Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt Read Free

Scotland?’
    ‘Now you are being stupid.’ Corbett gathered the reins of his horse. ‘You know, Ranulf, that where the King goes, his chief clerk must follow and that’s the end of the matter.’
    Corbett edged his horse forward. Ranulf cursed, pulled up his hood and followed him.
    They were scarcely through the gates leading up to the manor house when Corbett sensed something was wrong. A thatcher, with bundles of straw on his back, stepped to one side and shouted excitedly, pointing up the path. Corbett rode on. Suddenly a figure seemed to leap out of nowhere, jumping up and down, waving his hands. Corbett reined in and stared down at his master of horse, Ralph Maltote, who knew everything about horses but little about human nature. Maltote’s round, boyish face was red and sweaty. He gasped for breath as he clutched the reins of Corbett’s horse.
    ‘Oh, don’t say another mare’s in foal,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘It’s the only time you become excited, Maltote.’
    ‘It’s the King.’ Maltote wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Sir Hugh, it’s the King. He’s here with the Earls of Surrey and Lincoln and others. Lady Maeve is entertaining them. She sent me on.’
    Corbett leaned down and patted him on the shoulder.
    ‘Well, at least it’s not a mare in foal, Maltote - that would be too much excitement in one day.’
    Corbett rode on, Maltote trotting behind him. They rounded the bend in the trackway and paused: the broad, pebbled path leading to the main door of the manor was now thronged with men-at-arms, retainers, knight bannerets, all wearing the gorgeous livery of Edward of England. Horses milled about beneath broad banners and pennants bearing the golden, snarling leopards of the Plantagenets, quartered to display the arms of England, France, Scotland and Ireland. Chamberlains and household officials were shouting, trying to impose order. Sumpter ponies were being un-tethered, carts and covered wagons pushed hither and thither.
    ‘Where Edward goes,’ Corbett sighed, ‘chaos follows.’ He dismounted, throwing the reins of his horse at Maltote. ‘Ranulf, you had best join us.’
    He walked up, threading his way through the bustling throng. Now and again one of the knights would catch his eye and greet him, and Corbett would reply. He climbed the steps and pushed through the half-open door. His baby daughter Eleanor was just inside, jumping up and down like a grasshopper, the image of Maeve, her blonde hair falling in tresses to her shoulders. The little girl’s face was bright with excitement at the doll, a gift from the King, clutched in her hand.
    ‘Look! Look!’ She danced towards Corbett. ‘Look, a goll!’
    Corbett crouched down. ‘Eleanor, stay still.’
    The small child jumped even more, in and out of his arms, pressing her hot, sticky face to his.
    ‘It’s a goll! It’s a goll!’
    Corbett stared at the costly toy dressed in silken taffeta.
    ‘You are right.’ He sighed, grasping his daughter’s hand. ‘It’s a goll and reminds me of some of the ladies at Edward’s court.’ He glanced up at the girl’s nurse, hovering close. ‘Keep her safe,’ Corbett whispered. ‘And watch the soldiers!’ He grinned at the perplexity in the nursemaid’s berry-brown face. ‘You will receive many invitations for a kiss, Beatrice,’ he murmured. ‘But any girl who survived Ranulf ...’
    The nurse’s eyes took on a more knowing look. She glared furiously at Ranulf.
    ‘Yes, now you’ve got the right idea,’ Corbett declared. ‘And the Lady Maeve?’
    Beatrice pointed to the door now guarded by two men-at-arms with drawn swords. Corbett went across, the man-at-arms opened the door and he entered his main hall. Just inside the doorway clustered a group of knights and royal officials. Corbett paused to greet them.
    ‘Sir Hugh?’
    A tousled-haired, ink-stained clerk pushed his way through. Corbett shook the hand of Simon, one of Edward’s personal clerks. Simon nodded