Prince of Darkness

chamber. All was ready. She drew herself up, gulping in air. Her friend, whoever he was, would surely send help. Soon she would be out of this benighted place, be reunited with her lover and working hard to recapture his affection. Edward might be Prince of Wales and heir to the English crown, but Lady Eleanor had decided she was made of sterner stuff. Hadn't her father reminded her on many occasions that the Belmonts were of noble stock, sturdy and sure?
    She would ignore the rumours. Eleanor laughed abruptly to herself then froze as she heard a sound, a slither of footsteps in the corridor outside. She shook her head.
    'Surely,' she whispered to herself, 'the Lord Edward means me no harm?'
    They were evil people who claimed he wanted her dead but she could not believe that of him. Oh, of course, others might wish it, members of the Prince's secret council -Eleanor would believe anything of them, especially the ubiquitous silken-tongued Piers Gaveston, who had ensnared the Prince's heart. Eleanor stamped her foot at the thought of him.
    'Gaveston the demon-worshipper!' she hissed. 'Gaveston the limb of Satan! Gaveston the sodomite!'
    She calmed herself. And the rest of the coven? Lady Amelia Proudfoot, Prioress, in whose nunnery she was now staying, and Proudfoot's silent shadows, Dames Frances and Catherine? They would do anything to keep her here; poison, the dagger, the garrotte, or the sudden fall…
    Eleanor smiled and hugged herself. Oh, she had been so careful, so cautious, watching what she had eaten and drunk, where she had walked, politely refusing any offer to go hunting. After all, the Lady Eleanor smiled sourly to herself, hunting accidents were common. True, she had been sick but this was due to evil humours of the mind caused by loneliness and anxiety. Indeed she had begun to despair, but at last help had come. Some weeks ago, she had found a message here in her chamber, bidden in a small leather wallet. The writer had told her to be of good heart, not to worry, and to look for further messages in the hollowed oak tree near the Galilee Walk on the far side of the chapel. Her well-wisher, whoever he was, had promised to deliver her today so she had told her companions to leave her and go to Compline. Only the ancient ones, Dame Elizabeth and Dame Martha, had remained whilst Lady Amelia and her henchwomen would soon be enthroned in the chapel glorying in their power. Lady Eleanor turned as she heard the old building creak beneath her. A haunted place, people said, apparently ghosts walked here. It was certainly no abode for a young lady, mistress to one of the greatest men in the land.
    Eleanor sat back on the bed, chewing her Up, then got up agitatedly, putting her cloak on and playing with the ring on her finger, the Prince's last gift to her, a huge blue sapphire which always shimmered in the light. She turned her head, straining to hear. Surely there was another sound, not just the creaking of the stairs? Someone was outside. She heard the slither of footsteps along the gallery. Surely they were approaching? Lady Eleanor looked at the door. Good, the key was turned in the lock. She patted her hair and pulled up her hood. She wished Dame Agatha was here. Perhaps it had been foolish to dismiss her. Again the sound. Lady Eleanor stood transfixed. She watched the latch of the door go down Suddenly she panicked, but too late! She heard the soft knock and knew she would have to answer.
    Lady Eleanor was in the minds of other people that day. Edward, Prince of Wales, and his favourite, Piers Gaveston, had once again quarrelled violently about her and then become reconciled, swearing they would divert themselves by a hunt. They had left Woodstock Palace with their soldiers, grooms, huntsmen and retainers. A gaudy, colourful masque, their horses sleek and well fed, resplendent in their scarlet and blue dressings and silver-gilt saddles and housings. Amidst shouts, the bray of silver trumpets and the glorious fluttering of gold-encrusted banners, the royal hunting party made its way down the dusty tracks of Oxfordshire which wound around the great, unfenced cornfields where the stocks were piled high as farmers laboured to bring the harvest in.
    The sun was still brilliant in a light blue sky. The grass on either side of the track was alive with the sound of crickets and the scurrying of mice and voles fleeing from the harvesters. Above them a lark soared, singing for sheer pleasure, whilst in the distant