Prince of Darkness

Frenchman,' Lady Amelia replied. 'An envoy from the King in Paris. He wished to come here to pay his respects but he had no licence or permission to do so. King Edward was most insistent on that so I turned him away at the gates.'
    'When was that?'
    'Why?' she asked. 'Do you know him?'
    Corbett just shook his head and watched the Prioress turn and walk out of the sanctuary in stately fashion. Only then did he smile. Of course he knew who it was. His old enemy, that bastard Seigneur Amaury de Craon, had been pushing his snout into a matter which did not concern him.
    'Oh, Master Clerk?'
    Corbett looked up. The Lady Prioress had walked back under the entrance of the chancel screen. 'Yes, Lady Amelia?'
    'Father Reynard,' she replied. 'He was near the Priory the night Lady Eleanor died. Every Sunday evening, as a penance, he walks barefoot from the village to the Galilee Gate.' She smiled. 'Ask him if he saw anything suspicious as he mumbled his psalms.'
    And before Corbett could answer, she spun on her heel and flounced out of the church.

Chapter 5
    Ranulf and Dame Agatha were waiting for him near the Galilee Gate, the young nun apparently enjoying an account of one of his manservant's many escapades in London.
    'Ranulf, we are ready? Dame Agatha?'
    His man nodded and scowled. Solicitously he helped the young nun to mount, muttering under his breath about how certain clerks seemed to turn up when they were least expected or wanted. Corbett just grinned over his shoulder and led them out on to the beaten track down to the village of Woodstock. He felt tempted to continue through the village to visit the young Prince at Woodstock Palace but, considering what he had just learnt, thought he had better wait for a while.
    The day proved to be a pleasant one and Corbett, with Ranulf in tow, humming some filthy ditty, enjoyed the quiet ride down the winding country lane, the trees on either side forming a green canopy above their heads. The countryside was peaceful under a late autumn sun, the silence broken only by the liquid song of a bird, the chatter of insects and the loud buzz of honey-hunting bees. Dame Agatha, elegant in her tight brown riding habit, sat sidesaddle on a small gentle cob from the priory stables. Corbett allowed their conversation to be as desultory as possible, wanting his companion to relax and feel safe in his presence.
    At last they reached the village and joined the rest of the crowd as they thronged towards the green in front of the parish church. They paused to watch the rustics, bedecked with scarves, ribbons and laces, dance and carouse around their makeshift hobby horses to the raucous noise of pipers, drummers and other musicians. Corbett assisted Dame Agatha to dismount. She pointed towards a large, two-storey building on the other side of the green.
    'I have business with the merchant who imports our wine,' she remarked. 'Afterwards I'll go to the church and meet you there.'
    Corbett agreed, telling Ranulf to accompany her whilst he stabled their horses at The Bull. For a while he sat outside on one of the benches, ordering a pot of ale and relaxing in the sunshine. He looked again at the church and remembered Father Reynard's sermon. He went up through the wicket gate and into the cemetery, a quiet, surprisingly well-kept plot. The grass was scythed, the elm trees well-pruned and vigorous in their growth. Corbett went past the church towards the priest's house and knocked gently on the half-open door. He heard voices and Father Reynard suddenly appeared.
    'Come in! Come in!'
    The friar's smile was welcoming and genuine. He told Corbett to sit on a bench and went back to where he and a young man, a villein from the village, were poring over a great leatherbound book open on the table. Corbett stared around. An unpretentious place: two rooms downstairs with possibly two small chambers above. The floor was of beaten earth, the walls washed white with lime to keep off the flies. A crude stone hearth, a few sticks of furniture, chests and coffers and a shelf full of kitchen implements were all the friar's apparent possessions. Corbett was impressed. Many village priests insisted on living in luxury, dressing in the best garb, jerkin and multi-coloured hose, and making every effort to palliate the hardships of their lives. A few were downright criminal: Corbett had seen cases in King's Bench of priests who used their churches to brew beer, as gambling dens, or even worse.
    At the table the young