Prince of Darkness

horses and a sumpter pony. In the hall Maeve was growing truculent at Corbett's strictures against baiting Ranulf.
    'You will miss me?' he asked, changing the conversation abruptly, grabbing her by the hands and pulling her close.
    'No,' she teased.
    'You'll look after the fencing in the long meadow?'
    'No, I'll break it down.'
    'And the grange with loose slats?'
    Maeve shook her head.
    'I'll burn that as well, together with the tithe bam. And I'll tell Father Martin, with his usual litany of complaints about his congregation using the graveyard as a playground, to go hang himself. After that,' she shook her head, 'God knows what I'll do!'
    Corbett grabbed her, kissing her passionately.
    'Then I'll bid you adieu, wife.'
    He winked at her, smiled, and slipped through the door to the waiting horse.
    Corbett and Ranulf travelled north, passing through small villages, little more than a cluster of rickety, thatched cottages clustered around some church or manor house. Soon harvest time would be over. Corbett remembered such days from his youth as he saw the crops standing high and yellow, next to fields of fallow green and the narrow ribs of turf which separated one village's strip from another. The cottages themselves were no more grand than that owned by his father with their walls of wattle and daub and the small patch of garden to grow onions, cabbages, garlic and shallots.
    His horse stumbled and Corbett cursed, Ranulf quietly admiring his master's grasp of some of the filthiest oaths he had ever heard. The roads were ruined by huge potholes filled with makeshift clumps of brushwood or mounds of earth which would be washed away in the first heavy shower. They stopped at a village inn for a dish of spiced eels and a few gulps of heady local ale. The place was packed with men and women, country folk, falconers, huntsmen, lackeys from the stables, bakers, brewers, cooks and kitchen scullions. They all crowded in for their pottle of ale, rubbing shoulders with shepherd and hog-herds, teasing and slapping the laundresses and dairy maids who came to exchange gossip or catch the eye of their favourite swain.
    Corbett sat in a corner and listened to Ranulf's description of affairs in London before quietly informing him of what awaited them at Godstowe Priory. Ranulf's face paled. Gaveston and the Lord Edward were twice as dangerous as the old King; Gaveston in particular, a spiteful, powerful lord who had made his presence felt in both court and city. For the first time since attending Mass at Christmas, Ranulf closed his eyes and really prayed that his master would not fail or slip from royal favour. Corbett was truly caught in the raging animosity between Edward and his truculent heir. If he failed the King, Corbett would certainly feel the royal displeasure, but the Prince of Wales was irrational, veering like a bird on the wing, one moment the cheerful companion, the common man; the next standing on every inch of his authority. Gaveston was worse; he was just downright dangerous. Ranulf loved his master, even though he might quietly cheat him of the odd coin or two and silently mock his solemn ways but, if Corbett fell, so would he. Ranulf stood up and ordered another black-jack of ale from the greasy aproned slattern to drown the panic curdling his stomach.
    'All of us know about Eleanor Belmont!' he exclaimed. 'They were talking about her death at the Guildhall and in St Paul's Walk.' He looked enquiringly at his master.
    Corbett sat up and dragged his eyes away from the relic-seller who had now moved into the tavern with his bag of goods.
    'Who do they say is responsible?'
    'They blame the Prince, or even the old King.'
    'What else do they say, Ranulf?'
    'How the Prince loves Gaveston more than any man does his wife. The old ones talk about the return of civil war, and the armourers and fletchers are doing brisk business.'
    Corbett nodded and sat back on the bench. His spies had told him the same; up and down the country the great lords were seeing to the repair of their castles, laying in provisions and arms against a possible siege. Would war come? Godstowe might hold the answer.
    Corbett looked out of the door and saw the daylight was beginning to fade so they continued their journey, keeping a wary eye as the sun began to sink and they followed the old Roman Road north into Oxfordshire. Earlier it had been busy with merchants, students in their tattered gowns, mountebanks, or the occasional friar wheeling his