Prince of Darkness

half-listening to the Prince's footsteps in the gallery outside. He believed the Prince that it was de Craon who had informed him on the Sunday night but how had the Frenchman known? Did he have a spy at Godstowe? If so, who? But the Lady Prioress had maintained that de Craon had been turned away from Godstowe. Corbett moved restlessly, then laughed to himself. Of course! He rose, went to the door, and beckoned a waiting servitor towards him.
    'The French envoy, Monsieur de Craon – the Prince wishes me to speak to him.'
    The fellow led him down the corridor, stopped before another door and tapped gently on it. The door was half open and Corbett, not waiting for the servant to knock again, simply pushed it open and swaggered in. De Craon was sitting in a high-backed chair near the window, a small scroll of parchment on his lap, apparently waiting for the Prince to summon him to an audience. He looked up as Corbett entered, smiled and half rose before slumping back into the seat again as if he really could not be bothered. The scroll he had been studying disappeared quickly into the folds of his voluminous robes.
    'Monsieur Corbett! I am delighted to see you. Do sit down.' He airily waved towards a footstool.
    'De Craon, you're a lying bastard! You're about as pleased to see me as a peasant is to meet the tax-gatherer!'
    Corbett walked over, arms folded, and smiled icily down at his inveterate enemy.
    'Hugh,' de Craon spread his hands expansively, 'why do you insult me? Like you, I carry out orders.' He sighed wearily. 'Diplomacy can be such a tangled web.'
    'With you, de Craon, anything would be tangled!'
    Corbett leaned over, putting his hands on the arms of the chair, his face a few inches away from de Craon's.
    'As I said, you're a lying bastard! You are the father and mother of liars! You're up to your bloody mischief again, aren't you? The business at Godstowe…'
    De Craon rounded his eyes in mock innocence. Corbett noticed how dead they looked, as if de Craon was two people. There was the physical husk, and something else: a sly, malevolent presence. Corbett decided to test him.
    'The Godstowe business is not going well for you, is it?'
    'What on earth do you mean?'
    Corbett turned on his heel and walked back to the door.
    'What I mean, my beloved Frenchman, is that I know the truth. I also know that your informant there has not told you the truth. You have paid, Monsieur, for nothing more than a pack of lies.' Corbett opened the door. 'But there again,' he tossed airily over his shoulder, 'it's a pack which suits you well!'
    Corbett slipped through the door. Behind him de Craon had dropped his mask of good humour. His lips were moving quietly as he mouthed to himself what he would do if ever he had Corbett in his power. The clerk, however, had slipped quickly down the stairs and out into the courtyard where Ranulf and Maltote were waiting. His servant was trying to show the messenger how to hold a dagger, and Corbett shook his head in silent wonderment. Never, in all his life, had he witnessed anyone as clumsy or more dangerous to himself than Maltote with a weapon. Nevertheless, he liked this good-natured plough boy who knew nothing except horses.
    They mounted and left the palace, following the track down to the village. Corbett sniffed the sweet tangy air and realised autumn was coming in. Maeve would be seeing to the barns, ensuring stock was slaughtered, the meat dried, salted and hung high in the kitchen to smoke, preserving it for the long winter months. Autumn had come, slipping in like a thief, turning the countryside into one brilliant flash of orange, gold, russet and sombre red. The sun now had a golden haze around it and the fields, the grass standing high and lush, were enjoying one last flurry of life before the frosts.
    They passed an old horse pulling a cart full of apples, the driver not even bothering to turn to acknowledge their presence. On the top of the cart, as if resting on a bed of cushions, a young boy with breeches cut high above the knee lay fast asleep. The riders turned a corner and went down into the village. They paused as they heard the silver tones of a bell and, peering through the trees, saw a procession of villagers crossing the fields. It was led by Father Reynard, his russet gown now hidden beneath a gold and scarlet cope. The priest was preceded by a cross bearer and two young boys, one holding a bed, the other swinging a thurible. Corbett caught a whiff of the