Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

wife’s eyes – one of her favourite tricks: either accept now, she was saying, or I’ll wander round this house like some martyr about to be burnt.
    ‘How long is he staying?’
    ‘Two months.’
    In other words, six, Corbett thought. He sighed. ‘Let the Lord Morgan come.’
    Maeve kissed him again. ‘We’ll all be together,’ she whispered, her eyes alight with pleasure.
    Yes, Corbett thought wearily, we’ll all be together.
    Maeve clapped her hands. ‘He can have the chamber at the back of the house and his servants can use the hall below or perhaps stay in a tavern.’
    Corbett rose and caught the tendrils of his wife’s hair and grinned. ‘I’ll be busy,’ he observed, then he suddenly grasped Maeve by the shoulders.
    ‘The King told me you had visitors, Maeve. The Frenchman, de Craon and his companion, de Nevers.’
    Maeve made a face. ‘De Craon was charming. Oh, I know Hugh, he is a fox but he brought me a scarf, pure silk from the looms of Lyons and a silver spoon for Eleanor.’
    ‘Get rid of them!’ Corbett rasped.
    ‘Hugh!’
    ‘De Craon is a cruel bastard who wishes me nothing but ill.’
    ‘Hugh, he was courteous.’
    ‘And how was his companion?’
    ‘De Nevers?’ Maeve made a face. ‘He was handsome, quieter than de Craon, diplomatic and affable. I liked him.’
    Corbett glared at his wife, then realised how ridiculous he must look. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But de Craon always makes me uneasy.’
    Maeve grasped him by the hand. ‘Then forget him like I have. Come and see your daughter.’
    Corbett followed her and stared down at his baby daughter. At three months, Eleanor already looked like Maeve: beautiful soft skin, clear regular features. He touched one of her tiny fingers. ‘So small!’ he whispered. The baby’s hand felt warm, soft as a satin cushion. He squeezed gently and, under her small quilted blanket, Eleanor moved and smiled in her sleep.
    ‘She is well?’
    ‘Of course.’
    Corbett placed his hand gently against the baby’s forehead and Maeve watched him guardedly. Her husband, usually so calm, even cold, harboured the most terrible fears of what might happen to the child. Maeve looked away. Much as she could try, her husband’s mind was still plagued by ghosts. The most frightening, surprisingly enough for a man so detached, was of losing those close to him, of being left alone. She seized him by the hand.
    ‘Let’s go,’ she whispered. ‘Our chamber is ready. There is wine, bread and fruit, next to the bed.’ Maeve grinned. ‘A bed covered in red silk,’ she whispered. ‘And in the centre, two embroidered turtle doves.’ Her face became serious. ‘You may want to rest? Drink something sweet? You must be tired after your long journey.’
    Corbett grinned back. ‘Call Anna,’ he murmured, pulling Maeve close to him. ‘Let her sit with Eleanor and I shall show you, Madam, how tired I am!’

Chapter 3
    The next morning Corbett rose early. He doused the light in its sconce holder and opened the small latticed window which looked out over the gardens and small orchard at the back of the house. The day was about to break, the sky already scored with gashes of bright light. He could hear the bells of St Lawrence Jewry clanging as dawn broke, the usual sign for the city gates to be opened and a fresh day’s business to begin. He returned to his bed and kissed his still sleeping wife on the side of her face then stood over Eleanor’s cradle for a while and watched his little daughter gaze solemnly back. Corbett was fascinated. The child was so placid, so even-tempered. Before he had risen he had heard her gurgling to herself, smacking her little lips and chatting to the wooden doll Maeve had placed on the small bolster beside her. Corbett reluctantly turned away and dressed hurriedly in the clothes Maeve had laid out over the chest the night before; leggings of dark blue, a soft white shirt, with a sleeveless cote-hardie with a cord to fasten