Angel of Death

do not bear such grudges lightly.'
    Edward, when crossed, was a vindictive man, as the sack of Berwick proved. Corbett himself owed a great deal to the king. He had risen through the ranks to become a senior clerk in the chancery, with fat fees, two pleasant town houses and a manor with good land and grazing near Lewes in Sussex. Nevertheless, he was always wary of the king, for Edward's temper, since the death of his beloved Eleanor, was always fickle and his moods could swerve abruptly like a wind at sea arising suddenly to destroy anything in its path. Edward's anger could lash and vindictively punish even great lords who dared to oppose him.
    Corbett suddenly reasserted himself. The consecration prayer had finished; there would be the kiss of peace before the Eucharist was shared. De Montfort, grandly attired in gold and purple copes, walked down the altar steps towards the king and, bowing, put his hands lightly on the king's shoulders and kissed him gently on each cheek.
    'Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum.'
    'Et cum spirituo,' the king whispered.
    Then de Montfort, resplendent in liturgical robes as well as his own arrogance, walked back to the altar where the mass continued.
    The choirs sang the Agnus Dei emphasizing the 'miserere nobis', their chant trailing away, lost in the high vault of the cathedral. Corbett felt himself relax; the music soothed and calmed him. There was little point in worrying and he began to search his own soul in preparation for the sacrament. The Host was elevated, the bells rung. Corbett looked at Ranulf to ensure he still had the proper pious expression. There was a short interruption in the service as the Host was passed around, the celebrant priests now in a huddle around the altar, then the chalice was circulated. Corbett saw de Montfort turn to elevate the Host to the rest of the congregation.
    'Ecce Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi – Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. Suddenly de Montfort went rigid and the ciborium slipped from his hand, dashing the white hosts like snowflakes onto the altar steps. The man's hand went out, pointing at the king, his usually skull-like face now almost cadaverous, the skin drawn tight, the eyes bulging. Corbett rose, his hand searching for the knife beneath his cloak. De Montfort's mouth opened and shut like a landed carp, then with a loud cry he fell headlong down the steps, his skull crashing against the stone. For a few seconds there was absolute silence, followed by consternation. Several knights of the royal household ran up, pushing their way through the crowds into the sanctuary, looking around up into the nave to see if de Montfort had been brought down by some mysterious assassin. There was shouting, screaming. Corbett saw Sir Fulk Bassett, a young knight banneret and a member of Edward's household, go across the sanctuary and kneel beside de Montfort's rigid body. He gave him the most superficial look, turned and shouted across to the king.
    'Sire!' Corbett saw Bassett feel the man's throat. 'I think he is dead.'
    A young deacon, his gold vestments swirling around him like the dress of a woman, hurried up to Winchelsea.
    'My Lord Bishop,' he stuttered, 'the priest is dead.'
    Winchelsea glanced sideways at the king.
    'Have his body removed,' he replied softly. 'And do not finish the service.' The man, bowing and bobbing, scurried away.
    Winchelsea turned to the king. 'Your Grace,' he said wryly, 'it appears there will be no sermon,'
    'And will I get my taxes, my Lord Bishop?'
    'Not till this matter is resolved,' Winchelsea snapped back. He leaned over to the king. 'I must urge Your Grace to respect the rights of the Church, fought for and protected by the papacy and sealed with the blood of the martyred Becket.'
    The king leaned forward, his face suffused with rage.
    'Sometimes, my Lord Bishop,' he rasped quietly, 'it would appear the Blessed Becket richly deserved what he got.'
    Winchelsea recoiled at such blasphemy and was about to reply when a strident, wailing cry cut across the sanctuary. Corbett, who had heard the exchange between the bishop and the king, stared around. The sound came from a slit in the far sanctuary wall, from which a scrawny, skeletal hand suddenly shot out.
    'It's the anchorite,' Ranulf whispered. 'There is an anchorage over there.' Again the wailing screech, followed by a deep sepulchral voice.
    'And the Lord sent out the Angel of Death over the Egyptians and he struck them. The