prioress sat in the centre of the chamber on her favourite throne-like chair. She rose as Corbett entered, extending one elegant hand for him to kiss.

'You are most welcome, Master Corbett. We heard you were coming. I must apologise for the greeting.' She smiled falsely. 'But we have so many curiosity seekers. Lady Eleanor's death draws constant visitors here. Anyway you are most welcome, Master Corbett. I did think His Grace would send…' Her voice trailed off,

'Someone more important than a clerk, My Lady?'

She nodded her head.

'Then, My Lady, you are disappointed!'

Corbett looked at the haughty face framed by its white starched wimple: the gimlet eyes, imperious nose, and a mouth no more than a line. Lady Amelia smelt of perfume, crushed herbs, and something deeper, more cloying. This lady, Corbett thought, would kill if her honour or pride were at stake. Lady Amelia, however, disregarded his answer and graciously introduced her two companions, the Sub-prioresses, who had been sitting on either side of her like two fire dogs: Dame Frances, tall, thin and dry, hard-eyed, and sour-faced with twisted lips; Dame Catherine, comely, plump and pert, cheery-faced and with a generous mouth though her eyes were like two black pebbles in her rosy face. Lady Amelia indicated a chair for Corbett. She clapped her hands and a servant brought in cups of malmsey and a plate of sweetmeats. Ranulf she ignored and left to stand behind his master. He swallowed his pride as he studied the nuns. Hell's teeth, a most unholy trinity! Dame Catherine, however, drew his glance; she was studying Corbett intently, her small pink tongue constantly wetting her lips. Ranulf grinned to himself. A wanton one there, he thought, and began to daydream quietly of what would happen if he and the good dame were alone in some small, cosy chamber. The Prioress settled herself, allowing a faint smile to grace her face. She nibbled at the doucettes.

'What does His Grace the King command?' she began. 'His Grace requires nothing save a full explanation of the Lady Eleanor's death.' Lady Amelia made a face.

'We regret Lady Eleanor's death, as we do that of the unfortunate Dame Martha. One of our sisters,' she added quickly, noting the puzzlement in Corbett's face. 'She was found drowned in her bath this morning. Remember, Master Clerk, in the midst of life we are in death.'

'Yes, but it makes a difference how Death comes.'

'In Lady Eleanor's case, by accident.'

Corbett adjusted his belt and settled himself more comfortably.

'Was she melancholic?' he asked.

'A little. She was often heard praying to be delivered from her sickness. She had a malady of the breast Dame Catherine?' She turned to her cheery-faced companion.

The fat nun shrugged as if freeing herself from a daydream. 'Lady Eleanor,' she piped up, 'had a malignancy in her breast The Prince sent her medicines.'

'Did he bring them himself?' Corbett asked. 'Oh, no.'

'Did any visitors come?'

'Of course not!' Lady Amelia snapped. 'We are a convent, not a guest house.'

'These medicines – why should the Prince be so concerned?'

'The Prince is a caring man.'

'How do you know that?'

'My father was steward in his household.'

'Which is why you got preferment here?'

'Naturally.' Lady Amelia's smile faded. 'Though one approved by both the bishop and the community.'

Corbett noticed how Dame Frances pursed her lips in silent but eloquent repudiation of her mistress' claims to merit.

'These medicines?'

'Oh,' Dame Catherine spoke up, 'bought from a physician in London, distilled by the best apothecary.'

Lady Amelia saw the flicker of doubt in the clerk's eyes and forced a more gracious smile. She must be wary of these quick answers. She had been warned about this inquisitive clerk with his abrupt questions and reputation for honesty. She scrutinised him more carefully. Yes, more than some petty official, with his hair black as night, that sardonic face and those clever eyes which didn't seem to accept a single thing she said. Perhaps attack was the best form of defence. She could be as abrupt as he.