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

Chapter 5

Ranulf and Dame Agatha were waiting for him near the Galilee Gate, the young nun apparently enjoying an account of one of his manservant's many escapades in London.

'Ranulf, we are ready? Dame Agatha?'

His man nodded and scowled. Solicitously he helped the young nun to mount, muttering under his breath about how certain clerks seemed to turn up when they were least expected or wanted. Corbett just grinned over his shoulder and led them out on to the beaten track down to the village of Woodstock. He felt tempted to continue through the village to visit the young Prince at Woodstock Palace but, considering what he had just learnt, thought he had better wait for a while.

The day proved to be a pleasant one and Corbett, with Ranulf in tow, humming some filthy ditty, enjoyed the quiet ride down the winding country lane, the trees on either side forming a green canopy above their heads. The countryside was peaceful under a late autumn sun, the silence broken only by the liquid song of a bird, the chatter of insects and the loud buzz of honey-hunting bees. Dame Agatha, elegant in her tight brown riding habit, sat sidesaddle on a small gentle cob from the priory stables. Corbett allowed their conversation to be as desultory as possible, wanting his companion to relax and feel safe in his presence.

At last they reached the village and joined the rest of the crowd as they thronged towards the green in front of the parish church. They paused to watch the rustics, bedecked with scarves, ribbons and laces, dance and carouse around their makeshift hobby horses to the raucous noise of pipers, drummers and other musicians. Corbett assisted Dame Agatha to dismount. She pointed towards a large, two-storey building on the other side of the green.

'I have business with the merchant who imports our wine,' she remarked. 'Afterwards I'll go to the church and meet you there.'

Corbett agreed, telling Ranulf to accompany her whilst he stabled their horses at The Bull. For a while he sat outside on one of the benches, ordering a pot of ale and relaxing in the sunshine. He looked again at the church and remembered Father Reynard's sermon. He went up through the wicket gate and into the cemetery, a quiet, surprisingly well-kept plot. The grass was scythed, the elm trees well-pruned and vigorous in their growth. Corbett went past the church towards the priest's house and knocked gently on the half-open door. He heard voices and Father Reynard suddenly appeared.

'Come in! Come in!'

The friar's smile was welcoming and genuine. He told Corbett to sit on a bench and went back to where he and a young man, a villein from the village, were poring over a great leatherbound book open on the table. Corbett stared around. An unpretentious place: two rooms downstairs with possibly two small chambers above. The floor was of beaten earth, the walls washed white with lime to keep off the flies. A crude stone hearth, a few sticks of furniture, chests and coffers and a shelf full of kitchen implements were all the friar's apparent possessions. Corbett was impressed. Many village priests insisted on living in luxury, dressing in the best garb, jerkin and multi-coloured hose, and making every effort to palliate the hardships of their lives. A few were downright criminal: Corbett had seen cases in King's Bench of priests who used their churches to brew beer, as gambling dens, or even worse.

At the table the young man murmured his pleasure at something Father Reynard had pointed out, shook the priest's hand and quickly left. Father Reynard closed the leather-bound book and placed it reverently back inside a huge ironbound chest

'The Blood Book,' he observed, straightening up. 'It says who marries whom in the village. The young man's betrothed is related to him but only in the seventh degree.' He smiled. I am glad I have made someone happy. Now, can I do the same for you?'

'A powerful sermon, Father. The sisters were uncomfortable.'

The priest frowned.

'They need to be reminded,' he replied sharply. 'What will they say when Christ comes and shows his red, wounded body to them? We are Christ's wounds,' he continued, 'the poor and the dispossessed, while the rich luxuriate in their comfortable sties.'

'Did you think Lady Eleanor was one of these rich?'

I have told you already.'

'You were a soldier, Father?'

The priest sat down on the bench next to him.

'Aye,' he replied wearily. 'A master bowman, a royal serjeant-at-arms. I have spilt my fair share of blood in Scotland, Wales and Gascony.' He looked up. 'I have pursued the King's enemies by land and sea but now I understand, killing's no answer.'

'Surely, Father, sometimes it is?'

The priest rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor.

'Perhaps,' he murmured. 'If God wills it, perhaps. He told David to kill the Philistines and raised up heroes to defend his people.'

'Did you think the Lady Eleanor deserved to die?'

'Perhaps. Her sins pursued her but I was not her judge.'

'You were near Godstowe when she died. I understand, as a penance, you walk barefoot from your church here to the Galilee Gate, saying your beads and go back chanting the psalms. A strange practice, Father.'

The priest rubbed his face.

'My sins,' he murmured, 'are always before me. My lusts, my drinking, my killing. How shall I answer to Christ for that, Clerk?'

He turned and stared at Corbett and the clerk glimpsed madness dancing in his eyes. A tormented man, Corbett concluded, struggling to break free from his own powerful emotions.

'You were at Godstowe, Father? When on that Sunday?'

'The nuns were in Compline.' Father Reynard edged closer and Corbett smelt his wine-drenched breath. 'But I did not go into the priory, if that is what you are asking, Clerk. I would not lay hands on the Lady Eleanor, even though my eyes…' His voice trailed off.

'Even though your eyes what, Father? You, a priest, found the Lady Eleanor attractive?'

The priest smiled, stretching out his great body and flexing his fingers.

'Beautiful,' he murmured. 'Of all God's women…' He shook his head, lost in his own thoughts. 'One of the most comely I have seen.'

Corbett watched those hands. Powerful, calloused, sunburnt, they could have twisted the white swan neck of Lady Eleanor as easily as a twig. The friar took a deep breath.

'Do you know, Corbett, if you had insinuated what you are doing now before I became a friar, I would have killed you. I went as far as the Galilee Gate, I turned and came back to my church. I stayed in my house until Lady Arrogance, the Prioress, sent for me. I went to Godstowe, said a prayer for that poor woman's soul, gave her Christ's unction and left But come, you can ask your other questions elsewhere. I have business in church.'

Corbett followed him out of the house. The friar's threats didn't unnerve him. Father Reynard was a man striving for sanctity, though he sensed the priest was hiding something, as if he wanted him out of the house before Corbett noticed anything amiss.

The church was a hive of activity; some villagers had wheeled a huge cart into the nave. This was surmounted by a gilded griffin and bore a crudely painted canvas of hell's mouth. The other two sides were draped with coloured buckram to provide a makeshift stage for a miracle play. The villagers working there greeted Father Reynard warmly and Corbett recognised that they admired, even loved, their priest The clerk stared around the simple church which was freshly decorated. An artist was finishing a vigorous painting of the Angel in the Apocalypse coming from the rising sun. Some of the pews were new and both the chancery screen and the choir loft had been refurbished. Corbett waited until Father Reynard had finished his business with the villagers.

'You admire our church, Clerk?' he asked proudly.

'Yes, a great deal of work has been done. You must have a generous benefactor.' The priest looked away.

'God has been good,' he murmured. 'And works in mysterious ways.'

'Except for the two unfortunates buried in your churchyard.'

The friar narrowed his eyes. 'What do you mean?'

'About eighteen months ago,' Corbett replied, 'two corpses were found – a young man and woman, strangers. They were discovered in the woods completely stripped of all clothing and possessions.'

'Ah, yes.' Father Reynard gazed at a point above Corbett's head. 'That's right,' he murmured. 'They are buried in paupers' graves beneath the old elm tree in the corner of the churchyard. Why do you ask?'

'No reason. I wondered if you knew anything about them?'

'If I did, I would have told the King's Justices, but nothing was ever discovered about them or their dreadful deaths.'

Father Reynard turned away to speak to one of his villagers as Dame Agatha and Ranulf came through the church door. Ranulf's face was flushed and Corbett surmised he had been sampling some of the tavern's heady ale. He glowered at his servant but Ranulf grinned back as he swayed slightly on his feet and looked around, admiring the church. Dame Agatha took Father Reynard by the sleeve and they walked away, the young sister apologising loudly for being late and asking if Father would give her the altar breads as. she must return to the priory. Corbett marched Ranulf out into the porch.

'A good day's drinking, Ranulf?'

He slyly tapped the side of his nose.

I have been renewing my acquaintance with the wench at The Bull. I have learnt a lot, Master, and not just in the carnal sense.' He licked his lips. 'Nothing is what it appears to be around here.'

'I have gathered that,' Corbett replied drily. 'What do you know?'

Ranulf was about to reply when Dame Agatha suddenly emerged, carrying a small wooden box of altar breads, so they went across the green to reclaim their horses. The autumn sun was beginning to set The villagers, tired now, were bringing their festivities to an end and streaming back across the green to the tavern or to their homes in search of other pleasures. Corbett allowed Ranulf to slouch sleepily in the saddle and waited for Dame Agatha to draw alongside him.

I understand Lady Eleanor's funeral is tomorrow?'

The young nun stared soulfully at him, making Corbett catch his breath. Apart from Maeve's, he had never seen such a beautiful face. The autumn sunlight seemed to lend it a glow; her eyes were larger, darker; the half-open lips full and sweet as honey. He coughed and cleared his throat

'A sad day for you.'

'Yes.' She smiled wanly. 'A sad day for me and for the community.'

Corbett looked over his shoulder. Ranulf was now fast asleep and the clerk breathed a prayer that his servant would not fall out of the saddle and break his neck. He also hoped Dame Agatha would shed some tight on the murder at Godstowe.

'Do you blame yourself?' he began softly. 'For leaving Lady Eleanor like that? I mean,' he stammered, 'when I asked about the funeral, you looked shocked and grieved. It's such a mystery,' he continued hurriedly. I believe Lady Eleanor liked you?' Dame Agatha nodded.

'Yet that day she dismissed you. Was she so melancholic?'

Dame Agatha gathered her reins, pushing her mount closer to Corbett

'Everyone says that,' she whispered. 'You know the Lady Prioress was lying when you talked to her on your first day at Godstowe?'

'Yes, I gathered that from your face.'

Dame Agatha smiled to herself.

'Yes, the Lady Prioress is a bad liar. I mean, would a melancholic woman order everyone to leave her? I tell you this, Master Corbett, in the weeks prior to her death, Lady Eleanor's humour had improved. She was happy, more alert. If she had been really melancholic, I would never have left her alone.'

'What caused this change, do you think?'

Dame Agatha laughed mockingly.

I don't know. Sometimes I think she had a secret lover.'

'What makes you think that?'

Dame Agatha chewed her lip, carefully measuring her words.

'A week before her death,' she began slowly, 'she wrote one of her rare letters to the Prince. A short one. I glimpsed what she had written – nothing extraordinary except that she hoped she would soon find deliverance from her troubles. I think Lady Eleanor was nursing some secret but she would tell no one.'

'Do you think she had a lover?' Corbett persisted. 'I mean, apart from the Prince?'

'Perhaps. But I would not say that in public. The Prince is a dangerous man. I wouldn't want to be the one responsible for proclaiming him a cuckold for the world to laugh at'

'On that Sunday evening,' Corbett asked, 'do you think Lady Eleanor was waiting for this lover? She was seen walking near the church. Perhaps she had a secret assignation?'

Dame Agatha looked at him archly and Corbett panicked. Was the nun going to refuse to answer? 'You swear to tell no one?' she asked. Corbett held one hand high. 'I swear!'

'I believe,' Dame Agatha said in a hushed whisper as if eavesdroppers lurked in the very trees, 'that Lady Eleanor was preparing to flee Godstowe Priory.'

'What makes you say that?'

'She was receiving messages. There's a hollow oak tree behind the church. Lady Eleanor took me into her confidence and told me how every day, late in the evening, she went down there to see if another letter had been left.'

'How often did these messages come?'

'In the month before she died, about two or three arrived. They were delivered in a small leather pouch.'

'You were never curious and opened them?'

'No, the pouch was sealed and the Lady Eleanor would soon have realised if I'd tampered with it But I do know the messages pleased her. She became happier, more settled On one or two occasions she even hinted she would be leaving.'

'But who would send her messages?' The young nun shrugged.

I don't know, but on the night she died the Lady Prioress asked me to help take the corpse back to her own chamber. It was dark and in our haste we only lit one candle. I helped her rearrange Lady Eleanor's body on the bed, drawing the curtains around it. Only then did I notice, lying in the far comer, two sets of packed saddle bags full of clothes and small caskets of personal jewellery. I later unpacked these. I've told no one until today.' 'Why not?'

'Would you be the person responsible for insinuating that Lady Belmont was preparing to flee Godstowe and the Prince? You see,' Dame Agatha continued excitedly, 'I believe that Lady Eleanor, in her haste to leave, stumbled on the stairs and fell to her death.'

Corbett shook his head.

'But she left her chamber without her saddle bags?' he asked, not revealing that the Lady Prioress had already refuted any allegation that Lady Eleanor had fallen downstairs.

Dame Agatha pursed her lips.

'I cannot answer that.'

'You discovered nothing else?'

Dame Agatha smiled and shook her head.

'And the old sister, the one who drowned in her own tub of water? Do you know what she meant by "Sinistra non dextra"?'

'Right not left,' Dame Agatha murmured. 'No, I do not.' 'How long were you Lady Eleanor's companion?' 'My name is Savigny,' the nun replied. 'I was born of a Gascon father and an English mother in the town of Beam near the village of Bordeaux. I was left an orphan at an early age and became a ward of court. I expressed a desire to enter the religious life and decided to come to England.' She narrowed her eyes. 'That was about eighteen months ago. Lady Eleanor was already at Godstowe. I began to talk to her, and she asked the Lady Prioress if I could become her companion.'

Corbett settled his horse as it fidgeted nervously at the rustling of some animal in the undergrowth at the side of the track. Both he and Dame Agatha laughed as the commotion roused Ranulf, who woke with a muttered oath, smacking his lips, apparently quite refreshed after his short slumber. He brought his horse alongside theirs as they rounded the corner and the dark green spire of Godstowe Priory came into sight.

Corbett fell silent as Ranulf began his bantering teasing of Dame Agatha. Once inside the Galilee Gate Corbett bade the nun goodnight, asking Ranulf to take the horses round to the stables. He watched his manservant lead the horses off, still continuing his good-natured teasing, innocently asking the nun if she had heard the story about the naughty friar of Ludlow. Corbett shook his head and went back to the house. He asked the Guest Mistress if any letters had arrived for him.

'Oh, no,' she cried. 'Lettuce? This year's crop has not been good.'

Corbett groaned and went up to his chamber, throwing himself down on the small cot and reflecting on what he had learnt First Father Reynard had secretly admired Lady Eleanor and had been near the Galilee Gate the night she had died. Secondly, Lady Eleanor had been murdered in her own chamber on the night she intended to flee to a secret lover or friend. But who was this? Corbett let his mind drift, feeling guilty because when he thought about Maeve he also kept remembering Dame Agatha's angelic face.

He got up and went back down the stairs, going out into the gathering darkness, across the priory grounds behind the chapel from where he could hear the sweet, melodious chant of the nuns as they sang the first psalm of Compline.

The old ruined oak tree beckoned him like some great finger thrust up from the green grass. He went and in- spected the cavernous interior carefully. There was nothing except a handful of dried leaves and mildewed wood.

'Whoever brought the message must have come across the wall,' Corbett murmured to himself.

He measured out thirty paces and stared up at the crenel- lated boundary wall which was about twenty feet high. The mysterious messenger, Corbett surmised, must have been a very nimble young man to scale that, leave a message and depart There was no other way in except to walk through the priory, but a stranger would be stopped by the porter and seen by any of the community, be it nun or one of the lay workers. Corbett rubbed his face. There was something wrong but he was too tired to reach any conclusion so he went back to his chamber where Ranulf, a fresh cup of wine in his hand, was waiting for him.

'The horses are stabled, and Dame Agatha safely returned to the bosom of her community?'

Ranulf grinned.

'And what did you learn in the village?'

'Well,' Ranulf answered, scratching his head, 'as I have said, nothing is what it appears to be. Father Reynard may be a fierce preacher but he is a source of spiritual and material comforts to his parishioners.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, he not only refuses his tithes but seems to have a source of wealth which enables him to distribute alms, to mend the church as well as have it painted and refurbished.'

'And no obvious benefactor?'

Ranulf shook his head.

'What else?'

'The tavern wench says she saw the young man and woman who were later found murdered in the forest She glimpsed them as they passed the tavern. They were taking the road to Godstowe.'

'And were never seen alive again?' Corbett asked

'The tavern wench also believes the landlord of The Bull is a poacher.'

'So?'

Ranulf grinned.

'She says he met someone from the convent on the night that Lady Eleanor died, and that Father Reynard did go to Godstowe but then disappeared until the next morning.'

Corbett leaned back against the bolster and stared up at the ceiling.

'One person we haven't questioned,' he said, 'is our drunken porter. Perhaps he could shed further light on our mystery?' He looked across at Ranulf. 'Do you wish to carouse late tonight?'

Ranulf nodded, put the wine cup down, took his cloak and went downstairs. He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard Corbett begin to play gently on the lute he always carried, a sign his master was content, reflecting on his own secret thoughts and not keeping a wary eye on him. Ranulf, too, was content. The tavern wench seemed a promising young lady and he was making a tidy pile of silver out of selling his exotic cures to the villagers and visitors to The Bull.

Outside it had turned dark and rather cold as Ranulf trotted along, following the curtain wall to the porter's lodge near the gate. He tapped gently on the door which was pulled open by Red Nose. Ranulf peeped over his shoulder. Inside the two guards of the Prince's retinue sat at a table, much the worse for drink. Ranulf saw the dice and smiled.

'Good evening, sirs!' he cried. 'I am bored and cannot sleep.' He jingled the coins in his purse. 'I'd pay for a cup of wine and I have dice, though I would love to know the finer points of the game!'

Both the porter and the guards welcomed him like a long-lost brother. Ranulf slumped on to the bench and pushed across a silver piece.

'My donation for the wine.' He smiled. 'And here are my dice. I bought them in London but my master…'

His voice trailed off as his hosts rushed to reassure him. So Ranulf's 'education' began. He acted the fool, losing at first to whet their appetites, but in an hour emptied his three victims' purses. The guards were so drunk they hardly realised they had been outcheated and slunk off to their pallet beds. The porter, however, had a harder head and Ranulf did not like the suspicious look in his bleary eyes.

'Look, man,' he said, 'I'll divide with you on this. It's only fair. I had beginner's luck!'

The porter stretched out his hand.

'Not now! A little information about the Lady Eleanor's death first.'

The porter drew back his hand and rubbed his mouth with the back of his wrist Ranulf refilled their cups. Outside a wind had sprung up, gently moaning through the trees, carrying the distant shrieks of the night creatures from the dark forest beyond the walls. The thatched roof of the lodge creaked as if mourning over the dreadful secrets of the priory. Ranulf let his own eyes droop. He sighed, rose, and began to scoop his winnings into a small leather purse.

'Wait!' The porter staggered drunkenly to his feet. 'I will tell you my secret. You must come with me!'

Ranulf agreed and, with the inebriated porter on one hand and a lantern horn in the other, went out into the darkness. The door slammed behind them like a thunder clap. Ranulf looked up and groaned. It was obvious a storm was coming in. The clouds were beginning to gather, hiding the hunter's moon, and Ranulf shivered as he heard an owl hoot and the ominous chatter of other night birds. The wind blew in a low hum, making the trees shift and rustle eerily as if there were shadows waiting in the darkness. Ranulf pulled his cloak tighter, stopped, and looked back at Godstowe Priory, a huge pile of masonry dark against the sky. No lights burned now. He let the fresh air clear the wine fumes from his head and, dropping all pretence, began to question the porter on what he had hinted earlier. The fellow fenced for a while but Ranulf persisted. Eventually the porter broke away from him.

'I'm going to tell you,' he slurred drunkenly.

Ranulf allowed the fellow to walk ahead of him, round the priory to the Galilee Gate. For a while the man stood muttering and cursing as he clanked his heavy ring of keys, but at last he found the right one and they stepped on to the moonlit track which ran down like a strip of silver through the overhanging trees. They walked along until suddenly the porter turned, following a track into the thick, dark wood. A lonely place, though the porter caused some light comedy with his staggering and drunken curses, stopping every so often to wave Ranulf on, urging him to hold the lantern horn higher. They must have walked for at least three miles and eventually came out of the wood and on to a pathway which led to a crossroads.

Ranulf lifted the lantern horn and his blood ran cold as he glimpsed a gibbet standing there. On it a body, half- decayed, still turned and twisted in its iron jacket. The porter gestured him over.

'You want to know my secrets?' he slurred.

'Yes,' Ranulf hissed.

'Then swear you will keep them.'

Ranulf raised his right hand.

'No,' the porter growled. 'Here!'

He took Ranulf's hand, led him over to the gibbet and pushed his hand between the iron bars until the tips of his fingers touched the decaying flesh of the hanged man, just above where his heart had been. Ranulf felt his stomach lurch as all the wine he had drunk threatened to spew out The porter, staggering beside him, made the iron gibbet creak and groan until it appeared that all three were partners in a deadly dance. Ranulf was sworn to secrecy, but there was worse to come. The porter pulled out his knife, slashed the corpse, and then gave Ranulf's arm a small nick on the wrist He then forced Ranulf's hand close to that of the corpse. Ranulf felt the wet scaliness against his skin as if some dreadful snake was slithering along his arm. Oblivious to the words he spoke, cursing Corbett and near fainting with terror, he swore he would never divulge the secret in this life or the next Once the macabre masque was over, Ranulf stepped back. His usual good humour had vanished and his hand dropped to the dagger pushed in his belt. The porter stood swaying drunkenly before him.

'Listen, man!' Ranulf snapped. 'I have sworn the oath -now what is it you wish to tell me? What is so dreadful and so secret about the Lady Eleanor's death?'

'I didn't say Lady Eleanor!' he chanted. 'I didn't say Lady Eleanor! I said my secret. You promised to take the oath and divide your winnings with me for a secret!'

He stood still, his drunken face sagging as Ranulf's dagger pricked him under the chin. 'Now, now,' he slurred. 'The secret, you bastard!'

The porter fell to his knees and began to scrabble at the soft soil next to the wooden scaffold pole. Rocks and loose dirt were pulled away and eventually he dragged out a tattered leather bag.

'That's my secret!'

Ranulf knelt beside him, cut open the neck of the bag and shook out the contents into the small pool of lantern light. Nothing much. A collection of thin yellowing bones and a small leather collar.

'What is this?' Ranulf muttered.

'Well, you've heard about the murder?' the porter replied. 'The young man and woman whose naked bodies were found in the marsh? A week afterwards, I was out poaching very near the place and I found the body of a small lap dog. The poor creature had died, probably from neglect, or else pined away for its mistress. Only a lady would have a lap dog. There was no one in the village who would own such a pet and the Lady Prioress is quite strict with her community on that, so I knew it must belong to the young woman who had been murdered.'

The fellow grinned, his yellow stumps of teeth shining garishly in the poor light He pointed to the tattered piece of leather.

'That's the only thing which gave any clue about her.'

'Why didn't you hand it to the Sheriff or the Justices?'

'Because there was a gold clasp on it,' the fellow muttered. I sold it to a tinker. So I thought I'd better bury the poor thing.' He glimpsed the look of anger in Ranulf's eyes. 'Take the collar!' he urged. 'There's a motto inscribed inside. Examine it carefully. Now, that's my secret,' he whined. 'I know nothing about Lady Eleanor. I was drunk as a bishop the night she died. The Lady Prioress had to sober me up to send me to Woodstock. God knows how I got there. I gave the message to some chamberlain and staggered back.'

'You went by horse?'

'No, there's a quicker route across the fields, in daylight it's quite clear. Go out the other side of the priory, beyond the farm. You will see the track. It's not an hour's walk.' Ranulf sighed, pocketed the leather strap, waited for the porter to re-bury the bones and half-carried him back to the priory, listening to the fellow's litany of self-congratulation.

'Nobody would ever think,' he slurred, 'of looking beneath a gibbet!'

Ranulf humoured him and, once they were through the Galilee Gate, handed over the promised coins and went back to the guest house.

Corbett was still up, seated on the floor, pieces of parchment strewn around him. Ranulf knew his master had been scribbling his own memoranda, trying to make sense of the mystery which confronted them. Ranulf gave a brief account of what had happened. Corbett grunted, impatiently hurrying him on, and seized the tattered leather strap. He asked Ranulf to hold up a candle and carefully examined the inscription on the faded, leather collar 'Noli me tangere'. Do not touch me.

'What do you think, Ranulf?'

'A family motto?'

'Perhaps.'

Corbett rubbed the strap between his fingers and went to stare out of the window, half-listening to the sounds of the night outside. In his heart Corbett knew that the murder of

Lady Eleanor and the dreadful silent slaying of that mysterious young woman and her male companion in the nearby woods were inextricably linked.

The dungeons of the Louvre Palace were the antechambers of hell though very few of those who went down the dark stony steps ever emerged to recount their experiences. Philip IV's master torturers, a motley gang of Italians and strange, wild creatures from Wallachia, were expert in breaking the bodies and souls of their prisoners. Eudo Tailler, however, had proved to be one of their strongest victims. Despite the crossbow bolt in his thigh, Eudo had survived the rack, the boot and the strappado: every limb was broken but he clung tenaciously to life. He had seen the young French clerk whom Celeste had seduced, be broken in a matter of days and confess to whatever question had been put to him. Eudo was different. He was not frightened for he hated the French more than he feared death. Fifteen years earlier Philip's troops had attacked his father's village and razed it to the ground, wiping out in one night Eudo's brothers and sisters, as well as his young wife and child.

Eudo refused to say anything. Oh, he had told lies and they had trapped him by asking for the names of other English agents in Paris. He had told them many a fairy story and when they checked, they returned more furious than before, dragging him out of his dirty, fetid pit back into the great vaulted torture chamber to be questioned once again Sometimes Eudo had glimpsed the French King, his blond hair glinting in the guttering torchlight Philip would stand behind the black-masked torturers waiting for Eudo to speak. Now it was all over. Eudo knew he was going to die. He had also realised what the French wanted from him: the truth about the Prince of Wales' former mistress, now immured at Godstowe.

What had Corbett told him about her? they asked. Had she been married to the Prince? Were any of the nuns royal agents? Did the name de Courcy mean anything to them?

Eudo had replied through swollen, bloody lips that he knew nothing, so the questioners changed tack.

Who was the de Montfort assassin now stalking Edward of England? Was he at Godstowe or in London?

He could not have told them. All he knew was a conversation heard second-hand at a hostelry in Bordeaux, although Eudo, a Gascon, had a shrewd idea of the true identity of the assassin. Now, on this last day of his life, he showed he could stand the pain no more. The torturers had chained him to a wall, applying searing hot pokers to the softest and most tender parts of his body. Eudo opened his bloodied lips in a soundless scream.

'The assassin, Master Tailler?'

Eudo shook his head. Again the hot searing pain.

'The assassin, Master Eudo? Give us his name, then you can sleep.'

Eudo felt his life seeping from him. He felt detached, as if he was floating high up above them and the executioners were only playing with the useless bundle of flesh that had once been his body. He began softly to mutter the final act of contrition to himself. Surely God would remember he had been loyal to his king? The torturers were waved back by a senior clerk who had accompanied the French King to the dungeon. He hid his distaste as he pressed his ear up against the dying man's lips.

'What did you say, Monsieur Tailler? The name of the assassin?'

Eudo summoned all his strength, as if he could stand the pain no longer, and whispered a name. The clerk stood back, smiling triumphantly over his shoulder at his royal master.

'He has told us, Your Grace. We have our man.' Philip remained impassive. 'Ask him again!' he snapped.

The clerk moved forward, took one look at Eudo and hastily stepped back.

'He is dead, Your Grace.' Philip nodded.

'Cut him down!' he ordered. He turned to the clerk. 'Send the following despatch in cipher to Seigneur de Craon. He must have it as soon as possible.'