Song of a Dark Angel

stools were precisely positioned around the table, the blankets neatly arranged on the bed. Monck's tidy mind, Corbett thought. Monck's saddlebags lay tidily under the window, but they were securely strapped and buckled. Corbett went across to the small table beside the bed. A thick beeswax candle stood there and the wax had dripped down, forming a brittle crust on the table.
    'I wonder?' Corbett whispered to himself.
    Monck might be a strange character but he was still a clerk. Perhaps he, like Corbett, would sit in his bed late at night poring over parchments, scribbling notes on his writing tray. Corbett knelt, felt beneath the bed and smiled in triumph as his fingers caught hold of three pieces of parchment.
    He pulled them out carefully and sat on the edge of the bed to study them. The first appeared to be a list of precious objects. Corbett examined it closely; these items were not mere baubles but silver plate, cups, even a cope. It was difficult to decipher the writing because Monck had used many of the personal abbreviations so beloved of chancery clerks. Corbett put the list on the bed and studied the second piece of parchment. At first he could make no sense of the strange lines drawn on it. He smoothed the parchment out and then realized he was looking at a crude map of the Hunstanton area. It was very similar to the one he had drawn. He traced with his fingers the coastline of the Wash, as drawn by Monck, and found the crosses that marked Holy Cross convent, Hunstanton village, Mortlake Manor, the gallows and the Hermitage. It was more detailed than his own map and covered a wider area, including Swaffham, the area around the Wash and the river Nene. It was here that Monck had done the most scribbling, with dotted lines criss-crossing each other. On the third piece of parchment was a crude drawing of the coastline and a sketch of a cog under sail.
    Corbett tried to memorize every detail of all three parchments before pushing them back under the bed. He got up and, making sure everything was in its place, walked across and looked out through the unshuttered window which, like his, overlooked a grey, sullen sea.
    Whatever brought you here, Monck, he thought, it's not the Pastoureaux!
    He left the chamber, locking it securely behind him, and went down to the others sitting in the hall.
    'Sir Simon, may I see the prisoner now?' he asked.
    Gurney nodded. 'Catchpole will take you down. Selditch is already with him.'
    Catchpole escorted Corbett along a passageway which ran by the kitchen. He stopped before a metal-studded door, opened it and revealed steps leading down into a cavernous darkness relieved only by the flickering light of a few sconce torches. At the bottom of the steps was a long passageway hewn out of the rock. Corbett touched the wall in surprise. Catchpole, leading the way, stopped. 'Didn't you know, Sir Hugh, that Mortlake Manor is built on a warren of passageways and tunnels? It used to be a ferry point for those who wanted to travel across the Wash.' He pointed to the ceiling. 'Some people say the Romans had a watch tower here with a beacon to guide their ships. After that the Saxons, then old Duke William of Normandy built a keep. You should talk to physician Selditch, he knows the history of the place. But, come.'
    They continued down the narrow sloping passage. Corbett felt a flicker of panic and tried to control his breathing. Maeve and Ranulf always teased him about his horror of enclosed spaces. At last Catchpole stopped before a heavy timber door with a small grille at the top. He unlocked it and mockingly ushered Corbett through.
    The dungeon was no more than a bare, cavernous storeroom, though Gurney had tried to make his prisoner comfortable. Gilbert was sitting on the edge of a cot bed with Selditch on a stool opposite him. The physician was washing the prisoner's face with a mixture of water and wine and applying an unguent to the large bruise around his eyes. A small, three-branched candelabra provided a pool of light. Gilbert hardly looked up but stared morosely at the rush-covered floor whilst Selditch, busy with his medicines and potions, mumbled a greeting. At last he finished.
    'There!' He smiled at Corbett. 'No real injury, some bruising on his chest and legs. But he'll live to stand trial.'
    'They murdered my mother!' Gilbert muttered.
    'They say,' Corbett replied quietly, 'that you murdered the girl.'
    Selditch got to his feet. 'I'll wait for you outside, Sir