by Paul Doherty
'Its rights and appurtenances?' de Craon meekly asked.
'They are mine.'
'By what right?'
Edward sighed.
'My dear de Craon, my troops are all over it.'
'Your troops have not been paid.'
'They will be!' the King bellowed.
'Yet, Your Grace,' de Craon spread his hands, 'all should be resolved by die marriage of your beloved son to the Princess Isabella.'
'You have seen my beloved son?'
'At Woodstock, Your Grace.'
'"At Woodstock, Your Grace"!' Edward mimicked back.
'Your Grace, has your son been detained there?'
'No, I just bloody well want him there!'
'To be near Godstowe?'
'To be near Oxford.'
'He mourns the death of Lady Eleanor.'
'Who is she?' Edward asked tartly.
De Craon smiled.
'Your Grace jests with me.' The Frenchman's face grew serious.
Here it comes, Edward thought.
'Your Grace, I am most anxious and deeply troubled by the rumours put about by evil men Malicious, slanderous stories which claim the Lady Eleanor was murdered by your son so he could be with his beloved companion, the Gascon, Piers Gaveston.'
'They are lying traitors. I'll have any man who says that hanged, drawn and quartered!'
'Of course, Your Grace. But they whisper about how could a woman fall downstairs, break her neck, and yet keep the hood on her head undisturbed? They say that your son was sending potions, that the lady may have been poisoned.'
'My son knows nothing about Lady Eleanor's death. She died on a Sunday evening. The first the Prince of Wales knew of the unhappy event was the following Monday morning.'
De Craon blinked, his face now a mask of concern.
'Your Grace, I am sorry – your son knew about Lady Eleanor's death on Sunday evening.'
De Craon pushed his foxy face closer. Edward sat frozen, one of the few times in his life he had been genuinely frightened. My son a murderer! That's the rumour which will begin to circulate: a poisoner as well as a sodomite. A slayer of innocent women. I'll have Corbett's head! Edward thought
Behind de Craon Edward saw de Warenne quietly pull a dagger from his sheath. All the King had to do was raise a finger and the Frenchman would be dead. Edward shook his head and de Warenne sheathed his knife.
'How do you know this?'
'Your Grace, your own son told me.'
'There must be some mistake.'
'No, there is not. His exact words were…' de Craon closed his eyes. 'I asked him about the Lady Eleanor and he replied: "She is near to death, a fall, an accident. She must have fallen downstairs."' De Craon smiled politely. 'It was after midnight. Your Grace. The Prince was in his cups, yet I thought it strange because the porter from Godstowe Priory did not arrive until the early hours of the morning.'
Edward turned to the jewel box beside him, opened it and took out a small gold ring with a precious ruby winking in the centre.
'Monsieur, please accept this as a gift. I will think about what you have said.'
De Craon stretched out his hand. The King grasped his wrist tightly, squeezing hard, not satisfied until he saw the Frenchman wince.
'A gift, Monsieur,' he whispered. 'And a warning to those who spread malicious rumours. If I can prove such scandalous stories are a tissue of lies, I will tell both my brother the King of France and His Holiness of their source. They will not be pleased.'
De Craon shook his head and the King released his grip. De Craon's face was red with embarrassment.
'Your Grace,' he replied hoarsely, 'I thank you for your gift and your message.' And, spinning on his heel, he strode out of the pavilion.
Edward gestured de Warenne forward.
'John, your fastest horseman?'
'Ralph Maltote, Your Grace.'
I want him to go south immediately, to Godstowe. He is to take our swiftest horse as well as a fresh mount. He is to ride without stopping and take a message to my clerk, Corbett at Godstowe Priory. That message must be delivered. You understand? Now get out!'
As soon as de Warenne had left, Edward put his face in his hands as he tried to control both his anger and his terror. What was happening? he wondered. Why hadn't Corbett cleared this mess up? And his own spy at Godstowe…? Edward's left eye now drooped almost to closing as he gnawed at his lip. Both Corbett and his spy would pay dearly if de Craon gained the upper hand.
Whilst Edward of England sat fuming over what he had learnt, Sir Amaury de Craon was nursing his bruised wrist and shouting orders to his retinue for a swift return to Oxfordshire. He had played his card. Now he must wait Oh, he recognised Edward of England's warning and could only close the game if he had proof. But he had let his arrow fly, now he must see where it fell. He believed he could outmanoeuvre and trap the English King; he too had his spy at Godstowe to keep an eye on Corbett. Moreover, de Craon had received an urgent message from his master. Another shadowy player was also in the game: the de Montfort assassin. De Craon nursed both his pain and his pride. Soon Edward of England would be checkmated. The only danger was Corbett. The English clerk would work doubly hard, either to resolve the problem or carefully to hide it behind a tissue of half-truths. De Craon nibbed his wrist, Corbett he would have to stop. He looked into his tent at the two dark cowled figures squatting there.
'We go south again. There is something I have planned for you,' he called.
A few days after Ranulf's encounter with the drunken porter, Corbett decided that, for the moment, there was little else he could learn in the priory. He also wished to leave because the nuns were still engaged in the obsequies preceding the funerals of their two dead colleagues. The storm was over, the weather still held fine, so he and Ranulf decided to walk rather than ride to Woodstock Palace. The porter, now half-sober, greeted them as old friends and, taking them out of the priory, sketched a description of the track across the fields and meadows.
Corbett enjoyed the walk, glad to be free of the baleful, mournful atmosphere at Godstowe. The route was simple to follow, cutting across the open meadows and farming land, past dark copses, and well within the hour the crenellated walls and turrets of Woodstock Palace came into view. They followed the track which ran on to the road. The main gate was open. A serjeant-at-arms wearing the royal livery stopped them and asked their business before allowing them through. The courtyard was a hive of activity. Grooms, ostlers and farriers were taking horses in and out of the stables; scullions and kitchen boys carried huge slabs of freshly cut meat into the kitchen.
'The Prince must be expecting us,' Ranulf sardonically observed. 'A banquet perhaps?'
'A feast certainly,' Corbett answered. 'But I doubt if he will be pleased to see me.'
Grooms took their horses whilst a pompous steward of the Prince's household led them up the main steps into the spacious hall. Corbett knew the King loved his luxury, and Woodstock, a large, timbered building, was the pleasantest of royal palaces. Its outside had been renovated recently: the black gables newly embossed with gilt, the wooden beams painted a rich dark brown, and the stucco plaster clean and white. Inside, the palace's splendour made Ranulf catch his breath. Bright tapestries gleamed with gold and silver motifs; rich silk cloths were placed over tables, the backs of chairs and the massive open sideboards. Jewelled cups, their precious stones glinting in the sunlight, and silver dishes were laid out on handsome chests and cabinets. In the great hall henchmen were laying tables for the banquet and the air was thick with the tangy wholesome odour of cooking from the kitchen which made both men's mouths water. They were not allowed to tarry, however, but were taken upstairs, along a gallery and into a small chamber, its simplicity in stark contrast to the splendour they had just witnessed.
Both Gaveston and the Prince were there. The royal favourite sat in a quilted window seat whilst young Edward lounged in a chair near him. They were both gazing out of the window like homesick boys, as
if desperately wishing to be elsewhere. The King, however, had ordered that his son should stay at Woodstock and, of course, where the Prince of Wales was, Gaveston his shadow always followed.
Both young men loved ostentatious dress but today they were dressed simply in hose pushed into soft leather riding boots, lacy cambric shirts, and blood-red taffeta jackets slung across their shoulders. Gaveston didn't turn a hair as Corbett and Ranulf were announced. The Prince, however, smiled falsely, straightening up in his chair and running long white fingers through his blond hair.
'Master Corbett, I remember you. You are my father's man.'
'And yours, Your Grace.'
The Prince smirked and indicated that a steward should bring forward two chairs.
'Corbett, you and your wide-eyed servant may as well sit. You wish for some wine?'
The Prince didn't even wait for an answer but turned to a small table beside him, slopped two goblets full of wine, rose and thrust them at his unwanted guests. Corbett murmured his thanks and sipped gently. Ranulf drained his cup in two noisy gulps. The Prince smirked and Gaveston turned, for the first time acknowledging their presence with a condescending sneer. Corbett refused to be ruffled. He guessed both men were drunk but Gaveston particularly, even half-asleep, was as dangerous as a slumbering boar. He studied the Gascon's dark effete face and the jewel-encrusted pearl which swung arrogantly from one ear lobe. In everything he was the perfect courtier. The King had told him that Gaveston aimed high, coveted an earldom, and wished to use his friendship with the Prince to found a dynasty as great as the de Clares, the Beaumonts, or any of the great lords who had followed the Conqueror across the Narrow Seas.
For his part, Gaveston scrutinised the clerk whilst running the tip of his tongue over full fleshy lips. He cursed the drink, his own maudlin thoughts, and the Prince for seeing Corbett. In his heart Gaveston knew that young Edward quite liked the clerk; admired the man's fidelity and unwillingness to criticise him to his terrible father. Gaveston feared no one, neither the King, de Warenne, or any great lord, but was wary of Corbett with his secretive face and hooded eyes. Soon the questions would begin and the Prince would have no choice but to answer. Oh, he could stand on his dignity, but Corbett would inform the King and the Prince would have to answer eventually. Gaveston clenched his hands in his lap. He and the Prince should be left alone! He glanced quickly at Edward and Corbett saw the flicker of annoyance on the Prince's face.
'Your Grace,' he asked, 'you object to my being here?'
'No, Corbett, I do not. What puzzles me is why?'
'Lady Eleanor's death.'
The Prince arched an eyebrow.
'There's some problem?' he asked. I understand she had an accident?'
'No, it is said she was murdered.'
Corbett stared coolly back, noting the agitation his stark comment had caused.
'You have proof of that?' Gaveston asked.
'My Lord, soon I will, but whatever evidence I have will not make any difference to the Prince's enemies. They will still allege he murdered her.' Corbett leaned forward. I am not saying I believe that I report what I feel, as well as the rumour that is spreading. Accordingly, the more facts I have, the better I can combat the lies on the Prince's behalf.'
Edward stared at Corbett and suddenly throwing back his head, roared with laughter. Gaveston looked perplexed. Corbett just sat motionless, impassive, until the Prince had recovered himself.
'Oh, that's rich, Corbett' he said, wiping a tear from his eye. 'I am touched by your concern. Please accept my most sincere thanks for your interest.' His mood suddenly changed. 'I know why you are here. For God's sake get on with it!'
The clerk shrugged.
'Lady Eleanor, Your Grace, men say she was ill?' He hurried on, 'Of a malady of the breast?' The Prince nodded. 'How long had that been so?' 'Oh, about a year.' 'Some people say longer.'
'Some people are liars! I am not responsible,' Edward snapped, 'for what people like to invent They snout in the dirt with their long noses. They can make up what they want.'
'You did not visit Lady Eleanor at Godstowe?' 'No, I did not. I did not love her. For me the relationship was ended.'
I am sure that was so,' Corbett replied drily, regretting the quip as soon as it was uttered, noticing the hostility flare in the Prince's light blue eyes. 'You must have been concerned?' he continued hastily.
'Lady Eleanor wanted for nothing. She had her comforts. She lived in luxury. The Lady Prioress looked after all her needs.'
'You sent her medicine. Your Grace?'
The Prince chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip.
I know what you are thinking!' Gaveston intervened, rising from the window seat. 'It was I who sent the medicines. You may think they were tainted, but we know they were tested at the priory and I doubt the Lady Eleanor would have taken them solely on the Prince's word.'
'I am sure My Lord Gaveston is correct,' Corbett answered. 'But what were these powders?'
'Look, Corbett,' the Gascon snarled, I am a courtier, and sometime soldier. I am not a physician. They were simple potions, meant to relieve the pains in Lady Eleanor's chest and afford her sleep.'
Corbett, sensing he could proceed no further, decided to change tack.
'On the day Lady Eleanor died, Your Grace-'
I was at Woodstock. I hunted in the afternoon and feasted in the evening. All who matter saw me here, including the French envoy, Sir Amaury de Craon.'
'Did you send any messages that day?'
'No, I did not. Piers here sent down potions. Oh, on the day before Lady Eleanor met with her accident.'
' Ah, yes, we are back to the potions. Did the Lady Eleanor ask for them?'
'Yes, she did,' Gaveston replied vehemently. 'She said they afforded her great relief.'
'Your Grace, on that matter, was the Lady Eleanor melancholic?'
'Yes,' the Prince replied, for the first time showing compassion. 'The poor creature was ill. She knew I did not love her, I did not hide my feelings. So, what more?'
Corbett quickly looked at Ranulf, who sat as if carved from stone, transfixed by their rapid questions like a spectator at some skilful sword fight.
'What do you think happened on the day Lady Eleanor died?'
I know no more than you, Corbett The facts are: Lady Eleanor kept to herself, put on her cloak to go for a walk and, in the half-light, slipped on the staircase at Godstowe, fell and broke her neck.'
The Prince yawned as if bored. 'Well, Clerk, that is all.' He rose, walked across and put a hand on his favourite's shoulder. 'So, Corbett do you wish to know more?'
'Yes, Your Grace. Were you and the Lady Eleanor secretly married?'
Ranulf gulped noisily as he saw all the colour drain from the Prince's face. Gaveston stiffened like a dog ready to attack.
'No, of course we were not! Why do you ask?'
'Nothing, Your Grace, just scurrilous rumours. And you heard about Lady Eleanor's death on Monday morning?'
'Yes. The porter brought me the message. You know that, Corbett. Don't sit there and bait me!'
The Prince of Wales flicked a lace-cuffed wrist. 'Now, for God's sake, man, leave us!'
'No!' Gaveston spoke up, his face wreathed in false smiles. 'Your Grace, Master Corbett has been most busy. The priory at Godstowe has its attractions, but not for a man accustomed to the luxuries of this world.' He winked at Corbett. 'The Prince and I,' he continued, 'have arranged a sumptuous banquet this evening.' He grinned. 'We are the hosts as well as the only guests. I insist you join us!' He clapped his hands and the steward suddenly reappeared. Gaveston raised a hand to fend off Corbett's objections. 'We insist don't we, Your Grace?'
Edward threw a sly glance at his favourite and nodded. 'Yes, we do,' he replied slowly. 'We insist you dine with us.'
Gaveston motioned to the steward. 'Take Master Corbett and his servant to the kitchen. Feed them well. They are our special guests.' Gaveston rose and came over, taking Corbett gently by the hand. 'Hu
gh,' he murmured, his soulless eyes fixed on those of the clerk, 'we do insist you stay. There are other matters we wish to discuss.'
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.'
