by Paul Doherty
Agatha nodded.
'Most logical,' she murmured. 'A concise, lucid description.' Her lips parted in a snarl. 'You should have taught at schools at Oxford.'
'And not come here,' Corbett added quickly. I upset your tittle plans, did I not? But, of course, others unwittingly protected you. Father Reynard, who sent messages to de Craon; Gaveston and his dogs; the Prince of Wales and his infatuation with his favourite. And, of course,' Corbett concluded bitterly, 'our most sovereign lord the King, with his penchant for mystery and secrecy.' Corbett walked towards her. I suppose,' he remarked drily, 'the only good deed you performed was to dissuade Lady Eleanor from taking the powders Gaveston sent her. The royal catamite must have been perplexed.' Agatha smiled.
'Yes, I did. I watched Gaveston and his meddling tricks. On no account could Lady Eleanor die of poisoning. Such powders might be traced. If the good lady had to die, there had to be no link with the Prince. A nice, subtle mystery which would keep everyone guessing.' She shrugged. 'Naturally, I had to watch de Craon as well.'
'But the rest?' Corbett asked. 'And the deaths of two nuns? Surely the King ordered none of these?'
Dame Agatha opened her hand.
'No dagger, Hugh,' she whispered. 'For what I did was on the King's instructions.' She thrust the yellowing piece of parchment at him. 'Read it!'
Corbett unrolled the small sheet of vellum and quickly scanned the contents.
'Edward by the Grace of God, etc., to all Sheriffs, Bailiffs, etc. The bearer of this document, Agatha de Courcy, must be given every aid and assistance for what she has done has been done for the sake of the Crown and the good of our realm.'
Corbett looked at the faded, secret seal of his royal master.
'To quote Pilate, My Lady, what has been written has been written.' He looked squarely at her. 'But it does not make it right. The King would not have ordered Lady Eleanor's murder.'
'It was necessary!' Agatha snapped. 'She was going to flee. My orders were quite explicit I was to stop the Deveril woman and proceed to Godstowe, do whatever was necessary to ensure Lady Eleanor did not embarrass the Crown or the English court.' She shook her head. 'Moreover, I was tired of this God-forsaken place. A whey-faced, pale-eyed, former mistress, and nuns more concerned with their own glory and bellies!'
'The Lady Prioress?' Corbett asked suddenly.
Agatha shook her head.
'She knows nothing.' She plucked the document deftly from Corbett's fingers. 'Now, Hugh, I must go.' She stood on tip-toe and kissed him gently on the cheek. 'Perhaps we will meet again. I hope so.' She smiled. 'Now you know the truth, the Lady Prioress is no longer needed and Ranulf must be getting as cold as I am.' She waved her hand, her fingers skimming his. 'Farewell!'
Corbett watched her disappear into the mist
'Ranulf!' he shouted. 'Ranulf!'
But only a grey, mocking silence answered him. Corbett tugged his cloak around him and strode back towards the priory building, not caring whether he shattered the peace of a convent where so many dark deeds had been committed.
'Ranulf!' he bawled. 'For God's sake, man!' He had almost reached the guest house door. 'Ranulf!' he roared, and was greeted by the clatter of footsteps on the stairs.
His servant followed by an even more wild-eyed Maltote, came tumbling down, carrying belts and cloaks.
'For God's sake, man!' Corbett shouted. 'You were supposed to fodow me.'
Ranulf, sleepy-eyed, stared anxiously back.
I meant to, Master. But Maltote fed asleep again. I tried to rouse him but I couldn't so I sat on the bed to pull my boots on and the next minute I, too, was asleep.'
Corbett closed his eyes. 'Ranulf, Ranulf,' he whispered. 'What, Master?'
'Nothing,' Corbett sighed. 'I just thank God Mistress Agatha did not know you were asleep. Look,' he continued, 'we must be gone soon. Break your fast and pack our bags. Make sure the horses are fed and settle what debts we owe. In an hour we will be back on the road again.'
And, ignoring his servant's muttered groans, Corbett went round to the priory church to Lady Amelia's lodgings. He found the Prioress alone in her chamber, the table before her strewn with manuscripts. She looked red-eyed and white-faced, slightly fearful and anxious. She rose as Corbett entered.
'Master Corbett,' she pleaded, I delivered your message.'
Corbett threw himself on to a bench beside the wall. 'Sit down, My Lady,' he said wearily. 'There will be no need for that. You have lost another member of your Order.
Dame Agatha will be leaving, if she has not gone already. I suggest you let her go in peace. Do not mention her name again or send angry letters to the Bishop.' 'What are you saying?'
'Dame Agatha was no nun.' Corbett smiled thinly.
'She was here for Lady Eleanor?'
'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'She was here, like I am, because of the Lady Eleanor. Dame Agatha was the key to all the deaths here at Godstowe.' He raised his hand to still the Lady Prioress's intended outburst. 'The least you know the better, My Lady. Dame Agatha is guilty though you, too, are not blameless.'
The Lady Prioress squirmed in her chair.
'What do you mean?'
'You know full well,' Corbett retorted. 'The Lady Eleanor was murdered because she was planning to flee Godstowe. Secret messages were left in her room and in the ruined oak tree between the priory church and the wall. You know it well. You should do – you wrote the messages and left them there.'
'Why should I do that?'
'Oh, come, My Lady, you know full well. The King ordered Eleanor Belmont here and you hated it. It disturbed the harmony and peace of this little priory. It brought the unwanted attention of the Prince and Lord Gaveston as well as the unexpected intrusion of the French envoy, Monsieur de Craon, who could not be lightly turned away. Now, the Lady Eleanor was a young woman. She could have lived for years. In time she might even have threatened your own position. So you hired horsemen, God knows from where, though there are enough ex-soldiers around to do anything for silver.'
Corbett rose and filled a goblet of wine. He looked at Lady Amelia questioningly but she shook her head. Corbett gulped the rich, red wine, relishing the way it warmed his stomach.
'You prepared the ground well – those messages hidden away in the old oak tree. At first I thought someone climbed the wad and put them there, but on the night I was chased by Gaveston's dogs, I found that was an impossible feat The walls are sheer and any intruder would eventually be noticed, as he would if he came through the gate. I concluded the writer must be inside the priory.' Corbett paused. 'At first I thought it was Dame Agatha, but only you had the power and money to hire horsemen. Moreover, I could never understand why, on the very day horsemen were seen outside the priory, you permitted the Lady Eleanor not to attend Compline. On any other occasion you would have demanded her attendance. Moreover, you must have heard about or seen the horsemen hiding in the trees. Lady Eleanor's absence from Compline and the presence of these riders were no coincidence. You were hoping she would leave. The blame would fall on others and you and your priory would be well rid of her. But, of course, matters went terribly wrong. Lady Eleanor was killed and the riders left empty handed.'
The Prioress just stared back at him.
'You were frightened I might hear about these riders. That's why, the morning the porter took me down to the forest, you sent Dame Catherine after me to see where we were going. My Lady, I am correct?'
'Yes, Corbett,' she replied harshly. 'You are correct. I resented Lady Eleanor Belmont's presence here. We may not be the strictest Order in the realm but Godstowe is a nunnery not a refuge for former whores. Moreover, I disliked the Lady Eleanor intensely, with her sorrowful face and moping ways. I went to Oxford on business. You know the city well. Desperate men can be hired. They had their orders. On that Sunday evening Lady Eleanor was instructed to meet them outside the Galilee Gate. Of course, to achieve that I needed the former whore's co-operation so I secretly sent her the messages.' She shrugged.
'The rest you know.'
'What if she had left?' Corbett asked. 'I know suspicion would fall on the Prince, Lord Gaveston, the French, or even the King. But what was intended?'
The Lady Prioress smiled.
'Oh, nothing terrible. We have a sister house in Hainault just outside Dordrecht Lady Eleanor would have been comfortable but securely kept and I would have been happy.' She pulled a piece of parchment over to her. 'Now, Master Corbett, I am sure you must be as busy as I am.'
She stared blankly down at the desk and, when she looked up, the clerk had gone. Conclusion
In the great hall of Westminster Palace, Edward of England sat on his throne beneath the great hammer-beamed roof. Huge scarlet and gold banners hung overhead and members of his household had covered the walls with silken tapestries and thick silver- and gold-encrusted cloths. The floor in front of the dais had been swept clean and fresh rushes, cut from the river's edge, placed over the boards and sprinkled with herbs. Royal serjeants-at-arms in full steeled armour were ranged in serried ranks on either side of the throne, swords drawn, hilts point down. On each side of the King were the leading magnates and bishops of the realm and in front, seated along a trestle table covered in damask cloths, sat the senior clerks of the Chancery and Exchequer. Corbett was in the centre. The table in front of him had now been cleared of ad parchments except one long document, freshly inscribed and sealed: the betrothal indenture affiancing Edward, Prince of Wales, heir apparent to the English throne, to Isabella, 'the sole and beloved daughter' of Philip IV of France.
Corbett watched de Craon approach and fix Philip IV's seal to the bottom of this document. The French envoy then went across and placed his hand on the huge copy of the gospels held between the gnarled fingers of Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury. De Craon, resplendent in robes of blue and white samite, proclaimed in clipped Norman French: 'How Philip, King of France, rejoiced that the betrothal had taken place which would be the basis of lasting peace and friendship between England and France.'
Corbett, his emotions masked by a diplomatic smile, watched de Craon call on God and his angels to witness how France intended a lasting peace. In any other circumstances the English clerk would have burst out laughing: de Craon, given any opportunity, would break or twist the treaty whenever it suited him or his devious master in the Louvre Palace. At last de Craon stopped speaking. On Edward's behalf, Corbett rose and replied with a similar tissue of official lies, and went round the table to exchange the kiss of peace with his arch-enemy. Behind him Edward of England sat watching through heavy-lidded eyes, though his mind was elsewhere, his body tense with fury that his son had chosen to remain at Woodstock with his catamite rather than attend this solemn betrothal ceremony. His son claimed he was unwell. The King ground his teeth together. By the time the week was over, he would give his son good cause to be unwell! The King leaned forward, watching Corbett and de Craon embrace and exchange the final kiss of peace. After the kiss, de Craon pulled his head back, a false smile on his face.
'One day, Corbett,' he hissed, 'I will kill you!'
Corbett bowed and muttered back, 'One day, Monsieur, as you have recently, you will try and fail!'
Again the false smiles, the perfunctory bows, the trumpets in the gallery braying out their silver din, and the ceremony was over. De Craon bowed towards the throne, snapped his fingers for his colleagues to follow and, turning on his heel, walked quickly out of the huge hall. Edward rose, unfastened his gold-encrusted cloak and tossed it to de Warenne.
'Thank God that mummery is over! De Warenne, I want to see Corbett now in my chamber. No one else to be present!'
'Of course, Your Grace.'
Edward's eyes narrowed.
'Less of the sarcasm, Surrey. And when you have done that, I want your fastest messenger to be on the road to Woodstock within the hour. He is to tell my sweet son that I wish words with him tomorrow – here.' The King jabbed a finger at the Earl. 'And a message for my Lord Gaveston as well. If he is in England by the end of the week, I will proclaim him wolfshead, an outlaw to be killed on sight!' Edward heartily clapped the Earl on the shoulder. 'And after that, we march north to give the Scots a lesson they'll never forget.'
Corbett found the King lounging in a window seat, a huge, deep-bowled goblet of wine in his hands. 'Ah, Hugh.'
Corbett's heart sank. Whenever the King played the bluff, hearty warrior, the clerk always smelt treachery.
'While you and de Craon were kissing each other's arses out there, I was thinking of your report about the business at Godstowe. You did well, Hugh.'
'Thank you, Your Grace.'
The King rose, poured a goblet of wine and thrust it into the clerk's hands.
I am sorry I did not tell you about Mistress Agatha.'
'Your Grace, I have already protested. How can I gather information if there are people like her of whom I know nothing? Such men or women pose a threat They need to be watched and guided.'
'Like the Lady Agatha?'
'Yes, Your Grace, like the Lady Agatha.'
The King looked slyly at Corbett.
'True, she acted beyond her orders, but if the Lady Eleanor had escaped…' He allowed his words to hang in the air.
'If the Lady Eleanor had escaped, Your Grace,' Corbett replied sharply, 'she would have been recaptured.'
'True! True!' the King murmured. 'But Agatha…' His voice trailed off.
Corbett slammed the wine cup down on the table.
'Mistress de Courcy may well have killed to protect Your Grace, but she also killed to protect herself. Three women died for no good cause, two of them nuns; women who died simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who will answer for their blood?'
'You are being sanctimonious, Corbett!' the King snapped.
'In Italy,' Corbett replied slowly, 'there is a new breed of man who maintains that whatever the Prince wishes has the force of law. Is this what they mean, Your Grace?'
'Perhaps.'
'So if Your Grace's mind changes and you wish my death…?'
The King turned on him, lips parted in a snarl. He threw the wine cup down at Corbett's feet 'Shut up, Clerk!'
'Three women,' Corbett continued evenly. 'Three innocent women died. Do you know what they call you in the halls of Oxford? The new Justinian of the West The great law giver. They talk of your parliaments, of your famous speech about what affects all should be approved by all. I wonder what Dame Martha and Dame Frances would think of that? Agatha de Courcy is a murderess. She not only walks free, she flaunts your authority for doing as she did.'
The King kicked at the rashes.
'You'd best go, Corbett!' he said quickly. He looked up and smiled. 'Maeve is enceinte. If it's a boy, Corbett, I want him called Edward.' The King looked away. 'What you did at Godstowe I shad not forget I understand you want Maltote in your household? You are welcome to him. Now, go! After Michaelmas you must return.'
Corbett bowed and walked towards the door.
'Hugh!'
Corbett turned.
'Yes, Your Grace?'
'Agatha de Courcy… leave her to me.'
Corbett bowed again and closed the door behind him.
Edward stood for a while, walked over to the window and reflected on what Corbett bad said. In his heart Edward knew the clerk was right: de Courcy was an assassin. Edward had used her before. He called her his 'subtle device' against the deadly machinations of his enemies. Almost forty years ago, he had smashed the de Montforts but still they continued to harry him. Oh, he had heard about the Deveril woman, the illegitimate issue of one of de Montfort's generals. Deveril's bastard son had fled abroad, gone to Bordeaux and married into a local noble family. His offspring had been Marie Deveril, a girl brought up to hate the King of England. He had watched her from afar: when she used a false name to apply for a licence to travel to England and enter the Priory at Godstowe, he had suspected she was intent on stirring up trouble, to strike whenever opportune against Edward or his
family. Perhaps Lady Eleanor had been her intended victim. Or, Edward shivered, perhaps she had aimed higher, hoping that the Prince of Wales would visit the priory, or indeed himself. Edward had let Deveril come, wanting her out in the open, whilst he gave de Courcy her secret instructions. She was to follow and kill the Deveril woman, take her place, and go to Godstowe to keep the Lady Eleanor under close and careful watch.
Edward smiled bleakly to himself. And who would suspect? De Courcy always dressed as a man, acting the young Frenchified fop with rich clothes bought by the Treasury, and speaking in a drawling French accent which would be the envy of any courtier. De Courcy would kill Deveril, keep matters at Godstowe under view, report on the Prince's doings at Woodstock and search out the truth behind the idle rumour that the Prince had secretly married his former whore. No one would suspect Agatha had killed Deveril. Or, if they did, who would care? The Deverils were traitors and Edward had given de Courcy a written pledge he would defend her. Of course, he'd kept it quiet from Corbett: the clerk was an excellent master spy but his tender conscience might balk at the silent assassination of a woman and her page. All had gone well until Lady Eleanor's death and de Courcy's strange silence. Oh, de Courcy had informed him now she'd intended to tell the truth eventually, but how could he trust her? What authority did she have to decide who lived and died? Corbett was right Only a Prince could do that. Edward peered out of the window. He saw Corbett in the courtyard below, smiling and laughing as he chattered to Ranulf and Maltote.
'If it's a boy, call him Edward,' the King murmured to himself. He felt a stab of envy at his clerk's good fortune. 'I have no son,' he whispered.
He leaned against the wall and watched Corbett and his party mount and leave the courtyard. The King went across to a small desk, picked up the quill from the writing tray and carefully wrote out a short message. He then took some heated wax, marking it with his secret seal before shouting for an attendant A few minutes later John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, sauntered in. 'Your Grace?'
Edward continued to stare out of the window.