Prince of Darkness

muttering to himself, fitted a second bolt. This time he was too clumsy. The crossbow bolt whirred out, nicking the hindquarters of the second dog, which turned and fled howling into the darkness. Corbett leaned against the wall and promptly vomited. He paused for a while to compose himself then staggered down to the porter's lodge.
    Ranulf sat just within the door, his back to the wall, his face ashen and wet with sweat, the front of his jerkin stained with vomit. The porter crouched beside him, too drunk to offer any succour. Corbett filled the wine cup, drank some himself and then forced the goblet between his servant's lips, snarling at the porter to bring a blanket.
    There was a knock at the door. Lady Amelia, accompanied by Dames Catherine and Frances, bustled in. They were shrouded in blankets, their faces pale and heavy-eyed with sleep.
    'What is it, Clerk?'
    'Nothing, woman!' he rasped angrily.
    He saw the colour come back into Ranulf's cheeks and stood up.
    I am sorry,' he muttered. 'We were returning from Woodstock and were chased by war dogs.'
    Lady Amelia gazed back, her eyes puzzled.
    'Hounds,' Corbett said slowly, 'trained to hunt and kill men. You must not open the gates tonight. They would have killed us. I tell you this – somewhere out in the darkness, some poor unfortunate, a tinker or vagabond, paid for our escape with his life!'
    As if to mock his words a low, moaning howl came out of the darkness beyond the wall. Lady Amelia stared coolly in the direction of the noise.
    'Dame Catherine!' she snapped. 'You are to rouse the labourers. Sound the tocsin! Everything is to be made secure; all gates are to be kept closed and locked. No one is to leave. Corbett, follow me!'
    To the sound of hurrying footsteps and the clanging of the tocsin, Corbett and Ranulf were led across to the infirmary, a pleasant, two-storey house just past the refectory. An old battle-axe of a nun wrapped them both in heavy blankets, forcing cups of mulled wine down their throats. It was only as his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep that Corbett realised the wine must have been lightly laced with a sleeping potion.
    He woke clear-eyed late the next morning. Ranulf was already up, squatting on the side of his bed, his face clean and washed. He had donned a new set of clothes and brought fresh doublet and hose for Corbett.
    'A nightmare, Master?'
    'Yes, Ranulf, a nightmare.'
    He cast the blankets aside, pleased that he felt no ill effects from the terrible chase of the previous night.
    'Now,' he said, I am going to wash, shave, change my clothes and eat honest food, then it's back to Woodstock, Ranulf, mounted and armed. I am going to have that bloody pervert's head!'
    Ranulf grinned. Corbett rarely lost his temper and when he did it was always a pleasure to watch.
    'Is that safe, Master?'
    'As you would say, Ranulf, I don't give a rat's arse! The King still rules here and I am his envoy. We can take those two soldiers from the porter's lodge with us. It's time they earned their wages!'
    Ranulf felt pleased. This time it would be different. He would have sword, dagger and crossbow. He blinked rapidly.
    'Master, I am sorry, you have a messenger. A Ralph Maltote. He comes from the King's camp at Nottingham and bears urgent messages. He arrived just after dawn The Lady Prioress has also sent out riders. They found no trace of the dogs except the body of the one you killed and the Lady Prioress has ordered that to be burnt in the forest They also found,' the servant coughed and looked away, 'the mangled remains of a corpse.' Ranulf stopped. 'One of the labourers recognised him. The landlord of The Bud will not go poaching again.'
    Corbett whisded softly through his teeth.
    'God rest him,' he muttered. 'I suspect our landlord was our porter's poacher friend. You had better bring Maltote in.'
    Ralph Maltote proved to be a stout young man who looked rather ridiculous in his boded leather jerkin, military leggings and boots. His face was as round and as red as an autumn apple. His sparse blond hair was dark with sweat, and his surprised blue eyes and hangdog look made him the most unlikely royal messenger Corbett had ever seen. He stood with the conical helmet cradled clumsily under his arm.
    'You rode far and fast young man?' Corbett asked, glaring at Ranulf, who was sniggering softly beside him.
    'Yes, My Lord.'
    Maltote slumped down on the stool, his long sword catching him between the legs and nearly tipping him over on his