Song of a Dark Angel

fellow's hand and quietly closed the door behind him.
    The room contained three beds with thick mattresses and heavy bolsters, probably of swan feather. Woollen rugs were strewn across the wooden floor and so many candles were lit that the chamber reminded Corbett of a church. After his gruelling journey, Corbett found it warm, sweet-smelling and comfortable. A chest stood at the foot of each bed, a large cupboard against the wall. There were two wall-paintings. One was of Christ arguing with Satan, done in brilliant, vivid colours so that in the flickering candelight the black demon seemed to writhe before Christ. The other was more restful; it was of a young lady working on a piece of tapestry beneath a window which looked out on to a light blue sea.
    Ranulf and Maltote were already chatting. They sat on the edge of a bed, bemoaning the cold, wild emptiness of the countryside. The servants had already unpacked their saddlebags. Corbett's chancery pouch was, of course, untouched – it was buckled and secured with his personal seal. Corbett walked across the room and unfastened the shutters on one of the windows. There was a small, opening panel in the leaded glass. Ignoring Ranulf's protests, Corbett pushed it open, allowing the cold night air to seep in. The window must have overlooked the cliffs, for he could hear the faint murmur of the sea. The mist parted. He caught a glimpse of water and heard the faint cry of gulls. He closed the window against the cold, just as a huge moth, attracted by the light, fluttered in.
    'Why are we here, Master? I mean, why are we really here?' Ranulf spoke up for himself and Maltote.
    'I don't know,' Corbett replied. 'All I know is that the king and John de Warenne have some secret stratagem, that is why Monck is here. But time will tell.' He stared at the leaden-paned glass. 'It will be dark in London. Maeve will still be at table. Uncle Morgan will be singing his heart out.'
    Corbett chewed his lip. Maeve's uncle had come for a few weeks and stayed almost a year. The boisterous Welsh lord was for ever on the move, drinking in the scenes of London as well as every pot of ale on offer. He'd then stagger home to take his great-niece, the baby Eleanor, and sing her to sleep with some Welsh lullaby.
    'I should be there,' Corbett said only half aloud.
    'What was that. Master?'
    Corbett, not bothering to turn, shook his head. Ranulf pulled a face and winked at Maltote.
    'Old Master Long Face,' he whispered, 'is in one of his moods!'
    For once, Ranulf was correct. Corbett was worried. He had spent too much time away from Maeve and his daughter. Oh, his wife could more than cope. She ran their business affairs with a shrewdness that made her the terror of every merchant and the manor at Leighton was rich and prosperous in its crops. But the king was growing old, his moods becoming more sharp and cruel. And when he died, what then? Would the Prince of Wales, with his love of hunting, music and handsome young men, still need Corbett's services? The war with France would end – the Prince of Wales was already betrothed to Philip IV's daughter Isabella. In Scotland, Wallace would be beaten – it was only a matter of time before the king's troops hunted him down and either killed him or brought him south for execution.
    Perhaps, Corbett thought, I should leave the royal service now – follow the example of Gurney and retire to my manor, raising crops and tending sheep, and turn merchant and sell the wool to the looms of Flanders. He smiled to himself. When he had said as much to Maeve, she had shrieked with laughter, falling back on to the bolsters, her silver hair fanned out around her. She had giggled so much Corbett couldn't even kiss her quiet. 'You a farmer!' she'd teased him. 'I can just imagine that. You'd be drawing reports up on what the rams were doing, how the apples grew and whether the orchard was in the best place.'
    'Sometimes I tire of my job,' Corbett had replied heatedly.
    Maeve had sobered up. She lay in the four-poster bed, hugging the blankets around her.
    'You don't like your job, Hugh? You may hate the tasks the king assigns you but perhaps that's what makes you so good at it?' She leaned over and took her husband's dark face in her hands. 'Whatever you say, Hugh Corbett, you have a hunger for the truth and…'
    'And what?' Corbett had asked.
    Maeve had giggled.
    'As Ranulf says, a very long face!'
    Corbett looked up as the moth beat against the window pane.
    'It's