Prince of Darkness

darkness. The priory bell tolled again, calling him back from the part of the day he loved most. The clerk drew deep breaths, sucking in the fresh morning air. A beautiful morning which brought memories of Leighton Manor and other older images flooding back into his mind. He closed his eyes, revelling in the peace as he braced himself against the troubles of the day: he must remember that the calm serenity of Godstowe hid murky, murderous secrets which threatened the crown itself.
    Corbett opened his eyes, fingered the stubble on his chin, and promising himself he would shave as soon as possible, went back to collect a sleepy-eyed Ranulf.
    If the priory was luxurious, the church would have done justice to any great earl or nobleman. The walls were covered by a brilliantly coloured painting of Christ harrowing Hell, freeing souls from the grip of black-faced demons who looked all the more horrible for their scarlet bodies covered in dark blotches of fur. The church was divided by a heavy wooden chancel screen, every inch of it covered with the most intricate carvings of angels, saints, and scenes from the Old and New Testaments. As they went through it into the sanctuary, the Lady Prioress swept majestically as a bishop towards her stall, indicating the bench where they should sit. Corbett bowed, muttering at Ranulf to hush his mumbled observations about the arrogance of some women.
    The clerk sat and looked around: on either side of the chancery were the nuns' stalls, each with their own carved oak recess with bench and prie dieu. Beyond these the altar rail and the marble white purity of the sanctuary: the great ivory-coloured altar now covered in costly clothes, with pure beeswax candles fixed in heavy silver holders standing on either side. The sunlight pouring through the small rose window made the precious cups and chalices placed there glitter and shimmer with an almost blinding light. Corbett heard a sound and turned, looking round the chancel screen The peasants from the nunnery farm were now filing in. According to custom they would not be allowed any further than the nave, so they squatted in their dusty green, brown or russet smocks upon the flagstoned floor.
    Corbett studied them, travelling back in time, as if they were ghosts from his own past His father and mother had once sat like that no more than peasants and so, by King's law and divine decree, not worthy to sit beyond the chancel screen Instead they could look at the priest from afar, listen to his sermon, and study the paintings put there for their spiritual improvement
    A bell tinkled and Father Reynard, dressed in fiery red and gold vestments, swept out of the sacristy and up to the altar. He stood at the foot of the steps, making the sign of the cross, his great voice intoning the introductory psalm:
    I will go unto the altar of God, to God who gives glory to my youth!'
    Corbett studied the nuns on either side, watching each face intently. In the main they were fat, well fed and smug, Dame Elizabeth being a notable exception in her austerity. Lady Amelia in her silk habit and lace-edged wimple, gazed round with all the hauteur of a noblewoman; Dame Agatha's face looked serene and composed in prayer, though Corbett watched her dark sloe eyes glance quickly across at him. He caught the hint of mischief in her face. Now Father Reynard had gone up the altar steps, standing beneath the blue and gold canopy which swung on velvet cords from the costly hammerbeam roof. The spiritual magic was being worked, Christ called down under the likeness of bread and wine, but Corbett stirred at the end of the Mass as Father Reynard mounted the wooden pulpit to give the sermon, his hands resting on the great eagle with its carved, outstretched wings.
    'Woe to you!' the Franciscan began. 'You rich and pampered ones who ignore the needy, the poor folk, prisoners in dungeons created by your wealth. What they scrimp by spinning, they pay out to you in rents and times so they have only watered porridge to satisfy their young ones who groan aloud for food.' He drew back the sleeves of his gown, exposing his strong brown wrists. Eyes half-closed, he rocked to and fro. 'Woe to you rich, you pampered ones who ignore the peasants, too ashamed to beg, who wake at night to rock the cradle, to patch and wash!'
    Corbett looked along the line of nuns. Even the most somnolent had now stirred themselves.
    'Woe to you, the pampered ones with your secret lusts, who do not revere