Prince of Darkness

Ranulf sat on a log at the edge of the trees.
    'What do we have here?' Corbett murmured as soon as the porter was out of earshot. 'Two travellers, ambushed and murdered in a forest glade – was it by outlaws?' He shook his head. 'The porter is right and Dame Catherine's explanation feckless. No outlaw would lurk so near a royal palace or so close to a powerful priory.'
    Ranulf belched noisily. 'I'd agree with that,' he added apologetically. 'Nor would any outlaw strip the corpses so carefully: jewellery and silver maybe, perhaps the horses and their harnesses, but not to the extent the porter described. Nor,' he concluded, 'would any outlaw try to hide the bodies. He would take his ill-gotten gains and flee.'
    Corbett nibbed his chin. 'And so the mystery deepens. Why kill them, Ranulf? Why not just demand their valuables and scamper off? It's almost as if,' he paused, 'the murderer wanted to disguise who his victims were. He takes their belongings, their horses, then tips their naked corpses into a marsh, except they don't sink properly.' He chewed his lip. 'There are other riddles. These two travellers were apparently strangers in the area, yet how did they know about this forest path leading to a glade with the water to refresh themselves? And who would be strong enough to overcome a young man as well as a, presumably, fairly robust young damsel?'
    'What are you saying, Master?'
    'Well, the only conclusion is that they were lured to their deaths. They were taken to that glade to be murdered. And yet,' Corbett laughed abruptly, 'did they just offer their throats to the murderer?' He turned. 'Do you make any sense of it, Ranulf?'
    'No, Master, I don't. I have the same questions. Who were they? Where were they going? Not to the priory, they weren't expected there.' Ranulf blew out noisily. 'And, as you say, Master, how were they lured to their deaths and why so meekly give up their lives?'
    Corbett rose and brushed the moss from his clothes. 'A riddle within a riddle,' he murmured. 'But I can tell you this, Ranulf, even though I haven't a shred of evidence, I believe the deaths of those two young people have something to do with the murder of Lady Eleanor Belmont.'
    Ranulf sat staring down at the ground.
    'Master?'
    'Yes, Ranulf?'
    'Both Dame Catherine and the porter mentioned these two corpses being found in the wood which ties between the priory and the palace. Could the murderer have been from either of these?'
    Corbett shook his head. 'It would be hard to prove, Ranulf. As the porter said, the corpses might have been lying there for days, even weeks. If it was the priory, why should a nun murder two travellers? And our noble lords at the palace would certainly have done a more professional job.' Corbett narrowed his eyes and squinted up at the sky. I suggest we are talking about a murderer rather than murderers. One person acting hastily who dragged the bodies to the marsh and hurried away.' He made a face and tapped his man on the shoulder. 'But, my dear Ranulf, that too causes a problem. Could one person overcome two able-bodied people?'
    Ranulf rose and stretched. 'There're tensions at the priory, Master.'
    Corbett grimaced. 'Of course there are. The Lady Amelia is unpopular. She put an end to the nuns' little treats and tricks, whilst at the same time allowing a whore to take up residence there. Moreover, we know our master the King, Ranulf. One day, I am sure, he will ask Lady Amelia to account for her stewardship.'
    'And where to now, Master?'
    'Well, I think we have finished at the priory for the moment, and the good villagers of Godstowe know very tittle. Perhaps it's time we visited our noble Prince of Wales and the Lord Gaveston at Woodstock.'
    Ranulf groaned and closed his eyes.
    'Look on the bright side,' Corbett sang out, walking briskly away. 'Where there's a palace there are pretty girls!'
    Ranulf glared at his master's retreating back.
    'Aye,' he muttered. 'And where there's Gaveston, there's the Devil!'

Chapter 7
    King Edward of England sat in his purple silken pavilion which stood at the centre of his great camp on the green meadows beneath the formidable mass of Nottingham Castle. He was listening to the sounds of his army gathering; brown-jerkinned archers; men-at-arms in conical helmets carrying long spears and quilted jackets; the shouted orders of his Serjeants and the neighing and whinnying of the proud-blooded warhorses.
    The King, just past his sixtieth year, sat on one of the great pay