Prince of Darkness

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