Song of a Dark Angel

Monck's chamber. He knocked and, deliberately, opened the door without waiting for an answer. Monck was seated at a table, his back to the door. He whirled round and saw Corbett. Hastily he gathered up the manuscripts spread out on the table in front of him and rose, that strange smile still on his face.
    'What is it?' he asked. 'What can I do for you now?'
    Corbett went into the room, closed the door behind him and sat down on a stool. Monck carefully kept himself between Corbett and the manuscripts on the table.
    'Why are you here?' Corbett asked him.
    Monck shrugged. 'Because of the Pastoureaux.'
    'And how did Lickspittle die?'
    'I have told you. He went out on the moors and never returned. His decapitated corpse and severed head were found on the beach.'
    'A strange way to die,' Corbett observed.
    'Dying is always strange.'
    'You know what I mean, Lavinius. To kill a man is one thing, to mutilate his body another.'
    'This is a strange place,' Monck said. 'According to our fat physician, the Iceni who once lived in this area used to take the heads of their enemies and expose them in public – just as our king does now on London Bridge.'
    'What was Lickspittle doing on the beach?'
    Monck shrugged.
    'He went to the convent. There's a path from there down to the beach, though why he should have followed it, if he did, is a mystery. He was certainly taking a risk.'
    'Why's that?'
    'The tides here are fickle. After a heavy rainfall the waves come swirling in, they could take a man unawares.' 'And you'll tell me nothing else?' 'I cannot tell you anything.'
    Again that crooked smile. Corbett got to his feet and went to the door. With his hand on the latch he paused. 'Lavinius!'
    'Yes?' Monck half-turned in his chair.
    'You should tell me the truth. I assure you of this, more murders will occur.'
    Monck just went back to his papers and Corbett left, closing the door quietly behind him. He went along the passage and stood at the top of the stairs. He could hear Maltote and Ranulf laughing below. He hoped that the precious pair had not enticed anyone into a game of dice. He went back to his chamber. Outside the wind was howling, beating on the windows and rattling the shutters. Beneath the wind's sombre song Corbett could hear the waves crashing on the rocks as the sea poured into the Wash. He knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said his favourite prayer: 'Christ be in my head and in my thinking, Christ be in my eyes and in my seeing, Christ be at my left hand and my right.'
    His mind drifted. Was Maeve well in London? And baby Eleanor? He shook himself and went back to his prayers, but he found it difficult to concentrate. He gave up, crossed himself and lay, dozing, on the bed. After a little while he undressed, got into bed properly, pulled the blankets about him and went instantly to sleep, dreaming about running across a lonely beacon, pursued by dark, hooded figures.
    When he awoke the next morning, Ranulf and Maltote, still fully dressed, were lying on their beds looking, as Ranulf would have put it, as happy as pigs in a mire. Corbett opened the shutters. The wind had dropped, the mist had almost gone and he glimpsed an ice-blue sky. Rubbing his hands against the cold, he washed, shaved, dressed and went down to the buttery. The hour candle on its iron spigot made him realize how late he had slept, for the flame had already reached the tenth circle. Gurney came in, cheery-faced, stamping his feet and blowing his hands.
    'Good morning, Hugh. Why do horses always give trouble in winter?'
    He poured himself some mulled ale and hungrily snatched mouthfuls of bread and meat as he walked up and down the buttery. Alice came in with Selditch. They stood discussing the day's events, the atmosphere jovial because Monck had already gone walking.
    'By himself as usual,' Gurney added wryly. 'Never have I met a man who liked his own company so much.' Then he put his tankard down as a clamour came from the front of the house. With a clatter of boots Catchpole came rushing into the buttery.
    'Sir Simon!' Catchpole leaned against the door jamb to catch his breath. 'Sir Simon, Sir Hugh, you'd best come, now!'
    'What's the matter?' Alice asked, her voice high.
    Catchpole wiped the sweat from his face. 'I've been down to the village. They've caught Gilbert and his mother.'
    'Oh, Lord save us!' Gurney grabbed his cloak and shouted at the servants to prepare the horses.
    'What are they doing?' Corbett asked.
    'They are pressing