Prince of Darkness

immured at Godstowe.
    What had Corbett told him about her? they asked. Had she been married to the Prince? Were any of the nuns royal agents? Did the name de Courcy mean anything to them?
    Eudo had replied through swollen, bloody lips that he knew nothing, so the questioners changed tack.
    Who was the de Montfort assassin now stalking Edward of England? Was he at Godstowe or in London?
    He could not have told them. All he knew was a conversation heard second-hand at a hostelry in Bordeaux, although Eudo, a Gascon, had a shrewd idea of the true identity of the assassin. Now, on this last day of his life, he showed he could stand the pain no more. The torturers had chained him to a wall, applying searing hot pokers to the softest and most tender parts of his body. Eudo opened his bloodied lips in a soundless scream.
    'The assassin, Master Tailler?'
    Eudo shook his head. Again the hot searing pain.
    'The assassin, Master Eudo? Give us his name, then you can sleep.'
    Eudo felt his life seeping from him. He felt detached, as if he was floating high up above them and the executioners were only playing with the useless bundle of flesh that had once been his body. He began softly to mutter the final act of contrition to himself. Surely God would remember he had been loyal to his king? The torturers were waved back by a senior clerk who had accompanied the French King to the dungeon. He hid his distaste as he pressed his ear up against the dying man's lips.
    'What did you say, Monsieur Tailler? The name of the assassin?'
    Eudo summoned all his strength, as if he could stand the pain no longer, and whispered a name. The clerk stood back, smiling triumphantly over his shoulder at his royal master.
    'He has told us, Your Grace. We have our man.' Philip remained impassive. 'Ask him again!' he snapped.
    The clerk moved forward, took one look at Eudo and hastily stepped back.
    'He is dead, Your Grace.' Philip nodded.
    'Cut him down!' he ordered. He turned to the clerk. 'Send the following despatch in cipher to Seigneur de Craon. He must have it as soon as possible.'

Chapter 6
    The next morning Corbett roused Ranulf, who awoke bleary-eyed.
    'For the love of God, Master!'
    'You've been too long in the service of the Devil,' Corbett joked. 'You drink too late and rise too late.'
    'I have been too long in your service,' Ranulf grumbled. He rose, scrubbed his teeth by dipping his finger in some salt, washed his face in a bowl of rosewater, put on his boots and, led by a still joking Corbett, went downstairs to break his fast in the small buttery.
    'What's the business of the day, Master?'
    Corbett chewed thoughtfully on a small manchet loaf from a basket covered by a white linen cloth.
    'Do you believe in Hell, Ranulf?' he asked suddenly.
    'Of course, Master. Why?'
    Corbett pointed to the one stained glass window in the room where the artist had painted a graphic vision of demons, their eyes glaring fiercely, their mouths and nostrils poured forth fetid breath as they tore the flesh of sinners with red hot pincers and pierced their bodies with glowing iron nails, whilst others beat the unfortunates with spikes and scourges. Ranulf studied the painting curiously and felt a shiver of apprehension as he saw how the sinners were thrust into hot ovens, cauldrons of boiling oil, or broken on huge revolving cartwheels. At the bottom of the picture serpents, dragons, adders, ferrets, loathsome toads and horrible worms, gathered to prey upon the damned.
    'If you looked at that picture long enough! Master, you'd believe you were in Hell itself,' Ranulf murmured. 'Why do you ask?'
    Corbett sipped thoughtfully from his goblet. 'A quiet place, Godstowe,' he replied. 'Just listen, Ranulf.'
    His manservant turned, stared out of the doorway and caught the sounds of the priory community as it went about its daily tasks; the clang of milk pails, the rumble of cartwheels, and beneath the liquid song of the birds, the gentle chanting of the nuns from the priory church.
    'Peaceful,' Corbett continued shortly. 'Yet I believe that Satan himself, the Prince of Darkness, has risen from his cauldron in Hell and now stalks this sun-dappled place.'
    The servant shivered.
    'Do you know, Ranulf,' Corbett continued, wiping his mouth on a napkin, 'when I was a boy, my mother took me to hear a famous preacher. He talked about Hell being a boiling hot lake full of venomous serpents. In it backbiters stood up to their knees. Fornicators,' Corbett threw a sly glance at