Prince of Darkness

that the priest's face had paled.
    'When de Craon was refused entry to Godstowe, he came here and offered you money: gold and silver for your church and parishioners. And you took it. Not as a bribe,' he added softly, 'but for alms. After all, what was the gossip of princes and their doxies to a priest? I am right, am I not, Father?'
    Father Reynard placed both bands on the table and bowed his head.
    'Well, Father?'
    'You are right,' the priest replied. 'What you say is close to the truth. De Craon was charming. He paid gold for simple chatter.' He glanced up. 'You have seen the poverty, Clerk. The riches of the priory, the opulence of the palace. The people there don't give a fig. They have no sense of God. De Craon is no better but at least he gave me gold. Not for myself,' he added hastily, 'but for the widow with hungry mouths to feed, the boy who wants to become a scholar. I am no spy.'
    Corbett felt pity but resolved not to weaken
    'If the King's serjeants-at-law or the lawyers in King's Bench heard of this,' he replied, 'they would say you were a traitor. It is treason, Father, to correspond with the King's enemies beyond the seas.'
    I am no spy and no traitor,' the priest said quietly. 'Have you ever seen a woman yoked to her husband pulling a plough because they can't afford an ox or a horse, while their baby lies under some hedgerow, wrapped in rags, sucking a crust and whining because it is too weak with hunger to cry?' His eyes flared. I tell you this, Clerk, one day the poor will rise and there will be a terrible reckoning. Tell me, what would you have done in my place?'
    Corbett leaned across and put his hand on the priest's elbow, glad that Father Reynard didn't flinch.
    I suppose,' he replied, I would have done what you did, Father.' He withdrew his hand and sipped the watered wine. I know you are no spy or traitor, but de Craon is dangerous. He has no morality, no God, no code of chivalry except service to a French King who sees himself as the new Charlemagne. If de Craon has spun his web round you, then you are in danger, Father.'
    The priest made a rude sound with his mouth and looked away.
    'Father, de Craon suspects I know the identity of his informant He will strike against me and may well try to hurt you. Fear nothing from our King, I can get you letters of safe conduct, but you must go into hiding for a while. You should not stay here!'
    Father Reynard shook his head and looked up, the fanaticism gleaming in his eyes.
    I am the good shepherd,' he replied, 'not the hireling. I will not flee because the wolf is on the prowl.' He smiled and relaxed. 'Anyway, Corbett, you forget I was once a soldier.'
    Corbett shook his head.
    'I cannot force you, Father, but heed my warnings.' He paused. 'What does de Craon know?'
    'What I told him – that the Lady Eleanor died.' The priest smiled. 'Died in the most suspicious circumstances. You know, Clerk, I have seen many a corpse. A woman doesn't fall down steep stairs then lie at the bottom as if she is fast asleep.'
    'Anything else, Father?'
    'No. What I know, you know.'
    Corbett rose.
    'Then I bid you goodnight, and warn you to take care.'
    Father Reynard looked away, dismissing his warning with a smile. Corbett went out through the deserted churchyard. The sun was now sinking, a fiery ball of light in the west, its dying rays lighting up the greens and russet browns of the graveyard. Somewhere, high in one of the elm trees, a lonely bird sang its own hymn for the dead. Corbett looked around. Father Reynard had said that the corpses of the young woman and her companion were buried beneath an old elm tree. Who were they? he wondered. What secrets did they hold? He stared around and he wondered. A silent, peaceful place but he had a premonition of something terrible. Was he being watched? He was used to the feeling in the dark, winding streets of London, but here near God's house? A twig snapped. Corbett spun round, looking beyond the priest's house.
    'Is there anyone there?' he called softly.
    No sound, nothing but the gentle flurry of leaves as the wind lifted and scattered them like pieces of gold across the grass. Corbett strained his ears and grinned. The evening breeze also brought the sounds of singing and he recognised the lusty bellowing of Ranulf.
    He went back through the wicket gate, crossed the darkening village green. As he had guessed, Ranulf had led Maltote into temptation Both were standing, foaming tankards of ale in their hands, in the