Prince of Darkness

betrothal had taken place which would be the basis of lasting peace and friendship between England and France.'
    Corbett, his emotions masked by a diplomatic smile, watched de Craon call on God and his angels to witness how France intended a lasting peace. In any other circumstances the English clerk would have burst out laughing: de Craon, given any opportunity, would break or twist the treaty whenever it suited him or his devious master in the Louvre Palace. At last de Craon stopped speaking. On Edward's behalf, Corbett rose and replied with a similar tissue of official lies, and went round the table to exchange the kiss of peace with his arch-enemy. Behind him Edward of England sat watching through heavy-lidded eyes, though his mind was elsewhere, his body tense with fury that his son had chosen to remain at Woodstock with his catamite rather than attend this solemn betrothal ceremony. His son claimed he was unwell. The King ground his teeth together. By the time the week was over, he would give his son good cause to be unwell! The King leaned forward, watching Corbett and de Craon embrace and exchange the final kiss of peace. After the kiss, de Craon pulled his head back, a false smile on his face.
    'One day, Corbett,' he hissed, 'I will kill you!'
    Corbett bowed and muttered back, 'One day, Monsieur, as you have recently, you will try and fail!'
    Again the false smiles, the perfunctory bows, the trumpets in the gallery braying out their silver din, and the ceremony was over. De Craon bowed towards the throne, snapped his fingers for his colleagues to follow and, turning on his heel, walked quickly out of the huge hall. Edward rose, unfastened his gold-encrusted cloak and tossed it to de Warenne.
    'Thank God that mummery is over! De Warenne, I want to see Corbett now in my chamber. No one else to be present!'
    'Of course, Your Grace.'
    Edward's eyes narrowed.
    'Less of the sarcasm, Surrey. And when you have done that, I want your fastest messenger to be on the road to Woodstock within the hour. He is to tell my sweet son that I wish words with him tomorrow – here.' The King jabbed a finger at the Earl. 'And a message for my Lord Gaveston as well. If he is in England by the end of the week, I will proclaim him wolfshead, an outlaw to be killed on sight!' Edward heartily clapped the Earl on the shoulder. 'And after that, we march north to give the Scots a lesson they'll never forget.'
    Corbett found the King lounging in a window seat, a huge, deep-bowled goblet of wine in his hands. 'Ah, Hugh.'
    Corbett's heart sank. Whenever the King played the bluff, hearty warrior, the clerk always smelt treachery.
    'While you and de Craon were kissing each other's arses out there, I was thinking of your report about the business at Godstowe. You did well, Hugh.'
    'Thank you, Your Grace.'
    The King rose, poured a goblet of wine and thrust it into the clerk's hands.
    I am sorry I did not tell you about Mistress Agatha.'
    'Your Grace, I have already protested. How can I gather information if there are people like her of whom I know nothing? Such men or women pose a threat They need to be watched and guided.'
    'Like the Lady Agatha?'
    'Yes, Your Grace, like the Lady Agatha.'
    The King looked slyly at Corbett.
    'True, she acted beyond her orders, but if the Lady Eleanor had escaped…' He allowed his words to hang in the air.
    'If the Lady Eleanor had escaped, Your Grace,' Corbett replied sharply, 'she would have been recaptured.'
    'True! True!' the King murmured. 'But Agatha…' His voice trailed off.
    Corbett slammed the wine cup down on the table.
    'Mistress de Courcy may well have killed to protect Your Grace, but she also killed to protect herself. Three women died for no good cause, two of them nuns; women who died simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who will answer for their blood?'
    'You are being sanctimonious, Corbett!' the King snapped.
    'In Italy,' Corbett replied slowly, 'there is a new breed of man who maintains that whatever the Prince wishes has the force of law. Is this what they mean, Your Grace?'
    'Perhaps.'
    'So if Your Grace's mind changes and you wish my death…?'
    The King turned on him, lips parted in a snarl. He threw the wine cup down at Corbett's feet 'Shut up, Clerk!'
    'Three women,' Corbett continued evenly. 'Three innocent women died. Do you know what they call you in the halls of Oxford? The new Justinian of the West The great law giver. They talk of your parliaments, of your