Angel of Death

certain details before calling Ranulf down and instructing him to take Enderby to a nearby tavern to find him lodgings, before the messenger's return to Essex. Once he was gone, Corbett lay on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head, and once again considered de Montfort's death. So far, he had concentrated solely on the canons of St Paul's but there were others who would wish him dead. The courtesan had said this and she had also been present. Did Thomas, the steward, have a hand in this? Did he in fact kill his master? Was the king totally blameless? After all, and Corbett had consistently overlooked this fact, the king hated the de Montfort family. There were yet others who, if they had known de Montfort had been bought, would have gladly destroyed him. Was Robert Winchelsea, His Reverence the Archbishop of Canterbury, above murder? Corbett would have liked to think so but, having spent some time with the canons of St Paul's, believed priests and bishops were as capable of murder as any member of the laity. Finally, there were the barons. Corbett had heard rumours, about how the barons were gathering, plotting in secret meetings, trying to resist Edward's demands to follow him abroad.
    Corbett let the questions swirl round his mind until he returned to the nagging half-memory of what he had seen on the altar. He had to concentrate on this matter, try and resolve it and perhaps some progress would be made. Accordingly, when Ranulf returned, Corbett asked him to go to St Paul's to seek out Sir Philip Plumpton and ask the canon, on the king's orders, to meet Corbett on the high altar once nones were completed. After that Corbett penned a short letter to the king describing what he had done and admitting that he had made little progress in the matter. He hoped the king would not be at Westminster when the message arrived. This would give him more time; for, if the king was displeased, he would simply send a curt order instructing Corbett to show some fruits of his hard labour.
    The clerk spent the rest of the afternoon in his chamber thinking over the details and the facts he had garnered about de Montfort's death. He became resdess and would have gone out if it had not been for the cold mist seeping in through the chinks and cracks of the shutters. So he stayed inside, warming himself by the brazier. Corbett wrote a short message to Maeve, saying how much he missed her and hoped that spring would soon come so that he could see her again. He tried to joke about warming his heart and soul on the fires of her love and hoped it wouldn't read as clumsily as it sounded.
    Ranulf returned and announced that he was going to the city. Corbett nodded absent-mindedly and let him go. Once his servant had clattered down the stairs, Corbett took up his flute, but only played a few notes before throwing it onto his bed. He opened the trunk at the bottom of his bed and took out a small leather pouch. Inside was Maeve's letter, now some four months old. The ivory-white vellum was beginning to turn slighdy yellow but the handwriting was still as firm, curved and well formed as any scribe's. The halting phrases seemed to reflect the passion which existed between them.
    My dearest Hugh [it began],
    Affairs in Wales and around the castle of Neath are still not setded. My uncle says he is ill and has taken to his bed. He is as good an actor as any in a mummer's play. The countryside around is turning a golden yellow as summer fades and autumn begins. Strange that at such times of the year, partings from loved ones are all the more bitter. I miss you now more than ever. Every day, every waking moment, I think of your face, and would love to kiss your eyes and mouth. You must smile more, my serious clerk, the sun does rise and set without your leave. The shadows in your mind are nothing but dust on the leaf or wind through the trees. Yet I know you constantly live on the edge of darkness. Soon the night will be over, I shall be with you and the sun will always shine. I long for your touch. God keep you safe.
    Your lover, Maeve.
    Corbett sighed as he rolled the letter up again and placed it in his pocket. Then he smiled, for he must have read the letter at least twice a day. He heard the wind howl outside and wished the iron-hard winter would break and Maeve would come. A knock on the door made him jump. He slid his hand under the bolster of the bed, his fingers touching the ice-cold handle of the dagger which lay there.
    'Come in,' he