Prince of Darkness

embroidery,' he continued in mock solemnity, 'you can work at that There are still matters…'
    Maeve dug her nails deep into the calf of his leg.
    I have had enough of needlework,' she whispered. 'Hugh, you will be gone tomorrow?'
    'Yes, at first light'
    She rested her head against his shoulder. 'Be careful,' she murmured. I do fear for you.' Corbett held her close and fought to hide his own deep unease.
    Corbett and his party reached Godstowe late the following evening. The drunken porter allowing them entrance after the usual altercation. Once inside the priory walls Corbett stayed near the gate, demanding the fellow go and bring Lady Amelia down to meet them.
    The Prioress seemed to have aged since Corbett had last seen her. Even in the poor light of the flickering torches, Corbett could see how white and haggard her face had become. Her eyes were red-rimmed and circled with deep, dark shadows.
    'Master Corbett.' She took both his hands in hers which felt ice cold and clammy to the touch. 'How was your journey?'
    'Gruelling,' he replied. 'I am cold, wet -' he looked down at his boots, '- and caked in mud. The rains have turned everything into a morass.'
    'Come with me.'
    Corbett shook his head.
    I would prefer the guest house, My Lady. The fewer who know I have arrived, the better.'
    The Lady Prioress stared back, as if lost in her own thoughts, then shook herself and quickly agreed.
    The porter took care of their horses and Lady Amelia, walking like a ghost before them, led them across to the guest house. Dame Agatha was waiting there, her beautiful face pale, eyes concerned. Nevertheless, she greeted Corbett with pleasure.
    'Hugh,' she whispered, grasping him by the arm, 'you have returned at last!'
    He smiled and touched her gently on the shoulder.
    'Dame Agatha, I need a few words alone with Lady Amelia.' He looked over his shoulder at his two servants. 'Ranulf and Maltote need food.' He grinned. 'If they don't eat, I swear they will feed on each other.'
    He watched the young nun usher his two companions away and allowed Lady Amelia to take him into the small chamber, really no more than a cell with a table, stool and truckle bed. The Lady Prioress slumped wearily down on the stool as Corbett questioned her about Dame Frances' death. He heard her out in silence, asked a few questions, then went and stood over her.
    'Lady Amelia?'
    The Lady Prioress sat with arms crossed, staring down at the floor. Corbett crouched down beside her.
    'Lady Amelia, tomorrow, in your chapter meeting after the morning Mass, tell your sisters that before Vespers I will speak to them and explain all that has happened.' He touched her gently under the chin and made her look up. 'My Lady, you must do that.'
    'Yes, of course,' she mumbled, her once proud face now crumpled in fatigue and worry. She smiled wanly at Corbett and, like a sleepwalker, rose and left him.
    Corbett sat down on the truckle bed, lay back, and though he did not intend to, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning he was roused early by the clanging of the priory bells. He felt cold, his arms and legs aching from the rough ride of the previous day. He went and roused a grumbling Ranulf and Maltote. Corbett then cleaned his boots, washed, changed his tunic and ravenously ate the bread and cheese brought up on a platter by an aged lay sister. He gave both Ranulf and Maltote careful instructions; he was going to inspect the burnt-out novice house. After a while they must follow him and be armed with dagger and sword.
    'Ranulf, you bring a crossbow. Try not to be seen by anyone. Keep yourself hidden. But should you see anyone, threaten to attack. You are to shoot twice: once as a warning; the second time, make sure you kill whoever it is.'
    Corbett repeated his instructions and, throwing his cloak about him, went downstairs. A thick sea mist had rolled in, obscuring most of the priory buildings. Corbett remembered the autumn sun during his previous visit and marvelled how quickly the weather had changed. Nevertheless, the mist helped his cause. He saw shadowy figures slip by him, their faces and footsteps muffled by the fog, as he made his way across to the blackened timber of the novice house. Corbett vaguely recalled the building as a pleasant two-storeyed affair: the fire must have caught the sun-dried timbers and turned it into this blackened mess. He picked his way carefully around the fire-scarred timbers of what was once the Kitchen. Here the blaze had