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 you 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.
'Lady Amelia?'
The Lady Prioress sat with arms crossed, staring down at the floor. Corbett crouched down beside her.
'Lady Amelia, tomorrow, in your chapter meeting after the morning Mass, tell your sisters that before Vespers I will speak to them and explain all that has happened.' He touched her gently under the chin and made her look up. 'My Lady, you must do that.'
'Yes, of course,' she mumbled, her once proud face now crumpled in fatigue and worry. She smiled wanly at Corbett and, like a sleepwalker, rose and left him.
Corbett sat down on the truckle bed, lay back, and though he did not intend to, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning he was roused early by the clanging of the priory bells. He felt cold, his arms and legs aching from the rough ride of the previous day. He went and roused a grumbling Ranulf and Maltote. Corbett then cleaned his boots, washed, changed his tunic and ravenously ate the bread and cheese brought up on a platter by an aged lay sister. He gave both Ranulf and Maltote careful instructions; he was going to inspect the burnt-out novice house. After a while they must follow him and be armed with dagger and sword.
'Ranulf, you bring a crossbow. Try not to be seen by anyone. Keep yourself hidden. But should you see anyone, threaten to attack. You are to shoot twice: once as a warning; the second time, make sure you kill whoever it is.'
Corbett repeated his instructions and, throwing his cloak about him, went downstairs. A thick sea mist had rolled in, obscuring most of the priory buildings. Corbett remembered the autumn sun during his previous visit and marvelled how quickly the weather had changed. Nevertheless, the mist helped his cause. He saw shadowy figures slip by him, their faces and footsteps muffled by the fog, as he made his way across to the blackened timber of the novice house. Corbett vaguely recalled the building as a pleasant two-storeyed affair: the fire must have caught the sun-dried timbers and turned it into this blackened mess. He picked his way carefully around the fire-scarred timbers of what was once the Kitchen. Here the blaze had started, Killing Dame Frances whilst the rest of the nuns, given some warning, had managed to jump out of the windows or find their way down the outside stairs.
Corbett could imagine the scene. The fire raging, greedily licking into the timbers and beams, while the sisters, the serenity of their lives shattered by the roaring flames, fled for safety. Against the far wall were the remains of the hearth. The stone here was so badly scorched the brick had turned to a blackened powder. Corbett stood before the hearth and looked around. Crouching down he dug his fingers into the now cold coal dust, picking it up, sniffing at it carefully. He glimpsed the twisted, molten remains of the metal water bucket: one of the sisters, hearing Dame Frances' screams, had hurried down, opened the scullery door, and had seen her companion, nothing more than a human torch, the iron water bucket lying at her feet.
'The poor woman,' Lady Amelia had told him, 'could do nothing to save Dame Frances, who was being consumed by a sheet of fire. The sister saw the bucket near Dame Frances' feet before she closed the door and ran to raise the alarm for help. Thank God,' Lady Amelia had murmured, 'otherwise more lives would have been lost!'
Corbett now examined the blackened remains of the water bucket He already had a vague idea of how Dame Frances had been killed and, sniffing carefully at it caught the foulsome stench of burnt animal fat He threw the thing away, brushed his fingers and left the blackened ruin. Through the mist he could see the vague outlines of the priory church and followed its outline round to the ruined oak stump where Lady Eleanor had received her mysterious messages. He leaned against it, staring across at the priory wall, shuddering when he remembered how Gaveston's dogs had nearly tore him to pieces. He heard a sound behind him. The snapping of twigs as someone moved over the thick, soggy mass of fallen leaves.
I wondered when you would come?' he called, not bothering to turn. 'I knew you would. Once the Lady Prioress made her announcement. It's always the way with assassins, they hate the light of day.'
Corbett spun round quickly and stared at the cowled, shadowy figure before him.
'Let me warn you,' he continued softly, 'my manservant is here somewhere in the mist He has a crossbow and his orders. So any knife you might have in your hand had better be put back in its sheath!'
The figure moved forward and one white hand came up, clawing back both hood and wimple as Dame Agatha shook her lustrous blonde hair free. Corbett had rarely seen such beauty. The mass of silver hair framed a perfectly formed face, though the lips seemed thinner, the eyes above the high cheek bones cold and unsmiling.
I knew it was you,' he said. 'It had to be. You killed the Lady Eleanor. You then slew the old one, Dame Martha, and finally Sister Frances. But who are you?' he whispered.
'My true name is Agatha de Courcy, so I always told only half a lie!' She laughed, though her eyes never faltered in their steady gaze.
'And what happened to the real nun who left Gascony?'
'Oh, come, Master Corbett, don't be so coy! Let me see how much of the truth you really know.'
Corbett's hand went beneath his cloak, touching the hilt of the dagger he had hidden there. The young woman moved closer and Corbett realised her hands were still concealed. He took a deep breath and prayed that Ranulf was somewhere watching this small drama being played out.
'Let me see.' He leaned against the old oak tree. 'Eighteen months ago, Mistress Deveril, though she used another name, left Gascony and landed at Dover. She was an orphan of noble lineage with no immediate family. She was accompanied to England by a young page – his name does not concern us. Mistress Deveril took the road skirting London on to the old Roman highway bound for Oxford, Woodstock, and then Godstowe. You knew of her arrival and followed her discreetly. You joined them, probably after they left Godstowe village. You struck up an acquaintance, your offer to accompany them being gratefully accepted. I suspect you were disguised as a personable young man, a merry companion for the Gascons, after what must have been a long and gruelling journey. You were very clever, Agatha, your disguise was perfect Only the landlord glimpsed you. He, like others, mentioned some young gallant who passed through the village about the same time. But, of course, he can help us no further, being torn to death by Gaveston's dogs. I am correct, am I not?'
The young woman pursed her lips and, for a few brief seconds, smiled sweetly, reminding Corbett of the pious, beautiful, young nun he once knew.
'How did I know?' she asked. 'Who lands at Dover and takes the road to Oxford?'
'Oh, I'll answer all that in due course. But for the rest? Well, you managed to persuade the young lady to leave the Godstowe road for a spot you had previously chosen. Perhaps take a noonday rest and sip some wine. She and her page boy probably dozed. Indeed,' Corbett stirred, staring behind the nun into the mist, 'they may have slept more deeply than they ever intended. The wine you proffered was probably drugged. Once asleep they were easy victims. You slit both their throats, stripped the corpses, changed your own robes and took Deveril's name as well as the letters of introduction. Your only mistake was mat the small lap dog Deveril carried was either overlooked or ran away. The woman's belongings you kept for yourself. The rest, including your own clothes, now lie at the bottom of some deep, evil-smelling swamp. The horses?' Corbett shrugged. 'Naturally, you kept one, that and a sumpter pony. The other two were turned loose. A nice gift for some peasant farmer who would keep his mouth firmly shut Then you come to Godstowe, armed with letters proclaiming you to be Deveril You take your vows, you are personable, you ingratiate yourself both with Lady Amelia and Lady Eleanor. And who would suspect you?'
Agatha de Courcy nodded.
'Very good!' she murmured. 'Very good indeed!'
'The only person who did catch a glimmer of the truth was poor Dame Frances. You see, I found the collar of the lap dog and it still bore the Deveril's family motto: "Noli me tangere". Dame Frances, of course, remembered. She must have seen it on some of the murdered woman's belongings when you first entered the priory but she probably could not place it immediately. And who would she tell? None other but the ever patient, attentive Dame Agatha -so Dame Frances too had to die. A staid nun, with a set routine and customs; you would remember from your few weeks in the novitiate how careful Dame Frances was to douse the fire with water. She always insisted on doing it herself and that made it easy for you. Only the night she died, the bucket she used was full of oil, not water.' Corbett secretly marvelled at the cool composure of his opponent. 'The fire exploded, spilling out on to the hearth, licking at the few drops on the floor, and in seconds Dame Frances was a blazing torch and your secret was safe.'
Agatha joined her hands together, raising her fingers to her lips as if she was a teacher teasing a rather clever pupil.
'Master Corbett, you've told me how I am supposed to have killed this woman, but not the reason why.'
'Don't play games!' Corbett snapped. 'You know the reason. De Montfort was a rebel against the King, a Deveril was one of his generals. According to the records, after de Montfort's defeat, the Deveril line died out so the woman was probably the offspring of some illegitimate issue who fled to Gascony where she was raised to hate Edward of England.'
'And the King would allow a Deveril back into the country?'
'Only if she changed her name. As I have said, I suspect she was an orphan and, using a false name, wrote to Lady Amelia asking permission to join the Nuns of Syon and offering to pay the usual dowry fee. When her request was granted, she sought licence to enter England.' Corbett stared at Agatha. 'Oh, come, what name did she use?'
Agatha gazed coolly back.
'Let me try another tack,' Corbett continued. 'By what name were you called when you entered Godstowe Priory?'
Agatha giggled as if Corbett had posed some riddle.
I took the religious name of Agatha, really my own, but if you ask the Lady Prioress, she will tell you I entered these walls as Marie Savigny.'
Corbett sighed.
'So it was Marie Savigny you killed in the forest outside Godstowe?'
Agatha chewed on her lip.
'Let us say you are correct, Corbett. How would I know this Marie Savigny was secretly a member of the de Montfort coven, who wanted to come to England to plot mischief, perhaps even murder? And how would I learn when she would come and what route she would take?'
'You know full well! The King himself told you. You're his assassin.'
'If Deveril changed her name, why did she carry the motto of her family with her?' Corbett shrugged.
'Few would recognise it as belonging to a noble family disgraced some forty years earlier. How many nuns at Godstowe, never mind barons at the King's court, would recognise the Deveril motto?'
'But this Marie would speak fluent French.'
'As do you,' Corbett replied. 'As well as others in this benighted place.'
Agatha stepped closer, covering her head with her hood against the drops of rain which dripped from the overhanging branches of the oak tree.
'Oh, Hugh,' she whispered, 'the King was right. You may be squeamish but always so logical.'
'Perhaps I am not,' Corbett answered tartly. 'Marie Savigny or Deveril was murdered in the forest of Godstowe and you appeared in the priory at the same time. Perhaps I should have deduced something immediately from that coincidence. But, of course, Marie Savigny was awaited. She arrived and Godstowe expected no one else.' Corbett's voice trailed off.
'Oh, come, Hugh,' she murmured. 'Don't blame yourself. The woman was a foreigner, travelling under a false name, with no clue as to her real identity. Who would suspect that a pious nun like myself could be guilty of such an act?' She tossed her head. 'And if they did, who would care? Marie planned treason, whilst I enjoy the King's protection.' She smiled. 'I never intended to stay long enough for anything to threaten me. So there's no real mystery!'
Corbett raised his hand and touched the ruined oak behind him.
'You are right. This is where the real mystery begins. You came here to watch the Lady Eleanor and make sure she did nothing foolish, such as escape or cause scandal at the English court. How alarmed you must have been to discover she was receiving secret messages from some mysterious adviser, who also promised he would arrange her escape from Godstowe! Now, on the Sunday she died, Lady Eleanor abruptly broke with custom, refusing to go to Compline, and someone as alert as you must have seen the secret preparations she had made.' Corbett's hand went back beneath his cloak to the dagger. 'So you went along the corridor to her room. The door was locked but the Lady Eleanor could trust Dame Agatha, who was ever solicitous for her happiness. She let you in, and the rest…' Corbett stared up, noting how the autumn sun was beginning to pierce the heavy mist 'Like the professional assassin you undoubtedly are, you broke her neck. Quite simple, I understand, for a skilled murderer. A matter of touch, of knowing where to hold and quickly turn,'
The woman's hands suddenly appeared from beneath her cloak. Corbett steeled himself but Agatha only moved the wisps of blonde hair from her forehead. She cocked her head slightly to one side, staring at Corbett, a slight smile on her lips as if he was telling her some merry jest or interesting tale.
'You are a clever clerk,' she replied with an air of mock innocence. 'You really are. But you forget – I was in the sacristy preparing for Compline.'
'Oh, I am sure you were,' Corbett retorted brusquely.
'And remember,' she quipped, 'Dames Martha and Elizabeth recalled seeing Lady Eleanor walking in the grounds below their window just before Compline.' Agatha's eyes rounded in wonderment 'So,' she murmured, 'how can a woman be dead and at the same time walking, waving her hands and talking?'
'They saw someone. They thought they saw the Lady Eleanor cloaked and hooded, but of course it was you. After you bad slain the lady, you took one of her cloaks as well as the ring from her finger. Now suitably disguised, you went downstairs and into the grounds towards the priory church. Dame Martha indeed, as I suspect you were hoping she would, saw you and called out You turned, shouted something back and waved your hand. Both Dames Elizabeth and Martha were deaf, so whatever you said or how you said it would not cause any alarm. Moreover, being old and poor-sighted, they could not distinguish you from Lady Eleanor. After all, you and the dead woman bore a passing resemblance, being young, fair-haired, and of course you wore her cloak and ring.' Corbett smiled. 'Remember, people see what they think they should see.'
'But what would have happened if someone had met me?'
'But who would dare approach the aloof Lady Eleanor? The Lady Prioress was in church, the other nuns preparing for Compline, and it was only a short walk. Once you reached the sacristy door at the back of the church, you took off and hid both robe and ring and entered the sacristy as Dame Agatha, the dutiful nun. You have established, at least in the eyes of others who weren't watching precise times, that at the very moment you were in the church, the Lady Eleanor was still alive.
'Of course, you made another mistake, didn't you? You were hoping that Dame Martha, like everyone else, saw what you wanted them to see: a woman wearing Lady Eleanor's cloak and ring must be Lady Eleanor. But the old nun was sharp. When you waved your hand, the huge sapphire ring flashed in the sunlight. Poor-sighted as they were, they caught the brilliant light of the jewel, but you had mistakenly put it on your left hand, whereas Lady Eleanor always wore the ring on the right. The old nun remembered this, hence her constant little riddle: "Sinistra non dextra" – "on the left, not the right". She could not understand it.'
Agatha drew a little closer. Corbett noted she had lost some of her arrogance and was more watchful. She kept squarely in front of him, as if trying to block his view of what might be happening behind her.
'Let us say,' she replied quietly, 'that it happened as you described. I admit a cloak would not be missed, but a precious ring? Remember, the Lady Prioress found the corpse at the bottom of the stairs!'
'Of course you know that's a lie! The Lady Prioress, anxious about the whereabouts of the Lady Eleanor, left the refectory and went back to the darkened convent building. They found Lady Eleanor dead in her chamber and, concerned about the possible consequences, took her body to the foot of the stairs to make it look like an accident. It was dark, they were frightened, and would not notice the ring was missing. If anyone did, the logical explanation was that it had fallen off. Of course, they sent for you to help take the corpse back up to the chamber. That's when you thrust the ring back on to the dead woman's finger.' Corbett paused. 'Most subtle,' he added. 'You knew Lady Amelia would find the corpse and, for the good name of Godstowe, try to disguise Lady Eleanor's death as an accident You, an assassin, cleverly used innocent nuns such as Lady Amelia and Dame Martha to protect yourself. Whether they liked it or not, they became your accomplices; Lady Eleanor's death was made so confusing, no one would ever discover the truth.'
Corbett, now concerned by the smiling malevolence which confronted him, pulled the dagger from its sheath.
'That,' he continued, 'would have been the end of the matter, but Dame Martha had to chatter and threaten to talk to the Lady Prioress. Did you understand her riddle?'
Agatha smiled.
'You found killing her easy,' Corbett continued. 'Old Martha prepared a bath. She put up a screen and locked her chamber door. You, the ever caring sister, came along, probably with a bar of soap. The old nun gets out of the bath, leaving a trail of water on the floor as she unlocks the door. You give her the soap, chattering merrily as Dame Martha goes behind the screen back into the tub. She was an old lady, her death would have been quick. Perhaps you pulled her by the ankles, dragging her head beneath the water? Any sailor would ted you a swift inrush of water to the mouth and nose makes you speedily lose consciousness. You pick up the cake of soap and leave as quietly as you entered.'
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.
'Your Grace, you sent for me?'
'There's a woman,' Edward began slowly. 'She lives in a house opposite The Swindlestock tavern near the church of St Catherine's by the Tower. She is both a traitress and a murderess.'
'Her name?'
'Agatha de Courcy.' Edward cleared his throat. 'She must die. Her crimes are self-confessed but for reasons of state cannot be divulged. You will take care of it, de Warenne. Make sure it is fast. Let her suspect nothing.'
'Your Grace, on what authority do I do this?'
The King smiled to himself, and without turning proffered the piece of parchment he had just written upon. De Warenne took it and read the words carefully.
'What the bearer of this document has done,' it ran, 'he has done for the sake of the Crown and the good of the realm.'
De Warenne bowed and slipped silently from the room. Author's Note
In 1301 Edward I and his son did have a violent altercation: the reason for this dispute is not known though the Prince of Wales certainly had a mistress by whom he had an illegitimate son. In the light of Philip IV's negotiations to marry his daughter off to the Prince of Wales, the mistress may have been 'retired' to accommodate French wishes. A similar move against the Prince's friend Gaveston, may also have figured in the row between King and Prince.
This betrothal and marriage had been imposed upon England by a Papacy very much in the pocket of Philip IV; Edward of England had to accept it or lose the beautiful, rich vineyards of Gascony in southwest France. The treaty was signed in 1298 and, for ten years, Edward of England squirmed like a snake trying to extricate himself from it Philip of France, however, held fast. There are documents in both the Record Office, London, and the Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris, which demonstrate how Philip was going to use this marriage to make one grandson Duke of Gascony and another King of England. As in modern diplomacy, such ventures can backfire; Philip's three sons failed to beget an heir and Isabella's son, the great warrior King Edward III, immediately laid claim to the throne of France and plunged that country into a hundred years of wasteful war.
Edward's infatuation with Piers Gaveston is well documented. Most historians concede that Edward was bisexual; the young prince openly declared that he loved his favourite 'more than life itself.. Gaveston was a Gascon upstart whose mother was burned as a witch and there were allegations that he, too, dabbled in the Black Arts. Eventually King Edward I exiled him but when his son became King, Gaveston was recalled and made Duke of Cornwall. The young king did marry Isabella but handed all of Philip IV's wedding gifts, including the bridal bed, over to Gaveston. The royal favourite also organised their coronation and made a complete nonsense of it; the food was cold, spectators were killed in the crush, and Gaveston upset the established nobles of England by his pre-eminence during the coronation ceremony. The young Gascon made matters worse by being handsome, an excellent jouster and very witty in choosing nicknames for Edward's nobles. He remained witty even unto death.
In 1312 the English barons captured him and led him to Blacklow Hill in Warwickshire. Gaveston turned to one of his captors, the Earl of Warwick, and said, 'My Lord, surely you will not spoil my looks by striking off my head?' Warwick happily obliged and struck Gaveston to the heart with his dagger. The young Edward was distraught He had Gaveston's body embalmed and kept in bis palace at Kings Langley until the Church forced him to carry out the funeral ceremony.
There is an interesting link between Edward II's favour- ites and the English royal family in the last decade of the twentieth century. After Gaveston's death, Edward chose a new favourite, the very sinister but able Hugh de Spencer, whose tomb can still be seen in Tewkesbury Abbey, Gloucestershire. De Spencer's control over the young king led to civil war between Edward and his Isabella. The Queen was victorious. De Spencer died a horrible death and, according to unpublished chronicle, the Commons took an oath never to allow a de Spencer to become King. The present marriage of Charles, Prince of Wales, to Diana Spencer, one of Hugh's descendants and mother of a future King, perhaps lifts the curse on one of England's most ancient families.