Prince of Darkness hc-5 Read online

  Prince of Darkness

  ( Hugh Corbett - 5 )

  Paul Doherty

  Paul Doherty

  Prince of Darkness

  Chapter 1

  A heavy river mist, boiled in the heat of the day, had rolled in from the Seine making the night more dreadful, shrouding the buildings and palaces of Paris in its grey, wraith-like tendrils. The curfew had sounded, the streets and alleyways were now silent except for scavenging cats and the dregs of the Paris underworld snouting like rats for easy prey. Eudo Tailler, ostensibly a wine merchant from Bordeaux in Gascony, in fact an agent of Edward I of England and his master spy, Hugh Corbett, slipped quietly along an alleyway, dagger half-drawn as he edged towards the dark, decaying house which stood on the corner.

  It had been a glorious summer day, the weather proving the prophets of doom wrong, those Jeremiahs who had proclaimed that the first year of the new century would see fire from heaven and blood spurting up to stain the sky. Nothing had happened. Eudo had arrived in Paris at mid-summer 1300 and found little amiss. Of course, his masters in England thought there was; Philip IV, King of France, they insisted, was secretly plotting to seize the English Duchy of Gascony by fair means or foul. The French King's master spy, Seigneur Amaury de Craon, was already in England, poking about in the dark comers of the English court, looking for juicy morsels of scandal.

  Eudo suddenly stepped into a darkened doorway as the night watch, four soldiers carrying spears and lanterns, marched past the mouth of the alleyway. The spy leaned against the door. Oh, there was scandal enough in England, he thought, and most of it centred round the Prince of Wales and his former mistress, Lady Eleanor Belmont, who had been locked up in Godstowe Priory. Yet a bad situation had grown worse because the young prince had recently found the real love of his life – not the daughter of some nobleman but a man: the young Gascon catamite, Piers Gaveston. De Craon would use that, Eudo reflected, to fan the sparks of gossip into a fiery scandal In order to seize Gascony, the French would destroy the prince's reputation and, if that failed, like the hypocrites they were insist that the heir to the English throne be betrothed to the French King's daughter, Isabella, in accordance with a peace treaty forced on England some years earlier.

  Oh, the French had been cunning! Either way King Edward of England was trapped. No wonder Eudo's master, Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the English Chancery, had sent him a stream of instructions begging him to find out the secret counsels of the French. Eudo smiled. He had been successful and surely he would reap his well-deserved reward? First, he had found there was an assassin in England, a member of the accursed de Montfort family, stalking the King and plotting his death. Eudo had sent this information directly to King Edward some months earlier but nothing had come of it so he had mentioned it again in his most recent despatch to Corbett.

  He lifted his hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had done what had been asked, it was up to the King and Corbett how they used the information he sent. Yet he had learnt more: the French were not only plotting mischief around the Prince of Wales' former mistress, the Lady Eleanor Belmont, they even had a spy at Godstowe where the woman had been immured…

  Eudo heard the footfalls of the night watch fade away. He adjusted his cloak, grasped the dagger and continued on his way.

  The leprous beggar was crouched as usual in the corner of the alleyway opposite the house.

  'Is everything all right?' Eudo whispered.

  He could barely make out the huddled outline of the beggar, shrouded in his robe, but he saw the silvery head nod gently and the skeletal hand thrust out for its usual payment. Eudo swallowed, hid his distaste, threw a coin at the man and padded towards the door of the house. As arranged, it was unlocked. He lifted the latch, slipped quietly in and looked around. The flagstoned passageway was dark and empty. A candle flickered weakly in its brass holder fixed high in the wall, affording some light as he climbed the rickety wooden staircase. Eudo was pleased. How fortunate he had been to find Mistress Celeste, a plump young doxy, rosy-cheeked and fresh from the Norman countryside. Eudo had used her charms to bait and trap one of Philip's clerks from the Royal Chancery at the Louvre Palace: the wench proved to be intelligent, sweetly protesting her innocence, promising all sorts of delights as she wheedled one secret after another from the gullible French clerk.

  Eudo reached the top of the stairs and gently pushed open the chamber door. The room was dark and he tensed. Something was wrong. Surely Celeste would leave a candle burning? He stood like a dog, sniffing the darkness, his eyes strained against the gloom. He caught the heavy fragrance of Celeste's perfume and made out the sleeping form of the young prostitute on her pallet bed underneath the small, half-open window. Eudo relaxed and grinned. Perhaps the girl was tired after a busy night? Perhaps he could savour some of the joys the young French clerk had experienced?

  'Celeste!' he whispered. 'Celeste, it is me, Eudo!'

  Silence greeted his words.

  'Is there anything wrong?' he asked softly.

  Alarmed now, he paused, ears straining for a sound.

  He heard the house creak and groan but it was old and the beggar on the corner would surely have alerted him to any approach. Eudo drew his dagger and walked over to the bed.

  'Celeste!' he hissed, and gave the girl a vigorous shake.

  Her body flopped over and Eudo opened his mouth in a silent scream. Celeste's throat had been slashed from ear to ear and the viscous red blood soaked the bodice of her dress and coagulated in dark pools on the blanket. Eudo felt something warm and sticky on his fingers. Breathing deeply, he stepped back, loosening his cloak as his hand went to his long dagger. He took another step back, then another, turned and dashed for the door. A shadowy figure loomed up but Eudo sank to one knee even as his dagger hissed out, slitting the man's belly. He sprang up and pushed the man aside, clattering down the stairs. Another figure was waiting for him, hooded and menacing. Eudo did not stop but jumped the final few stairs and crashed into his assailant, sending him flying against the hard wall. Eudo was then through, out into the dark, fetid alleyway. He glared across at the beggar.

  'You bastard!' he screamed. 'You lying bastard!'

  The wretch retreated deeper into his corner. Eudo scrabbled at the ground, picked up a loose cobblestone and sent it crashing into the beggar's skull, knocking him backwards into a moaning, huddled heap. Eudo turned the corner of the alleyway, running down towards the crossroads. He sobbed and groaned as his chest heaved for air and his heart beat like a drum. He knew it was all futile. So far he had been lucky, but where could he go?

  He saw a line of men-at-arms suddenly appear at the far side of the square. Eudo stopped and screamed defiance. He would not be taken alive. He was still screaming abuse when the crossbow bolt hit him full in the thigh and sent him crashing to the cobbles, mourning curses and groans. He grasped the quarrel embedded deep in his flesh and moaned at the sheer agony of it. No rewards now, no journey back to Bordeaux! No more cups of wine! He heard the thud of boots on the cobbled square and felt a mailed foot against his shoulder, pushing him over to sprawl flat on his back. The captain of the French guard took off his helmet and knelt down beside him.

  'Well, well, Monsieur,' he murmured. 'Your days of wine and song are over.'

  He brought his mailed fist back and gave the English spy a sickening blow across the mourn.

  'That's just the beginning of your troubles, Monsieur!' he hissed. 'I lost two good men tonight because of you.' He seized Eudo by the jerkin and dragged him upright 'But come, the dungeons in the Louvre are only a short walk and there are others who want a few words with you.'

  Lady Eleanor Belmont sat on the edge of the bed, her heart-shaped face pale and dra
wn except for the red flush on her cheeks. She wove her fingers together, turning and twisting them as if to vent the excitement which flooded through her. She rose and walked over to the diamond-shaped window. A beautiful August day; the sun was now beginning to set, the stillness of the priory broken only by the clear birdsong from the trees beyond the nunnery walls. Eleanor stopped, straining her eyes as she peered through the casement window. She was sure she had seen men-at-arms – horsemen amongst the trees – her attention drawn by the flash of steel from their weapons. She leaned against the glass, her hot cheek welcoming its coolness. Was someone there? Had they come? No, she could hear nothing except for the chatter of the nuns as they filed through the cloisters before Compline. Eleanor sighed, dismissing what must have been another phantasm of her fevered imagination.

  She looked around the chamber. All was ready. She drew herself up, gulping in air. Her friend, whoever he was, would surely send help. Soon she would be out of this benighted place, be reunited with her lover and working hard to recapture his affection. Edward might be Prince of Wales and heir to the English crown, but Lady Eleanor had decided she was made of sterner stuff. Hadn't her father reminded her on many occasions that the Belmonts were of noble stock, sturdy and sure?

  She would ignore the rumours. Eleanor laughed abruptly to herself then froze as she heard a sound, a slither of footsteps in the corridor outside. She shook her head.

  'Surely,' she whispered to herself, 'the Lord Edward means me no harm?'

  They were evil people who claimed he wanted her dead but she could not believe that of him. Oh, of course, others might wish it, members of the Prince's secret council -Eleanor would believe anything of them, especially the ubiquitous silken-tongued Piers Gaveston, who had ensnared the Prince's heart. Eleanor stamped her foot at the thought of him.

  'Gaveston the demon-worshipper!' she hissed. 'Gaveston the limb of Satan! Gaveston the sodomite!'

  She calmed herself. And the rest of the coven? Lady Amelia Proudfoot, Prioress, in whose nunnery she was now staying, and Proudfoot's silent shadows, Dames Frances and Catherine? They would do anything to keep her here; poison, the dagger, the garrotte, or the sudden fall…

  Eleanor smiled and hugged herself. Oh, she had been so careful, so cautious, watching what she had eaten and drunk, where she had walked, politely refusing any offer to go hunting. After all, the Lady Eleanor smiled sourly to herself, hunting accidents were common. True, she had been sick but this was due to evil humours of the mind caused by loneliness and anxiety. Indeed she had begun to despair, but at last help had come. Some weeks ago, she had found a message here in her chamber, bidden in a small leather wallet. The writer had told her to be of good heart, not to worry, and to look for further messages in the hollowed oak tree near the Galilee Walk on the far side of the chapel. Her well-wisher, whoever he was, had promised to deliver her today so she had told her companions to leave her and go to Compline. Only the ancient ones, Dame Elizabeth and Dame Martha, had remained whilst Lady Amelia and her henchwomen would soon be enthroned in the chapel glorying in their power. Lady Eleanor turned as she heard the old building creak beneath her. A haunted place, people said, apparently ghosts walked here. It was certainly no abode for a young lady, mistress to one of the greatest men in the land.

  Eleanor sat back on the bed, chewing her Up, then got up agitatedly, putting her cloak on and playing with the ring on her finger, the Prince's last gift to her, a huge blue sapphire which always shimmered in the light. She turned her head, straining to hear. Surely there was another sound, not just the creaking of the stairs? Someone was outside. She heard the slither of footsteps along the gallery. Surely they were approaching? Lady Eleanor looked at the door. Good, the key was turned in the lock. She patted her hair and pulled up her hood. She wished Dame Agatha was here. Perhaps it had been foolish to dismiss her. Again the sound. Lady Eleanor stood transfixed. She watched the latch of the door go down Suddenly she panicked, but too late! She heard the soft knock and knew she would have to answer.

  Lady Eleanor was in the minds of other people that day. Edward, Prince of Wales, and his favourite, Piers Gaveston, had once again quarrelled violently about her and then become reconciled, swearing they would divert themselves by a hunt. They had left Woodstock Palace with their soldiers, grooms, huntsmen and retainers. A gaudy, colourful masque, their horses sleek and well fed, resplendent in their scarlet and blue dressings and silver-gilt saddles and housings. Amidst shouts, the bray of silver trumpets and the glorious fluttering of gold-encrusted banners, the royal hunting party made its way down the dusty tracks of Oxfordshire which wound around the great, unfenced cornfields where the stocks were piled high as farmers laboured to bring the harvest in.

  The sun was still brilliant in a light blue sky. The grass on either side of the track was alive with the sound of crickets and the scurrying of mice and voles fleeing from the harvesters. Above them a lark soared, singing for sheer pleasure, whilst in the distant trees, blackbird and thrush trilled their hearts out. Suddenly, a darkened scarecrow of a man seemed to step from nowhere on to the track, his long hair black as night, flapping like raven's wings around his gaunt face, his clothes more like bandages around his emaciated body. Prince Edward lifted a hand and the cavalcade stopped.

  The Lord Edward had immediately recognised the man: a mad prophet who had been stalking round the walls of the palace for the last few days. The fellow claimed he came from the Devil's Anvil, the hot burning sands which lay to the south of the Middle Sea; his dirty and rag-attired figure now stood motionless though his eyes flamed like burning coals.

  'I bring a warning!' the prophet boomed. 'A warning of death and disgrace. A warning against the soft perfumed flesh of the whores who lounge on feathered beds and bawl of their lust!' The fiery eyes flashed again; one sinewy arm was raised in quivering anger. 'You bawds who gulp wine from deep-bowled cups, be warned! This age will be cleansed by Death himself! Mark my words, he lurks in these sombre forests. He mounts his pale horse and soon he will be here. Be warned, you strumpets and whores!'

  The group of silk-clad courtiers behind the Prince simpered, laughed softly, and turned away. The mad prophet searched out the tall, blond figure of the Prince as he slouched on his horse under the blue and gold banner of England. The prophet's eyes narrowed.

  'Repent!' he hissed. 'You young men who lust after each other's flesh and seek comfort in forbidden love!'

  The Prince grinned and, raising one purple-gloved hand, touched his smaller, darker companion.

  'He talks of us, Piers.'

  The young Gascon's expression grew harsher though it was nonetheless a girlish face with its smooth olive cheeks, perfect features, and neatly cropped, dark red hair. Girlish, innocent, except for the eyes – a surprisingly light blue like a spring sky fresh washed by the rain. These were hard and empty.

  'I do not think so, My Lord,' Gaveston rasped. Prince Edward shook his head and took a silver coin out of his purse.

  'A wager, Piers. The fellow is bound to be speaking about me.' He stroked his moustache. 'Let's be frank. I am the only one here worth talking about.'

  The prophet must have heard him.

  'You, Edward, Prince of Wales!' he roared. 'Son of a greater father, bearer of his name but not his majesty. Yes, I warn you, you and your grasping catamite, Gaveston, son of a whore!' The prophet's voice fell to a hiss. 'Son of a witch, you come from the Devil and to the Devil you will go. Be sure, Prince Edward, you do not go with him, for all of Satan's army bays for Gaveston's sin-drenched soul!'

  Prince Edward nodded solemnly.

  'Most interesting,' he commented. He smiled and stretched out a hand. 'Your silver, Piers.'

  The Gascon, grumbling with rage, handed it over.

  'Your Grace,' Gaveston muttered, 'let me kill the bastard!'

  'No, Piers, not now. You will only alarm the hawks and spoil the hunt.' He stroked the Gascon's dark hair. 'Don't be a scold, Piers,' he whispered. 'You are becoming more like Father
and the Lady Eleanor every day.'

  The Lord Edward urged his horse forward as the prophet slipped off the road. Gaveston turned and, crooking a finger, summoned closer the captain of the guard.

  'Kill the bastard!' he muttered. 'No, not now. But before he's a day older.'

  The sun had hardly moved in the heavens when the mad prophet's body, his throat slashed from ear to ear, was dumped in a scum-rimmed marsh deep in the forest and sank without trace. An hour later the mercenary captain rejoined the royal party as they sat on their horses amongst the thick, rich weeds of a slow moving river. The soldier nodded at Gaveston, who winked back, smiled, and slipped the hood off the falcon which stirred restlessly on his wrist, the bells of its jesses tinkling a warning of the death it would bring to this soft, green darkness.

  'Now I have drawn blood,' Gaveston muttered to himself, I can enjoy the hunt.'

  He waited until the beaters roused a huge heron which broke cover and soared up above the trees. Gaveston lifted his wrist, stroked his favourite bird with the finger of his gauntlet and let it loose. The falcon, its dark wings spread like the angel of death, flew in pursuit; it rose high in the sky, paused, drifting on the late summer breeze, and then, wings back, plunged like an arrow. The falcon struck the heron with a high-pitched scream and a burst of feathers. The courtiers 'oohed' and clapped their hands but gasped as the old heron turned its long neck and, drawing back its head, plunged its daggered beak deep into the falcon's body. Gaveston watched, speechless, as the falcon fell in a bundle of blood-soaked feathers, whilst the heron swooped low to hide in the reeds.

  'Quite extraordinary,' the Prince murmured. 'I have heard of it, but that's the first time I have seen it.' He nudged his favourite playfully. 'A warning, Piers,' he whispered. 'You aim too high! The Earldom of Cornwall and the premier place on my council – but not now!' He raised a finger to his lips. 'Not yet, Piers. Whatever would my father, not to mention the Lady Eleanor, say to that?'