Prince of Darkness

dagger in his belt, was trying to tighten his grip round his assailant's throat He looked up desperately as he saw the other assassin now approach, his dagger raised, waiting to strike.
    'Ranulf!' Corbett yelled.
    The dagger began to descend. Corbett heard the whirr of a crossbow. Was there another attacker? But when he looked up, the dwarf above him was standing, arms limp like a ragged doll, staring dully down at the crossbow bolt buried in his stomach. Corbett regained his strength and scrambled to his feet, dragging the dwarf in his grasp with him as the latter's accomplice slumped wordlessly to his knees. He heard the patter of feet behind him and turned, his captive slid from his hands like an eel. The manikin threw a malevolent look at Corbett and fled into the darkness. Maltote came running up, Ranulf behind him. The manservant dropped to one knee, brought the crossbow up, again the death-bearing click, and the whirring crossbow bolt caught the second assassin just before he slipped into the darkness. It caught him full in the middle of his back, throwing him into the air before he crashed down on the cobbles.
    Corbett went over and examined the bodies, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he turned each of the corpses over. He still felt strange, as if he was bending over the bodies of children, but one look at the dead faces calmed such scruples. They were almost identical in looks and equally steeped in depravity. Even in death their lips were curled in a snarl; their wizened faces and staring, blank eyes seemed to gloat over the evil they had planned. Professional assassins, Corbett thought. He recognised the type. They could come in many guises; a beautiful woman, a troubadour, a pedlar, even a priest or monk. Something stirred in his memory but he was too tired and disturbed to concentrate. Ranulf came up and expertly went through their wallets and pockets but there was nothing except a few coins.
    'The mark of a true assassin,' Corbett observed drily. 'They carry nothing and wear nothing to identify them, where they come from or who sent them.'
    'Except this, Master!'
    Ranulf returned from the corpse of the second dwarf, some stiver in his hands. He sifted through it with his fingers.
    'Some English pennies,' he observed. 'But the silver's French.'
    Corbett stared at the coins.
    'De Craon!' he muttered. 'That bastard of a Frenchman sent them!'
    He suddenly remembered Father Reynard's corpse and stooped down to examine the leather-heeled boots of the assassins.
    'Well,' he said, 'at least I know how Father Reynard died. Remember the boot marks in the cemetery?'
    'But there was only one set!'
    Corbett rose and gulped the cool night air.
    'But both these were there. Remember the angle of the crossbow bolt in the priest's body? An assassin's ruse: one would knock on the door, the other would be waiting in the darkness. It's an old trick played in many ways. Sometimes it's a beggar stretching out a hand for coins whilst the other conceals the knife. Or, in my case,' he added wearily, 'a dwarf pretending to be a boy. I almost walked on to the bastard's knife!'
    Corbett looked back at the tavern doorway now thronged with onlookers. Doors were opening up and down the street, casement windows were flung wide and shouts were heard. A small portly figure swathed in robes waddled out of the darkness.
    'My name's Arrowhead!' he bellowed. 'John Arrowhead, alderman of this ward.' He pointed a finger at Corbett. 'You, Sir, are under arrest until the watch arrive!'
    Corbett leaned against the corner of the house, trying to stop the trembling in his legs.
    'And you, Sir,' he retorted, 'are a pompous fool who acts before he thinks. My name is Hugh Corbett, I am senior clerk in the King's Chancery and his special emissary. The two corpses are Frenchmen. They were assassins. Now, if you still wish to arrest me, do so – but tomorrow I will be free and you will be in prison!'
    Corbett dusted himself down, and with as much dignity as he could muster, walked back to the tavern.
    They sat and finished their meal, Corbett chewing his food carefully and downing two cups of heady claret to calm his nerves. Ranulf was full of himself, rather peeved that his master did not thank him properly for his rescue, making sly references to his own archery.
    'You took your time,' Corbett muttered ungraciously.
    Maltote coughed and looked away.
    'Master Corbett,' he said, 'that was my fault. One of the customers heard the fight We took the