Free Song of a Dark Angel by Paul C. Doherty

in his eyes. 'You think I've no scruples, no principles, no morals. But how can you have these, Corbett, when you have no soul? My soul, my life, died the day my daughter was murdered. God took away my wife, then he took Caterina. I don't listen any longer to the mumbling of priests!' Monck threw his head back and stared up at the grey skies. A strangled sound came from his bared lips. 'I'll curse and I'll curse till the day I die!' Monck tugged at his horse and galloped back towards the manor.
    Corbett watched him go. He felt uncomfortable. He had judged Monck but had not realized the nightmares and ghosts that haunted the man's soul. He felt a surge of compassion for a man who had made his daughter's life the centre of his being and then had that life so barbarously removed. Corbett spurred his horse forward at a leisurely pace along the path. What else had the gossips said? Hadn't there been suspicions that Monck's murdered servant, Cerdic Lickspittle, had been too sweet on the girl? Monck had certainly blamed his manservant for not keeping better care. Corbett stared down at his horse's bobbing head. What if Monck had asked for this assignment? What if he had come into the wilds of Norfolk to settle a number of grievances – with the Pastoureaux and with his own servant? Had there been any link between Monck and the baker's wife? His horse's whinny jolted him from his reverie. He looked up and saw he was only a stone's throw away from the gate of Mortlake Manor.
    In the courtyard, an ostler took his horse. Corbett walked through the main entrance. The hall and solar were deserted and a servant told him that Sir Simon was with his wife in their chamber. Corbett snatched something to eat from the buttery and carried a pewter cup of mulled wine to his own chamber. Once he had warmed himself by the small fire he lit candles and placed them on the table. He took out quill, inkhorn and parchment and tried to make sense of the mysteries that faced him.
    First he drew a rough map, showing the line of the coast and the location of different places. Then he began to list the people concerned, starting with Sir Simon Gurney. Corbett chewed the end of his quill and considered. Sir Simon was nervous, slightly withdrawn and fearful – but of what? Then there was Giles Selditch, the physician: an enigmatic figure. Next, Catchpole, Sir Simon's henchman: he was loyal, disliked strangers and deeply resented the Pastoureaux. Next, Lavinius Monck: insane or simply motivated by malice and revenge? His name led to all kinds of questions. What is he really doing in the area – investigating the Pastoureaux, seeking personal vengeance, or pursuing some other, secret aim? Who killed his servant, Cerdic Lickspittle? What was Cerdic doing out on the moors? Why was he murdered in such a barbaric fashion – head cut off and stuck on a pole on a misty, cold beach? How had the assassin managed to leave no signs, no clues?
    Then there were the Pastoureaux? Were they fanatics, simpletons or saints? Would it be worthwhile writing to the chancery or the exchequer about them? He began to list names. First there was Master Joseph. Who was he? Why did Ranulf recognize him? Next, Marina, daughter of Fulke the tanner: why had she left the Hermitage and what was she doing out on the moors?
    Corbett's list of names began to seem endless. He added Amelia Fourbour, the baker's wife. Why did she go out to the scaffold? Why hadn't she struggled? Why were there no signs of another horse at the scene? Who had ridden her horse back to the edge of the village?
    Corbett wearily rubbed his eyes and sat staring for a while. He sighed, sipped from his cup of posset and continued writing.
    Father Augustine: a stranger in the area, not really at home with the people of his parish. Dame Cecily: shrewd but luxury-loving. Robert the reeve: what was the source of his newly found wealth? Corbett put his pen down. He folded his arms on the table and studied his list of names.