Corbett was truly caught in the raging animosity between Edward and his truculent heir. If he failed the King, Corbett would certainly feel the royal displeasure, but the Prince of Wales was irrational, veering like a bird on the wing, one moment the cheerful companion, the common man; the next standing on every inch of his authority. Gaveston was worse; he was just downright dangerous. Ranulf loved his master, even though he might quietly cheat him of the odd coin or two and silently mock his solemn ways but, if Corbett fell, so would he. Ranulf stood up and ordered another black-jack of ale from the greasy aproned slattern to drown the panic curdling his stomach.

'All of us know about Eleanor Belmont!' he exclaimed. 'They were talking about her death at the Guildhall and in St Paul's Walk.' He looked enquiringly at his master.

Corbett sat up and dragged his eyes away from the relic-seller who had now moved into the tavern with his bag of goods.

'Who do they say is responsible?'

'They blame the Prince, or even the old King.'

'What else do they say, Ranulf?'

'How the Prince loves Gaveston more than any man does his wife. The old ones talk about the return of civil war, and the armourers and fletchers are doing brisk business.'

Corbett nodded and sat back on the bench. His spies had told him the same; up and down the country the great lords were seeing to the repair of their castles, laying in provisions and arms against a possible siege. Would war come? Godstowe might hold the answer.

Corbett looked out of the door and saw the daylight was beginning to fade so they continued their journey, keeping a wary eye as the sun began to sink and they followed the old Roman Road north into Oxfordshire. Earlier it had been busy with merchants, students in their tattered gowns, mountebanks, or the occasional friar wheeling his portable altar from village to village.