Prince of Darkness

stopped, calming his horse which grew skittish at the sight. From the pole hung four corpses; three of the great, black mastiffs and, in between them, his neck broken and twisted, eyes protruding, the body of Gyrth, their keeper.
    Corbett dismounted slowly, ordering Ranulf to look after the horses as he went to meet the chamberlain, who had come out to greet him. The fellow treated Corbett as if he were a Prince of the Blood and took him swiftly into the had, which an army of servants were now cleaning after the previous night's banquet. Corbett was led down a maze of corridors and into a chamber where the Prince of Wales and Gaveston, both white-faced and sober, stood waiting to receive him. Before Corbett could open his mouth, Prince Edward came forward and took him firmly by the hand.
    'Master Corbett – Hugh,' he said, his eyes pleading with the clerk, 'the dogs… it was a mistake. My profuse apologies. The beasts and their handler have been hanged.' The Prince swallowed nervously and looked away. 'It was a mistake, an accident, wasn't it, Piers?'
    'Yes, it was,' Gaveston replied. 'A terrible accident.'
    Corbett glanced at the favourite, noting how pale his face had become. An accident? the clerk thought. Perhaps some drunken jape which got out of hand, or perhaps a calculated act of attempted murder.
    'We found out this morning,' the Prince continued hurriedly. 'The Lady Prioress sent messages. Both the keeper and his hounds were instantly hanged. The fellow was drunk and released the dogs as you left the palace. They picked up your scent…' His voice trailed off.
    The Prince of Wales' concern was genuine. Was it remorse? Corbett wondered. Or even complete ignorance on the Prince's behalf? Had Gaveston acted on his own? Corbett understood their fear. He had no illusions about the King. If Corbett was killed in the royal service, the King would accept it. But a deliberate attack on one of his messengers? Edward would have hurried troops south and burnt Woodstock to the ground. Corbett was going to ask about his lost glove but decided not to. Gaveston would have a ready explanation.
    'Your Grace, I must see you alone.' Corbett ignored the look of annoyance on the favourite's face. 'Your Grace,' he persisted, 'you owe me that. I must talk to you. It is on your father's orders,' he lied.
    The Prince looked across at Gaveston. I agree,' he replied. He grinned sheepishly at Corbett. I have to change. The French envoy. Monsieur de Craon, has returned.'
    'You do not like the French envoy, Master Corbett?' Gaveston sardonically observed.
    'Monsieur de Craon does his job and I do mine,' Corbett replied drily. 'But, Your Grace, I insist you must not trust him. Monsieur de Craon could catch spiders in the webs he weaves.'
    The Prince nodded briskly and looked round.
    'Be my guest, Master Corbett. In an hour I will meet you in the scriptorium.'
    Corbett bowed, withdrew, and spent the rest of the time kicking his heels in an antechamber before a servant imperiously summoned him up the great staircase and ushered him into a brilliantly decorated room. The floor was of polished wood and the new wainscoting bore elaborate designs: vines, strange flowers, and exotic creatures such as dragons and wyverns. Around the painted blue walls were shelves and small cupboards full of different books, all bound in calf-skin of different colours, red, blue and tawny brown, their clasps of wrought gold and silver. Corbett noticed how each of these precious manuscripts was fastened to the wall by silver chains. He knew the Prince was a connoisseur of luxury, deeply influenced by the new designs from the prosperous Italian states. It was the only chamber Corbett had ever seen where there were no torches fixed to the wall. Instead heavy bronze candelabra stood on polished oak sideboards and dressers round the room. Nor were there any rushes on the floor with their usual fleas and dirt but thick wooden carpets of the purest white.
    At the far end of the room on a small dais stood a polished round table with high-backed, ornately carved chairs. The Prince was sitting quietly there, his hands clasped, staring down at the table, so silent he could have been taken for some studious monk; his robes, however, were splendid, his fingers covered in precious rings, and his hair and golden beard carefully combed and oiled. He looked up and gestured Corbett forward. As he approached, the clerk noticed that the Prince's doublet was of pure white satin