Song of a Dark Angel

of the sisters showed him to the small guest house opposite the chapel and brought to him a savoury meat pie and a small jug of the best claret he had drunk in months. After which Corbett retired. However, as he lay dozing on the bed, his mind kept returning to that lonely, windswept headland and the figure of the nun resting on a stick, holding a lantern, staring out across the midnight sea.

Chapter 7
    'Your Grace, I demand to know why Lavinius Monck is at Mortlake Manor.'
    Corbett stood in the royal chamber in the Augustinian priory of Walsingham and glared at the king, who was slouched in a window seat staring moodily out of the window.
    On the other side of the room, sprawled in a chair before the fire, the hard-faced John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, shifted his bulk uneasily and slapped mailed gauntlets against his knee.
    'Master clerk,' the earl called over his shoulder, 'you do not make demands of your king!'
    'Oh, shut up, Surrey, and don't be so bloody pompous!'
    Edward of England glared across at his boon companion and faithful friend. He wished the earl would keep quiet. De Warenne was fine leading a charge against the Scots but when it came to intrigue he had all the tact and diplomacy of a battering ram. Edward stared at Corbett and hid a grin. Usually so calm and poised, Corbett now was travel-stained, covered in flecks of dirt from head to foot. He was unshaven and his usually hooded eyes blazed with anger. The king extended his hands.
    'Hugh, Hugh. Why all this excitement?' He indicated the chair beside him. 'Sit down, man.' Edward smiled, his craggy, leonine face suffused with charm. 'I've come to the blessed shrine to seek peace and the wisdom of God.'
    Corbett walked over and took the seat. You are a liar, he thought. He stared at the king's falcon-like face. The silver-grey beard, shoulder-length hair, open, frank eyes and generous mouth were all a mask. Edward of England was a born plotter who loved intrigue and took to it as easily as a duck to water. Corbett, however, wasn't in the mood to be played with. He had ridden all day from Holy Cross convent, arriving at Walsingham just as darkness fell.
    'Why,' the king asked, 'are you so concerned about Lavinius?'
    Corbett seized his opportunity and explained in pithy sentences what was happening out at Hunstanton. Edward scratched his beard, becoming more and more embarrassed at the picture of Corbett, his principal clerk, blundering amongst the salt marshes and watery meadows of Norfolk.
    'I thought,' he said when Corbett had finished, 'that you might help Lavinius, particularly after the death of Cerdic.' He nodded towards de Warenne, who stared moodily into the fire. 'And Surrey agreed with me.'
    'Lavinius is a good clerk!' de Warenne said.
    'My lord,' Corbett replied, 'Lavinius is mad.'
    The earl swung round in his chair, but Corbett's gaze did not falter.
    'You know that, my lord,' he continued quietly. 'The man is driven mad with grief.'
    'And the Pastoureaux?' Edward asked quickly.
    'Your Grace, I would recommend that, when you next meet your council at Westminster, you issue a decree to all sheriffs, bailiffs and port officials, as well as leading barons and tenants-in-chief, banning the Pastoureaux from your realm.'
    'On what grounds?'
    'Public order and the maintenance of the king's peace.' 'Why? Do you think these Pastoureaux are responsible for the murders?'
    'They might be. But I am uncomfortable at strangers moving into an area and enticing the young people away with dreams of foreign travel.'
    Edward nodded.
    'But Monck's not there for the Pastoureaux,' Corbett went on. 'Your Grace, are you going to tell me the truth or do I surrender my seals of office and, like Sir Simon Gurney, retire to my manor?'
    Edward leaned forward and grasped Corbett's knee in a sudden gesture of affection. His blue eyes brimmed with tears. Oh, God, no! Corbett thought. Not the role of Edward, the ageing monarch, abandoned by his friends. He knew what the king was going to say.
    'Hugh.' The king's voice was throaty. 'You are tired.'
    'Accept his resignation!' de Warenne jibed.
    'Piss off, Surrey!' Edward bellowed. 'Just piss off and shut up!'
    He got to his feet, his mood altering violently, and went to stand over de Warenne.
    'This is your bloody mess!' he roared. 'I told you that. But oh, no, you had to send Monck!'
    De Warenne gazed back. The king winked at him. The earl sighed – ever since they were lads he had been the king's whipping-boy; he would