Read Online Crown in Darkness by Paul C. Doherty - Free Book Online

sights caught his eye: a dog, one leg shorter than the rest, sniffing at the bloated body of a rat: a cat running by, his mouth stuffed with baby mice, a beggar, white-eyed and sore-ridden, shrieking at young boys who were pissing over him. Corbett remembered the teachings of Augustine, "Sin is the breakdown of all relationships". If that was so, Corbett thought, then sin was all around him. Here in these dirty streets, a lonely English clerk: his wife and child dead, years gone: the only woman he had ever loved since, a convicted murderer and traitor, consumed by fire at Smithfield in London. Now, here alone amidst strangers who sought his death. He thought of Ranulf, his body-servant, and wished he was here, not sick with the fever, miles away in some English monastery.
    He passed the church of St. Giles, turned into another winding street and almost walked into the two figures standing there. Corbett muttered an apology and stepped to one side. One of the men moved to block his path. 'Comme зa va, Monsieur?' 'Qu'est ce que ce?' Corbett spontaneously replied, then repeated, 'What is the matter? I don't speak French. Get out of my way!' 'No, Monsieur,' the man replied in perfect English. 'You are in our way. Come! We wish to talk to you.' 'Go and be hanged!' Corbett muttered and tried to go on. 'Monsieur. There are two of us and two more behind you. We mean you no harm.' The Frenchman turned and beckoned with his hand. 'Come, Monsieur. We will not keep you. We will not harm you. Come!' Corbett looked at the two well-fed, thick-set men, and, hearing a slight sound behind him, knew there were more. 'I come,' he grimaced. The men led him down an alleyway, stinking from dog urine and heaps of excrement. They stopped outside a small house, single-storeyed, one window beneath its dripping, soggy thatch roof, and a battered ale-stake jutting out from beneath the eaves.
    There was one dank, damp room inside with an earth-beaten floor, two small trestle tables and a collection of rough stools fashioned out of old barrels. It was deserted except for a group sitting round one table being served ale by the frightened proprietor. A slattern, evidently his wife, looked on fearfully. A group of children, their dirty faces streaked with tears, clung to her tattered gown and stared round-eyed at the group of men who had commandeered the room and were now talking quickly in an alien language. Corbett immediately recognised de Craon, who rose as he entered, gave a half-mocking bow and waved him to a stool. 'It was good of you to come, Master Clerk,' he said in perfect English with only a trace of a French accent. 'I understand that you have been very busy in Edinburgh asking many questions, poking your nose into matters that do not concern you. Here,' he pushed a cup of ale towards Corbett. 'Come. Drink this. Tell us about the real reason you are here.' 'Why don't you ask Benstede?' Corbett retorted. 'You have no right to detain me here. Neither the English nor the Scottish courts will be happy to hear that French envoys are detaining people at their whim!' De Craon shrugged, his hands extended in an expansive gesture. 'But, Monsieur Corbett, we are not detaining you. We have asked you here and you have accepted our invitation. You are free to come and go as you wish. But,' he continued smoothly, 'now that you are here, I know you are too curious to let the matter drop.' He sat back on his stool, his brown, beringed hands gently folded in his lap, staring at Corbett like some understanding elder brother or patronising uncle. Corbett moved the cup of ale back across the table. 'No, you tell me, Monsier de Craon, why you are here and why you wish to speak to me?' 'We are here,' de Craon began smoothly, 'to represent our master's interests and to establish a better relationship between King Philip IV and the Scottish throne. We were achieving considerable successes right up to the moment of the late King's sudden and unfortunate death in which