Prince of Darkness

the back of his neck stir as he looked towards the door. Someone was standing outside in the cemetery calling his name. It sounded like a child's voice, lilting and clear.
    'Father Reynard! Please, Father Reynard, help me!'
    The Franciscan made the sign of the cross in the air. Was it a ghost? An apparition? An earth-bound soul? The ghost of the dead Lady Eleanor?
    'Father Reynard, come out!'
    The voice was becoming petulant. The Franciscan rose and walked cautiously towards the door, picking up the thick cudgel which leaned against the wall.
    'Father Reynard, do come! Please!'
    Again the lilting voice cut through the darkness and the priest paused with his hand on the latch. Was it some demon raised by a witch or warlock? On his arrival in the village, the Franciscan had had some trouble with those who practised the black arts and used the cemetery for diabolical activities. There had been strange lights and incantations, the sacrifice of a black cock at midnight, but he had cleared them out and barred the graveyard, threatening the congregation with the pains of excommunication in this life and Hell fire in the next.
    'Father Reynard, I mean no harm.'
    The priest grasped the cudgel tighter, opened the door and stepped into the darkness. The wind caught his face as he closed the door behind him. He stared into the blackest night.
    'Who's there?' he shouted. 'In God's name, child, who are you? What do you want?'
    Only the wind moaning through the trees answered his cry. Father Reynard walked across to the cemetery, making out the dark shapes of the wooden crosses, mounds of earth and ghostly elm trees.
    'Who are you?' he repeated. 'Where are you?'
    He strained his eyes and glimpsed a shadow darker than the rest He gasped in horror. A child, a small, dark, hooded figure was sweeping across the grass towards him with hands joined as if in prayer. Father Reynard too began a prayer and was half-way through it when the crossbow quarrel hit him full in the chest, ripping open skin, bone and muscle. The priest collapsed, the blood pouring through his mouth and nose tasting like iron. He felt the soft grass against his cheek. He saw himself as a child, running towards someone. His mother was holding our her arms to him. He knew he was dying.
    'Absolve me, Domine!' he muttered as his eyes closed and his soul was extinguished.
    The next morning Corbett was up early, shaking awake a tousled-headed Ranulf and a heavy-eyed Maltote.
    'Come on,' he shouted good-naturedly. 'Maltote, you will stay with us. We go to London and then on to Leighton.'
    Ranulf sprang up, pleased to abandon the fresh air of the country and head back to the seamy streets of London and the rounded pleasure-giving body of Mistress Semplar. Maltote staggered to his feet and went down to relieve himself in the necessary house. Corbett met him coming up the stairs.
    'Master, shouldn't I return to the royal camp?'
    Corbett noticed his surprised expression.
    'No, Maltote.' He put his hand on the messenger's shoulder. I need a man-at-arms, someone to protect me.' And, before the young soldier could ask whether he was being sarcastic, Corbett slipped by him.
    The nuns were just leaving their convent church. Theyglanced shyly at him out of the corner of their eyes and giggled, remembering his appeal of the night before. Lady Amelia, majestic as a queen, swept by. Corbett bowed respectfully and, pushing by the labourers and other villeins coming in from the fields to break their fasts, went out of the Galilee Gate, across the track and into the woods. There he positioned himself, trying to glimpse Dame Elizabeth's chamber from where she had alleged she had seen the horsemen waiting in the trees. At last Corbett achieved the correct position. If Dame Elizabeth, as she surely must be, was staring curiously out of her window now, she would be able to see him.
    Corbett squatted down and examined the ground, sifting carefully through the fallen leaves and twigs. At last he found what he was looking for horses had stood there. He picked up the dry droppings and crumbled them in his hand. He could not say when, but the horse dung and the faint indentations in the dry earth showed riders had stood there for some time. Dame Elizabeth had not been dreaming or seeing things.
    Corbett rose, wiped his hands and went back into the priory. He heard the lamentations and cries as he walked through the Galilee Gate, and hurried around to the main entrance where a distraught Lady Amelia