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enjoyment out of that as Ranulf did pursuing the wives and daughters of various London merchants. Of course, there was always music. In their lodgings in Bread Street, Corbett would often sit in the evening playing his flute quietly to himself, devising new tunes. There was one other reason for the clerk's quiet moods. The Welsh woman, Maeve, Corbett's betrothed, a sweet wench Ranulf thought, though he was frightened of her sharp ways and clear blue eyes. In fact, she was the only woman ever to frighten Ranulf and he half suspected Corbett himself was afeared of her. She had declared her love for his master but, so far, had refused to give a wedding date, saying affairs in Wales were still not settled following the collapse of the revolt in which her fat, wicked uncle had been deeply involved. Yes, the Welsh woman was making life arduous. Ranulf glared at his master's retreating back and, as loudly as possible, blew his nose once again on the sleeve of his jerkin. Bassett grinned, Corbett stopped mid-stride, turned and glared at his servant.
    'This time,' he snapped, 'stay outside!' Ranulf smiled and nodded whilst his master, followed by Bassett, pulled back the arras of the altar-screen and rejoined the king. Edward now sat slumped in a rather unregal fashion at the foot of St Erconwald's tomb. Surrey, leaning against the wall, was busy picking his teeth, staring up at the light pouring through the rose window as if seeing it for the first time. Corbett knew his royal master was in the middle of a deep sulk. The king's long, lined face was morose, his eyes half closed as if pondering some private matter. He glanced up as Corbett entered.
    'Well, clerk?'
    Corbett spread his hands and shrugged. 'It is as I feared, Your Grace. Murder.'
    'How do you know that?' Surrey suddenly straightened up. 'Are you a doctor, Master Clerk?'
    Corbett sighed. He always feared the enmity of the great lords, men born into greatness who deeply resented anyone on whom greatness was thrust. Corbett was the king's loyal servant; he had studied hard in the colleges of Oxford, worked long hours in cold, cramped scriptoria and libraries; but his elevation had been solely due to royal favour and this was always resented by nobles like Surrey. Corbett had never yet met one nobleman who accepted him for what he was, a clever clerk, a trusted servant of the king.
    Nevertheless, Corbett knew how to survive in bitter court politics.
    He bowed towards Surrey. 'My Lord is correct,' he smiled ingratiatingly, although he hated himself for doing so. 'I am not a physician but I have some knowledge of poisons.'
    'Then you are a rare man,' Surrey interrupted.
    Corbett felt the flash of anger seep through him and he bit his lip. Was Surrey insinuating he had something to do with the priest's death? He glanced sideways at the king, who had now risen and was dusting down his robes.
    'My Lord,' Corbett began again slowly, 'because of various circumstances, I know certain matters of physic, yet it is common knowledge that a man whose face is still rigid in death, with a swollen tongue and mouth as black as the hole of hell, must have been poisoned. What we must find out,' he turned and looked directly at the king, 'is who poisoned him, where and how.'
    Corbett gazed into the king's eyes though he would have cheerfully loved to have turned and stared at Bassett for, when he had announced the priest had been poisoned, he had heard the knight banneret's sharp intake of breath and a muttered curse. Corbett wondered why Bassett should be so concerned. What had it to do with him? But that matter would have to wait. Corbett knew what would happen. The king would tell him to find out the reasons for de Montfort's death, and not to rest until he either found the truth or produced enough information to make it look as if the truth was known.
    'Your Grace,' Corbett insisted, 'this matter must be resolved. De Montfort came from a family which everyone knows you hated. He was also a