Song of a Dark Angel

Lavinius?'
    Monck shrugged, rolled the parchment up and slipped it up the sleeve of his leather jerkin. He leaned back, steepling his fingers, and stared into the fire.
    'Ah!' he sighed. 'That's the problem, Sir Hugh. It's best if we each plough our own furrow. My Lord of Surrey was most insistent on that.'
    'I thought you were here because of the Pastoureaux?' Gurney interrupted.
    Monck smiled. 'Perhaps, Sir Simon, perhaps not. Only time will tell.'
    Corbett steeled his features and sipped from the posset, kicking Ranulf gently on the ankle lest his angry-faced servant take up the cudgels on his behalf.
    Gurney and his wife sat back in their chairs, Alice's eyes pleading with her husband to remain silent. Corbett tensed in fury. He couldn't abide Monck's smug secretiveness and he was angry with the king, who had despatched him here after telling him as little as possible. Corbett could hardly believe he was here because Monck's servant had been murdered or because a baker's wife had been hanged from a scaffold. The Pastoureaux, however, were a different matter. They were dangerous. His agents in France had reported how these fanatics, with their strange dreams and eerie visions, walked from city to city prophesying the end of the world and launching violent attacks upon Jews, foreigners and all of society's poor outcasts. Now groups of Pastoureaux, literally by the shipload, had arrived in England. Harmless at first, they lurked in the wild and waste places. The group here in Norfolk, however, had grown and attracted the attention of the royal commissioners and, ostensibly at least, Monck had been sent north to investigate.
    Corbett shifted uneasily in the chair, ignoring the murmur of conversation that flowed around him. Monck, satisfied that he had emphasized his own importance, now indulged in easy conversation with his hosts about crops, village scandal and the licence to brew ale. Corbett studied the black-garbed clerk. Monck had one weakness – he liked his drink. He could drink claret, beer and ale as a horse munches grass, without any ill-effect. Corbett idly wondered if he, as the king's master spy, should spend some time studying Monck more closely, finding out more about his habits and perhaps discovering other weaknesses. Corbett smiled to himself -Maeve was always teasing him about his own secretiveness, his close scrutiny of the most minor information.
    His smile faded. In this matter the king had been sly and secretive. What was Monck really doing here? One of Corbett's spies in the exchequer had reported that Monck had spent days at the Tower going through records and collecting information. That had been some six or seven weeks ago, soon after Michaelmas. Monck had then disappeared from London. Corbett had heard that he was in Norfolk but had dismissed it as unimportant – John de Warenne held estates here and Monck often acted as the earl's steward. Corbett half-closed his eyes. He rolled the cup between his fingers. Why the exchequer? God knows, the treasury was empty. Edward was desperate for money to keep his depleted fleet at sea and wage bloody war against the Scottish rebel William Wallace. Corbett flinched as Monck placed cold fingers on his hand.
    'Hugh, Hugh, are you dreaming?'
    The clerk rubbed his face and smiled apologetically across at Sir Simon.
    'No, no. I'm tired.'
    'Not too much, Hugh, I hope.' Gurney said. 'We have a dinner in your honour this evening. I have invited guests – Father Augustine, our village priest, and Dame Cecily, Prioress of the Holy Cross convent. Our physician, Selditch and my man Catchpole will also be there.'
    'In which case…'
    Corbett got to his feet just as Maltote, his hair tousled, his face heavy with sleep, burst into the room and gazed beseechingly at Corbett.
    'Master, I am sorry, I did not know you had arrived. I went upstairs and fell asleep.'
    Corbett smiled at the man's innocent, open face.
    'Don't worry, Maltote.'
    Corbett signalled to Ranulf to collect their boots and cloaks. He bowed at the others and allowed Gurney's steward to lead them up the winding staircase to their chamber. Maltote, still heavy with sleep, found it difficult to cope with Ranulf's teasing and without the steward's guidance would not have been able to find his own way back to the chamber they were to share. The steward explained that the house was so full of visitors and guests it was difficult to find a room for everyone. Corbett thanked him, slipped a coin into the