Prince of Darkness

removed and its lands seized by the Crown!'
    Couville rose and went across to a long leaden tube. He undid the top and drew out a thick, yellowing roll of parchment He laid it carefully out on the long table whilst waving Corbett over. The clerks studied the parchment curiously. It was divided into two; on one side were drawings of Coats of Arms. Corbett recognised a few: Percy de Bohun, Bigod, Mowbray. On the other side of the broad sheet of parchment were Coats of Arms with great black gashes through them.
    'What are these?' he murmured.
    'This is the Roll of Kenilworth,' Couville replied. 'Simen de Montfort rose in rebellion in 1258. As you know, Edward destroyed his forces amongst the apple orchards of Evesham in 1264. De Montfort was killed, his body hacked to bits and fed to the royal dogs. Some of his companions died with him, a few ded abroad, but most took refuge in Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire. After a long siege the casde surrendered and de Montfort's rebellion was over.' Couville pointed to the parchment 'On one side are the armorial bearings of those nobles who supported the King. These others with the black line drawn across their escutcheons belong to the leading supporters of de Montfort. Perhaps we can find your motto amongst them.'
    Corbett walked away whilst Couville, muttering to himself, pored over the Rod of Kenilworth.
    'Ah!' Couville looked up, face beaming with pleasure. 'Noli me tangere belonged to the Deveril family.'
    'What happened to them?'
    Again Couville muttered to himself and wandered round his room checking other rods and parchments and quarto-sized journals which contained an index of royal warrants and proclamations. He beckoned Corbett back to the table.
    'The Deveril who fought with de Montfort died at Evesham.'
    'And were there any heirs?'
    Couville shook his head and pointed to the Deveril insignia.
    'The clerk who drew this up added a note. Look!' Corbett squinted down at the faded blue-green ink. 'Nulli legitimiti haeredes.'
    'No legal issue,' Couville translated. 'According to this, the last of the Deverils died at Evesham.'
    Corbett shook his head and picked up the faded leather dog collar.
    'So why was this found round the neck of a little lap dog in the forest outside Godstowe?'
    'I don't know,' Couville retorted. 'Be logical, Hugh. Just because it was found there doesn't mean it has anything to do with the crimes you are investigating.'
    'But surely it must?' Corbett whispered.
    Couville put a hand on his shoulder. 'Hugh, only God knows where that collar came from. After the defeat of de Montfort, the market stalls were swamped with the forfeited goods of rebels.'
    Corbett wearily rubbed his face in his hands.
    'Tell me, Nigel,' he began, 'a young woman and her male companion are found barbarously murdered in the glade of an Oxfordshire forest Their corpses provide no clue as to their identity. No one comes forward to claim the bodies. No one makes petitions or starts a search for their whereabouts. They are brutally murdered yet their deaths provoke nothing but silence.'
    Couville shrugged. 'Go out into the alleyways of London, Hugh. You will find the corpses of the poor, but no one gives a fig!'
    'Ah!' Corbett replied. 'But these were well-fed, pampered people, used to luxury. Where did they come from?'
    Couville grinned. 'They must have come from abroad.'
    Corbett stared hard at his old mentor. Of course he thought. Father Reynard had described both of them as olive-skinned. So were they foreigners?
    'If they were foreigners,' he said slowly, 'they must have obtained a royal licence to enter England. Would such a document be difficult to trace?' Couville nodded.
    'Of course. Hundreds enter England every month. Even if such a licence were issued, a copy may not be sent to me.'
    Corbett scratched his head and grinned sheepishly.
    I have discovered something,' he said slowly, 'and yet it sheds no light.' Corbett picked up his cloak from the door where he had tossed it. 'No jests, you know I am the keeper of the King's secrets. I admit you do not see the copies of the letters I send or the reports spies send me.' He fastened his cloak round his shoulders. 'Sometimes I am proud because I have the King's ear, but our royal master is a devious, sly man. He once told me that if his right hand knew what his left was doing, he would cut it off.'
    'What is your question, Hugh?'
    I know all the King's spies and agents, whether they be working in the court of Castille or in