Angel of Death

why.
    Corbett did not relish the commission. He had already seen the king's anger and believed a great deal of it was pretence. Did Edward have a hand in de Montfort's death? The clerk had no illusions about his royal master. King Edward was a pragmatist, the means always justifying the end. In the universities of Europe there were political theorists who claimed a king was above the law; indeed, even what he wished became law. Was the corpse lying on the table proof of this? A man who came from a family hated by the king, who was preparing a speech denouncing the king's taxation. Did Edward have a hand in his death? Is that why the king himself had not come into the sacristy? Did Edward believe that the body of a murdered man always bled in the presence of his assassin?
    Corbett gently removed Plumpton's hand from his wrist and walked over to the table as the young priest, his face white and lined with fear, rose and walked quietly away. The corpse, still dressed in priestly garb, had a gauze veil over its face. Corbett, now aware of the growing silence around him as people watched what he would do, removed the gauze. De Montfort's face, never handsome in life, looked tragic, almost grotesque, in death. The muscles in the face were still rigid, the eyes half open, and Corbett saw two pennies lying on either side of the head, proof that the officiating priest had attempted to lay two coins there to keep the eyes closed. Instead, they seemed to glare malevolently at Corbett: the nostrils were dilated, the lips drawn back in the awful rictus of death. Corbett, who knew a little of medicine, bent down and sniffed at the man's mouth. He detected garlic, wine and something else, a bitter-sweet smell. Steeling himself, he forced two fingers into the man's mouth and, despite the low moans of protest from the people surrounding him, gently forced the jaws open and stared in. As he suspected, the man's mouth had failed to close because the tongue had swollen and the gums round the rotting teeth were black. Corbett at once knew the truth. De Montfort had not collapsed or died; there had been no failure of the heart or sudden rush of blood to the head. De Montfort had been poisoned.
    Corbett replaced the gauze veil, bowed to Plumpton and walked out of the sacristy. Bassett and Ranulf were waiting outside for him.
    'What is it?' Bassett asked.
    Corbett just glanced at him and walked back across the sanctuary.
    Ranulf, wiping his nose noisily on the sleeve of his jerkin, relished the future; mischief was afoot and soon he and his master would be involved. They would be summoned by that high and mighty king and told to go about their secret task. If that was the case, and so far his master had never failed the king, it would mean more money, wealth and status and Ranulf would share in the reflected glory. Ranulf basked in a glow of smug self-satisfaction; the rest of London had been cleared from the nave but he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, a former felon, a man who had been condemned to swing by the neck at the Elms, could stay. Corbett had once secured a pardon for him and, due to his master's secretive ways and sharp, clever brain, Ranulf had grown wealthy. His master, though taciturn and quiet, was always generous and Ranulf had begun to salt away a sizeable amount of gold with a goldsmith just off the Poultry. Not that Ranulf really cared for the future. He took each day as it came, his two aims being to look after Corbett and to enjoy himself as much as possible.
    Ranulf's relationship with the clerk was not an easy one: he often found his master morose and withdrawn. Sometimes Corbett would sit for hours in the corner of a tavern, sipping a cup of wine or flagon of beer, lost in his own thoughts and, if Ranulf tried to draw him, all he received were black looks. The only time Corbett seemed to come to life was in the record room amongst the piles of vellum, parchment, sealing wax, inkhorns and quills. He seemed to take as much enjoyment out of that as Ranulf did pursuing the wives and daughters of various London merchants. Of course, there was always music. In their lodgings in Bread Street, Corbett would often sit in the evening playing his flute quietly to himself, devising new tunes. There was one other reason for the clerk's quiet moods. The Welsh woman, Maeve, Corbett's betrothed, a sweet wench Ranulf thought, though he was frightened of her sharp ways and clear blue eyes. In fact, she was the only woman ever to frighten