Prince of Darkness

trees, blackbird and thrush trilled their hearts out. Suddenly, a darkened scarecrow of a man seemed to step from nowhere on to the track, his long hair black as night, flapping like raven's wings around his gaunt face, his clothes more like bandages around his emaciated body. Prince Edward lifted a hand and the cavalcade stopped.
    The Lord Edward had immediately recognised the man: a mad prophet who had been stalking round the walls of the palace for the last few days. The fellow claimed he came from the Devil's Anvil, the hot burning sands which lay to the south of the Middle Sea; his dirty and rag-attired figure now stood motionless though his eyes flamed like burning coals.
    'I bring a warning!' the prophet boomed. 'A warning of death and disgrace. A warning against the soft perfumed flesh of the whores who lounge on feathered beds and bawl of their lust!' The fiery eyes flashed again; one sinewy arm was raised in quivering anger. 'You bawds who gulp wine from deep-bowled cups, be warned! This age will be cleansed by Death himself! Mark my words, he lurks in these sombre forests. He mounts his pale horse and soon he will be here. Be warned, you strumpets and whores!'
    The group of silk-clad courtiers behind the Prince simpered, laughed softly, and turned away. The mad prophet searched out the tall, blond figure of the Prince as he slouched on his horse under the blue and gold banner of England. The prophet's eyes narrowed.
    'Repent!' he hissed. 'You young men who lust after each other's flesh and seek comfort in forbidden love!'
    The Prince grinned and, raising one purple-gloved hand, touched his smaller, darker companion.
    'He talks of us, Piers.'
    The young Gascon's expression grew harsher though it was nonetheless a girlish face with its smooth olive cheeks, perfect features, and neatly cropped, dark red hair. Girlish, innocent, except for the eyes – a surprisingly light blue like a spring sky fresh washed by the rain. These were hard and empty.
    'I do not think so, My Lord,' Gaveston rasped. Prince Edward shook his head and took a silver coin out of his purse.
    'A wager, Piers. The fellow is bound to be speaking about me.' He stroked his moustache. 'Let's be frank. I am the only one here worth talking about.'
    The prophet must have heard him.
    'You, Edward, Prince of Wales!' he roared. 'Son of a greater father, bearer of his name but not his majesty. Yes, I warn you, you and your grasping catamite, Gaveston, son of a whore!' The prophet's voice fell to a hiss. 'Son of a witch, you come from the Devil and to the Devil you will go. Be sure, Prince Edward, you do not go with him, for all of Satan's army bays for Gaveston's sin-drenched soul!'
    Prince Edward nodded solemnly.
    'Most interesting,' he commented. He smiled and stretched out a hand. 'Your silver, Piers.'
    The Gascon, grumbling with rage, handed it over.
    'Your Grace,' Gaveston muttered, 'let me kill the bastard!'
    'No, Piers, not now. You will only alarm the hawks and spoil the hunt.' He stroked the Gascon's dark hair. 'Don't be a scold, Piers,' he whispered. 'You are becoming more like Father and the Lady Eleanor every day.'
    The Lord Edward urged his horse forward as the prophet slipped off the road. Gaveston turned and, crooking a finger, summoned closer the captain of the guard.
    'Kill the bastard!' he muttered. 'No, not now. But before he's a day older.'
    The sun had hardly moved in the heavens when the mad prophet's body, his throat slashed from ear to ear, was dumped in a scum-rimmed marsh deep in the forest and sank without trace. An hour later the mercenary captain rejoined the royal party as they sat on their horses amongst the thick, rich weeds of a slow moving river. The soldier nodded at Gaveston, who winked back, smiled, and slipped the hood off the falcon which stirred restlessly on his wrist, the bells of its jesses tinkling a warning of the death it would bring to this soft, green darkness.
    'Now I have drawn blood,' Gaveston muttered to himself, I can enjoy the hunt.'
    He waited until the beaters roused a huge heron which broke cover and soared up above the trees. Gaveston lifted his wrist, stroked his favourite bird with the finger of his gauntlet and let it loose. The falcon, its dark wings spread like the angel of death, flew in pursuit; it rose high in the sky, paused, drifting on the late summer breeze, and then, wings back, plunged like an arrow. The falcon struck the heron with a high-pitched scream and a burst of feathers.