Prince of Darkness

an Oxfordshire village?'
    'It could have been a woman,' Maltote interrupted.
    Corbett just stared back and shook his head. A vague idea formed at the back of his mind.
    'Father Reynard's death,' he concluded, 'however distressing, must wait for a while. Come,' he announced, 'we have far to ride.'
    Within the hour they were out into the countryside, following the track which would lead them down to the old Roman road. The clear autumn day drew to a close and Corbett made them rest their horses for a while. Ranulf and Maltote, lost in their own thoughts and conversation, allowed him to walk ahead. The clerk wanted peace and calm after the shock of Father Reynard's death. He was glad to be free of Godstowe and the cloying, hidden menace which seemed to permeate the place like some unwholesome stench. Moreover, Corbett loved this time of the year and realised how much he missed Maeve and the serenity of his own manor house. Like here, the leaves at Leighton would be turning a reddish-gold, there would be the faint smell of wood smoke, and Corbett wondered if his wife was also out in the fields enjoying the last lingering warm embrace of summer.
    They cleared the thick, wooded hills of Oxford and went down into the open countryside. Corbett stopped his horse to watch some labourers in the fields below working to bring in the last of the crops. In an adjoining field a sower, a basket cradled in his hands, scattered the life-bearing seeds, whilst behind him two young boys danced and cavorted, swinging their slings to drive off the marauding crows and ravens. Somewhere a dog howled and Corbett shuddered. He remembered that ghastly hunt across the fields at Woodstock and bit his lip at the despair he felt So far he had found no way to resolve the conundrum facing him. There were pieces missing. Why were Lady Eleanor's saddle bags packed? Who was her secret admirer or friend? And was Lady Eleanor planning to flee to him? Corbett blinked and felt tired. He must study this mystery, take each strand and follow it through.
    Behind him Ranulf laughed and Corbett looked back. The evening dusk was failing, the breeze rather cold. They had to hurry on. Corbett wished he was back in his chamber at Leighton Manor, Maeve with him. He could listen to her gentle teasing before going into his secret room and memorandising the questions which bedeviled him. He turned and smiled at Ranulf.
    'Come!' he shouted. 'Let's ride a little faster to the nearest tavern. Some food and drink before we decide whether we shall continue our journey.'
    They mounted and spurred their horses into a gallop, thundering along the rutted track past the crossroads where a decaying skeleton swung, the neck and head twisted, a macabre dancer against the darkening sky. Corbett fleetingly wondered if it was a portent
    They stayed at a tavern that night as the weather turned foul. Heavy rain clouds gathered and the roads next morning were clogged with thick, heavy mud. Nevertheless, they were in London just before mid-day, following White Cross Street through Cricklegate. They broke their fast in a small tavern near Catte Street, Ranulf revelling at being back in London, straining like a dog on a leash, wanting to be off on his own personal business.
    Corbett warned him: 'Stay with me, Ranulf, and you too, Maltote. Whoever killed Father Reynard shot at us the previous evening. He may well have trailed us back into London.'
    Maltote was only too pleased to agree though Ranulf sulked for a while. They stabled their horses and pushed their way through the noisy, colourful streets. There Ranulf quickly regained his good humour he pointed to a group of Spaniards in their multi-coloured hoods, mantles and stupendous codpieces. He and Maltote quarrelled about what was genuine fur, and what the jewelled embroidered motifs and the bright hues on the cloaks of some retainers really signified. All around them were the cries of tradesmen and costers, the distant shrill braying of trumpets as the household of a noble moved majestically through the city under flapping banners down to Westminster. Ranulf, nudging Maltote, leered at the pretty ladies in their fillets and low-waisted dresses; sometimes his words were drowned by the clamour of the crowd and the mid-day peal of the bells of London tolling for prayers from their great stone-washed, stately towers.
    They passed into West Chepe where the throng was greatest. This broad, cobbled area, the main market place of the city, was