‘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!’