The Devil's Hunt

Chapter 1

The outlaw standing in the gallows cart moved his head as the chafing rope gripped his neck. He hawked, spat and glared defiantly at Sir Hugh Corbett, former courier and clerk of the Secret Seal but still the powerful lord of the manor of Leighton in Essex. Beside Corbett was the man who had hunted him down, caught him and brought him to trial in Sir Hugh’s court: Ranulf-atte-Newgate, formerly Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, Corbett’s henchman, bailiff and chief steward. The outlaw licked his chapped lips and glared hatefully at Ranulf.

‘Well, come on, you red-haired bastard!’ he shouted. ‘Hang me or let me go!’

Corbett pushed his horse forward.

‘Boso Deverell, you are an outlaw, a wolf’s-head, a thief and a murderer! You have been found guilty and sentenced to hang!’

‘Go to hell!’ Boso retorted.

Corbett ran his fingers through his hair: he stared at Father Luke, the village chaplain, who was standing beside the cart.

‘Have you shriven him, Father?’

‘He’s refused confession,’ the dusty-faced priest replied, his eyes hard, seething with fury.

Father Luke glanced up at the lord of the manor, studying Corbett’s sallow, clean-shaven face; the black hair streaked with grey; the sharp nose above thin lips. Father Luke held Corbett’s eyes: he knew this clerk, hard on the outside but soft within.

‘You are not going to pardon him, Sir Hugh?’ he whispered. ‘Or lessen his punishment?’ The priest gripped the reins of Corbett’s grey roan. ‘He killed two women,’ the priest hissed. ‘Raped them and then slit them from neck to crotch as if they were chickens.’

Corbett nodded and swallowed hard.

‘And that’s just the start of it,’ the priest continued remorselessly. ‘He’s responsible for other deaths.’ Father Luke pointed at the few villagers who had assembled just after dawn to witness royal justice being done. ‘If you show mercy,’ the priest declared, his hand on Corbett’s knee, ‘every wolfs-head-’ He threw his hand dramatically out towards the forest. ‘Every wolf’s-head will learn from it.’ The priest’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I don’t want to bury any more of my flock. I don’t want to have to tell husbands, fathers, lovers that their women were raped before their throats were cut! Hang him!’

‘Do you want his life so badly?’ Corbett replied, his eyes never leaving those of Boso.

‘God does.’ Father Luke turned to the outlaw. ‘Are you ready to die, Boso?’

The outlaw coughed, brought his head back and spat, catching the priest on the side of the face. Ranulf pushed his horse up.

‘How many did you kill, Boso?’

‘More than you’ll ever know.’ Deverell’s eyes shifted back to Corbett. ‘It’s a pity you were at home, lord of the earth! Otherwise I’d have come calling on that flaxen-haired wife of yours!’

Corbett pulled his horse’s head around. He glanced at the villagers, their grimy, brown faces passive; his stewards and bailiffs stood slightly apart from them. Corbett drew his sword and held it up, clasping his fingers round the crosspiece.

‘I, Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s loyal servant, lord of Leighton Manor, by the power granted to me of axe, rope and tumbril do sentence you, Boso Deverell, to be hanged immediately for the diverse and horrible crimes of murder, rape and theft!’

As Corbett’s death sentence rang out, a strange silence descended upon the crossroads; even the birds in the trees and the rooks circling above the gallows fell silent. Corbett looked at the priest.

‘Father, say a prayer. Ranulf, hang him!’

Corbett turned his horse away and rode back along the track, waiting round the bend behind a fringe of trees. He closed his eyes, gripping the pommel of his saddle. He heard the creak of wheels, followed by a murmur of approval.

‘God have mercy!’ Corbett whispered.

He hated hangings! He knew Boso had to die but it brought back memories: the rain-soaked forests of Scotland with corpses hanging by the score as Edward’s troops crushed the Scottish rebels under Wallace; fields blazing in sheets of flame; villages covered by a thick, heavy pall of smoke; wells choked with corpses; women and children dying in ditches.

‘Thank God!’ Corbett breathed. ‘Thank God! I’m not there!’

‘It’s done.’

Corbett opened his eyes and saw Ranulf-atte-Newgate, his long, red hair hidden under a hood, his white face solemn though the green eyes reflected a task well done.

‘It’s over, Master. Boso’s gone to hell. Father Luke’s pleased and so are the villagers.’ Ranulf straightened up and stared up through the overhanging branches. ‘By dusk the news will be all over Epping. The other wolf’s-heads will learn to leave Leighton alone. And you’ll keep your promise, Master?’

Corbett took the leather gauntlets from his belt and put them on.

‘I’ll keep my promise, Ranulf. Within a week, I’ll issue a Commission of Array. You can take every able-bodied man into the forest and hunt down the rest of Boso’s followers.’

Ranulf smiled.

‘Are you so bored?’ Corbett asked.

The smile died on Ranulf’s face. ‘It’s been three months, Master, since you left the royal service. The King has written to you five times.’ He saw the flicker of annoyance on Corbett’s face. ‘But, yes, I am bored,’ he added hastily. ‘I liked being a royal clerk, Master, busy on the King’s affairs.’

‘As in Scotland?’ Corbett snapped.

‘That was war, fighting the King’s enemies on land and sea — we took an oath.’

Corbett studied Ranulf; his henchman was no longer a stripling but an ambitious clerk. Sprung from the gutters of London, Ranulf had educated himself, and was now skilled in French, Latin and the art of drafting and sealing letters. To put it bluntly, Ranulf hated the countryside and loathed farming, and he was growing increasingly restless. Corbett put his gloves on slowly.

‘I could write letters,’ he offered. ‘The King would take you back in his service. You could hold high office, Ranulf.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’

Corbett grinned. He leaned over and grasped Ranulf’s wrist.

‘When the King’s forces sacked Dundee,’ he said, ‘I saw the corpse of a woman with a child in her arms who could have been no more than three years. How in God’s name, Ranulf, were they the King’s enemies?’

‘So you think the King should retreat? Give up his claims to Scotland?’ Ranulf pulled back his hood and scratched his head. ‘Some of the Royal Justices would rule that as treason.’

‘I just think there’s a better way,’ Corbett replied. ‘The wars have exhausted the treasury. Wallace still leads the rebellion: the King should sit down and negotiate.’

‘Then why not tell the King that?’ Ranulf replied. ‘Why not return to the royal service? Make it clear you will do anything but wage war in 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 towards the dais where the King and his two earls sat, paying court to the Lady Maeve, still not aware of Corbett’s arrival.

‘It’s good to see you, Sir Hugh.’ Simon licked his lips. ‘The King’s in a good mood — he has received welcome news from Scotland — but his leg hurts and the wound in his side, where he cracked his rib, still pains him. His moods can change at the drop of a coin.’

‘So he has not changed at all?’

Corbett pushed his way through and made his way along the hall. At the table, on the dais, three grey-haired men dressed in travel-stained clothes, their cloaks swung arrogantly around them, only had eyes for Maeve. She sat, queen-like, in Corbett’s chair, her silver hair gathered neatly under a jewel-encrusted wimple, her ivory-pale face slightly flushed as she listened to some story from Henry de Lacey, Earl of Lincoln. On her other side, Edward was urging de Lacey on.

‘Come on, Henry!’ The King pounded the table. ‘Tell her what the friar told the abbess.’

‘Sire!’ Corbett called out. ‘You are not corrupting my wife with your camp-fire stories?’

The King’s head swung round, Maeve looked up.

You look so beautiful, Corbett thought. He noticed her hand resting on a slightly swelling stomach, her fingers running along the golden cord pulled up over her waist.

‘Hugh!’ She would have risen but the King gently forced her back.

‘You should have been here, Corbett.’ The King rose and stretched his massive, thickset body, clawing at the iron-grey hair that framed his face.

You look old, Corbett thought. The King’s face was greyish as if covered in a fine dust, the beard and moustache were unkempt. His heavy-lidded eyes seemed to droop even further as if Edward wanted to protect his soul from any man seeing into it. Corbett bowed.

‘Sire, if I had known you were coming …?’

‘I sent a bloody messenger!’ The King glared at his servants at the far end of the hall.

‘My Lord, he never arrived.’

‘Then the silly bugger got lost.’ The King wiped his hands on the front of his gown. ‘Or is in some tavern with a wench. Just like you, eh, Ranulf?’ The King forced a smile and he came round the table. ‘I’ve been flirting with your wife, Corbett. If I wasn’t married, I’d kill you and take her myself.’

‘Then two good men would die violently,’ Maeve replied coolly from behind him.

Edward just smiled slyly and extended his hand for Corbett to kiss. Hugh knelt, and the King pushed his hand against his mouth so the ring scored Corbett’s lip.

‘There was no need for that,’ Corbett whispered as he rose.

‘I’ve missed you,’ the King hissed, towering above him. ‘Ranulf!’

Again his hand was extended. Ranulf kissed the ring quickly and stood back before Edward could do further harm. The King glimpsed the anger in Corbett’s eyes. He stepped down from the dais and put his arm round Corbett’s shoulder, forcing him to walk with him down the hall.

‘I missed you, Corbett.’ His grip tightened, pulling Hugh closer so he could smell leather, sweat and the faint cloying perfume of the King’s clothes. ‘I send you letters but you don’t reply. I invite you to council meetings but you don’t come. You are a moody, snivelling bastard.’ Edward’s fingers dug into Corbett’s shoulders.

‘What are you going to do, your Grace?’ His former principal clerk replied. ‘Talk to me or choke me?’

Edward smiled lazily, his hand falling away. He had opened his mouth to speak when the door was flung open and Uncle Morgan ap Llewellyn, dressed rather ridiculously in Lincoln green, with a brown military cloak swirling around him, crashed into the hall, spurred boots jingling. One of the spurs caught in the rushes. Uncle Morgan stumbled and Corbett bit his lip to stop himself laughing.

‘Bloody rushes!’ Morgan swore and immediately began to kick at the offending floor covering. His face was dirt-stained, and large damp patches of sweat were visible on his chest and shirt. He took his cloak off and threw it on the table. ‘Hugh, can’t you afford Turkish rugs …?’

Morgan suddenly realised whose presence he was in. He almost hurtled towards the King, going down on one knee, brushing back his sweat-soaked hair.

‘Sire, I did not know you were here,’ the Welshman gasped. ‘I was out hunting…’

Edward grasped Morgan’s hand, pulled him to his feet and embraced him.

‘I wish I had been with you.’ Edward planted a kiss on Morgan’s cheeks, then pushed him away. ‘These young dogs don’t hunt like us, Morgan. They are getting soft!’

Corbett closed his eyes and prayed for patience. The King, as usual, was being charming to people he need not be. Now he would only set Morgan off and provoke his famous lecture on how soft both Corbett and everyone else had become.

‘Sire, I have said that myself.’ Morgan lifted a stubby finger, his rubicund, friendly face breaking into a knowing smile. ‘Too soft, not like in Wales, eh, Sire? When you hunted me and I hunted you.’

Oh God, Corbett quietly prayed. Oh please, don’t start him off!

‘Listen.’ The King grasped Morgan affectionately and winked at Corbett. ‘My retinue’s outside — lazy buggers the lot of them! Ensure they have something to eat and drink, and teach them a little discipline.’

Maeve’s uncle drew himself up, chest puffing out like a wood pigeon, head going back, overjoyed to be given such a responsibility. He spun on his heel and headed like a whippet for the door.

‘Dearest Morgan,’ Edward breathed.

‘Dearest Morgan,’ Corbett whispered back, ‘is a bloody nuisance! By day he lectures me. By night he drinks and tells everyone the saga of his life!’ Corbett glanced over his shoulder, hoping Maeve had not heard. ‘But he’s a good man,’ Corbett added. ‘He loves Maeve and Eleanor — although he and Ranulf are both bred for mischief.’

Edward linked his arm through Corbett’s and walked him further down the hall.

‘A good soldier,’ Edward said. ‘Cunning and astute. He fought long and hard before he took the royal pardon. Like so many! All gone!’ Edward turned. ‘All gone, Hugh! Burnell, Peckham, my brother, Edmund …’

Now the tears will fall, Corbett thought, he’ll brush them gently from his eyes and clutch my arm.

‘I’m lonely,’ the King said hoarsely. ‘I miss you, Hugh.’ He brushed his eyes and clutched Corbett’s arm.

‘You have other clerks,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Sire, I cannot go on campaign again. I still have nightmares: the land a sea of fire; towns full of screaming women and children.’

Corbett had decided to play the King at his own game but Edward’s eyes became bright with pleasure.

‘The war in Scotland is over, Hugh. Wallace has been captured. The Scottish lords are suing for peace. I don’t want you in Scotland, I want you in Oxford.’ The King turned and looked up the hall where de Warrenne and de Lacey had returned to their teasing of Maeve. ‘You have heard the news?’

‘Aye,’ Corbett replied. ‘A journeyman came here last week bringing parchment and vellum. You refer to the rumours about corpses being found? About the traitorous proclamations from someone calling himself the Bellman?’

‘Beggars,’ the King interjected. ‘Poor beadsmen. Many of them gather at St Osyth’s Hospital near Carfax. Four have been found with their heads sheared off their shoulders and tied like rotting apples to the branches of a tree.’

‘In the city itself?’

‘No, outside. Sometimes to the north, sometimes to the west.’

‘Why should someone kill a poor beadsman?’ Corbett asked.

He noticed how Ranulf, at Maeve’s invitation, had now joined her on the dais. Corbett said a quick prayer: Ranulf was as attracted to baiting de Warrenne as a bee to honey and the old earl was famous neither for his good looks nor his patience.

‘I don’t know,’ Edward retorted. ‘Although the last one was Adam Brakespeare. You remember Adam, Hugh?’

The King gestured Corbett over to sit on a bench. The clerk recalled a thin whippet of a man with tawny hair and a nut-brown face. A master-of-arms, Brakespeare had been with them in Wales. On one occasion, when the elusive Welsh led them into ambush, Brakespeare had pulled Corbett from a stinking marsh as the arrows fell like rain around them.

‘Adam was a soldier.’ Corbett played with the ring on his finger. ‘He was one of your favourites. There was even talk of knighting him?’

‘When the army of Wales disbanded,’ Edward replied, ‘Adam returned home. He gambled rather stupidly and lost everything. He drifted, a landless man, until he became ill and petitioned the Chancery for help. By the time the petition reached me, Brakespeare was dead. His was the third corpse they found outside Oxford.’

‘And the Bellman?’ Corbett asked.

Edward’s face tightened. ‘Ah, yes, the Bellman.’ The King’s lips curled like a snarling dog. ‘He’s a writer, our Bellman. He issues proclamations and letters from Sparrow Hall invoking the ghost of the dead de Montfort.’ Edward’s voice rose, silencing the cheerful chatter at the top of the hall.

Corbett slowly edged away as the King plunged into his own nightmare.

‘De Montfort! De Montfort!’ The King’s fist came smashing down on the table. ‘Always bloody de Montfort! He’s dead! Don’t they understand that? I trapped him at Evesham, Hugh. I cut his army to bloody ribbons. I saw him die.’ Froth bubbled on the King’s lips. ‘He’s not even buried,’ the King rasped. ‘There was nothing left of him.’ He turned his red-flecked eyes to Hugh. ‘I killed him, Corbett, him and his entire, traitorous family. I cut his body to ribbons and fed it to the dogs. Now the bastard’s back.’ He thrust his hand inside his gown and drew out a scroll of parchment and tossed it at Corbett. ‘I’ve threatened Sparrow Hall,’ he said. ‘Even though it was founded by my good friend Braose. They are to put their own house in order or I’ll close it down myself. I sent a letter to Copsale, the Regent of the hall. He died in his bed. I sent a similar request to Ascham, the librarian and archivist, and he was murdered. I’ll burn the place down!’ the King swore.

Corbett played with the parchment.

‘Don’t do that, Sire,’ Corbett advised. ‘Don’t lash out. Oxford has its own way of retaliation. They’ll think you are frightened, trying to hide something. Moreover, although the Bellman says he dwells at Sparrow Hall, you don’t know if that’s true.’

The King grasped Corbett’s hand. ‘Go back there, Hugh,’ he begged. ‘You are my best hunting dog. Get in there and search him out. Avenge Brakespeare’s death. Find me the Bellman!’

‘I have left the royal service.’

The King dug into his pouch. He brought out the secret seals and ring of office and pushed them into Corbett’s hand.

‘Here’s your fresh commission. Do this for me, Hugh. I’ll stand godfather to your next child.’

Corbett knew he could not refuse. The King was no longer play-acting. He was begging and, if refused, would turn vindictive. Uncle Morgan, Maeve, Eleanor, Ranulf and Maltote would all feel the full lash of his fury.

‘I’ll go.’

‘Good!’ Edward beamed and brought his hand down heavily on Corbett’s shoulders. ‘That’s my good lurcher, my sharp-eyed mastiff! That’s what they call you, Corbett, do you know that?’ Edward’s sudden pleasantness was shot through with a touch of malice. ‘They call you the King’s dog.’

‘I am the King’s loyal subject,’ Corbett replied.

The King pushed his face towards him. Corbett smelt his wine-drenched breath.

‘I know, Hugh. There’s nothing wrong with being a mastiff amongst a pack of curs — I told them so. Go to Oxford and find out who culled those poor beadsmen but, remember, I want the Bellman. I want to hang him myself!’ The King got to his feet. ‘I’ll be leaving within the hour but Simon will remain. Now, I just hope that bastard de Warrenne hasn’t finished my story. Have you heard it, Hugh? About the abbess, the friar and the box of figs?’

The King was gone within the hour in a flurry of hugs, kisses and promises of royal favour. The royal party mounted their horses and galloped off raising clouds of dust, the King yelling that he would be at his palace of Woodstock, ‘Where he would reside “to keep an eye on matters”.’

Corbett gave a sigh of relief and hugged Maeve. They returned to the hall where Corbett broke his fast. He then ordered the room to be cleared so that only Maeve, Ranulf and an anxious-looking Simon remained.

‘Are you going to Oxford?’ Maeve asked tartly.

‘It seems I have to.’

Simon smiled wanly. ‘Oh, thank God, Sir Hugh. A refusal would have put the King in a terrible rage. He spent yesterday kicking his clerks off their stools for the slightest mistake.’

‘So, you accepted the Seal and ring?’ Maeve persisted. ‘Is that what you want?’ Maeve pursed her lips in a gesture of annoyance before she burst out laughing. ‘I am not a fool, Hugh. If you disobeyed, the King on this occasion …’

‘Do you want me to go?’ Corbett stretched over and patted her stomach.

‘Yes, I do,’ Maeve retorted. She nodded at Ranulf who was sitting in cat-like silence. ‘For a start, it would be nice to see a smile on Ranulfs face, and you’re bored as well, Hugh. After all, as Ranulf remarked, one sheep does tend to look like another.’

Corbett squeezed her hand. He pulled out the roll of parchment the King had given him. He undid this carefully and studied the clerkly hand.

‘It’s written in chancery script,’ he murmured. ‘So it could come from the pen of any trained scribe.’

‘If it was a royal scribe,’ Simon retorted morosely, ‘he’d be hanged, drawn and quartered. Read it, Sir Hugh.’

‘ “To the Mayor, Burgesses, Chancellor of the University of Oxford and to the Regents of the Halls,”’ Corbett began, ‘“The Bellman sends fraternal greetings. Once again I raise a clamour, bringing to attention the abuses of our King and his Council of nobles.

Item:- There should be a parliament at least once a year, at which the King should listen to the petitions of his good burgesses and citizens.

Item:- Holy Mother Church should not be taxed, nor its revenues disturbed, without the agreement of a Convocation of the Clergy.

Item:- The King dissipates his wealth in a futile war against the Scots whilst closing his eyes and ears to the manifold abuses of his officials at home.

Item:- The King should confirm the clauses of Magna Carta and the privileges of the University …”’

The proclamation went on, listing real or alleged abuses but it was the final paragraph that caught Corbett’s attention.

‘Remember,’ it began, ‘in your prayers, the saintly Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, brutally killed by this same king. The Earl’s measures, published here in the city of Oxford, would have established good governance of this realm. Given at Sparrow Hall on the feast of St Bonaventure, the 15th of July 1303, and ordered to be proclaimed throughout the City and University of Oxford, signed, THE BELLMAN OF OXFORD.’

Corbett studied the manuscript closely. The vellum was of good quality with the edges precisely cut, the ink was mauve, the letters clearly formed, the phrases neatly set out. It bore no other mark except the sign of a bell at the top: this had been pierced by a nail where the notice had been pinned to the door of some church.

Corbett passed the manuscript over to Maeve. She studied it and then pushed it across to Ranulf.

‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

‘Almost forty years ago,’ Corbett began, ‘Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, led a rebellion against the present king and his father. De Montfort was a brilliant, charismatic leader. He didn’t bother with the nobility but appealed to the burgesses and the citizens of cities like Oxford and London. He won their support, as well as that of many of the clergy who sit in their own parliament called Convocation. De Montfort was the first to expound the theory of a Parliament where the commons and nobles could meet in separate sessions to present petitions to the King as well as seek agreement before they were taxed.’

Maeve shrugged. ‘But that is just.’ She screwed her eyes up. ‘Didn’t one of Edward’s judges say that what affects all must be approved by all?’

‘Oh, Edward agreed: he took on the idea himself. Parliaments are regularly called although they don’t command the same importance de Montfort wanted to give them.’ Corbett played with the blackjack of ale a servant had poured him. ‘What de Montfort wanted,’ he continued, ‘was for Parliament to control the King and all royal officials but, more importantly, de Montfort wanted to control Parliament.’

‘But why is the King so frightened of such an idea, from a man who was killed almost forty years ago?’ Maeve asked.

Corbett shrugged. ‘Because de Montfort was almost successful and, if he had been …’

‘And if he had been,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘De Montfort would have become King and Edward …’

‘Edward-’ Corbett finished the sentence for him, ‘- would have disappeared into some castle where he would have met with an unfortunate accident. There would now be a new royal line and that is the nightmare still haunting the Crown!’