Prince of Darkness

kept his face impassive. De Craon had strange tastes. One of these days…
    'Monsieur de Craon,' Edward deliberately dropped the 'Seigneur'. 'We are pleased to see you. Your journey was comfortable? We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.'
    De Craon half bowed.
    'Not half as eager, Your Grace, as I have been to see you! My master, King Philip, sends fraternal greetings. He is deeply distressed by your problems in Scotland. He offers to mediate and will do anything to assist.'
    Like send a hundred ships full of men and munitions to help the bastards, Edward thought. He hooked a foot under a camp stool and dragged it over.
    'Will you sit, Monsieur?'
    De Craon noticed the stool's crooked leg.
    'Your Majesty is too kind. I insist on standing. You deserve that respect.'
    De Craon decided to keep a wary eye on Edward. He studied the cruel falcon face framed by the iron-grey hair, watching those slightly slanted eyes, one half-closed – a mannerism Edward had acquired as a young man. It indicated a violent temper. De Craon decided to be more circumspect
    'Your Grace,' he began, 'my master sends greetings. He hopes all is well with his beloved sister Margaret?'
    Edward thought of his whey-faced new bride, and grunted.
    'The question of Gascony…'
    'There is no question!' Edward snapped.
    'Its rights and appurtenances?' de Craon meekly asked.
    'They are mine.'
    'By what right?'
    Edward sighed.
    'My dear de Craon, my troops are all over it.'
    'Your troops have not been paid.'
    'They will be!' the King bellowed.
    'Yet, Your Grace,' de Craon spread his hands, 'all should be resolved by die marriage of your beloved son to the Princess Isabella.'
    'You have seen my beloved son?'
    'At Woodstock, Your Grace.'
    '"At Woodstock, Your Grace"!' Edward mimicked back.
    'Your Grace, has your son been detained there?'
    'No, I just bloody well want him there!'
    'To be near Godstowe?'
    'To be near Oxford.'
    'He mourns the death of Lady Eleanor.'
    'Who is she?' Edward asked tartly.
    De Craon smiled.
    'Your Grace jests with me.' The Frenchman's face grew serious.
    Here it comes, Edward thought.
    'Your Grace, I am most anxious and deeply troubled by the rumours put about by evil men Malicious, slanderous stories which claim the Lady Eleanor was murdered by your son so he could be with his beloved companion, the Gascon, Piers Gaveston.'
    'They are lying traitors. I'll have any man who says that hanged, drawn and quartered!'
    'Of course, Your Grace. But they whisper about how could a woman fall downstairs, break her neck, and yet keep the hood on her head undisturbed? They say that your son was sending potions, that the lady may have been poisoned.'
    'My son knows nothing about Lady Eleanor's death. She died on a Sunday evening. The first the Prince of Wales knew of the unhappy event was the following Monday morning.'
    De Craon blinked, his face now a mask of concern.
    'Your Grace, I am sorry – your son knew about Lady Eleanor's death on Sunday evening.'
    De Craon pushed his foxy face closer. Edward sat frozen, one of the few times in his life he had been genuinely frightened. My son a murderer! That's the rumour which will begin to circulate: a poisoner as well as a sodomite. A slayer of innocent women. I'll have Corbett's head! Edward thought
    Behind de Craon Edward saw de Warenne quietly pull a dagger from his sheath. All the King had to do was raise a finger and the Frenchman would be dead. Edward shook his head and de Warenne sheathed his knife.
    'How do you know this?'
    'Your Grace, your own son told me.'
    'There must be some mistake.'
    'No, there is not. His exact words were…' de Craon closed his eyes. 'I asked him about the Lady Eleanor and he replied: "She is near to death, a fall, an accident. She must have fallen downstairs."' De Craon smiled politely. 'It was after midnight. Your Grace. The Prince was in his cups, yet I thought it strange because the porter from Godstowe Priory did not arrive until the early hours of the morning.'
    Edward turned to the jewel box beside him, opened it and took out a small gold ring with a precious ruby winking in the centre.
    'Monsieur, please accept this as a gift. I will think about what you have said.'
    De Craon stretched out his hand. The King grasped his wrist tightly, squeezing hard, not satisfied until he saw the Frenchman wince.
    'A gift, Monsieur,' he whispered. 'And a warning to those who spread malicious rumours. If I can prove such scandalous stories are a tissue of lies, I will