Song of a Dark Angel

and Philip were technically at peace, in practice war still disrupted commerce. Gurney, like others, was suffering the consequences. Now Corbett was here, holder of the royal secrets and, if some men could be believed, custodian of the king's conscience.
    'A bloody business!' Gurney blurted out the words before he could stop himself.
    Corbett spread his hands out towards the flames and turned to him.
    'What is?'
    Gurney laughed sourly. 'Hugh, I am your friend. Don't play your subtle games with me.'
    Corbett smiled an apology and inclined his head.
    'A bloody business,' Gurney repeated. 'A woman found hanging on the gallows. A servant decapitated on the beach. Graves plundered. Stories of black magic, of fires at the crossroads, of strange noises at the dead of night, of demon hags riding the air. And now the bloody Pastoureaux!'
    'A time of troubles indeed, Sir Simon.'
    Corbett spun round. Lavinius Monck was leaning rather languidly against the door lintel, arms folded. Corbett rose and went towards him.
    'Lavinius!' He stretched out his hand. 'It's been some months.'
    Monck limply took Corbett's outstretched hand and patted it.
    'My dear Hugh,' he lisped, though Lavinius's obsidian eyes never moved.
    Corbett stepped back. Why do I always find this man so sinister, he thought? Lavinius, dressed now in black leather, always reminded Corbett of a cruel raven, with his black, greasy hair, smooth-shaven, sour face, beak of a nose and eyes which never seemed to close. Lavinius slapped his leather riding gloves from hand to hand and walked into the room.
    'Sir Simon, Lady Alice.'
    'You had a good day, Master Monck?'
    Gurney got to his feet. From the set of his mouth and his dour look it seemed that he too disliked the secretive, sly clerk of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey. Monck smiled, or rather twisted his face in a grimace, took off his cloak and threw it on a bench. He took a cup of posset from a servant and sat down in the chair another had pushed up to the half-circle in front of the fire. Monck crossed his legs arrogantly, flicking flecks of mud from his knee. He stared into the fire with an infuriating smile that suggested he was the guardian of some great secret. Gurney refilled his own cup from a jug of claret on one of the aumbries and rejoined his guests, shaking off his wife's warning touch.
    'I asked you a question. Did you have a good day?'
    Monck smiled and sipped from his cup.
    'Sir Simon, for me every day is good. I have ridden around your estates. I have drunk some foul ale at the tavern in the village and I have listened.' His face grew hard. 'I will continue to listen and I will continue to hunt until I find the murderer of my servant Cerdic and see him or her dangling from that gibbet of yours on the cliff top!' 'And the Pastoureaux?' Alice asked.
    'Crouching like rabbits,' Monck replied contemptuously. 'They never seem to leave their Hermitage. And you, dearest Hugh, your journey?'
    'Hard and cold. The King sends you his greetings, as does the Earl of Surrey.'
    Monck moved in the chair, his leather jacket creaking. Corbett realized that the man, despite his heavy clothing, was impervious to the raw heat of the fire.
    'And why are you here, Hugh?' Monck peered at Ranulf, who stared coldly back. 'Why do Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal, and his loyal but rather lecherous servant Ranulf-atte-Newgate wander the wilds of Norfolk?'
    Corbett stared into his cup. He really did hate this man. Lavinius Monck was the Earl of Surrey's principal clerk, spy and professional assassin. Trained in the halls of Cambridge, Monck had won a name for ruthlessness, unwavering loyalty and a cunning that would be the envy of any fox. If John de Warenne was the king's right hand then Monck was a dagger in that hand. Corbett usually kept well away from him, but sometimes, when necessity demanded it, they had to cooperate and share information.
    'Why, Hugh?' Monck repeated with mock severity.
    Corbett opened the wallet in his belt and brought out a small roll of parchment. Monck grabbed it greedily. He broke the purple wax seal, opened it, leaned forward and studied its contents by the light of the fire.
    'Sealed by the king at Swaffham four days ago.' He looked up and grinned, his white, well-set teeth reminding Corbett of one of the king's hunting dogs. 'I see. You are sent to assist me.' He emphasized the phrase. 'Do you understand that, Sir Hugh?'
    'I understand,' Corbett replied. 'But assist you in what,