Angel of Death

'They have stopped de Montfort speaking on my behalf and yet,' the king laughed falsely, 'they have made it appear I was responsible for his death. A clever move, Master Corbett. A brilliant stratgem.'
    Corbett shook his head. 'I believe it is worse than that. There is an assassin in this city, Your Grace, who wants you dead. De Montfort was simply a means to an end. I actually believe,' Corbett continued, 'that something went wrong with the plot. One day I hope to prove it.'
    The king leaned forward and virtually jabbed his finger in Corbett's face. 'Give me one shred of proof for this.'
    'There is one shred of proof. The wine you sent. Why should someone make the clumsy mistake of poisoning it? After all, with de Montfort dead and no speech, why poison the wine? A matter known only to me and one of the canons of St Paul's.' Corbett chewed his lip. 'You see, Your Grace, the murderer, the assassin, made a fatal error. He panicked, for the wine was poisoned not before de Montfort's death but afterwards, to make it look as if you were responsible.'
    The king rubbed his face and Corbett waited for him to speak.
    'Well, well, Master Clerk,' he finally concluded. 'If you still have your doubts, you had better continue with this matter.'
    'I will, Your Grace, on one condition.' The king looked sharply at him. 'On the one condition,' Corbett repeated firmly, 'that you tell me now whatever information you have about de Montfort. If I had known yesterday what you told me today it may have made my task easier.'
    The king rose and walked across the room to peer through a crack in one of the shutters. Outside, the beautiful rose gardens of Westminster were carpeted in thick white snow. Nothing grew, no plants, no grass. He was tired of this interview. He feared men like Corbett, men from nowhere, with brains as sharp as the finest razors, a man who could not be bought. Edward knew, deep in his heart, that if Corbett was ever given a task which went against his conscience, the clerk would not do it. If Corbett found a matter which should be rectified, irrespective of the royal wishes, Edward suspected that Corbett would see it as a matter of conscience to do so. The king respected Corbett but saw him as a prig and slightly self-righteous. Edward sighed. He did not really care who had killed the pathetic de Montfort, a base-born, mercenary priest! Edward knew such men could be bought with anything, a house, gold, promotion to high office. What he really wanted was to find out who had spoiled his plan to embarrass Winchelsea. The king felt the rage still seething within him. Oh, how he would have loved to have listened to de Montfort's speech and quietly relished the stupefaction on Winchelsea's face and those of his sanctimonious fellow bishops! The king wanted that. And, above all, he needed the money the Church had in its bulging coffers to launch fresh raids across the Scottish march; to equip a new fleet and take it to Flanders; send his armies across France's northern borders; teach Philip of France a sharp, hard lesson of how English lands there were best left alone. It might still be possible. Perhaps Corbett would achieve this or, at least, help to achieve it. The king turned and smiled at Corbett.
    'Master Clerk, I can tell you nothing more. You have our full assurance that whatever you do to unearth the terrible murderer and blasphemer will be supported by us, however long it takes.'
    Corbett, recognizing the sign for dismissal, rose, bowed and backed out of the room. In the passageway he gave a deep sigh, grateful the meeting was over. He was fully aware Edward did not really like him but Corbett was equally determined to show the king that he did not trust him. He heard a door open and spun round. The king stood there still smiling like some indulgent father.
    'Master Corbett,' he called out, 'your betrothed in Wales, Maeve ap Morgan?'
    Corbett nodded.
    'If this matter is resolved, we will let you leave our service so you can visit her.' The king continued to smile. 'Indeed, if it is resolved quickly, we will ensure she is brought here to London, to our court. Of course, if you fail,' the king bit his lip as if reluctant to continue. 'But,' he added ominously, 'we are sure you will not fail us.'
    Corbett again bowed. When the door was closed he spun on his heel and strode down the corridor, aware of both the royal promise as well as the silent threat.
    Corbett spent the rest of the day in his own writing-room, drawing