Prince of Darkness hc-5

by Paul Doherty

  'The Deveril who fought with de Montfort died at Evesham.'

  'And were there any heirs?'

  Couville shook his head and pointed to the Deveril insignia.

  'The clerk who drew this up added a note. Look!' Corbett squinted down at the faded blue-green ink. 'Nulli legitimiti haeredes.'

  'No legal issue,' Couville translated. 'According to this, the last of the Deverils died at Evesham.'

  Corbett shook his head and picked up the faded leather dog collar.

  'So why was this found round the neck of a little lap dog in the forest outside Godstowe?'

  'I don't know,' Couville retorted. 'Be logical, Hugh. Just because it was found there doesn't mean it has anything to do with the crimes you are investigating.'

  'But surely it must?' Corbett whispered.

  Couville put a hand on his shoulder. 'Hugh, only God knows where that collar came from. After the defeat of de Montfort, the market stalls were swamped with the forfeited goods of rebels.'

  Corbett wearily rubbed his face in his hands.

  'Tell me, Nigel,' he began, 'a young woman and her male companion are found barbarously murdered in the glade of an Oxfordshire forest Their corpses provide no clue as to their identity. No one comes forward to claim the bodies. No one makes petitions or starts a search for their whereabouts. They are brutally murdered yet their deaths provoke nothing but silence.'

  Couville shrugged. 'Go out into the alleyways of London, Hugh. You will find the corpses of the poor, but no one gives a fig!'

  'Ah!' Corbett replied. 'But these were well-fed, pampered people, used to luxury. Where did they come from?'

  Couville grinned. 'They must have come from abroad.'

  Corbett stared hard at his old mentor. Of course he thought. Father Reynard had described both of them as olive-skinned. So were they foreigners?

  'If they were foreigners,' he said slowly, 'they must have obtained a royal licence to enter England. Would such a document be difficult to trace?' Couville nodded.

  'Of course. Hundreds enter England every month. Even if such a licence were issued, a copy may not be sent to me.'

  Corbett scratched his head and grinned sheepishly.

  I have discovered something,' he said slowly, 'and yet it sheds no light.' Corbett picked up his cloak from the door where he had tossed it. 'No jests, you know I am the keeper of the King's secrets. I admit you do not see the copies of the letters I send or the reports spies send me.' He fastened his cloak round his shoulders. 'Sometimes I am proud because I have the King's ear, but our royal master is a devious, sly man. He once told me that if his right hand knew what his left was doing, he would cut it off.'

  'What is your question, Hugh?'

  I know all the King's spies and agents, whether they be working in the court of Castille or in the Papal Chambers in Rome. But is there anyone else?'

  Couvtile spread his hands.

  'You are proud, Hugh, and pride interferes with logic. You know there must be men who work directly for the King. The Earl of Surrey is one. There must be others.'

  'Nigel, all royal accounts come to you. Have you ever discovered another name?'

  Couville rounded his eyes in mock wonderment

  'Another Corbett? Of course not!' His face grew serious. I have seen one name. Payments made to a de Courcy.'

  'Who is he?'

  I don't know. Ad I have seen is the occasional references, monies given "pro secretis expensis in negotio regis".'

  'For secret expenses on the business of the King,' Corbett translated, and felt a flash of anger at his royal master's deviousness. He took his old friend's hand.

  'Nigel, I thank you. One day you will come to Leighton?'

  Couville grinned.

  'To see Maeve, of course.'

  Corbett found Ranulf and Maltote had moved from the pie shop to the nearest tavern. Both looked well pleased after hours of hard drinking and glowered at their sober master's harsh strictures to leave their ale and go back through the pouring rain to King's Steps and another unpleasant journey along the Thames. By the time they reached London Bridge Maltote and Ranulf had vomited every drop they had drunk and had to spend the rest of the journey listening to the harsh witticisms of the grinning oarsmen.

  They disembarked and stayed in a tavern near the Tower for the rest of the day. The next morning they began their gruelling journey up the ancient Roman road which ran from London's city wall into Oxfordshire. Ranulf and Maltote objected vociferously.

  'Why this?' Ranulf shouted.

  Maltote looked away, not daring to confront this dour but very important royal clerk.

  'The reason, Ranulf,' Corbett announced softly, his face only a few inches from his servant's, 'is that I am trying to find out if, from some eighteen months ago, the ale-masters and tavern-keepers along this highway remember two foreigners, a young woman and her male companion. So,' he added sweetly, 'we shall stop at every tavern and ale house along the road. You will not drink anything but watered wine. You will not get drunk and you will help me in this business.'

  'But I have told you,' Ranulf replied. 'The landlord at The Bull in Godstowe saw a young man and woman as well as a well-dressed stranger. What more do you want?'

  Corbett gathered the reins in his hands.

  'Ranulf, everything depends on this. I am searching for a pattern. First, did these two strangers suddenly appear in Oxfordshire or had they travelled from London? If the latter, they probably came from across the seas. Secondly, the young stranger who also passed through Godstowe at the same time – was it just a coincidence, or was he connected with the murder victims?'

  Ranulf saw the seriousness in his master's face.

  'In which case, Master, the sooner we begin, the sooner we finish!'

  Ranulf was correct in his forebodings, the journey proved to be a nightmare. The rain fell incessantly until it seemed they travelled through sheets of water, the old cobbled road turned into a muddy mire, sometimes dangerous with potholes, where a man could plunge waist deep in water. Most of the time they led their horses as they moved from small ale-houses and comfortable inns to huge spacious taverns. At first they had no joy and, on the evening of their first day out of London, went to bed so weary they could scarce speak to each other. On the following day, however, at a thatch-roofed tavern which stood on the outskirts of Stokenchurch village, the landlord listened to Corbett's questions and pursed his lips in self-importance.

  'Oh, yes,' he declared. 'I remember the pair.'

  'Describe them!'

  The fellow made a face.

  'It's a long time, Master Clerk.'

  Corbett raised the silver piece between his fingers.

  'But I remember them well,' the landlord continued hastily. 'Well-dressed and fed they were. She was comely, though dressed like a nun with rosary beads in her hand. Her companion,' the landlord shrugged, 'really nothing more than a boy. I thought he was her page.' 'Did they speak English?'

  'Oh, no! The noble tongue – French. I asked them where they were going. She just shook her head and smiled but the boy said she was dedicated to God. I could scarcely understand him. They paid their silver and off they went!'

  'Did anyone,' Corbett asked, keeping his excitement hidden, 'travel with them?'

  The landlord shook his head.

  'Did another stranger come here about the same time?'

  'Oh, yes,' the tavern-keeper replied. 'A young, well-dressed fop, though armed. He carried a sword and dagger.'

  'Did you see his face?'

  'No. He arrived early in the morning to break his fast just as the young woman I mentioned earlier was leaving. He was cloaked and hooded. I thought that strange because the weather was fair.'

  'So, how do you know he was well-dressed?'

  'There were rings on his fingers. His jerkin was of red satin. As I said, he broke his fast and left within the hour.'

  Corbett rose as if about to leave.

  'The woman,' Ranulf broke in, 'did she ha
ve a lap dog?'

  The fellow's rubicund face broke into a gap-toothed grin,

  'Yes, she did, a little yappy thing wrapped up in her cloak. She fed it tidbits, morsels of bread soaked in milk. I remember it well It whined every second it was here.'

  Corbett left the tavern elated with what he had found out and they continued their journey to the outskirts of Oxford. Sometimes his questions only provoked blank glances, muttered oaths and shaken heads. But at two other taverns he elicited the same responses he had at Stokenchurch: a young woman and her male companion, both olive-skinned and quiet, with a less than perfect command of English. The boy, apparently a page, always did the talking. The woman seemed pious and withdrawn: indeed, one of the innkeepers actually described her as a nun. More ominously, the well-dressed young stranger always appeared at the tavern around the same time the mysterious woman and her page were about to leave. At last, to his own satisfaction and Ranulf's apparent pleasure, Corbett decided they had found what they wanted and ordered them to turn back and travel south.

  They reached Leighton Manor soaked and saddle-sore. Ranulf and Maltote disappeared like will-o'-the-wisps whilst Corbett received one of Maeve's lectures about the need to rest, as wed as the dangers of charging about on the King's business in weather not fit for the worst of sinners. Corbett heard her out, torn between his desire to sleep and excitement at what he had discovered.

  Once night had fallen and the manor was quiet, he rose, took out his parchment and again began to fit the puzzle together. He had the events at Godstowe in some semblance of order. Now he concentrated on the mysterious murders in the forest. He believed the woman to have been connected to the attainted Deveril family; the motto on the dog collar could not be dismissed as a coincidence. She was also a foreigner. The Roll of Kenilworth had indicated that there was no legitimate Deveril issue so was she of some bastard line? If so, the Deverils were still proscribed so why had she been allowed to enter England and, undoubtedly, to travel to Godstowe, a sensitive place where a former royal mistress had been incarcerated. Who was the young page, and the mysterious young fop who had trailed them? And what happened in the forest outside Godstowe? Who had murdered whom? It was logical to conclude the young fop was the assassin but it could have been the young page or, indeed, a complete stranger. And was the mysterious woman the murder victim or was it someone else? She had apparently been travelling to Godstowe and must therefore have been expected. So she must have arrived…

  Corbett threw the quill down in disgust The priory contained many nationalities and all the nuns, even Lady Amelia and Dame Agatha, spoke in the Frenchified manner after the fashion of the court That young fop… Perhaps it had been the Prince or Gaveston? Corbett went back to his notes about Lady Eleanor's death, twisting and turning them. Daylight had long broken when he reached the inevitable conclusion: he was ready to confront the murderer. One final piece of the puzzle remained. A protesting Maltote was roused and ordered to ride as fast as he could to the royal camp outside Bedford. Corbett entrusted Mm with a short letter in which he asked the King to supply simple answers to what Corbett considered simple questions. Nevertheless, the clerk was still uneasy: his theory was well argued but there was little evidence and he wondered if the royal answer would come in time to prevent another murder at Godstowe Priory.

  Chapter 13

  After Maltote had gone, Corbett paced the chambers and galleries of his manor, making himself a nuisance to both Maeve and his household. He found it difficult to sleep at night, anxious lest his delay might cause further tragedy at Godstowe. Should he leave, he wondered, take the swiftest horse in his stable and gallop into Oxfordshire? He dismissed the thought as nonsense. It would be like charging an unknown, hidden enemy. Maeve tried to calm him but Corbett remained uneasy. Early on the morning of the third day after his return, his worst fears were realised. A young groom, spattered from head to toe with mud, half-falling out of the saddle of an exhausted, blown horse, reached Leighton Manor. He gasped out his news even as Corbett, who had hurried down from his chamber, helped him out of the saddle.

  'The Lady Prioress,' the fellow muttered. 'She sends greetings and asks you to come urgently!'

  'Who's dead?' Corbett grasped the unfortunate messenger by the jerkin, forcing him to stand and look at him. 'Who's been killed?'

  The man licked mud-caked lips, eyes half-closing in weariness. Corbett roughly shook him.

  'The name?' he rasped.

  'Hugh! Hugh!'

  Maeve, a robe wrapped around her, came between them. She looked angrily at her husband.

  'The poor man's half-dead with fatigue, Hugh!'

  Corbett released the messenger whilst muttering his apologies and allowed Maeve and two of the servants to drag the fellow down the hallway into the buttery. Maeve ordered him to be stripped of his travel-stained jerkin and leggings. She forced a cup of watered wine between the fellow's lips whilst Corbett paced up and down,

  'Master Clerk!' the fellow rasped hoarsely. 'The Prioress wants you now. Dame Frances is dead!'

  'How?'

  'A fire in the novice house. She died immediately. The rest of the nuns escaped.'

  Corbett went and knelt beside the man.

  'And who is the murderer?'

  The man blinked red-rimmed eyes.

  'Murderer?' he muttered. 'No murder, Master Corbett, an accident.'

  Corbett snorted in disbelief,

  'And any other news?'

  'That's all,' the messenger murmured. 'Except you must go quickly.' And lolling back in the high chair, he promptly fell asleep.

  Corbett would have packed his saddle bags immediately and left but Maeve was insistent he wait until the rain storm abated. She had her way and Corbett went back to his chamber, staring out through the window, glaring at the blue-black clouds gathering over the Epping Forest

  In the end he was glad he had waited. Late that evening Maltote returned. Again Maeve intervened. She sensed Corbett's mood and insisted Maltote change out of his rain- drenched clothes and have something to eat before her husband began to interrogate him as if he was the King's Master Torturer in the Tower. After Maltote was rested Corbett and Ranulf met him in the hall. They sat round a huge log fire, the flickering flames casting long shadows against the far wall.

  Maltote was exhausted and had some difficulty remembering certain minor details, but, at last, a full account was given. Corbett, ignoring Ranulf's pleas and remonstrances, told them both to get a good night's sleep in preparation for the next morning. Even if the Devil himself was riding the wind which howled and sobbed outside, they would take the road back to Godstowe.

  Corbett returned to his own chamber. Maeve sat crouched over a table using a pool of light from a huge candelabra to stab furiously with her needle at a piece of embroidery she had been working on for years. The clerk took a deep breath and hid his smile. Maeve hated needlework, detested it. So whenever she was busy sewing, Corbett always recognised it as a bad sign This time was no different His wife, red spots of anger high on her cheeks, gave him a pithy lecture on the rules of hospitality and gentility, so Corbett, like any good mariner facing a squall, decided he would run before the storm. Matters were not helped by Maeve occasionally pricking her finger with the needle, but at last she had had her say. One final thrust at the embroidery and she tossed it on the table with a muttered oath any of the King's soldiers would have admired.

  She stood and came over to sit beside him on the bed. 'So you have your news? This nun who died, Sister…?'

  'Frances,' Corbett answered.

  'You expected her death, didn't you?'

  Corbett nodded.

  I knew someone might die.' 'Do you blame yourself, Hugh?' 'Yes and no,' he replied evenly. 'There's murder in Godstowe, and tomorrow I will confront it.' 'And Maltote's errand?'

  'He brought me the proof which confirmed my suspicions, but I don't know how to act. There are other pieces still missing.'

  He turned and grinned at Maeve. 'If y
ou haven't finished your embroidery,' he continued in mock solemnity, 'you can work at that There are still matters…'

  Maeve dug her nails deep into the calf of his leg.

  I have had enough of needlework,' she whispered. 'Hugh, you will be gone tomorrow?'

  'Yes, at first light'

  She rested her head against his shoulder. 'Be careful,' she murmured. I do fear for you.' Corbett held her close and fought to hide his own deep unease.

  Corbett and his party reached Godstowe late the following evening. The drunken porter allowing them entrance after the usual altercation. Once inside the priory walls Corbett stayed near the gate, demanding the fellow go and bring Lady Amelia down to meet them.

  The Prioress seemed to have aged since Corbett had last seen her. Even in the poor light of the flickering torches, Corbett could see how white and haggard her face had become. Her eyes were red-rimmed and circled with deep, dark shadows.

  'Master Corbett.' She took both his hands in hers which felt ice cold and clammy to the touch. 'How was your journey?'

  'Gruelling,' he replied. 'I am cold, wet -' he looked down at his boots, '- and caked in mud. The rains have turned everything into a morass.'

  'Come with me.'

  Corbett shook his head.

  I would prefer the guest house, My Lady. The fewer who know I have arrived, the better.'

  The Lady Prioress stared back, as if lost in her own thoughts, then shook herself and quickly agreed.

  The porter took care of their horses and Lady Amelia, walking like a ghost before them, led them across to the guest house. Dame Agatha was waiting there, her beautiful face pale, eyes concerned. Nevertheless, she greeted Corbett with pleasure.

  'Hugh,' she whispered, grasping him by the arm, 'you have returned at last!'

  He smiled and touched her gently on the shoulder.

  'Dame Agatha, I need a few words alone with Lady Amelia.' He looked over his shoulder at his two servants. 'Ranulf and Maltote need food.' He grinned. 'If they don't eat, I swear they will feed on each other.'

  He watched the young nun usher his two companions away and allowed Lady Amelia to take him into the small chamber, really no more than a cell with a table, stool and truckle bed. The Lady Prioress slumped wearily down on the stool as Corbett questioned her about Dame Frances' death. He heard her out in silence, asked a few questions, then went and stood over her.