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

Chapter 8

The steward took them down beyond the Great Hall into a vast, stone-flagged kitchen. The place was scrubbed clean though flies feasted on the huge globules of red blood spattered across the white-washed walls. Under its vaulted ceiling the place was a frenzy of activity; a baker and two apprentices, red-faced, the sweat streaming off them, laboured before a huge brick oven, sliding trays of soft white dough into it. Servants and other domestics scurried in and out, carrying roast and grilling trays, dripping pans, fire shovels, brass pots, pewter vessels, and baskets full of herbs. A surly cook with an open sore on one wrist served Corbett and Ranulf pots of milk laced with nutmeg, two rather stale chicken pies and a dish of over-cooked vegetables. Corbett merely toyed with the food though Ranulf, hungry enough, munched away.

'We didn't learn much there, Master.'

Corbett smiled.

'We still might, Ranulf. Let's make hay while the sun shines.'

They finished eating and sauntered back upstairs. Corbett stopped the steward who was scurrying along a corridor, a pile of costly turkey cloths under his arm.

'My apologies,' Corbett smiled, 'but will the Prince go to Godstowe? I mean, to the Lady Eleanor's obsequies?'

The fellow stepped back, affronted by the question, but Corbett opened his hand and showed the two silver coins.

'Some money for your time, sir.'

The fellow looked furtively round, licked his lips, and beckoned Corbett and Ranulf into a shadowy window recess.

'What do you want to know?'

'Simple enough, How did the Prince learn of Lady Eleanor's death?'

The steward stretched out his hand and Corbett placed one piece of silver in it

'A porter came from Godstowe.'

'Is that all?'

The man wetted his tips, looking hungrily at the second silver coin.

'There is a rumour,' he replied slowly, 'stories in the palace, that the Prince knew much earlier. One of his body squires heard him whispering about it to his Gascon favourite.'

Corbett stepped closer.

'You are sure?' he hissed.

'Sir, now you know what I do.'

Corbett handed over the coin, let the man go and leaned against the wall.

'Oh, God,' he muttered. 'Ranulf, if the Prince knew before the porter arrived here, there can only be one explanation. He must have had a hand in Lady Eleanor's death. And how,' he whispered, 'do we tell the King that his son is a murderer?'

'Corbett! Master Clerk!'

They both turned. Gaveston stood at the end of the gallery, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

'Master Corbett!' he called. 'I have come to apologise. Your reception was not courteous, but the Prince and I had other matters to discuss. Come! Let me show you Woodstock.'

Corbett glanced warily at Ranulf and raised his eyes heavenwards.

Gaveston sauntered over. He smiled dazzlingly at Ranulf and linked his arm through that of the clerk.

I understand the King has granted you a manor? You have stables? You like hunting?'

'I am more of a farmer, My Lord. More interested in the planting of crops and the clearing of scrubland, though, yes, I hunt.'

'Then I must show you something,' Gaveston replied. 'New hunting dogs from Ireland, great shaggy beasts. They are the Prince's pride and joy. Well,' he added mockingly, 'besides me!'

The Gascon led Corbett and Ranulf through a maze of corridors which led out to the back of the palace, across a deserted dusty yard into one of the large outbuildings there. Inside, the walls were cold, dank and rather slimy. Gaveston bustled about in the darkness, found a tinder, and a cresset torch flared into life.

Corbett became uneasy. He heard a howl which seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth: long, cruel and haunting. He shuddered, his hand going to the bone handle of his dagger though he dare not pull back. Gaveston opened a door in the far wall and led them down some steps, dimly lit by torches fixed in iron brackets. These flickered and danced wildly as if blown upon by unseen lips.

Corbett glanced at Ranulf. In the pale tight he noticed his servant's face was ashen, covered with a sheen of sweat. Corbett sensed menace and malevolence, and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. They went down the dark tunnel. They had not gone far when again the clerk heard that long, moaning howl. He quietly drew his dagger and braced himself. They turned a corner and Corbett had to hide his trembling at the appearance of the small, squat, one-eyed man who seemed to rise out of the darkness before them. His head was covered by a tarred leather hood. He wore a dirty brown apron and sweat gleamed on his naked forehead. The black patch hiding one eye gave his cruel, sharp face an even more sinister aspect

'Ah, Gyrth!' Gaveston talked as if they were in some pleasant garden 'I have brought our guests to see the dogs.'

The fellow grinned. He had no teeth; nothing except dripping black-red gums. He opened his mouth wider, making a strange grunting noise.

'Gyrth has no tongue,' Gaveston observed. 'The unfortunate result of a disagreement, is it not, Gyrth?'

The mute looked warily at the Gascon and nodded his head.

'Come, man!' Gaveston said. 'We wait. The door!'

The creature scuttled ahead of them like some small black spider, opened the padlocked door and waved his guests forward. As he did so the most furious howling broke out. Corbett walked forward. Beyond the door was a slight recess blocked by a thick metal iron grille, and behind it four pairs of cruel red eyes gleamed in the darkness. Gaveston pushed Ranulf behind him.

'You stay,' he whispered, and walked gingerly forward

The four huge black mastiffs came to life, smashing their great muscular bodies against the grille, lips curled, white teeth flashing, jaws slavering. They would have torn Corbett to shreds if the grille had been raised. He stood his ground, carefully inspecting the dogs. He had seen this breed before. King Edward had used them in Wales as war dogs but later had them killed because, in their blood lust, they had failed to distinguish between friend and foe.

The four dogs were massive, the muscles bunched high in their shoulders above long, strong legs. Their heads were rounded, ears flat. They gave the impression of being nothing more than killing machines with their huge jaws, white jagged teeth and mad, red eyes. They stopped their howling, eyes fixed on Corbett, and again, as if controlled by one mind, threw themselves against their iron cage, the leader of the pack standing on his hind legs and pounding his muzzle against the grille.

Corbett estimated the dogs were taller than any man. He smelt their fetid breath and tried to control the shuddering of his body, fighting against the nauseous panic which curdled his stomach and made his legs so weak he longed to sit down. Gaveston was playing with him, testing his nerve in this cruel game. He could hear the Gascon behind him, taunting Ranulf, inviting him to draw closer, and his servant's angry refusal.

'Ranulf does not like dogs.' Corbett turned and spoke over his shoulder. 'Ever since he was a boy he has had a fear of them. He was attacked by a vicious mongrel.'

Corbett looked around: near the foot of the grille was a tub packed with juicy red chunks of meat. He stepped over, pierced one of the raw chunks with his dagger and held it up before the mastiff. The dog whimpered. There was a square in the grille larger than the rest, probably used to feed the dogs. Corbett pushed the meat through and watched the leading dog seize it in his huge jaws, throwing it up and devouring it, the blood streaming down his black, slavering mouth. Corbett cleaned his knife on the toe of his boot, re-sheathed it and walked back.

'Fine beasts, My Lord! You are to be complimented, though I urge caution. They may well be animals who trite the hand which feeds them!'

Gaveston laughed and clapped his hands gently.

'Un bon mot, Clerk,' he said. 'Come! You have seen enough.'

They walked slowly back up the tunnel. Behind them the howling of the dogs rose like some demonic music. Gaveston led them back to the heart of the palace whence a servitor took them up to a chamber high in the building. A simple room with stark white plaster, but at least they were provided with rosewater, a set of clean napkins, and a jug of wine which Corbett told Ranulf not to touch. They whiled away the time, Ranulf playing dice against himself, the only time he ever lost. Corbett lay dozing on the bed, idly wondering what Maeve was doing, and thought again of Sister Agatha. She and the other nuns would still be involved in the official mourning for Lady Eleanor and Dame Martha. He stirred uneasily at the suspicions the steward had provoked. How could the Prince have known of Lady Eleanor's death so early? Corbett viewed the mystery as a logical problem. There were two routes to follow: on the one hand he could try and solve the murder, but that might make a bad situation worse. On the other he would concede the Prince was involved, perhaps even guilty of Lady Eleanor's death, in which case, for the sake of the crown, the scandal would have to be hidden.

Swallows fought under the eaves outside the window, a lonely bell sounded, and Corbett heard faint shouts from the courtyard. He dozed but woke with a start, dreaming that the Hell-hounds he had just visited were snuffling at the door, but it was only Ranulf dragging a stool across the dusty rushes. A servant knocked and announced that the banquet would begin in an hour. Corbett rose, washed, and made himself as presentable as possible. Ranulf scooped his dice into his leather wallet and they went down the spiral wooden staircase and into the hall.

The banquet was a sumptuous, luxurious meal. Huge banners hung from the heavy, black beams bearing the Royal Arms of England, the Golden Leopards snarling next to the White Lilies of France and the Red Dragon of Wales. Trestle tables had been arranged in a square and covered with white lawn sheets. Multi-bracketed candelabra placed along the centre helped the sconce torches to bathe the room in light Corbett could smell the heavy, thick fragrance of those mouth-watering dishes he had seen being prepared in the kitchen. Servants in the blue and gold livery of the Prince and the Lord Gaveston scurried round with silver plates which the guests would use as dishes instead of the usual traunches of thick square slabs of stale bread. Musicians played quietly on tambour, rebec and lute in the minstrel gallery at the far end of the hall, accompanied by a group of beautiful young boys all dressed in silver and gold who softly sang some troubadour's lay. A greyhound cocked his leg against the table and was promptly shooed away.

A chamberlain showed them to their seats just beneath the high table, which was dominated by a pearl-encrusted silver salt cellar. Corbett looked around. The other diners were all henchmen of either the Prince or Lord Gaveston: clerks, household officials, captains from their mercenary retinues, and the occasional priest or almoner. He and Ranulf were ignored, which made him uneasy. A flourish of silver trumpets, their shrill fanfare stilling the chatter, and the Prince entered, holding Gaveston's hand. Both wore silver chaplets and were clothed from head to toe in robes of gold. Their appearance drew 'Oohs' and 'Ahs' from the group of sycophants. The Prince acknowledged their greetings as he and his favourite sat in the two great throne-like chairs at the high table. Corbett shuddered and looked away. If the old King saw this he would have apoplexy, for the Prince was openly treating Gaveston as if he was his wife. Another braying of trumpets and the banquet began. The French chefs in the Prince's kitchen had used all their arts and skills; soups and broths thick with herbs, pheasant and quail meat, were served, followed by salmon, turbot, pike and tench. Boar's heart stuffed with cloves, lamb garnished with mint and marjoram, a swan cooked and restored so it sat upon the sdver platter as if swimming on some magical pool. Haunch of venison, jellies and sugared pastries, and jug after jug of the best Bordeaux or chilled white wine from the Rhinelands completed the feast.

Of course, Ranulf ate as if there was no tomorrow, Corbett more sparingly. He felt uncomfortable, uneasy at the way the Prince and Gaveston hardly spared them a glance whilst their companions at table treated them as if they simply did not exist. The wine bowl circulated more freely, the conversation and laughter grew louder, the silver-white cloths became stained. A jester, a tiny woman no taller than three foot, appeared, doing somersaults along the table whilst dodging the bowls and bits of food thrown at her. Corbett suddenly realised he was in the comer of the hall. If a quarrel was provoked, he and Ranulf would be trapped. Gauging a suitable moment he dragged his servant to his feet, bowed towards the Prince and quietly withdrew. Once outside he sent Ranulf back to their chamber. The servant came hurrying down with his cloak but only one glove.

I could only find one, Master.'

The clerk shrugged.

'No matter. I may have lost it, and I am certainly not wandering around the palace looking for a glove!'

'We could go and try to borrow horses from the stables?' Corbett shook his head.

'No, Ranulf, I feel uneasy. The sooner we are out of here, the better. The night is fine, the walk short, and the evening air will clear both our heads.'

They slipped through a side door and made their way out via one of the postern gates of the palace. They easily found the track they had followed earlier in the day. A full harvest moon bathed the sleeping countryside in a silver light, the night air was warm and the fields slept under clear autumn skies. Corbett and Ranulf followed the dusty track past green hedgerows and up a hill. The clerk listened with half an ear to Ranulf's chatter about the banquet and the Prince's open display of affection for Gaveston. They had reached the top of the hill when they heard the first soul-chilling, baying call. Both stood still, the warm blood freezing in their veins. Corbett felt his head and neck tense as if someone had slipped an iron helm over his hair. He wanted to turn round but dared not do so. Again the howl, as if one of Satan's demons was rising from the pit of Hell. Corbett turned and looked back down the moonlit path. He felt he was in a nightmare. His heart hammered in terror as he glimpsed those shaggy, hulking shapes of shadowy grey speeding across the meadows. He remembered those mad, red eyes which had glared at him earlier that day through the grille, and those great death-bearing, slavering jaws. He grabbed his servant.

'Run, Ranulf!'

Corbett undid his cloak and dropped it on the ground. Ranulf hesitated as if intending to pick it up.

'Leave it!' Corbett screamed. 'It will divert the dogs for a while. Run!'

Ranulf needed no second bidding but sped off like an arrow. Corbett followed, past the dark, open fields and into the trees that stood like silent soldiers in some bewitched army. They fled for their lives as the great Hell-hounds caught their scent and bayed in savage glee. A howl showed that the dogs were beginning to close. The cool night air burned in Corbett's straining lungs. The trees thinned and they fled across an open meadow. He looked up and, in the clear moonlight, glimpsed the roofs and towers of Godstowe Priory. They stopped just over the brow of a hill.

'Ranulf!' he gasped. 'It's my scent. The glove – it was taken. You go for some tree. Climb and hide!'

Ranulf, his face white as a sheet, hair matted with sweat shook his head.

'If I'm to die, Master, I prefer to be with you. There might be huntsmen who could bring me down.'

Corbett nodded and they staggered on, bodies soaked in sweat, eyes blinded with panic, legs and feet threatening to turn into the heaviest lead. They ran on, sobbing for breath, across a ploughed field. Corbett could have sworn that momentarily he glimpsed another figure, shadow-like, but fled on. Behind him the dogs bayed in triumph, then suddenly there came a terrible scream which clutched Corbett's heart – a cry of dreadful despair. He turned. The hounds had not breasted the hill. Ranulf… where was he? He looked around and felt so dizzy he had to steady himself. He saw Ranulf on his knees, his arms wrapped around his straining chest.

I cannot go on, Master!'

'Yes, you can!' Corbett snarled.

He picked Ranulf up, hustling him towards the wall of the priory. They leaned, sobbing, against it. Behind them the dogs had fallen strangely silent.

'It's too high to climb,' Corbett hissed. 'Come on!'

He pushed Ranulf round the wall, past the Galilee Gate, which was locked, to the main door. The clerk hammered on it with the pommel of his dagger.

'Open up!' he screamed. 'For the love of God, open!'

The drunken porter opened the postern door. Corbett dragged Ranulf inside, turned and kicked the gate shut.

'Secure it, man!' he roared.

The porter looked at him drunkenly, then beard the low, mournful howl of the dogs and quickly pushed the bolts home. Corbett ran inside the porter's house. The two soldiers were sprawled there half-asleep. He took a torch from its iron bracket, picked up an arbalest leaning against the wall, as well as a stout leather quiver filled with vicious barbed quarrels. He hurried up the narrow steps on to the parapet of the curtain wall. He leaned against it, winching the arbalest back, cursing, his eyes stinging with sweat as he placed the quarrel. Corbett heard a savage barking and two of the great dogs pounded round the corner of the wall beneath. Corbett picked up the torch and threw it down. Both animals stopped, looked up and snarled. In the flickering light Corbett could see their muzzles caked in blood.

'Bastards!' the clerk bellowed. 'Devil-sent bastards!'

The hounds threw themselves at the gate. Corbett suddenly found himself laughing.

'That's right, you bastards!' he screamed. 'Stay there!'

He positioned the arbalest, leaned over the wall and released the catch. He heard the whirr of the bolt and shouted with pleasure as it struck the leading dog just behind the head, digging deep and slicing its spinal column. The animal suddenly leapt in the air in a terrifying spasm of pain before collapsing, choking on its own blood. Corbett, muttering to himself, fitted a second bolt. This time he was too clumsy. The crossbow bolt whirred out, nicking the hindquarters of the second dog, which turned and fled howling into the darkness. Corbett leaned against the wall and promptly vomited. He paused for a while to compose himself then staggered down to the porter's lodge.

Ranulf sat just within the door, his back to the wall, his face ashen and wet with sweat, the front of his jerkin stained with vomit. The porter crouched beside him, too drunk to offer any succour. Corbett filled the wine cup, drank some himself and then forced the goblet between his servant's lips, snarling at the porter to bring a blanket.

There was a knock at the door. Lady Amelia, accompanied by Dames Catherine and Frances, bustled in. They were shrouded in blankets, their faces pale and heavy-eyed with sleep.

'What is it, Clerk?'

'Nothing, woman!' he rasped angrily.

He saw the colour come back into Ranulf's cheeks and stood up.

I am sorry,' he muttered. 'We were returning from Woodstock and were chased by war dogs.'

Lady Amelia gazed back, her eyes puzzled.

'Hounds,' Corbett said slowly, 'trained to hunt and kill men. You must not open the gates tonight. They would have killed us. I tell you this – somewhere out in the darkness, some poor unfortunate, a tinker or vagabond, paid for our escape with his life!'

As if to mock his words a low, moaning howl came out of the darkness beyond the wall. Lady Amelia stared coolly in the direction of the noise.

'Dame Catherine!' she snapped. 'You are to rouse the labourers. Sound the tocsin! Everything is to be made secure; all gates are to be kept closed and locked. No one is to leave. Corbett, follow me!'

To the sound of hurrying footsteps and the clanging of the tocsin, Corbett and Ranulf were led across to the infirmary, a pleasant, two-storey house just past the refectory. An old battle-axe of a nun wrapped them both in heavy blankets, forcing cups of mulled wine down their throats. It was only as his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep that Corbett realised the wine must have been lightly laced with a sleeping potion.

He woke clear-eyed late the next morning. Ranulf was already up, squatting on the side of his bed, his face clean and washed. He had donned a new set of clothes and brought fresh doublet and hose for Corbett.

'A nightmare, Master?'

'Yes, Ranulf, a nightmare.'

He cast the blankets aside, pleased that he felt no ill effects from the terrible chase of the previous night.

'Now,' he said, I am going to wash, shave, change my clothes and eat honest food, then it's back to Woodstock, Ranulf, mounted and armed. I am going to have that bloody pervert's head!'

Ranulf grinned. Corbett rarely lost his temper and when he did it was always a pleasure to watch.

'Is that safe, Master?'

'As you would say, Ranulf, I don't give a rat's arse! The King still rules here and I am his envoy. We can take those two soldiers from the porter's lodge with us. It's time they earned their wages!'

Ranulf felt pleased. This time it would be different. He would have sword, dagger and crossbow. He blinked rapidly.

'Master, I am sorry, you have a messenger. A Ralph Maltote. He comes from the King's camp at Nottingham and bears urgent messages. He arrived just after dawn The Lady Prioress has also sent out riders. They found no trace of the dogs except the body of the one you killed and the Lady Prioress has ordered that to be burnt in the forest They also found,' the servant coughed and looked away, 'the mangled remains of a corpse.' Ranulf stopped. 'One of the labourers recognised him. The landlord of The Bud will not go poaching again.'

Corbett whisded softly through his teeth.

'God rest him,' he muttered. 'I suspect our landlord was our porter's poacher friend. You had better bring Maltote in.'

Ralph Maltote proved to be a stout young man who looked rather ridiculous in his boded leather jerkin, military leggings and boots. His face was as round and as red as an autumn apple. His sparse blond hair was dark with sweat, and his surprised blue eyes and hangdog look made him the most unlikely royal messenger Corbett had ever seen. He stood with the conical helmet cradled clumsily under his arm.

'You rode far and fast young man?' Corbett asked, glaring at Ranulf, who was sniggering softly beside him.

'Yes, My Lord.'

Maltote slumped down on the stool, his long sword catching him between the legs and nearly tipping him over on his face.

'And?'

The young man looked puzzled. 'The message?' Corbett asked. 'You haven't travelled all the way from Nottingham for nothing?'

Maltote shook his head nervously, gulped, and dug into the inside pocket of his half-open jerkin. He handed a small scroll across to Corbett, who checked the purple wax seal of the King before breaking it and unrolling the vellum. The message was short and cryptic and Corbett's worst fears were realised. The King was bluntly informing him that he was ill pleased at the lack of progress Corbett was making. Indeed, the French envoy de Craon knew more, claiming the Prince had told him about Lady Eleanor's death long before the porter had even reached Woodstock. Corbett handed the letter over to Ranulf.

'Read it and bum it!' He nodded towards the messenger. 'Then take Maltote to the kitchen and get him something to eat. Afterwards we leave for Woodstock.'

Ranulf sauntered out, the young messenger trailing behind him like a lost puppy. Corbett was finishing his ablutions when he heard a knock at the door.

'Come in!' he barked, regretting his harsh command as Dame Agatha entered, bearing a tray covered by a napkin.

'You wish to break fast, Master Corbett, before you go?'

Corbett smiled.

'Good morning, Dame Agatha. Who told you I was leaving?'

'Your servant. You will eat?'

Corbett nodded, rather embarrassed as Dame Agatha bustled round the room, laying the tray on a small table and dragging across a stool. She had brought a bowl of hot chicken broth, freshly baked white manchet loaves and a tankard of watered ale. She did not leave as Corbett took up the pewter spoon and began to eat.

'You are unhurt?' she queried anxiously.

'Yes, except in my pride, Sister.'

She walked across and placed her soft, white hand on his arm. Corbett looked up. It felt strange to be alone in a chamber with such a solicitous, beautiful young woman.

'Take care,' she whispered. 'Do not be rash. Gaveston will be cunning. Lady Amelia says the dogs were loosed by him but we have no proof. Do not give him a pretext to strike you down.'

She withdrew her hand and grazed his cheek softly with the back of her fingers. Corbett blushed and, tongue-tied, went back to eating, not daring to raise his head until he heard Dame Agatha's soft footfalls and the chamber door close behind her. He was touched by her care and concern but found it difficult to accept. He felt guilty as he thought of Maeve's sweet face, and embarrassed that he should be so powerfully attracted to a woman dedicated to God. Nevertheless, Dame Agatha's advice was wise and Corbett felt his temper cool. He decided he would show Gaveston he was not frightened but be wary of making any rash move. Gaveston was the favourite of a Prince of the Blood and even to draw steel in the Prince of Wales' presence could be construed as treason.

Corbett chewed absent-mindedly on the bread whilst analysing the problem which faced him. In logic he had been taught to reach an acceptable conclusion by revising the steps which led to it. How could he do that now? He smiled and went over to the bag Ranulf had hidden beneath the bed. Corbett, laughing softly to himself, examined his servant's venture into selling physic. He took a small jar of ointment, went down the stairs and out across to the convent building. No one was around. He slipped quietly up the stairs and gently tapped on Dame Elizabeth's door.

'Come in! Come in!' The old nun was as imperious as ever but she visibly thawed when she saw Corbett and beamed with pleasure at his gift.

'A rare potion,' Corbett announced slyly.

Oh, Lord, he thought, what does it contain? Ranulf was harmless but the potion could be dangerous.

'It's ointment,' he lied, 'culled from the hoof of an elk and mixed with herbs. Smear it on your four bedposts every night It will purify evil vapours from the air, make you breathe more easily and allow more restful sleep.'

The old nun nodded wisely and Corbett felt a twinge of guilt at his incredible lies. He placed the ointment on the table beside her, rose and walked over to the window. He peered down

'What are you looking at, Master Clerk?'

I am just remembering how you and Dame Martha saw Lady Eleanor on the night before she died. You are sure it was her?'

'Oh, yes!' The old nun chewed on her gums. 'You see, Dame Martha was standing where you are. She called me over and pointed down. "Look," she said, "there's Lady Eleanor!"'

'When was that?'

'Oh, just before Compline.'

'And what happened then?'

'We tapped on the window and called out. Lady Eleanor turned and waved up at us.' 'You could hear her voice?'

'Oh, yes. Dame Martha had opened the window and asked where she was going. Lady Eleanor replied she was going for a walk behind the church.' The old nun's eyes narrowed. 'She was always going there.'

'You are sure it was she?'

'Of course!'

'What was she wearing?'

'One of her blue gowns. Blue was her favourite colour.' 'But you saw her face?'

'Oh, yes, she had her hood up but she turned and shouted back at us.'

'Did you see her return?' 'No, but of course she must have. ' Corbett felt a twinge of disappointment. 'Master Corbett!'

The clerk spun round. Lady Amelia, accompanied by her ever present acolytes, Dames Frances and Catherine, stood in the doorway, quivering with righteous anger.

'You may be the King's Clerk, Master Corbett, but this is a convent building. You have no right to be here. Even though you are talking to an old nun!' She threw a look of contempt at Dame Elizabeth.

'Dame Elizabeth is my friend,' Corbett snapped. I am a man of honour as well as a royal emissary.' Corbett felt his own anger boil at the Prioress' air of righteous indignation. I will leave this chamber when I have finished and, Lady Prioress, I should be grateful if you would wait for me in your own chamber. I have further questions to ask you.'

The Lady Prioress looked as if she was going to refuse but Corbett stood his ground and glared back. Lady Amelia, with one more disdainful glance at Dame Elizabeth, stepped back and closed the door behind her. The old nun rose and scuttled across to him. Clasping her hands to her chest, she gazed up in round-eyed admiration.

'You are brave, Master Clerk,' she murmured. 'No one else dares to speak to the Lady Prioress like that.'

Corbett gently patted her hand.

'Rest easy, Sister,' he said. 'She had no right to say what she did, and I never could stand a bully.'

He scooped the old lady's vein-scored hand to his lips. 'But enough. I bid you adieu.' He walked towards the door.

'Master Corbett!' Dame Elizabeth scurried towards him. 'I shall tell you a secret,' she whispered. 'One I have told no one else.'

'What is that, Sister?'

'On the afternoon Lady Eleanor died, I saw horsemen in the trees.' She pointed to the window. 'There in the forest, beyond the walls.'

Corbett walked back to the window. The convent building was high and Dame Elizabeth's chamber on the second storey. He could see, just over the wall, the line of trees which marked the beginning of the forest.

'Where exactly were they?'

Dame Elizabeth came alongside him.

'There,' she murmured. 'I was staring out, just after mid-day. I was watching a hawk above the trees when suddenly I saw something move. My eyes are not very good,' she apologised, so I stood and watched closely. I saw the horses, and three or four men just sitting there. If one of them had not been riding a white horse I would never have noticed them. Shadowy figures,' she whispered, 'who hardly moved. I went back to bathe my eyes and when I returned I could not see them.' She chuckled. 'I have told no one. I am not like Dame Martha. I don't chatter and allow, myself to be dismissed as an old fool!'

'Did anyone else see them?' 'No, not that I have heard.'

Corbett gazed at the distant line of trees. Anyone with good eyesight would certainly have seen the riders, but to someone like Dame Elizabeth their presence might only be betrayed by a flash of colour.

'Did you see them again?'

'Oh, no.'

'Did they wear any livery?'

She shook her head. Corbett rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

'Tell me, could these riders have entered the convent?' 'Oh, no. The gates would have been locked, and the porter may be a drunkard but he has his orders.' 'They could have climbed the walls?' Dame Elizabeth laughed.

I doubt it. One of the labourers or lay sisters would have seen them. Anyway,' she said, 'you know what men are. They would have clattered upstairs along the gallery and woken both me and Dame Martha.'

Corbett thanked the old nun and slipped quietly out of the chamber in search of the Prioress. Lady Amelia had regained some of her composure. He found her sitting behind her great oak desk, chatting to the two Sub-prioresses, a roll of accounts before them. She gestured to Corbett to sit

'Master Clerk,' she began, 'I apologise for my outburst but despite what has happened, this is a convent.' She took a deep breath. 'You have more questions?'

'Yes. Did any of the sisters see anything untoward the day Lady Eleanor died?'

'No.'

'You are sure?'

'In an enclosed community, Master Corbett, people chatter – to themselves, to their sister, to me, or even to you or your ubiquitous servant, Master Ranulf.'

'Then tell me, Lady Prioress, at Sunday Compline who was in church?'

'I have told you that – everyone.'

'No, I mean beforehand.'

'The Lady Prioress was in church with me,' Dame Catherine blurted out.

'Whilst I was in the sacristy with Dame Agatha,' Dame Frances added quickly.

'You are sure of that? You were all there before Compline?'

'Ask anyone you like,' Lady Amelia broke in. 'Other sisters saw us there.'

Corbett bit back his disappointment.

'And what happened to Lady Eleanor's possessions?'

'The day after her death,' Lady Amelia repeated, 'the Prince sent down one of his henchmen with strict orders. Lady Eleanor's jewellery and other precious trinkets were to be handed over. The rest…' She shrugged. I thought it rather spiteful but the Prince ordered me to bum them. I did so immediately. Are there any more questions, Master Clerk?'

'Yes.' He smiled bleakly at the Sub-prioress. 'Lady Amelia, you admitted that you found Lady Eleanor's corpse in her room and, together with these sweet sisters, moved it to the foot of the stairs to make her death appear an accident. Yes?'

I have said as much.' Lady Amelia glared back. 'Did you find any trace of a struggle in Lady Eleanor's chamber?' 'No.'

'The door was open?' 'Yes.'

'But nothing was untoward?'

'No, I've told you. I thought at first that Lady Eleanor had fainted. Are there further questions?' Corbett shook his head. 'Then, Sir, I bid you adieu.'

After he left the sisters, Corbett went out to the stable yard where Ranulf and Maltote were waiting with the two retainers from the porter's lodge. The latter looked angry at being dragged from their life of leisure but both were well- armed, having donned helmet and hauberk, with swords and daggers pushed into their belts. Maltote, too, looked surprised at his new duties.

'Master, is this necessary?'

'You are the King's man, aren't you?'

Maltote nodded mournfully. Corbett pointed to the arbalest which swung from his saddle horn.

'You can use that?'

Maltote just stared back. Corbett, intrigued, walked closer.

'You can, can't you? You are a royal serjeant-at-arms.'

He pointed across the stable yard at an old, disused door propped against a wall. A few straggly chickens pecked the din around it

'Aim low, loose and hit the door,' Corbett ordered. 'Hit it dead centre.'

'Master!' Maltote pleaded.

Corbett placed a hand on the messenger's stirrup.

'You know the rules, man. You are under my orders now. The King sent you to me. Do as I say!'

Maltote, watched by all, loaded the arbalest and aimed at the door. Corbett wasn't too sure what happened next. He heard the bolt whirr as it was loosed but, instead of hitting the door, Maltote sent it crashing into an unfortunate chicken, which collapsed, squawking, in a pool of blood and feathers. The two retainers sniggered. Ranulf gaped, open- mouthed.

'Good God, man!' Corbett whispered. 'You are the worst archer I have ever seen. Was that deliberate?'

Maltote, looking even more ridiculous under his conical helmet, shook his head mournfully.

'Now you know, Master Corbett, why I am just a messenger. Where weapons are concerned, I am as much danger to friend as to foe.' He smiled broadly. 'But the King says I am the best horseman in his army. I can ride any nag and get the best out of it'

Corbett nodded and, taking his heavy sword belt from Ranulf, clasped it round his waist.

'I'll remember that, Maltote.'

'And so,' Ranulf added drily, 'will the chickens!'