Prince of Darkness

snout in the dirt with their long noses. They can make up what they want.'
    'You did not visit Lady Eleanor at Godstowe?' 'No, I did not. I did not love her. For me the relationship was ended.'
    I am sure that was so,' Corbett replied drily, regretting the quip as soon as it was uttered, noticing the hostility flare in the Prince's light blue eyes. 'You must have been concerned?' he continued hastily.
    'Lady Eleanor wanted for nothing. She had her comforts. She lived in luxury. The Lady Prioress looked after all her needs.'
    'You sent her medicine. Your Grace?'
    The Prince chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip.
    I know what you are thinking!' Gaveston intervened, rising from the window seat. 'It was I who sent the medicines. You may think they were tainted, but we know they were tested at the priory and I doubt the Lady Eleanor would have taken them solely on the Prince's word.'
    'I am sure My Lord Gaveston is correct,' Corbett answered. 'But what were these powders?'
    'Look, Corbett,' the Gascon snarled, I am a courtier, and sometime soldier. I am not a physician. They were simple potions, meant to relieve the pains in Lady Eleanor's chest and afford her sleep.'
    Corbett, sensing he could proceed no further, decided to change tack.
    'On the day Lady Eleanor died, Your Grace-'
    I was at Woodstock. I hunted in the afternoon and feasted in the evening. All who matter saw me here, including the French envoy, Sir Amaury de Craon.'
    'Did you send any messages that day?'
    'No, I did not. Piers here sent down potions. Oh, on the day before Lady Eleanor met with her accident.'
    ' Ah, yes, we are back to the potions. Did the Lady Eleanor ask for them?'
    'Yes, she did,' Gaveston replied vehemently. 'She said they afforded her great relief.'
    'Your Grace, on that matter, was the Lady Eleanor melancholic?'
    'Yes,' the Prince replied, for the first time showing compassion. 'The poor creature was ill. She knew I did not love her, I did not hide my feelings. So, what more?'
    Corbett quickly looked at Ranulf, who sat as if carved from stone, transfixed by their rapid questions like a spectator at some skilful sword fight.
    'What do you think happened on the day Lady Eleanor died?'
    I know no more than you, Corbett The facts are: Lady Eleanor kept to herself, put on her cloak to go for a walk and, in the half-light, slipped on the staircase at Godstowe, fell and broke her neck.'
    The Prince yawned as if bored. 'Well, Clerk, that is all.' He rose, walked across and put a hand on his favourite's shoulder. 'So, Corbett do you wish to know more?'
    'Yes, Your Grace. Were you and the Lady Eleanor secretly married?'
    Ranulf gulped noisily as he saw all the colour drain from the Prince's face. Gaveston stiffened like a dog ready to attack.
    'No, of course we were not! Why do you ask?'
    'Nothing, Your Grace, just scurrilous rumours. And you heard about Lady Eleanor's death on Monday morning?'
    'Yes. The porter brought me the message. You know that, Corbett. Don't sit there and bait me!'
    The Prince of Wales flicked a lace-cuffed wrist. 'Now, for God's sake, man, leave us!'
    'No!' Gaveston spoke up, his face wreathed in false smiles. 'Your Grace, Master Corbett has been most busy. The priory at Godstowe has its attractions, but not for a man accustomed to the luxuries of this world.' He winked at Corbett. 'The Prince and I,' he continued, 'have arranged a sumptuous banquet this evening.' He grinned. 'We are the hosts as well as the only guests. I insist you join us!' He clapped his hands and the steward suddenly reappeared. Gaveston raised a hand to fend off Corbett's objections. 'We insist don't we, Your Grace?'
    Edward threw a sly glance at his favourite and nodded. 'Yes, we do,' he replied slowly. 'We insist you dine with us.'
    Gaveston motioned to the steward. 'Take Master Corbett and his servant to the kitchen. Feed them well. They are our special guests.' Gaveston rose and came over, taking Corbett gently by the hand. 'Hugh,' he murmured, his soulless eyes fixed on those of the clerk, 'we do insist you stay. There are other matters we wish to discuss.'

Chapter 8
    The steward took them down beyond the Great Hall into a vast, stone-flagged kitchen. The place was scrubbed clean though flies feasted on the huge globules of red blood spattered across the white-washed walls. Under its vaulted ceiling the place was a frenzy of activity; a baker and two apprentices, red-faced, the sweat streaming off them, laboured before a huge brick oven,