Prince of Darkness

crossbow from the landlord. I shot a bolt' He looked away and swallowed hard. 'It completely missed.' His eyes flickered nervously at Corbett I just hope it didn't hit anyone else. Ranulf snatched it from me. You know the rest.' Corbett stared at his bold-faced servant. 'How many times, Ranulf?' 'How many times what. Master?' 'How many times have you saved my life?' Ranulf shrugged.
    'It's my duty,' he replied so piously that Corbett leaned back and roared with laughter. He took his purse and emptied the coins on to the table.
    'They are for you, Ranulf. My regards to your son. Maltote, you had better go with him.'
    He put his hand over the young messenger's.
    'Just promise me you'll never handle a crossbow whenever I am anywhere near you.'
    Maltote smiled nervously and, led by Ranulf, left the tavern for a night of revelling.
    Corbett sat muttering to himself, going over the questions which still vexed him. He realised that in his discussions with Ranulf he had not mentioned old Martha's death. Why did she die? What was so important about the phrase 'Sinistra non dextra'. Corbett stared down at his hands gripping the table edge. He had thought of it before. Was the old nun referring to hands? But whose? What did she mean by the phrase? He shook his head.
    'On the left, not the right!' he muttered.
    The landlord, passing by the table, stopped and looked strangely at Corbett but the clerk smiled and shook his head so the fellow wandered off. Corbett remained sitting for hours following various trains of thought whilst Ranulf, having seen his son, was bouncing about on the broad, silk-canopied bed of Mistress Semplar. The young merchant's wife, her old husband away at a Guild meeting, had been delighted to see her amorous gallant. How pleased Ranulf was now finding out, whilst outside the front door a drunken Maltote kept watch.
    A day later, Corbett sat on the edge of his own bed in Leighton Manor watching Maeve busy herself round the room. He had returned earlier in the day and Maeve was as ecstatic to see him as he had been hungry for her. A hollow-eyed Maltote had taken a strangely exhausted Ranulf off to their own lodgings so the clerk and his wife had dined by themselves in the small hall below and spent the rest of the time here in their bedchamber. As usual Maeve had been full of questions. Whom had he met? Where had he been? How long would they stay?
    Corbett had tried to give her reasonable answers, deliberately omitting any reference to the attack in Catte Street or the murder of Father Reynard. Nevertheless, Maeve's sharp eyes had missed nothing; her husband looked exhausted, troubled, and now she felt agitated. Hugh had referred to de Craon and Maeve knew enough about the Frenchman to realise he meant nothing but ill for her husband. However, she had kept a brave face, telling him about the affairs of the manor, assuring him that the child growing in her belly was as well as could be expected. She kept her own bad news to the last
    'Hugh…' Maeve straightened up and pulled her shift around her. 'There's a letter for you. It came earlier this morning. It's from the King. He's coming south, he's at Bedford.'
    'Bedford! He should be on the Scottish march. Maeve, the letter!'
    His wife went over to a casket and took out a small roll of parchment.
    I broke the seal, Hugh.' She stared coolly at him. 'What concerns you, concerns me.'
    He undid the scroll carefully. The King's message was sharp and cool: he was both sad and angry that his 'beloved clerk, Hugh Corbett, has failed to report any progress on our business at Godstowe'. The letter continued in a taunting, angry fashion, insults thinly veiled, about how the King's trust had not been repaid. The King was so concerned, the letter concluded, he had left his army under the command of others and was journeying south to resolve the matter himself. Corbett crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it angrily at the wall. He glared at his wife.
    'Hell's teeth, Maeve! St Bernard was right. The Plantagenets come from the Devil, and to the Devil they will surely go! Is it my fault if the King has spoilt his son and made him a laughing stock in Europe? What does he know about bloody-mouthed dogs, silent assassins and…' His voice faltered off at the frightened look on Maeve's face.
    'You didn't tell me!' she accused, and took her husband by the hand.' But now you will.'
    Corbett had no choice but told her from the beginning of the events at Godstowe. Maeve