"Prince of Darkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Paul)

Chapter 2

Hugh Corbett, senior clerk and master spy of Edward of England, was dreaming a dreadful dream. He was standing beneath the spreading branches of one of the elm trees which stood along the boundaries of Godstowe Priory in Oxfordshire. A late summer sun was shining but the air was silent, eerie, devoid of birdsong. Alongside him, from the branch of a nearby tree, hung a body, its neck broken, head to one side; it hung there like some ancient sacrifice or the Figure of Death from the Tarot. Corbett felt compelled to turn but found he could not. His gaze was fixed on the windows, like empty eye-sockets, of Godstowe Priory. He stirred. No sound broke the chill silence except the hollow screeching of cruel-eyed peacocks and, in faint cadence, the ghostly chanting of the nuns.

In his nightmare Corbett walked across a lush green lawn, the shadows behind forcing him on. No sign of life was apparent as he crossed the gravel path up to the great door of the nunnery; unlatched, half-open, he pushed this aside and entered the cold, dark house. A guttering row of candles, their flickering flames filling the silent hall with dancing shadows, formed a path leading to the bottom of steep stone stairs. There, as if sleeping, lay the body of a young woman, her face half-averted, one pale ivory cheek peeping out from under the hood pulled over her head. Corbett walked softly across, knelt and turned the body over, the young woman's arms flapped like the wings of a fallen bird. He pushed back the hood, expecting to see the face of Eleanor Belmont, former mistress of the Lord Edward, but silently screamed in horror, the dead, ice-cold features belonged to his wife, Maeve. Above him, in the far darkness of the house, a low mocking laugh greeted his discovery but, as he jumped up, Corbett awoke, soaked in sweat, in his own bed chamber in the Manor of Leighton.

Chest heaving, Corbett sat up beneath the blue and gold canopy stretched across the carved uprights of his huge four-poster bed. The window casement rattled under the persistent batterings of a sobbing wind and Corbett wondered it he had been merely dreaming or else visited by some dark phantasm of the night He looked quickly to his right side but Maeve, his wife, was lost in gentle sleep, her silver-blonde hair spread out like a halo across the huge bolster. He leaned over and gendy kissed her on the brow. Outside, the lonely call of a hunting owl and the death shrieks of some animal in the shadowy darkness of the trees re-kindled his sombre mood.

Corbett got up, dressed in his robe and, with tinder and taper, lit a candle. He walked to the heavy, thick arras which hung on the far wall of his bed chamber and pulled this aside, the light of his flickering candle making the embroidered figures spring to ghostly life. Corbett grasped the cunningly contrived lever, pressed it and the wooden panelling gently swung back on its oiled hinges, giving him access to his secret chamber. This perfectly square, white-washed room was the centre of his work, the one place Corbett could be alone to drink, to plot, and take every measure against the King's enemies, both at home and abroad.

He stretched and felt his shoulder twinge with pain where, months previously, the mad priest, de Luce, had plunged his dagger. Corbett had survived, nursed by Maeve, now his wife of six months and already two months gone with child. He smiled; a source for happiness there but not here, in this darkened chamber. Edward I of England had given him Leighton Manor on the borders of Essex in recognition for services rendered but also in return for his continued efforts in building up a network of spies in England, Scotland, France and the Low Countries. Corbett had been happy to accept the charge but the information he gathered carried further problems: he felt he had sown dragons' teeth and was about to reap the whirlwind.

The clerk lit the cresset torches fixed in their iron brackets on the wall and walked over to his intricately carved oak desk; the secrets he had locked away in its hidden drawers and compartments were the source of his present cares and anxiety. From a stone beneath the desk, Corbett removed some keys, lit the two candelabra which stood on either side of the desk, sat down and unlocked the secret compartment.

He plucked out the King's letter, the one he had received the previous evening as he and Maeve ate their dinner in the great darkened hall below. It had been sent in secret cipher which Corbett had already decoded. He picked up a quill from the writing tray, smoothed a piece of parchment and began to draft his own reply. A memorandum to clear his own thoughts rather than to inform the King.

Item – King Edward is old, locked in combat against Scottish rebels whilst trying to defend his possessions in France. The English Exchequer and Treasury are bankrupt The King's only way forward is the peace treaty laid down by the Papacy, which stipulates the betrothal of the Prince of Wales to the infant daughter of the French King, Philip IV.

Item – the Prince of Wales is feckless, pleasure-loving, a possible sodomite. He is dominated by the Warlock, Gaveston, and hates his father. The breach between father and son is permanent. The King would like to banish Gaveston but this may well lead to civil war which would only assist the Scots and certainly draw in the French.

Item – Philip IV of France had demanded the removal of Eleanor Belmont, and the Lord Edward had been only too pleased to agree with this. Eleanor had been placed under virtual house arrest in Godstowe Priory, a place the Prince could control from his nearby palace of Woodstock.

Item – were the rumours true that the Lady Eleanor had been ill of a malady of the breast and did the Prince send medicines to her? If so, were they really medicines, or poisons?

Item – on Sunday last Lady Eleanor Belmont had not joined the nuns at Compline or the evening meal afterwards in the refectory. Indeed, she had told her companions amongst them to leave her alone. The convent building where Lady Eleanor had her chambers had been empty during the evening service except for two aged nuns, Dame Elizabeth and Dame Matilda. After Compline all the nuns had gone to the refectory as was customary. Once the meal was over (again as was customary), the Lady Prioress with the two Sub-prioresses, Dame Frances and Dame Catherine, had walked around the main building, gone through the open door and found Lady Eleanor Belmont cloaked and hooded at the bottom of the stairs. They claimed her neck had been broken from a fall, yet the hood over her head had not been disturbed.

Item – did the Lady Eleanor Belmont fall? If so, why was her clothing not disturbed? And why had the old nuns not heard the crash of her fall and her cries? If she had fallen, where was she going to or returning from? Was it suicide? Reports said that the Lady Eleanor had been melancholic, the victim of malignant humours.

Corbett stroked his cheek with the quill of the pen, half listening to the wind moaning like some wandering spirit amongst the trees: their branches rustled, one of them tapping insistently against the window. He dipped the quill into the blue-green ink. Had the Lady Eleanor been murdered? And if so, by whom? The Lord Edward? He had been at the nearby palace of Woodstock. By the Lord Gaveston, who had also been present there? Or by both in complicity? Or was it murder by someone in the priory? Either because of jealousy or on the orders of someone else. The French perhaps? There was a delegation from Philip now in England led by Corbett's old adversary, Amaury de Craon.

Corbett bit the knuckles of his hand. De Craon, his counterpart on the French council, was a skilful, devious man who bore no love for Edward of England, or, indeed, Edward's chief clerk. The French would love a scandal involving the English crown. Belmont had been the Prince of Wales' paramour but she had been removed from the court and so they had no grievance there. Of course, Gaveston could have taken her place but the French had no proof that his relationship with the young Prince was anything but an honourable friendship. However, if de Craon started insinuating that the Prince or Gaveston were involved in murder, Philip might well decide the betrothal was off, the peace treaty be null and void, and the English would find themselves in a costly and bloody war. The clerk grasped his quill and began to write.

Item – they had information from a spy in Essex that the Prince of Wales had been secretly married to the Lady Eleanor Belmont. Was this another reason for the Prince to murder the poor girl?

Corbett suddenly went cold. The Prince, or his father? Corbett had no illusions about either the King or his son; both were equally ruthless and self-seeking.

Item – another piece of information from Eudo Tailler, an English spy busy in the shadows of the Louvre Palace. Eudo had sent it weeks ago but had since disappeared. His message was cryptic enough: a member of the de Montfort family was loose in England.

Corbett's anxiety increased. Forty years ago, eight years before Corbett had been born, Edward I had crushed a savage revolt led by Earl Simon de Montfort. The King, who had so nearly lost his crown, defeated the Earl's army outside Evesham. De Montfort had been killed and Edward had told his soldiers to hack his body and feed it to the royal dogs. The remnants of de Montfort's family had fled abroad and, whenever possible, sent assassins into England against the King and the royal family. The feud had lasted decades. A few years previously the King had used Corbett himself to uncover one of these secret covens. Corbett rubbed his face as he remembered the dark passion of Alice, the coven leader. Who was this new assassin, he pondered, and where was he now?

'Hugh! Hugh!'

Corbett looked up. Maeve stood in the doorway, one of his cloaks wrapped about her. Despite his anxieties, he was struck by her beauty: the silver hair, the skin which glowed like burnished gold in the candle light, and those blue- violet eyes now heavy with sleep.

'What are you staring at, man?' she asked.

'You know what I am looking at,' he murmured.

He rose and snuffed out the candles and led her back into the bed chamber.

'Hugh, what are you doing?' Maeve struggled free and faced him gravely. 'For God's sake, it's the middle of the night! I awake and find my bed cold and you gone.' She smiled, letting her cloak drop to the floor, and put her arms round his waist. 'The King's letter, isn't it? The business at Godstowe?'

He took a deep breath.

'Yes, and tomorrow I must go there. As soon as Ranulf returns.'

She made him sit down on the edge of the bed beside her.

'The woman was murdered, wasn't she?' Corbett nodded. 'Yes, I fear so.' 'And the King will be held responsible?' Corbett rubbed his face in his hands. 'Yes, I mink he will. If a scandal breaks, God knows what will happen.' He took her hand in his.

'For forty years, Maeve, there has been no civil war in England. Yet the Lady Eleanor's death could cause one.'

She shivered and rolled under the thick coverlets.

'Hugh,' she murmured, 'you will not solve it now, in the middle of the night!'

He smiled bleakly.

'Perhaps there will never be a solution, not even in the full light of day.'

Ranulf-atte-Newgate, body servant to Hugh Corbett, turned his horse on to the sun-baked track which led round to Leighton Manor just as the bell of the village church tolled the Angelus. He turned and watched the labourers bent low in the fields gathering the stooks of corn and placing them in great two-wheeled carts. He heard the sound of their laughter, a woman singing a lullaby to a child held at her breast; now and again, carried on the breeze, the shouts of children playing on the banks of a brook as their busy parents gathered in the harvest

Ranulf had been up to London on his master's business in the Chancery as well as calling on certain goldsmiths in the Poultry. He had also visited his son, the glorious offspring of one of his affairs. Ranulf was pleased that the boy was looking more like him as every day passed: the same, spiked reddish hair, generous mouth, freckled face, snub nose and cheeky green eyes, sharp as a cat's. The child had been born months earlier in the depths of winter and Corbett had persuaded Ranulf to give him to some foster-parents in Threadneedle Street. Ranulf had agreed but then changed his mind, taken him back, and promptly lost his son in a tavern. A saucy, heavy-bosomed wench had caught his eye, Ranulf had put the baby down, went to take his pleasure then walked home, forgetting about the little bundle he had entrusted to the tavern-keeper's wife. On Corbett's advice he had subsequently returned the child to his heart-broken foster-parents.

'A good decision,' Ranulf murmured to himself.

He loved the boy but never could remember where he had left him last A squirrel chattered, a bird flew out of a gorse bush. Ranulf's hand went towards his dagger. He felt uneasy in the countryside, missed the city and wished that Corbett would return to their house in Bread Street, but his master's new wife, Maeve, had changed all that. Ranulf groaned to himself. He lusted after most women. In fact, Ranulf found any women of whatever degree or age attractive, if not for seducing, then as a useful target for his good-natured bantering or teasing.

Maeve-app-Llewellyn was different Ranulf feared her. Those chilling blue eyes which seemed to be able to read his every thought; her shrewd management of his master's affairs, be it buying a field or placating that old grey granite-faced King. When Maeve was there Hugh seemed to relax, even smile. Ranulf stirred, easing his aching backside as he urged his horse through the manor gates. She had changed Corbett Oh, his master was still secretive and withdrawn, but more even-tempered, cooler and more calculating. On previous occasions Corbett had worked in the Chancery, accepting individual assignments for the old King. Now all that had changed. Corbett acted as if he loved the intrigue, building up a system of spies which stretched like some huge net from Rome to Avignon, Paris, Lille, Edinburgh and Dublin.

Ranulf reigned in his horse and listened to the sound of the woodland as Maeve had urged him to. He shook his head. He would give a gold piece to hear the sound of the hucksters and coster-mongers of London, the lusty shouts of the apprentices and the raucous bawling of stall-holders. He looked around him. There was too much space here, the air was too fresh and the prospect of hard work imminent. There were no soldiers for Ranulf to draw into a game with his loaded dice or crooked chequer-board. No pretty girls to make eyes at and, above all, no Mistress Sempler, the voluptuous young wife of an ageing woolsmith.

Ranulf smiled like the cat who has drunk the cream. He had spent a pleasant time the previous evening consoling the good lady during her husband's absence. He thought of her white, soft as satin body, nubile and generous as she stood dressed in nothing but her head-dress and gartered hose. He groaned again, cursed softly, and urged his horse up into the grassy area before the manor door, scattering the lazy sheep grazing there.

Ranulf, however, could never be despondent for long: after all, his master was now the landlord of well-stocked bams, granaries, and lush meadows, and Ranulf could always pretend he had been very busy in London and so earn some reward. He licked his lips as he dismounted and assumed a doleful expression. He had rehearsed his speech. He would present matters in their worst light, depicting the toils and tribulations he had endured in pursuing his master's business… yet he had scarcely prepared himself for what happened. Corbett was waiting just inside the oak-panelled hall, cloaked, booted and spurred; his saddle bags, packed and strapped down, were being taken out by a servant. Ranulf expected the worst when he saw the grin on Corbett's face.

'Benedicte, Ranulf!' he exclaimed. I have been waiting. We are off to Godstowe Priory in Oxfordshire. Your son, how is the little cherub?'

Ranulf caught the sarcasm in his master's voice and grinned. His master loved little Hugh, or Hugolino, but often described him as a monster, a true son of his father, from his spiked hair to his innate ability to fall into mischief.

'Well, Master, as well as can be expected,' Ranulf replied, glimpsing Maeve coming out through the chancery door. She looked resplendent in a simple white wimple and a long, dark maroon dress clasped at the neck with silver-white bows, rather spoilt by the heavy belt she wore round her swelling waist, which bore most of the keys to the manor chambers. As usual Maeve looked solemn though Ranulf saw the mischief dancing in her eyes.

'You had a pleasant time, Ranulf, in London?'

The servant was going to lie but Maeve caught his glance.

'Yes, Mistress.'

'No excitement or frivolity?'

'Of course not,' Ranulf muttered. 'Just hard work.'

He glanced away but Maeve continued her inquisition. She would find out about Mistress Sempler whether he liked it or not, so Ranulf mumbled some excuse and fled to his own chamber. He washed his face in the lavarium, packed a new set of saddle bags, plucking what possessions he could find from his customarily chaotic chamber, and went down the side stairs out to the front of the manor where a groom had brought fresh horses and a sumpter pony. In the hall Maeve was growing truculent at Corbett's strictures against baiting Ranulf.

'You will miss me?' he asked, changing the conversation abruptly, grabbing her by the hands and pulling her close.

'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.

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.