Prince of Darkness hc-5

by Paul Doherty

  The Prince nodded briskly and looked round.

  'Be my guest, Master Corbett. In an hour I will meet you in the scriptorium.'

  Corbett bowed, withdrew, and spent the rest of the time kicking his heels in an antechamber before a servant imperiously summoned him up the great staircase and ushered him into a brilliantly decorated room. The floor was of polished wood and the new wainscoting bore elaborate designs: vines, strange flowers, and exotic creatures such as dragons and wyverns. Around the painted blue walls were shelves and small cupboards full of different books, all bound in calf-skin of different colours, red, blue and tawny brown, their clasps of wrought gold and silver. Corbett noticed how each of these precious manuscripts was fastened to the wall by silver chains. He knew the Prince was a connoisseur of luxury, deeply influenced by the new designs from the prosperous Italian states. It was the only chamber Corbett had ever seen where there were no torches fixed to the wall. Instead heavy bronze candelabra stood on polished oak sideboards and dressers round the room. Nor were there any rushes on the floor with their usual fleas and dirt but thick wooden carpets of the purest white.

  At the far end of the room on a small dais stood a polished round table with high-backed, ornately carved chairs. The Prince was sitting quietly there, his hands clasped, staring down at the table, so silent he could have been taken for some studious monk; his robes, however, were splendid, his fingers covered in precious rings, and his hair and golden beard carefully combed and oiled. He looked up and gestured Corbett forward. As he approached, the clerk noticed that the Prince's doublet was of pure white satin with gold buttons. On his legs were hose striped with red and gold, while his feet were hidden in crimson velvet slippers with silver roses on the toes. Judging by the Prince's appearance and demeanour, Corbett sensed that Gaveston had advised him to stand on his dignity in his dealings with both him and de Craon,

  The Prince rose and waved him round the table to the chair next to his before serving them both with the best wine the clerk had tasted in months. He sat down and sipped carefully from the cup. The Prince was not as temperamental as his father. Indeed, when he so wished, the young Edward could be dazzlingly courteous and charming. But, like all the Plantagenets, his moods were fickle, his temper unsure. Corbett had always liked Prince Edward; he had a roguish air, coupled with an almost childlike innocence. He could be a good friend or the most dangerous of enemies. Edward settled himself in his own chair, turning to look directly at Corbett

  'Well, Hugh?' he began. 'You wish to see me "in secreto". I respect you, otherwise my Lord Gaveston would be present.' He glanced away. 'Piers can be wicked,' he remarked softly. 'What happened last night was unforgivable. My father – must he know?'

  'Alea iacta,' Corbett replied evenly. 'The die is cast' His eyes caught the cornflower blue of the Prince's. 'As Your Grace remarked, it was probably a terrible accident.'

  The Prince smiled his thanks and held his hand out so that the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows caught the gems in his rings and made them sparkle. 'So, Hugh, what is it?'

  'Two questions, Your Grace.' Corbett sipped again from the wine cup. 'On the day Lady Eleanor died, did you send any of your men to Godstowe Priory?'

  The Prince shook his head.

  'No, I did not.'

  'Well, Your Grace, did anyone else, perhaps unknown to you, send retainers there?'

  The Prince, still shaking his head, rose and walked over to a carved bookstand which was similar to a lectern in a church. He placed his hand on the huge bible lying there.

  'You may tell my father,' he replied, 'my hand on the bible, and I will repeat this oath before the Commons and the Lords Spiritual and Temporal – I swear this: neither my people nor the Lord Gaveston went anywhere near Godstowe Priory on that day.'

  'Your Grace seems so certain?'

  Edward turned, a stubborn look on his face.

  I forbade my Lord Gaveston to have anything to do with that woman!'

  'Your Grace, is it true that the first you heard of the news was when the porter from Godstowe arrived here?'

  Corbett noticed how quickly the Prince took his hand from the bible and walked back towards him.

  'Yes, it was, as far as I know,' he replied, and sat on the edge of the table, looking down at Corbett, one leg swinging lazily before him. 'Why do you ask?'

  Corbett took a deep breath.

  I must inform you, your father knows different There is a rumour mat you knew about Lady Eleanor's death long before any drunken porter arrived here.' Edward chewed his lip.

  I was also drunk,' he murmured. 'But not that drunk,' he continued. I did hear something, or was I told…? Yes!' the Prince said excitedly. 'If Monsieur de Craon alleges I told him, then he is a liar! Indeed, Master Corbett, I am sure it was the Frenchman who informed me.'

  'Then how did he know?'

  The Prince shrugged.

  I can't tell. And if I questioned him, he would simply deny it De Craon comes here,' he added bitterly, 'with his false face and lying tongue… the fellow wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and pulled him by his pointed nose!'

  The Prince went back to the bible and put his hand on it

  I swear I have told you the truth. I swear I did not send men to Godstowe, though I would love to know who did. Were they wearing my livery?'

  Corbett shook his head.

  I cannot say.'

  I also swear,' Prince Edward declared, 'that if I knew about the Lady's… death-'

  Corbett was sure he was going to say 'murder'.

  '-if I knew of the lady's death before Monday morning, I learnt of it from Monsieur de Craon.'

  'Your Grace, were you married to the Lady Eleanor?'

  The Prince kept his hand on the bible.

  'That is none of your business,' he replied testily. 'What is your business, Corbett, is to clear my good name. De Craon awaits in a chamber down the hall. I want you to question him. He can stay there until you are ready to do so!'

  And with that the Prince flounced out, all courtesy and good humour forgotten. Corbett smiled drily and leaned back in his chair, half-listening to the Prince's footsteps in the gallery outside. He believed the Prince that it was de Craon who had informed him on the Sunday night but how had the Frenchman known? Did he have a spy at Godstowe? If so, who? But the Lady Prioress had maintained that de Craon had been turned away from Godstowe. Corbett moved restlessly, then laughed to himself. Of course! He rose, went to the door, and beckoned a waiting servitor towards him.

  'The French envoy, Monsieur de Craon – the Prince wishes me to speak to him.'

  The fellow led him down the corridor, stopped before another door and tapped gently on it. The door was half open and Corbett, not waiting for the servant to knock again, simply pushed it open and swaggered in. De Craon was sitting in a high-backed chair near the window, a small scroll of parchment on his lap, apparently waiting for the Prince to summon him to an audience. He looked up as Corbett entered, smiled and half rose before slumping back into the seat again as if he really could not be bothered. The scroll he had been studying disappeared quickly into the folds of his voluminous robes.

  'Monsieur Corbett! I am delighted to see you. Do sit down.' He airily waved towards a footstool.

  'De Craon, you're a lying bastard! You're about as pleased to see me as a peasant is to meet the tax-gatherer!'

  Corbett walked over, arms folded, and smiled icily down at his inveterate enemy.

  'Hugh,' de Craon spread his hands expansively, 'why do you insult me? Like you, I carry out orders.' He sighed wearily. 'Diplomacy can be such a tangled web.'

  'With you, de Craon, anything would be tangled!'

  Corbett leaned over, putting his hands on the arms of the chair, his face a few inches away from de Craon's.

  'As I said, you're a lying bastard! You are the father and mother of liars! You're up to your bloody mischief again, aren't you? The business at Godstowe…'

  De Craon rounded his ey
es in mock innocence. Corbett noticed how dead they looked, as if de Craon was two people. There was the physical husk, and something else: a sly, malevolent presence. Corbett decided to test him.

  'The Godstowe business is not going well for you, is it?'

  'What on earth do you mean?'

  Corbett turned on his heel and walked back to the door.

  'What I mean, my beloved Frenchman, is that I know the truth. I also know that your informant there has not told you the truth. You have paid, Monsieur, for nothing more than a pack of lies.' Corbett opened the door. 'But there again,' he tossed airily over his shoulder, 'it's a pack which suits you well!'

  Corbett slipped through the door. Behind him de Craon had dropped his mask of good humour. His lips were moving quietly as he mouthed to himself what he would do if ever he had Corbett in his power. The clerk, however, had slipped quickly down the stairs and out into the courtyard where Ranulf and Maltote were waiting. His servant was trying to show the messenger how to hold a dagger, and Corbett shook his head in silent wonderment. Never, in all his life, had he witnessed anyone as clumsy or more dangerous to himself than Maltote with a weapon. Nevertheless, he liked this good-natured plough boy who knew nothing except horses.

  They mounted and left the palace, following the track down to the village. Corbett sniffed the sweet tangy air and realised autumn was coming in. Maeve would be seeing to the barns, ensuring stock was slaughtered, the meat dried, salted and hung high in the kitchen to smoke, preserving it for the long winter months. Autumn had come, slipping in like a thief, turning the countryside into one brilliant flash of orange, gold, russet and sombre red. The sun now had a golden haze around it and the fields, the grass standing high and lush, were enjoying one last flurry of life before the frosts.

  They passed an old horse pulling a cart full of apples, the driver not even bothering to turn to acknowledge their presence. On the top of the cart, as if resting on a bed of cushions, a young boy with breeches cut high above the knee lay fast asleep. The riders turned a corner and went down into the village. They paused as they heard the silver tones of a bell and, peering through the trees, saw a procession of villagers crossing the fields. It was led by Father Reynard, his russet gown now hidden beneath a gold and scarlet cope. The priest was preceded by a cross bearer and two young boys, one holding a bed, the other swinging a thurible. Corbett caught a whiff of the fragrant incense. He watched the priest, a stoup of holy water in one hand and an asperges rod in the other, bless the fallow fields. Corbett realised that soon it would be Michaelmas and these were the Rogation Days when the priest blessed the sod and asked God's help for the sowing and future harvest.

  Corbett continued on into the village, Maltote and Ranulf behind him, chatting about the lies of the horse-copers at Smithfield Market and how best to detect their tricks. Corbett left them at The Bud, its narrow windows draped with black crepe in mourning for the landlord whose coffin now stood outside the main door, perched rather crazily on its wooden trestles. Around it some villagers were drinking their departed companion's health, and by the looks of them were almost as senseless as the corpse they were mourning. Whilst Ranulf and Maltote stayed with the horses and pulled long expressions so they could join the mourners, Corbett strode across the leaf-strewn village green and through the wicket gate of the church. He sat on a small stone bench opposite the priest's house, half dozing, still relishing the memory of his meeting with de Craon. He heard the procession return and, after a while, Father Reynard appeared out of the side door of the church. He stopped and groaned when he saw Corbett.

  'What do you want, Clerk?'

  'A few questions, Father.'

  The priest blew out his cheeks, unlocked his door and gestured Corbett in after him. He waved the clerk to a seat and served him a cup of watered wine. The priest sat on a bench, facing him across the rough table.

  I have work to attend to. Master Corbett. The inn-keeper's body has been coffined and has now to be churched before the villagers become too drunk and dump him in the pond.' The friar smiled wanly. 'The landlord was a good poacher but a bad taverner. He was always watering his ale, and so many of the villages believe his body should be buried in water. A fitting epitaph!'

  'Is it always so dangerous,' Corbett asked abruptly, 'to be out at night around Godstowe?'

  The priest shrugged.

  'It depends. The landlord was poaching on palace grounds.' 'And the other two? The young woman and man found naked and murdered some eighteen months ago?' The priest grimaced. 'The roads can be dangerous.' 'You saw the corpses? Describe them.'

  The priest sucked in his breath.

  'The young man could have been no more than sixteen summers, olive-skinned and with black hair. Like his companion's, his throat had been cut. He wore no jewellery or stitch of clothing. The girl must have been a little older, also dark-skinned.' The priest paused. 'They may well have been foreign.'

  'What makes you say that?' Corbett asked.

  'The darkness of their skin. They were also well bred, and that surprises me.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, the girl's hands particularly were soft, well kept She had certainly done no manual work. I realised that when I anointed them. The same for the feet. Soft, uncalloused, as if she always wore hose and shoes. The poor girl's hair was mud-caked but it had once been well combed and dressed with oil. I also wondered how a high-born lady could disappear and no one raise the hue and cry.'

  Corbett remembered the motto he had seen on the leather dog collar.

  'Does the phrase 'Noli me tangere' mean anything to you?' he asked.

  Father Reynard shook his head and stirred restlessly on the bench.

  'Surely you came to discuss other matters, Master Corbett?' 'Yes, I did.' The clerk stared at a point above the priest's head.

  'Well?' Father Reynard asked.

  'On the night Lady Eleanor died,' Corbett began, 'you went to Godstowe to anoint her body?' Father Reynard nodded. 'And after that?'

  Corbett caught the wary look in the priest's eye.

  'I came back here,' he mumbled.

  'No, you didn't!' Corbett snapped. 'You borrowed a horse from the tavern stables and went to Woodstock with the news.'

  I would have nothing to do with the Prince or his catamite!'

  'Oh, not the Prince,' Corbett replied. 'But with your good friend and benefactor, Monsieur Amaury de Craon, who had sent you a secret message saying he was staying at the palace! You see, Father,' Corbett continued, 'some time ago Monsieur de Craon tried to gain access to Godstowe and was refused, so he looked around for someone to keep him appraised of developments at the priory, particularly Lady Eleanor's movements. He wanted a person he could trust. Someone who had access to that information. He chose you.'

  Corbett noticed that the priest's face had paled.

  'When de Craon was refused entry to Godstowe, he came here and offered you money: gold and silver for your church and parishioners. And you took it. Not as a bribe,' he added softly, 'but for alms. After all, what was the gossip of princes and their doxies to a priest? I am right, am I not, Father?'

  Father Reynard placed both bands on the table and bowed his head.

  'Well, Father?'

  'You are right,' the priest replied. 'What you say is close to the truth. De Craon was charming. He paid gold for simple chatter.' He glanced up. 'You have seen the poverty, Clerk. The riches of the priory, the opulence of the palace. The people there don't give a fig. They have no sense of God. De Craon is no better but at least he gave me gold. Not for myself,' he added hastily, 'but for the widow with hungry mouths to feed, the boy who wants to become a scholar. I am no spy.'

  Corbett felt pity but resolved not to weaken

  'If the King's serjeants-at-law or the lawyers in King's Bench heard of this,' he replied, 'they would say you were a traitor. It is treason, Father, to correspond with the King's enemies beyond the seas.'

  I am no spy and no traitor,' the priest said quietly.
'Have you ever seen a woman yoked to her husband pulling a plough because they can't afford an ox or a horse, while their baby lies under some hedgerow, wrapped in rags, sucking a crust and whining because it is too weak with hunger to cry?' His eyes flared. I tell you this, Clerk, one day the poor will rise and there will be a terrible reckoning. Tell me, what would you have done in my place?'

  Corbett leaned across and put his hand on the priest's elbow, glad that Father Reynard didn't flinch.

  I suppose,' he replied, I would have done what you did, Father.' He withdrew his hand and sipped the watered wine. I know you are no spy or traitor, but de Craon is dangerous. He has no morality, no God, no code of chivalry except service to a French King who sees himself as the new Charlemagne. If de Craon has spun his web round you, then you are in danger, Father.'

  The priest made a rude sound with his mouth and looked away.

  'Father, de Craon suspects I know the identity of his informant He will strike against me and may well try to hurt you. Fear nothing from our King, I can get you letters of safe conduct, but you must go into hiding for a while. You should not stay here!'

  Father Reynard shook his head and looked up, the fanaticism gleaming in his eyes.

  I am the good shepherd,' he replied, 'not the hireling. I will not flee because the wolf is on the prowl.' He smiled and relaxed. 'Anyway, Corbett, you forget I was once a soldier.'

  Corbett shook his head.

  'I cannot force you, Father, but heed my warnings.' He paused. 'What does de Craon know?'

  'What I told him – that the Lady Eleanor died.' The priest smiled. 'Died in the most suspicious circumstances. You know, Clerk, I have seen many a corpse. A woman doesn't fall down steep stairs then lie at the bottom as if she is fast asleep.'

  'Anything else, Father?'

  'No. What I know, you know.'

  Corbett rose.

  'Then I bid you goodnight, and warn you to take care.'

  Father Reynard looked away, dismissing his warning with a smile. Corbett went out through the deserted churchyard. The sun was now sinking, a fiery ball of light in the west, its dying rays lighting up the greens and russet browns of the graveyard. Somewhere, high in one of the elm trees, a lonely bird sang its own hymn for the dead. Corbett looked around. Father Reynard had said that the corpses of the young woman and her companion were buried beneath an old elm tree. Who were they? he wondered. What secrets did they hold? He stared around and he wondered. A silent, peaceful place but he had a premonition of something terrible. Was he being watched? He was used to the feeling in the dark, winding streets of London, but here near God's house? A twig snapped. Corbett spun round, looking beyond the priest's house.