Angel of Death

quietly, 'the chalice was poisoned.'
    Corbett saw even the king's face go pale at the blasphemy he had uttered.
    'You mean,' Surrey interjected, 'that the wine, the consecrated wine, Christ's blood, was poisoned by somebody? Then it must have been someone who celebrated mass.'
    The earl came across the room and stared into Corbett's eyes.
    'You realize what you are saying, Clerk? That a priest or canons of this church, in the middle of mass, the most sacred of ceremonies, poisoned the consecrated chalice and gave it to de Montfort to drink?'
    'I do,' Corbett replied, gazing back steadily. He turned towards where the king stood. 'I urge Your Grace to order a guard placed round the high altar and that none of the chalices or patens or anything else be removed until we have examined them.'
    The king nodded and muttered a quiet command to Bassett, who bustled from the room.
    'This is clever,' the king said slowly. 'Whatever happens, we must be careful. Do we accept de Montfort's death and protest our innocence, for we are innocent, or investigate it? If the latter, each of those canons must be interrogated, which might cause a public scandal – and still we could find nothing. Indeed, we could be accused of trying to put the blame on innocent people.' The king chewed his lower lip and ran a beringed hand through his steel-grey hair. He took off his chaplet of silver and laid it unceremoniously on top of the tomb. 'What do you advise, Surrey?'
    'Let sleeping dogs lie!' the earl answered quickly. 'Leave it alone, Your Grace!'
    'Corbett?'
    'I would agree with my Lord of Surrey,' Corbett replied. 'But there is one thing we have forgotten.' 'What is that?'
    'The chalice,' Corbett replied. 'Do you remember, my Lord? You were to receive communion under both kinds. We must ask ourselves, was the chalice poisoned for de Montfort to drink? Or, Your Grace, was it poisoned for you?'
    The king rubbed his face in his hands and looked up at the gargoyles above the stone dog's-tooth tracery. Corbett followed his gaze. There, angels jutted out of the walls, their cheeks puffed to blow the last trumpet; beside them, the faces of demons, eyes protuberant, tongues lashing out perpetually in stone. Beneath these gargoyles, in a glorious array of purples, golds, reds and blues, was a painting of heaven: a golden paradise where souls of the blessed in white robes armed with golden harps sang to a Christ eternally in judgement, while beneath their feet, in a hellish haze of red and brown, scaled demons with the heads of monsters and the bodies of lions put the souls of the damned through unspeakable tortures. Corbett watched the king take all this in. Surrey, bored by what was going on, leaned against a wall and stared down at the ground as if he had nothing to add to Corbett's conclusions. The king walked over to the clerk, so close Hugh could smell the mixture of perfume and sweat from the heavy, gold-encrusted robes.
    'In this church, Hugh,' the king said softly, ignoring Surrey's presence as of no consequence, 'lies the body of another English king, Ethelred the Unready. The sword was never far from his house and all the heavens seemed to rage against him. Is that to be my fate?'
    Corbett could have felt some sympathy but as he watched the light blue eyes of the king, he wondered again whether Edward, the most consummate of actors, was simply allaying his own fears.
    'This murder must be resolved,' the king continued. 'Not because of de Montfort's death,' – he almost snapped the words out, 'I wish him good riddance and others of his ilk. But if someone intended to kill me, Corbett, I want him found.'
    'If that is so, Your Grace,' Corbett replied quickly, eager to escape this baleful royal presence, 'it is best if I examine the altar and the chalice. You agree?'
    The king nodded. 'Go. We shall wait for you here.'

4
    Corbett re-entered the sanctuary. The candles had been extinguished and the church cleared. In the far corner, Winchelsea and his host, the Bishop of London, stood in close conversation with Bohun and Bigod. Other nobles and ecclesiastical dignitaries stood round, their faces full of false concern, as if they had taken the events of that morning as a personal shock. A few canons stood gaping at the high altar now ringed by royal men-at-arms, who would allow no one through. Most of the people had left, though the drama of the morning's events the singing, the chants and the dreadful death hung as heavy in the air as the