Song of a Dark Angel

summer as a rest from my pastoral duties.'
    Ranulf didn't know whom he disliked the most – the preening prioress with her false, smiling coyness or this long-visaged, sour-faced priest. Ranulf always felt uncomfortable in the presence of clergy – they seemed always to be patronizing him or sharing some private joke at his expense. This time was no different. Deliberately he pushed his muddy boots forward towards the fire and stretched. He smiled as he saw the prioress quiver with annoyance at such boorishness.
    'We are going to Bishop's Lynn,' he announced. He yawned, pushed his hands towards the fire, rubbed them, then smacked his thighs. 'You may be assured of one thing, mind you.'
    'What's that?' Father Augustine asked sharply.
    'Sir Hugh Corbett is a terrible man,' Ranulf declared. 'A digger for the truth, a searcher out of secrets, God's vengeance on murderers.'
    'Then it's time he met with more success!' Dame Cecily snapped. 'Believe me, Master…?'
    'Ranulf.'
    'Ah yes, Ranulf. I intend to write to the king. I object to the peace and harmony of my house being shattered by these peremptory visits!'
    Ranulf smiled sweetly. 'With all respect, Dame Cecily, you may write to the Holy Father himself, but Sir Hugh Corbett will come here when he thinks proper.'
    The prioress's doughy face flushed with anger. Just a little more provocation, Ranulf thought.
    'Of course,' Father Augustine intervened, 'Dame Cecily wishes to be helpful. But this is a nunnery.'
    More like a molly-shop, Ranulf thought, peering around the luxurious chamber, with its velvet tasselled tapestries, gold and silver ornaments, shining furniture and beeswax candles.
    'Does the name Alan of the Marsh mean anything to you?' he asked abruptly.
    He could have hugged himself with pleasure. Dame Cecily started back in her chair and nervously toyed with the crucifix hanging round her neck.
    'Well?'
    'Alan of the Marsh?' Dame Cecily stammered. 'Who's he?' 'With respect, that wasn't the question. Does the name mean anything to you?'
    'Of course not!' she snapped. 'You seem troubled by it.'
    'Well, of course.' She forced a smile. 'Why should a man's name mean anything to a prioress in a convent? What are you implying?'
    'Nothing,' Ranulf cheekily replied. 'So, I can report back to Sir Hugh that Alan of the Marsh means nothing to you?' 'I have never heard of him.'
    Ranulf sniffed and got to his feet. Maltote followed suit. 'In which case, I'll bid you adieu.'
    Ranulf stalked out of the chamber, softly chuckling to himself.
    The old lay sister would have taken them straight back to the stable yard but Ranulf, nudging Maltote, now had the devil in him. 'Madame?'
    The lay sister paused, flattered by this pleasant, charming, red-haired, young man whose green, cat-like eyes danced with merriment.
    'Yes?'
    'I have never been in a convent before and this is such a beautiful place. Is it possible to be shown around?'
    The lay sister's head went back in reproach.
    'But this is a convent!' she gasped. 'A house of prayer for ladies!'
    Ranulf shook his head. 'No, I don't mean within the house itself, but the grounds?' He dipped his finger into his purse. The lay sister's eyes became greedy.
    'I suppose I could take you back to the stables by the long route, perhaps show you the cloisters, the chapel and some of the grounds?'
    Ranulf smiled. 'Madame, I am your servant.'
    He grasped her cold, vein-streaked hand and raised it to his lips, making sure she gripped the coin in his hand. The lay sister simpered and, despite her age, quickly led them along galleries and passageways. She chattered like a squirrel as she showed them the cloisters and the chapel, guest house and refectory. After that they visited the herb gardens and orchard and walked back round the church towards the stables. Ranulf greedily stared at everything. Dame Cecily had been lying and Ranulf just hoped that he could take some evidence back to old Master Long Face that might be of use. They passed the lychgate of the small cemetery and Ranulf caught a flash of russet-brown. Ignoring the lay sister's pleas, he pushed the gate open and walked into the cemetery. He stared at the Pastoureaux working amongst the graves, gathering up piles of rotting leaves, cutting back the brambles and reeds. One of them turned, resting on his hoe, and pulled back his hood.
    'Master Joseph!' Ranulf smiled. 'So, this is how you spend your time?'
    The Pastoureaux leader smiled and walked towards him.
    'We all do God's work,