Corbett left that terrible shop without a word to Ranulf and Maltote, and walked out into the street off Faltour's Lane. 'Master!'
Corbett stopped and turned. 'What is it, Ranulf?'
'When you were in that apothecary's, I thought we were being watched. No, not just by some bully boy – someone else.'
Corbett looked around. They were back on the broad but darkened thoroughfare of Holborn. The stalls had disappeared, the shop fronts were boarded up. Some householders had even placed lantern horns outside their house, the weak flame of the candles fluttering in their protective iron grilles against the cool evening breeze. Two young urchins ran by, screaming and shouting. A bloody-mouthed mastiff tied by a chain to a lintel of a door snarled and barked. Somewhere in a room above them, a woman gently crooned the tune of a lullaby. Corbett could see nothing untoward.
'You are sure?' he said. 'Maltote, did you see anything?' The serjeant-at-arms looked worried but shook his head. 'I did think we were being followed when we went to the apothecary's, but it was only a child.'
Two young urchins, their faces completely hidden by hoods, came hurrying by, kicking an inflated pig's bladder before them.
'There's nothing,' Corbett murmured. 'Nothing at all.'
They walked up Holborn, across the darkening common which stretched out before the old city walls, into the pestiferous area around Newgate and down towards Cheapside. Now and again they would stop and look around but there was no one following them. They reached Catte Street and Corbett decided they should stay in the tavern where they had stabled their horses.
'Tomorrow,' he announced, 'we go to Leighton.'
'And baby Hugh? I'd like to see him!' Ranulf angrily replied.
Corbett smiled.
'I'd not forgotten, Ranulf. However, as Scripture says, "Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof." Let's fid our bellies and try the ale.' Corbett looked slyly at Maltote. 'And, who knows, you may teach Ranulf the finer points of dicing!'
Laughing and joking, they pushed their way into the tavern's huge taproom, choosing a table near the great roaring fire. Corbett shouted for jacks of ale, demanding they be served the landlord's best
'None of your watered stuff!' he shouted. 'Or I'd have the ale-masters down here!'
The landlord, a thin ashpole of a man, completely bald except for a stray lock of hair which constantly drooped over his eyes, wiped his greasy hands on a dirty apron, served them and scurried off. Corbett tasted the thick heady ale, pronounced himself satisfied and leaned forward.
'Thank God we are free of Godstowe,' he murmured.
'Do you know what happened, Master?' Ranulf asked anxiously. 'Which one of those well-fed bitches is the murderess?'
'It's more complex than that, Ranulf.' Corbett sipped from his blackjack. 'On Sunday the eighth of September, Lady Eleanor Belmont was murdered in her chamber. Her neck was broken without any sign of a struggle and there are no reports of any intruders. The good sisters,' he looked sardonically at Ranulf, 'whom you just referred to, were all in church. Lady Eleanor was seen alive when the Nuns of Syon were all in public view of each other, just before Compline.' Corbett paused. 'This includes all those who knew her well: the Lady Prioress, the two Sub-prioresses, and our comely Dame Agatha. They all sang their psalms and went to the refectory. Afterwards, the Prioress, anxious about Lady Eleanor, went to her chamber but found the woman murdered.' He threw a quizzical look at Ranulf. 'The corpse was then moved to the foot of the stairs to make it look like an accident.'
Ranulf swilled the beer around in his tankard.
'So, the murderer or murderess must have been an outsider?'
'Yes,' Corbett answered. 'Father Reynard was a suspect but I now know he was busy riding to Woodstock. Anyway, the poor man's dead and beyond suspicion.'
'Gaveston could have sent assassins.'
'True. But as I have said, any outsiders would have been noticed. The porter, drunk as he always is, would have raised the alarm. Anyway, why should Gaveston or the Prince do that? I have just discovered that Gaveston was probably poisoning the Lady Eleanor with a slow but subtle potion.' Corbett rubbed his chin against the palm of his hand. 'Yet that too, raises problems. If Gaveston was sending these powders, killing the Lady Eleanor by degrees, surely the poison should eventually have worked? So if Gaveston was already trying to murder Lady Eleanor, why would he abruptly change his methods?'
'But,' Ranulf interrupted, 'if the Lady Eleanor was not murdered by any of the good sisters… if she was not murdered by Gaveston, if no one stole across the priory walls, what did happen?'
Corbett shook his head.
I don't know. Riders were seen in the forest the day Eleanor Belmont died.' He shrugged. 'But I can see no connection between their presence and the lady's death.' He grinned at Maltote, who was staring at him open-mouthed. 'There are other mysteries,' he continued. 'What were the identities of the young man and woman killed near Godstowe some eighteen months ago?'
Ranulf smacked his lips and placed his tankard on the table.
I can help you there,' he said. 'The tavern wench at The Bull told me how the landlord glimpsed the young lady and her companion riding through Godstowe.'
Corbett nodded.
'Yes, you told me that. Did he see anything else?'
'One further tiring I have learnt from the wench. The landlord claimed a well-dressed young man also passed through the village about the same time. He walked his horse outside the tavern but left Godstowe just before the young woman and man were seen.
'Didn't you learn anything more?' Corbett snapped. 'A description, further details?'
'Master, I went back time and again.' Ranulf shrugged. 'It was the same story, glimpses, nothing else.'
He looked at Corbett's troubled face.
'Master, let's go back to Lady Eleanor's death. If the murderer was not from Godstowe, and any normal outsider would have been noticed, perhaps there's a third possibility?'
'Such as?'
'A professional assassin who climbed the walls and murdered the woman without anyone catching sight of him.'
Corbett leaned back on the bench and stared up at the smoke-blackened beams. Ranulf was right If all the nuns were in Compline, if no one was spotted stealing over the convent walls, then the only logical conclusion was a professional assassin. Was this the de Montfort murderer, killing Lady Eleanor to embarrass the English crown? Or was the assassin sent by the King, his son, Gaveston, or even the French?
Ranulf coughed.
'Of course, Master, there is one final explanation.' 'Which is?'
'That the Lady Amelia is a liar. She could have gone to Lady Eleanor, murdered her, and then moved the body downstairs.'
Corbett nodded. Ranulf's theory made sense. Lady Eleanor would have opened the door to her Prioress.
'Or,' Ranulf grinned, 'perhaps the ancient ones, Dame Elizabeth and Dame Martha – maybe they are not as innocent as you think. The same could apply to one of the Sub-prioresses.'
Corbett smiled. Ranulf was correct So many suspects, yet so few answers. He let the conversation drift. Ranulf teased Maltote about his love life while Corbett ordered the evening meal: roasted capons stuffed with herbs, hare cooked in wine, and a dish of vegetables, leeks and onions smattered with garlic and thyme. They were half-way through their meal when the landlord appeared in the middle of the room, shouting: 'Master Corbett! Is there a Hugh Corbett here?'
The noise in the taproom stilled for a moment, even the fanners in the comer drunkenly arguing about the price of wheat; two harridans from the town shrieking at each other over an upturned barrel; and a group of young bloods, garishly dressed in costly silks, noisily roistering before a night out on the town. Corbett rose and beckoned the fellow over.
'There's a boy outside,' the landlord said. 'He has a message for you.' 'From whom?'
The fellow wiped his dripping nose on the back of his hand.
'By St Paul's, I'm a taverner not a messenger! The urchin simply said he had a message which he must give only to you.'
'Then bring him in.'
'He says he's afeared.' The landlord turned and spat into the dirty rushes. 'For God's sake, man, he's just outside the door!'
Corbett shrugged, told Ranulf and Maltote to keep the flies off his food and went out. In the gathering dusk he saw the boy, his back to him, staring down the darkening street
'What is it, lad?'
The boy turned. Corbett couldn't make his features out because of the hood pulled over his head. He saw the pig's bladder lying at the boy's feet, very similar to the one he had seen two children playing with on Holborn thoroughfare. The boy turned and Corbett suddenly sprang back. The long, thin stiletto missed his stomach by inches.
'Who are you?' Corbett whispered, backing away. 'What is it, boy?'
He was defenceless. He had left his sword belt and dagger in the tavern. He could hardly believe a young boy of no more than ten or eleven could be playing such a deadly game. The small, cowled figure shuffled towards him. Again the knife snaked out Corbett caught the boy by the wrist and gasped in surprise at his strength. He shoved his would-be assassin away and, as he did so, the hood fell back and Corbett stood transfixed in fear. No boy but a manikin, a midget of a man. Corbett had never seen such evil in someone so small: black hair slicked back against the head like the ears of a wet rat; tiny, soulless eyes and a face as twisted and as sour as a rotten apple. To his left Corbett heard a slithering on the cobbles. He glanced over and his heart jumped into his throat. A second small figure now crept out of the darkness and started to edge towards him. Corbett glimpsed the arbalest in the midget's hand and, in the poor light, the shimmering sharpness of the lethal bolt waiting to be tired.
'Oh, Christ!' he murmured.
He heard a click and stepped back quickly as the bolt thudded into the wall of the derelict house behind him. Corbett lost his footing and went down, his flailing hands seeking something to grip. He touched a lump of rotting offal and, scooping it up, throwing it at the first assassin now tripping towards him. The handful of dirt caught the dwarf in the face, making him gag and drop his guard. He stopped to wipe away the excrement which blinded his eyes and coated his lips. Corbett rose swift as an arrow.
'Aidez moi!' he shouted. 'Ranulf!'
And, using all his force, he ran and crashed into the second assassin, who was winching back the arbalest for another bolt. Both clerk and dwarf roiled and scrabbled in the mud. Corbett felt as if he was in a nightmare; the very smallness of the man made him a false opponent, almost cutting off Corbett's blood lust and desire to protect himself. The dwarf strained against him as they rolled and struggled in the mud. Corbett, determined the dwarf wouldn't reach the dagger in his belt, was trying to tighten his grip round his assailant's throat He looked up desperately as he saw the other assassin now approach, his dagger raised, waiting to strike.
'Ranulf!' Corbett yelled.
The dagger began to descend. Corbett heard the whirr of a crossbow. Was there another attacker? But when he looked up, the dwarf above him was standing, arms limp like a ragged doll, staring dully down at the crossbow bolt buried in his stomach. Corbett regained his strength and scrambled to his feet, dragging the dwarf in his grasp with him as the latter's accomplice slumped wordlessly to his knees. He heard the patter of feet behind him and turned, his captive slid from his hands like an eel. The manikin threw a malevolent look at Corbett and fled into the darkness. Maltote came running up, Ranulf behind him. The manservant dropped to one knee, brought the crossbow up, again the death-bearing click, and the whirring crossbow bolt caught the second assassin just before he slipped into the darkness. It caught him full in the middle of his back, throwing him into the air before he crashed down on the cobbles.
Corbett went over and examined the bodies, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he turned each of the corpses over. He still felt strange, as if he was bending over the bodies of children, but one look at the dead faces calmed such scruples. They were almost identical in looks and equally steeped in depravity. Even in death their lips were curled in a snarl; their wizened faces and staring, blank eyes seemed to gloat over the evil they had planned. Professional assassins, Corbett thought. He recognised the type. They could come in many guises; a beautiful woman, a troubadour, a pedlar, even a priest or monk. Something stirred in his memory but he was too tired and disturbed to concentrate. Ranulf came up and expertly went through their wallets and pockets but there was nothing except a few coins.
'The mark of a true assassin,' Corbett observed drily. 'They carry nothing and wear nothing to identify them, where they come from or who sent them.'
'Except this, Master!'
Ranulf returned from the corpse of the second dwarf, some stiver in his hands. He sifted through it with his fingers.
'Some English pennies,' he observed. 'But the silver's French.'
Corbett stared at the coins.
'De Craon!' he muttered. 'That bastard of a Frenchman sent them!'
He suddenly remembered Father Reynard's corpse and stooped down to examine the leather-heeled boots of the assassins.
'Well,' he said, 'at least I know how Father Reynard died. Remember the boot marks in the cemetery?'
'But there was only one set!'
Corbett rose and gulped the cool night air.
'But both these were there. Remember the angle of the crossbow bolt in the priest's body? An assassin's ruse: one would knock on the door, the other would be waiting in the darkness. It's an old trick played in many ways. Sometimes it's a beggar stretching out a hand for coins whilst the other conceals the knife. Or, in my case,' he added wearily, 'a dwarf pretending to be a boy. I almost walked on to the bastard's knife!'
Corbett looked back at the tavern doorway now thronged with onlookers. Doors were opening up and down the street, casement windows were flung wide and shouts were heard. A small portly figure swathed in robes waddled out of the darkness.
'My name's Arrowhead!' he bellowed. 'John Arrowhead, alderman of this ward.' He pointed a finger at Corbett. 'You, Sir, are under arrest until the watch arrive!'
Corbett leaned against the corner of the house, trying to stop the trembling in his legs.
'And you, Sir,' he retorted, 'are a pompous fool who acts before he thinks. My name is Hugh Corbett, I am senior clerk in the King's Chancery and his special emissary. The two corpses are Frenchmen. They were assassins. Now, if you still wish to arrest me, do so – but tomorrow I will be free and you will be in prison!'
Corbett dusted himself down, and with as much dignity as he could muster, walked back to the tavern.
They sat and finished their meal, Corbett chewing his food carefully and downing two cups of heady claret to calm his nerves. Ranulf was full of himself, rather peeved that his master did not thank him properly for his rescue, making sly references to his own archery.
'You took your time,' Corbett muttered ungraciously.
Maltote coughed and looked away.
'Master Corbett,' he said, 'that was my fault. One of the customers heard the fight We took the crossbow from the landlord. I shot a bolt' He looked away and swallowed hard. 'It completely missed.' His eyes flickered nervously at Corbett I just hope it didn't hit anyone else. Ranulf snatched it from me. You know the rest.' Corbett stared at his bold-faced servant. 'How many times, Ranulf?' 'How many times what. Master?' 'How many times have you saved my life?' Ranulf shrugged.
'It's my duty,' he replied so piously that Corbett leaned back and roared with laughter. He took his purse and emptied the coins on to the table.
'They are for you, Ranulf. My regards to your son. Maltote, you had better go with him.'
He put his hand over the young messenger's.
'Just promise me you'll never handle a crossbow whenever I am anywhere near you.'
Maltote smiled nervously and, led by Ranulf, left the tavern for a night of revelling.
Corbett sat muttering to himself, going over the questions which still vexed him. He realised that in his discussions with Ranulf he had not mentioned old Martha's death. Why did she die? What was so important about the phrase 'Sinistra non dextra'. Corbett stared down at his hands gripping the table edge. He had thought of it before. Was the old nun referring to hands? But whose? What did she mean by the phrase? He shook his head.
'On the left, not the right!' he muttered.
The landlord, passing by the table, stopped and looked strangely at Corbett but the clerk smiled and shook his head so the fellow wandered off. Corbett remained sitting for hours following various trains of thought whilst Ranulf, having seen his son, was bouncing about on the broad, silk-canopied bed of Mistress Semplar. The young merchant's wife, her old husband away at a Guild meeting, had been delighted to see her amorous gallant. How pleased Ranulf was now finding out, whilst outside the front door a drunken Maltote kept watch.
A day later, Corbett sat on the edge of his own bed in Leighton Manor watching Maeve busy herself round the room. He had returned earlier in the day and Maeve was as ecstatic to see him as he had been hungry for her. A hollow-eyed Maltote had taken a strangely exhausted Ranulf off to their own lodgings so the clerk and his wife had dined by themselves in the small hall below and spent the rest of the time here in their bedchamber. As usual Maeve had been full of questions. Whom had he met? Where had he been? How long would they stay?
Corbett had tried to give her reasonable answers, deliberately omitting any reference to the attack in Catte Street or the murder of Father Reynard. Nevertheless, Maeve's sharp eyes had missed nothing; her husband looked exhausted, troubled, and now she felt agitated. Hugh had referred to de Craon and Maeve knew enough about the Frenchman to realise he meant nothing but ill for her husband. However, she had kept a brave face, telling him about the affairs of the manor, assuring him that the child growing in her belly was as well as could be expected. She kept her own bad news to the last
'Hugh…' Maeve straightened up and pulled her shift around her. 'There's a letter for you. It came earlier this morning. It's from the King. He's coming south, he's at Bedford.'
'Bedford! He should be on the Scottish march. Maeve, the letter!'
His wife went over to a casket and took out a small roll of parchment.
I broke the seal, Hugh.' She stared coolly at him. 'What concerns you, concerns me.'
He undid the scroll carefully. The King's message was sharp and cool: he was both sad and angry that his 'beloved clerk, Hugh Corbett, has failed to report any progress on our business at Godstowe'. The letter continued in a taunting, angry fashion, insults thinly veiled, about how the King's trust had not been repaid. The King was so concerned, the letter concluded, he had left his army under the command of others and was journeying south to resolve the matter himself. Corbett crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it angrily at the wall. He glared at his wife.
'Hell's teeth, Maeve! St Bernard was right. The Plantagenets come from the Devil, and to the Devil they will surely go! Is it my fault if the King has spoilt his son and made him a laughing stock in Europe? What does he know about bloody-mouthed dogs, silent assassins and…' His voice faltered off at the frightened look on Maeve's face.
'You didn't tell me!' she accused, and took her husband by the hand.' But now you will.'
Corbett had no choice but told her from the beginning of the events at Godstowe. Maeve heard him out, quiedy holding his hand.
'This Dame Agatha,' she asked pointedly, 'is she beautiful?'
'Yes, almost as beautiful as you.'
'Is she fair of face?'
'Yes.'
'Did you like her?'
Corbett knew Maeve would sense any lie and, when angry, his wife could be frightening.
'Yes, I did,' he replied slowly. 'But that does not matter. Everything I have seen, Maeve, is what I am supposed to see. It may be real but it is not the truth.'
'Do you have any suspicions?'
Corbett haltingly told her what he had discovered. Maeve agreed that the old nun had probably been referring to Lady Eleanor's hands.
'That's the key, Hugh,' she observed.
'What is?'
'The old nun's death. Tell me about it.' Corbett shrugged.
'Dame Elizabeth came up and found the door unlocked. She went in behind the screen and discovered the old lady's body half immersed in a tub of water. There were no marks on the corpse. It could have been a seizure or the falling sickness.' He paused. 'There was also a trail of water on the floor, but would an assassin be so clumsy as to leave that?'
Maeve sat silent for a while. 'I don't know. Will you let the matter rest?' 'No.' Corbett patted her on the hand. 'Let me think for a while.'
He crossed the room, pulled back the arras on the far wall and went into his own secret chamber. He took a tinder, lit the candles on his desk and stared at the bundles of letters awaiting him. They had arrived during his absence and he had scanned them quickly. News from foreign courts, spies, envoys, merchants and other clerks. Only one of them concerned the business at Godstowe. A short note from a spy in Paris: Eudo Tailler's head had been fished from the Seine where it had been thrown in a sack.
'Christ have mercy on his soul,' Corbett whispered.
Tailler had sent his master the news about the mysterious de Montfort assassin. Had that cost him his life? If so, the price seemed too steep. Corbett had discovered no trace of any assassin active in England. He put the letter aside and took a fresh piece of parchment, smoothing it out and rubbing it clear with a pumice stone. He then began to itemise the problems and questions which confronted him. He worked for hours, taking each name and trying to draw up evidence to prove that person the murderer. Outside the dark woods and fields were silent as if waiting patiently for the approach of winter. Corbett dozed for a while and was suddenly awakened by a knocking on the chamber door. It swung open to reveal Maeve.
'The old nun, Hugh… isn't it strange?' She smiled. 'Remember I talk as a woman. Dame Martha wanted a bath and put a screen round the tub?'
Corbett rubbed his eyes and nodded.
'But if you go to the trouble of putting a screen round the tub, what else do you do?'
Corbett shook his head wearily.
'For God's sake, Hugh, any lady would do it! Your famous logic. She would lock the door!'
'So?'
'Oh, Hugh, think! You said the door was open.'
Corbett fed back in his chair and smiled.
'So, the old nun must have let her murderer in. She must have been in the bath, heard the knock and got out; the trail of water was not left by the murderer but the nun herself when she crossed to open the door.'
Corbett stared down at his piece of parchment.
'Thank you, Maeve,' he mumbled. But when he looked up, the door was closed and his wife had gone.
Corbett bathed his hands and face in the bowl of water standing on the lavarium. He reviewed his notes in the tight of what Maeve had said, and began to follow it through. He forced his arguments on, jumping gaps, circumventing difficulties or problems. The cold hand of fear pinched his stomach. He knew the murderer! Was it possible? He scratched his tousled hair and went back again, taking in all the facts and like the lawyer he was, drawing up a summary bill of prosecution. He shook his head. A jury might not accept that he had proved his case, but they would agree there was a case to answer.
Corbett suddenly remembered his last meeting with the nuns at Godstowe and his heart began to pound. They were all in danger, every one of them! He got to his feet, threw his cloak round him and went down to rouse Ranulf and Maltote, dragging both of them, sleepy-eyed, into the dark kitchen. He gave them instructions: they were to break fast, saddle the swiftest horses from the stables and leave with him.
'We go to London first,' he declared. 'Then,' he grinned, 'visit every tavern along the Oxford road.'
Of course they protested, but Corbett was adamant Within an hour he had kissed Maeve adieu and they were on the road south to Westminster. Corbett was determined to seek out the truth. He might not be able to stop murder at Godstowe, but at least he might trap the assassin who stalked the priory.
Corbett was right in his dread premonition. At Godstowe Priory Dame Frances was only a few minutes away from death. The self-important Sub-prioress was both disturbed and fearful. She was troubled, distracted in meditation, and often found herself staring into the middle distance when the other sisters were chanting Divine Office. She had told her confidante but she had been no help, and how could she approach the Lady Amelia? No, she thought, that was out of the question Dame Frances gazed round the small kitchen of the novitiate. Upstairs the young postulants were now retiring to bed in the long dormitory. Each knelt in her partitioned alcove, commending heart and soul to God and praying that Satan, who wandered around like a lion seeking his prey, did not harm their bodies or souls that night
Dame Frances sat down on a stool, her face in her hands. What that dour clerk had announced must be connected with the death of Lady Eleanor, and, perhaps the death of old Martha. Dame Frances had seen that motto, 'Noli me tangere' here, in Godstowe, but could not remember where or when. Should she flee the priory? Go to Westminster and seek an audience with Corbett or one of the King's Officers? But whom could she trust? Gaveston had his spies everywhere and the common jest was true, England had three kings; old Edward, his son and Gaveston. She stared dully at the logs crackling in the hearth. Perhaps she should wait her mind was tired. A good night's sleep and tomorrow she would plot and plan.
Dame Frances rose, picked up the bucket and stopped, heart in mouth, at a sound outside. Was there someone watching her? Or was it just the wind rustling the leaves along the grass? Dame Frances walked towards the fire, muttering a short prayer that all would be well. She was still praying as she emptied the bucket over the logs. Her mumbles rose instantly to a terrifying scream as the flames jumped from the fire, ran along the hearth, and caught her robe. In a few seconds, Dame Frances was a blazing human torch.
Only a few miles away other actors in the macabre drama surrounding Lady Eleanor's death were taking up new roles and stances. In his velvet-lined chamber, Piers Gaveston lay under the great, silken canopy of his four-poster bed, chewing his lip and wondering what would happen next He trusted his spy in London. Corbett had been snooping there and seized a juicy morsel, first visiting his old friend at St Bartholomew's and then the poisoner in Faltour's Lane. Gaveston had ordered the apothecary to be killed. He knew too much, and besides Gaveston could not understand why Lady Eleanor had not died of those powders. The apothecary had assured him that anyone who took them would gradually weaken and die as if from natural causes. The apothecary had lied and Lady Eleanor had been murdered by other means. So what should he do next? Gaveston looked at the young page boy standing near him, a goblet of wine in his small white hands. The favourite sat up and grabbed the cup so hastily splashes of wine fell on his silken, multi-coloured hose. He rounded in anger, slapping the page across his sulky, girlish face.
'Get out!' he roared. 'Get out, until you learn how to serve a lord!'
The boy hurried away, rubbing his flaming cheek, as Gaveston sipped from the goblet If only Corbett had kept his long nose out of this God-forsaken business! The royal favourite gazed moodily around the chamber. He would not forget Corbett a man to be reckoned with. Should he make him a friend? Gaveston bit his lip. Perhaps, but that was for the future. The old King was now hurrying south and with him would come those grizzled warlords who followed like mastiffs at the royal heels. Gaveston knew how much they hated him. If only the old King would die! Gaveston would keep the Prince sweet until then. He would confess all, go on his knees, say he was the Prince's slave, buy him expensive presents… But when would the old King die?
Gaveston rose and went across to an old, ironbound chest taking a ring of keys from a gold chain which hung around his neck. He undid the three locks and swung back the lid. He took out the waxen figure which also contained straw and fat from a hanged man. It wore a silver chaplet round its head. Then he removed a bowl of incense and a black inverted cross. Squatting down on the floor like a peasant, Gaveston began the dark satanic ritual learnt from his mother for the total destruction of his enemies.
In another chamber in the same palace Seigneur Amaury de Craon was also preparing to change tack. His assassins were dead, Philip would not be pleased by that; the dwarfs had carried out many an assassination on behalf of the French King and their skills and expertise would be sorely missed. De Craon pondered the choices facing him. If old Edward died, if he was murdered, what would the gossips say then? Would they hint at patricide? That the young Prince, or Gaveston, or both, not only murdered hapless ladies in convents but even the Lord's anointed?
De Craon shifted in his chair uneasily. He had searched for this assassin by silent threat and bribery but so far had discovered nothing. King Philip had sent him a name wrung from the captured spy Tailler, but de Craon could find no trace of such a man. De Craon smiled grimly to himself: Tailler had been brave and, to the very last, had told nothing but ties. Perhaps the assassin's fictitious name was Tailler's final joke. The envoy cursed quietly to himself. If only Corbett had been elsewhere. All might now depend upon that interfering, extremely lucky, English clerk. Perhaps he might fail? Perhaps Philip's final plan, of finding and using the de Montfort assassin, could still succeed? Or should he, de Craon wondered, abandon this game, resume his official status and demand the betrothal of the Prince of Wales to the Princess Isabella?