Prince of Darkness hc-5 Page 8

  'Wait!' The porter staggered drunkenly to his feet. 'I will tell you my secret. You must come with me!'

  Ranulf agreed and, with the inebriated porter on one hand and a lantern horn in the other, went out into the darkness. The door slammed behind them like a thunder clap. Ranulf looked up and groaned. It was obvious a storm was coming in. The clouds were beginning to gather, hiding the hunter's moon, and Ranulf shivered as he heard an owl hoot and the ominous chatter of other night birds. The wind blew in a low hum, making the trees shift and rustle eerily as if there were shadows waiting in the darkness. Ranulf pulled his cloak tighter, stopped, and looked back at Godstowe Priory, a huge pile of masonry dark against the sky. No lights burned now. He let the fresh air clear the wine fumes from his head and, dropping all pretence, began to question the porter on what he had hinted earlier. The fellow fenced for a while but Ranulf persisted. Eventually the porter broke away from him.

  'I'm going to tell you,' he slurred drunkenly.

  Ranulf allowed the fellow to walk ahead of him, round the priory to the Galilee Gate. For a while the man stood muttering and cursing as he clanked his heavy ring of keys, but at last he found the right one and they stepped on to the moonlit track which ran down like a strip of silver through the overhanging trees. They walked along until suddenly the porter turned, following a track into the thick, dark wood. A lonely place, though the porter caused some light comedy with his staggering and drunken curses, stopping every so often to wave Ranulf on, urging him to hold the lantern horn higher. They must have walked for at least three miles and eventually came out of the wood and on to a pathway which led to a crossroads.

  Ranulf lifted the lantern horn and his blood ran cold as he glimpsed a gibbet standing there. On it a body, half- decayed, still turned and twisted in its iron jacket. The porter gestured him over.

  'You want to know my secrets?' he slurred.

  'Yes,' Ranulf hissed.

  'Then swear you will keep them.'

  Ranulf raised his right hand.

  'No,' the porter growled. 'Here!'

  He took Ranulf's hand, led him over to the gibbet and pushed his hand between the iron bars until the tips of his fingers touched the decaying flesh of the hanged man, just above where his heart had been. Ranulf felt his stomach lurch as all the wine he had drunk threatened to spew out The porter, staggering beside him, made the iron gibbet creak and groan until it appeared that all three were partners in a deadly dance. Ranulf was sworn to secrecy, but there was worse to come. The porter pulled out his knife, slashed the corpse, and then gave Ranulf's arm a small nick on the wrist He then forced Ranulf's hand close to that of the corpse. Ranulf felt the wet scaliness against his skin as if some dreadful snake was slithering along his arm. Oblivious to the words he spoke, cursing Corbett and near fainting with terror, he swore he would never divulge the secret in this life or the next Once the macabre masque was over, Ranulf stepped back. His usual good humour had vanished and his hand dropped to the dagger pushed in his belt. The porter stood swaying drunkenly before him.

  'Listen, man!' Ranulf snapped. 'I have sworn the oath -now what is it you wish to tell me? What is so dreadful and so secret about the Lady Eleanor's death?'

  'I didn't say Lady Eleanor!' he chanted. 'I didn't say Lady Eleanor! I said my secret. You promised to take the oath and divide your winnings with me for a secret!'

  He stood still, his drunken face sagging as Ranulf's dagger pricked him under the chin. 'Now, now,' he slurred. 'The secret, you bastard!'

  The porter fell to his knees and began to scrabble at the soft soil next to the wooden scaffold pole. Rocks and loose dirt were pulled away and eventually he dragged out a tattered leather bag.

  'That's my secret!'

  Ranulf knelt beside him, cut open the neck of the bag and shook out the contents into the small pool of lantern light. Nothing much. A collection of thin yellowing bones and a small leather collar.

  'What is this?' Ranulf muttered.

  'Well, you've heard about the murder?' the porter replied. 'The young man and woman whose naked bodies were found in the marsh? A week afterwards, I was out poaching very near the place and I found the body of a small lap dog. The poor creature had died, probably from neglect, or else pined away for its mistress. Only a lady would have a lap dog. There was no one in the village who would own such a pet and the Lady Prioress is quite strict with her community on that, so I knew it must belong to the young woman who had been murdered.'

  The fellow grinned, his yellow stumps of teeth shining garishly in the poor light He pointed to the tattered piece of leather.

  'That's the only thing which gave any clue about her.'

  'Why didn't you hand it to the Sheriff or the Justices?'

  'Because there was a gold clasp on it,' the fellow muttered. I sold it to a tinker. So I thought I'd better bury the poor thing.' He glimpsed the look of anger in Ranulf's eyes. 'Take the collar!' he urged. 'There's a motto inscribed inside. Examine it carefully. Now, that's my secret,' he whined. 'I know nothing about Lady Eleanor. I was drunk as a bishop the night she died. The Lady Prioress had to sober me up to send me to Woodstock. God knows how I got there. I gave the message to some chamberlain and staggered back.'

  'You went by horse?'

  'No, there's a quicker route across the fields, in daylight it's quite clear. Go out the other side of the priory, beyond the farm. You will see the track. It's not an hour's walk.' Ranulf sighed, pocketed the leather strap, waited for the porter to re-bury the bones and half-carried him back to the priory, listening to the fellow's litany of self-congratulation.

  'Nobody would ever think,' he slurred, 'of looking beneath a gibbet!'

  Ranulf humoured him and, once they were through the Galilee Gate, handed over the promised coins and went back to the guest house.

  Corbett was still up, seated on the floor, pieces of parchment strewn around him. Ranulf knew his master had been scribbling his own memoranda, trying to make sense of the mystery which confronted them. Ranulf gave a brief account of what had happened. Corbett grunted, impatiently hurrying him on, and seized the tattered leather strap. He asked Ranulf to hold up a candle and carefully examined the inscription on the faded, leather collar 'Noli me tangere'. Do not touch me.

  'What do you think, Ranulf?'

  'A family motto?'

  'Perhaps.'

  Corbett rubbed the strap between his fingers and went to stare out of the window, half-listening to the sounds of the night outside. In his heart Corbett knew that the murder of

  Lady Eleanor and the dreadful silent slaying of that mysterious young woman and her male companion in the nearby woods were inextricably linked.

  The dungeons of the Louvre Palace were the antechambers of hell though very few of those who went down the dark stony steps ever emerged to recount their experiences. Philip IV's master torturers, a motley gang of Italians and strange, wild creatures from Wallachia, were expert in breaking the bodies and souls of their prisoners. Eudo Tailler, however, had proved to be one of their strongest victims. Despite the crossbow bolt in his thigh, Eudo had survived the rack, the boot and the strappado: every limb was broken but he clung tenaciously to life. He had seen the young French clerk whom Celeste had seduced, be broken in a matter of days and confess to whatever question had been put to him. Eudo was different. He was not frightened for he hated the French more than he feared death. Fifteen years earlier Philip's troops had attacked his father's village and razed it to the ground, wiping out in one night Eudo's brothers and sisters, as well as his young wife and child.

  Eudo refused to say anything. Oh, he had told lies and they had trapped him by asking for the names of other English agents in Paris. He had told them many a fairy story and when they checked, they returned more furious than before, dragging him out of his dirty, fetid pit back into the great vaulted torture chamber to be questioned once again Sometimes Eudo had glimpsed the French King, his blond hair glinting in the guttering torchlight Philip would stand beh
ind the black-masked torturers waiting for Eudo to speak. Now it was all over. Eudo knew he was going to die. He had also realised what the French wanted from him: the truth about the Prince of Wales' former mistress, now immured at Godstowe.

  What had Corbett told him about her? they asked. Had she been married to the Prince? Were any of the nuns royal agents? Did the name de Courcy mean anything to them?

  Eudo had replied through swollen, bloody lips that he knew nothing, so the questioners changed tack.

  Who was the de Montfort assassin now stalking Edward of England? Was he at Godstowe or in London?

  He could not have told them. All he knew was a conversation heard second-hand at a hostelry in Bordeaux, although Eudo, a Gascon, had a shrewd idea of the true identity of the assassin. Now, on this last day of his life, he showed he could stand the pain no more. The torturers had chained him to a wall, applying searing hot pokers to the softest and most tender parts of his body. Eudo opened his bloodied lips in a soundless scream.

  'The assassin, Master Tailler?'

  Eudo shook his head. Again the hot searing pain.

  'The assassin, Master Eudo? Give us his name, then you can sleep.'

  Eudo felt his life seeping from him. He felt detached, as if he was floating high up above them and the executioners were only playing with the useless bundle of flesh that had once been his body. He began softly to mutter the final act of contrition to himself. Surely God would remember he had been loyal to his king? The torturers were waved back by a senior clerk who had accompanied the French King to the dungeon. He hid his distaste as he pressed his ear up against the dying man's lips.

  'What did you say, Monsieur Tailler? The name of the assassin?'

  Eudo summoned all his strength, as if he could stand the pain no longer, and whispered a name. The clerk stood back, smiling triumphantly over his shoulder at his royal master.

  'He has told us, Your Grace. We have our man.' Philip remained impassive. 'Ask him again!' he snapped.

  The clerk moved forward, took one look at Eudo and hastily stepped back.

  'He is dead, Your Grace.' Philip nodded.

  'Cut him down!' he ordered. He turned to the clerk. 'Send the following despatch in cipher to Seigneur de Craon. He must have it as soon as possible.'

  Chapter 6

  The next morning Corbett roused Ranulf, who awoke bleary-eyed.

  'For the love of God, Master!'

  'You've been too long in the service of the Devil,' Corbett joked. 'You drink too late and rise too late.'

  'I have been too long in your service,' Ranulf grumbled. He rose, scrubbed his teeth by dipping his finger in some salt, washed his face in a bowl of rosewater, put on his boots and, led by a still joking Corbett, went downstairs to break his fast in the small buttery.

  'What's the business of the day, Master?'

  Corbett chewed thoughtfully on a small manchet loaf from a basket covered by a white linen cloth.

  'Do you believe in Hell, Ranulf?' he asked suddenly.

  'Of course, Master. Why?'

  Corbett pointed to the one stained glass window in the room where the artist had painted a graphic vision of demons, their eyes glaring fiercely, their mouths and nostrils poured forth fetid breath as they tore the flesh of sinners with red hot pincers and pierced their bodies with glowing iron nails, whilst others beat the unfortunates with spikes and scourges. Ranulf studied the painting curiously and felt a shiver of apprehension as he saw how the sinners were thrust into hot ovens, cauldrons of boiling oil, or broken on huge revolving cartwheels. At the bottom of the picture serpents, dragons, adders, ferrets, loathsome toads and horrible worms, gathered to prey upon the damned.

  'If you looked at that picture long enough! Master, you'd believe you were in Hell itself,' Ranulf murmured. 'Why do you ask?'

  Corbett sipped thoughtfully from his goblet. 'A quiet place, Godstowe,' he replied. 'Just listen, Ranulf.'

  His manservant turned, stared out of the doorway and caught the sounds of the priory community as it went about its daily tasks; the clang of milk pails, the rumble of cartwheels, and beneath the liquid song of the birds, the gentle chanting of the nuns from the priory church.

  'Peaceful,' Corbett continued shortly. 'Yet I believe that Satan himself, the Prince of Darkness, has risen from his cauldron in Hell and now stalks this sun-dappled place.'

  The servant shivered.

  'Do you know, Ranulf,' Corbett continued, wiping his mouth on a napkin, 'when I was a boy, my mother took me to hear a famous preacher. He talked about Hell being a boiling hot lake full of venomous serpents. In it backbiters stood up to their knees. Fornicators,' Corbett threw a sly glance at Ranulf, 'up to their necks, adulterers and traitors up to their eyes.' Corbett smiled. I remember this sermon because my father, who never laughed but always kept a straight face when he joked, leaned over and murmured that this preacher spoke so eloquently of Hell, he must have been there himself.'

  Ranulf grinned and relaxed.

  'However,' Corbett continued, clasping his sword belt around his waist, 'one thing I do remember is that the preacher was really a gentle man; he told my mother that Holy Mother Church merely wished to frighten its children except -' Corbett narrowed his eyes and looked through the doorway '- for murderers, those who slay, especially the sons of Cain who plot with ice-cold malice the destruction of someone they hate.' Corbett paused. 'This is what happened at Godstowe, Ranulf. First,' he ticked the points off on his finger, 'Lady Eleanor Belmont was murdered. Believe me, it was no accident but coolly planned and carefully calculated. Secondly, the aged nun, Dame Martha, was also murdered for what she knew. And somehow or other, I believe these murders are linked to the two corpses found in the forest nearby.' He stared seriously at Ranulf. 'I think it's time we had further words with our porter friend.'

  'Master!'

  'Yes?'

  I haven't finished my wine.' Ranulf glared balefully.

  Corbett smiled and leaned against the doorpost. 'I'll wait, Ranulf. But that's not your real problem, is it?'

  Ranulf gulped from the goblet. 'No, Master Corbett, it isn't Who is the murderer?'

  'God knows, Ranulf. The King? The Prince? Gaveston? That royal catamite would do anything.' Corbett sighed. 'Or the assassin could be one of the nuns, or even our good parish priest' He paused. 'You are ready?'

  'As always, Master.'

  Corbett smiled and they went across to the porter's lodge near the main gate. Surprisingly, the fellow was already up, squatting on a bench outside the door, sunning himself, a jack of ale cradled in his hands.

  'Good morrow, Master Clerk.' The fellow squinted up and grinned conspiratorially at Ranulf. 'You wish to leave?'

  'Good morrow to you too.' Corbett tapped the fellow's boot with his own. 'Yes, I wish to leave, and I want you to come and show us the place where those two corpses were found.'

  'Which corpses?' The fellow glared at Ranulf.

  Corbett leaned over and gripped the porter tightly by the shoulder. 'Don't play games with me,' he whispered 'About eighteen months ago, a young man and woman were found naked with their throats cut, in the forest. You later found the corpse of a small lap dog nearby. You took the collar, sold the jewels from it and buried the remains at the foot of a scaffold.' Corbett watched the man become frightened. 'Now,' he continued, 'you may not be a murderer but you are a thief. You stole from the dead, and failed to deliver certain information to the King's Justices or to the Sheriff. I am prepared to forget all that if you agree to join us for a stroll on this fine summer's day.'

  The porter threw one venomous look at Ranulf, slammed the jack of ale down on the bench, grumblingly unlocked the postern door and led them out on to the white, dusty forest track which snaked between the trees down to Godstowe village. The porter walked ahead, Corbett and Ranulf strolled behind. The clerk stretched and sucked in the clear morning air.

  'Why do we need to visit the place?' Ranulf moaned.

  'Curiosity,' Corbett replied. As th
ey turned a comer on the path, the clerk suddenly stopped and grasped Ranulf by the arm. 'Listen,' he hissed as the porter walked on oblivious to what was happening behind him. Ranulf strained his ears, trying to ignore the sounds of the forest, the chatter of the birds and the rustle of the wood creatures under the thick green bracken. Then he, too, heard it: the sound of footsteps slithering across the loose shale of the track. The porter stopped and turned. Corbett indicated with his hand for him to stand still and be silent. The footsteps drew nearer.

  'I think I know who it is,' Corbett whispered.

  They heard heavy breathing and a figure appeared round the corner, clothed in the grey garb of Godstowe Priory. Corbett glimpsed red cheeks and sparkling eyes behind the wimple.

  'Dame Catherine!' he exclaimed.

  The nun stopped, jumped, and gave a small cry, her fingers fluttering to her mouth.

  'Dame Catherine, good morning.'

  'Good morrow, Master Clerk,' the flustered nun replied. 'I am going…'

  Corbett stepped out from beneath the trees. 'Don't lie, Sister. The Lady Amelia would never allow you to go wandering off by yourself. I am sure you have no business at the village.'

  The nun's face blushed a deeper crimson. Ranulf appreciatively watched the woman's plump breasts rise and fall beneath her grey, woollen gown.

  'You are following us,' Corbett declared. 'I glimpsed you out of the corner of my eye when I was talking to the porter.'

  'I…' The nun looked away. 'Yes, I was following you,' she confessed. 'I saw you talking to the porter, then suddenly leave. I was curious.'

  'Why?' Corbett asked.

  Dame Catherine's face hardened. 'You have come into our priory to insinuate that evil deeds have been committed,' she snapped.

  'That's because they have, Sister.' Corbett turned and angrily waved at the porter to stay where he was. 'I do not believe that Lady Eleanor fell downstairs. I am suspicious about old Martha drowning in her bath, and you may tell the Lady Amelia that I am now curious about the two corpses found in the forest nearby.' 'Oh!'