Prince of Darkness

tell both my brother the King of France and His Holiness of their source. They will not be pleased.'
    De Craon shook his head and the King released his grip. De Craon's face was red with embarrassment.
    'Your Grace,' he replied hoarsely, 'I thank you for your gift and your message.' And, spinning on his heel, he strode out of the pavilion.
    Edward gestured de Warenne forward.
    'John, your fastest horseman?'
    'Ralph Maltote, Your Grace.'
    I want him to go south immediately, to Godstowe. He is to take our swiftest horse as well as a fresh mount. He is to ride without stopping and take a message to my clerk, Corbett at Godstowe Priory. That message must be delivered. You understand? Now get out!'
    As soon as de Warenne had left, Edward put his face in his hands as he tried to control both his anger and his terror. What was happening? he wondered. Why hadn't Corbett cleared this mess up? And his own spy at Godstowe…? Edward's left eye now drooped almost to closing as he gnawed at his lip. Both Corbett and his spy would pay dearly if de Craon gained the upper hand.
    Whilst Edward of England sat fuming over what he had learnt, Sir Amaury de Craon was nursing his bruised wrist and shouting orders to his retinue for a swift return to Oxfordshire. He had played his card. Now he must wait Oh, he recognised Edward of England's warning and could only close the game if he had proof. But he had let his arrow fly, now he must see where it fell. He believed he could outmanoeuvre and trap the English King; he too had his spy at Godstowe to keep an eye on Corbett. Moreover, de Craon had received an urgent message from his master. Another shadowy player was also in the game: the de Montfort assassin. De Craon nursed both his pain and his pride. Soon Edward of England would be checkmated. The only danger was Corbett. The English clerk would work doubly hard, either to resolve the problem or carefully to hide it behind a tissue of half-truths. De Craon nibbed his wrist, Corbett he would have to stop. He looked into his tent at the two dark cowled figures squatting there.
    'We go south again. There is something I have planned for you,' he called.
    A few days after Ranulf's encounter with the drunken porter, Corbett decided that, for the moment, there was little else he could learn in the priory. He also wished to leave because the nuns were still engaged in the obsequies preceding the funerals of their two dead colleagues. The storm was over, the weather still held fine, so he and Ranulf decided to walk rather than ride to Woodstock Palace. The porter, now half-sober, greeted them as old friends and, taking them out of the priory, sketched a description of the track across the fields and meadows.
    Corbett enjoyed the walk, glad to be free of the baleful, mournful atmosphere at Godstowe. The route was simple to follow, cutting across the open meadows and farming land, past dark copses, and well within the hour the crenellated walls and turrets of Woodstock Palace came into view. They followed the track which ran on to the road. The main gate was open. A serjeant-at-arms wearing the royal livery stopped them and asked their business before allowing them through. The courtyard was a hive of activity. Grooms, ostlers and farriers were taking horses in and out of the stables; scullions and kitchen boys carried huge slabs of freshly cut meat into the kitchen.
    'The Prince must be expecting us,' Ranulf sardonically observed. 'A banquet perhaps?'
    'A feast certainly,' Corbett answered. 'But I doubt if he will be pleased to see me.'
    Grooms took their horses whilst a pompous steward of the Prince's household led them up the main steps into the spacious hall. Corbett knew the King loved his luxury, and Woodstock, a large, timbered building, was the pleasantest of royal palaces. Its outside had been renovated recently: the black gables newly embossed with gilt, the wooden beams painted a rich dark brown, and the stucco plaster clean and white. Inside, the palace's splendour made Ranulf catch his breath. Bright tapestries gleamed with gold and silver motifs; rich silk cloths were placed over tables, the backs of chairs and the massive open sideboards. Jewelled cups, their precious stones glinting in the sunlight, and silver dishes were laid out on handsome chests and cabinets. In the great hall henchmen were laying tables for the banquet and the air was thick with the tangy wholesome odour of cooking from the kitchen which made both men's mouths