Prince of Darkness

the Madonna but pine after the secret mysteries of Queen Mab and the harlotries offered by hobgoblins, be they human or demoniac. Can you not read the signs? Satan walks and has already made his mark!'
    Corbett now sat up, seeing the fury in Lady Amelia's face so apparent, he thought the Lady Prioress would rise and walk out of the church whilst Father Reynard's litany of woes only grew stronger. The priest's eyes now gleamed with fanaticism; his tongue lashed the rich, a veil for his warnings against the Priory of Godstowe. Behind him Corbett heard the peasants stir and murmur their approval. Ranulf was openly grinning. A self-confessed sinner from the gutters of Southwark, he had one virtue: he was totally devoid of hypocrisy. Corbett hoped the sermon would benefit him as well, something to take back to London with him.
    At last Father Reynard finished, gave his final benediction and swept into the sanctuary. Lady Amelia rose, genuflected before the altar step and led her sisters out, their hauteur and arrogance now dimmed. None dared raise her eyes as they filed down the nave. Only Dame Agatha, with an impish wink to Ranulf, indicated her approval of what the Franciscan had said Corbett remained seated. The friar's words had affected him also. Was he, so eager for royal justice, ready to show the same to his tenants or had he forgotten his own roots? He remembered the words of his old comrade, de Couville, who now worked in the royal records office at Westminster.
    'What does it profit a man, Hugh,' his aged mentor had cackled, 'if a clerk pleases his King but loses his soul?'
    Corbett smiled and shifted on the bench. So far his King would hardly be pleased with him. The clerk's sharp, suspicious mind probed at what lay underneath Father Reynard's sermon. Did the Franciscan believe Lady Eleanor had been struck down by God? If so, was Reynard the type of man whp passionately believed that Divine Justice should be given a helping hand? He thought of the friar's strong hands and wrists. If Lady Eleanor had been murdered, her neck expertly broken and the body dumped at the bottom of those stairs, a man like Father Reynard was well suited to be her assassin.
    'What do you know about the friar, Ranulf?' Corbett asked.
    His manservant, half-dozing now, shook himself, stood up and stretched.
    'Not much,' he whispered, aware how his words would echo in the cavernous sanctuary. 'But have you seen the way he walks, Master? Shoulders back, head up. I believe our Franciscan has seen some military service. And his little finger – I glimpsed it when he was leaning on the pulpit – it's been hacked off, there's only a stump. And there are purple welts on his wrists.' Ranulf smiled, basking in his master's approval. 'Father Reynard undoubtedly wielded a sword. I would wager he was as good with that as he is with his tongue. It's a long time since I heard a sermon like that.'
    'Your eyes are sharp, Ranulf. Listen, saddle our horses and seek out Dame Agatha. Tell her I'll meet her and you at the Galilee Gate. We are going down to the village of Woodstock.'
    Ranulf threw one last hungry glance round the richness of the sanctuary and swaggered off.
    Corbett stared at the light pouring through the multi-coloured windows. What do we have here? he wondered… A priory full of every luxury and home to a once powerful courtesan, now discarded by the Prince of Wales. The woman perished in mysterious circumstances. She had not fallen downstairs but died elsewhere and her body been put there. Rumour had it that she had a malady of the breast
    Corbett reflected on what he had seen when he had examined the corpse. True, it was only a cursory examination, but he had seen no tumour or abscess or any other sign of malignancy. He knew little about medicine but Maeve had informed him that such an illness was usually fatal and made its effect felt in the drying of the skin as its victim turned from any nourishment, yet Eleanor had been a well-formed and proportioned woman. Moreover, she had been imprisoned in Godstowe for the last two years. Again, Maeve had assured him how a malady of the breast usually killed its victim within a few months, yet Lady Eleanor had been able to eat, drink, and go for walks. There had been no reports or suggestions that she had been seriously ill or near death's door.
    Corbett rubbed his face wearily. So how had she died? Not from suicide. The body would have been more severely marked, and surely a woman like Lady