Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

by Paul Doherty

  Philip now sat in his garden bower and looked across at the bloodied, bruised face of Simon Roulles, that perpetual English scholar who had, at last, been caught. Philip, his face impassive, his corn-coloured hair falling down to his shoulders, smoothed his moustache and well-trimmed beard and scrutinised the English spy.

  ‘You are in deep pain?’

  Philip’s eyes moved to the black-clad torturers standing behind their victim.

  ‘Monsieur Roulles has been on the wheel?’

  The red-masked executioner nodded.

  Philip wetted his lips. Roulles was barely conscious. He was lashed by cords to the chair. Philip picked up a napkin and gently dabbed at the streak of blood trickling out of the corner of the English-man’s mouth.

  ‘Do you know, Simon?’ he murmured. ‘I always wanted to meet you.’

  Roulles’ lips moved but no sound came out.

  ‘No, no, it’s useless.’ Philip scratched his head in annoyance. ‘It is futile. You do understand my English?’ Philip didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It is futile,’ he repeated, ‘to claim that you are an English scholar, to demand to be expelled from France on some ship leaving Calais or Boulogne. You carry letters claiming to be a Frenchman. You have a fictitious cousin in the countryside. But it’s all lies, it’s all shadows. Your master, Sir Hugh Corbett . . .’

  ‘He is not my master!’ The words were spat out.

  ‘Of course, he isn’t. I do apologise. Edward of England never lets his left hand know what his right hand is doing. Still, you are an English spy. You ferret out secrets and send them back to your Prince.’ Philip leaned across and again gently wiped the Englishman’s mouth. ‘Would you like some wine?’

  One of the torturers picked up a jewel-encrusted cup and held it to his victim’s lips. Roulles lapped like a dog, allowing the wine to swill round his mouth. He knew it would be the last he ever tasted. His whole body was a sheet of flame. He’d been placed on the wheel and spun round and round while the torturer had struck at his arms and legs, pinching his flesh with burning tongs. The same questions, time and time again. What had he learned? What had Mistress Malvoisin told him? Simon had not broken, confident that the messenger he had despatched to England would already have handed the secret to his royal master.

  ‘I ask you again,’ Philip said. ‘Or it’s back to the wheel. I do not wish that, Monsieur Roulles, I want you to tell us the secret.’

  ‘But, if you know what it is,’ Roulles gasped as his lips bubbled blood, ‘it is no longer a secret. You do know it, Philip of France.’

  The king leaned across the table and smacked him with the back of his hand. The amethyst ring he wore gouged the prisoner’s cheek.

  ‘The secret?’ he repeated. ‘And, if you tell me it, I’ll tell you one.’

  Roulles attempted to smile. Like a dreamer he kept going in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he was back in Oxford. At others he was in a tavern singing a carol with friends and the snow was falling outside. Or King Edward was walking arm-in-arm with him through the rose gardens of Westminster.

  ‘Do you know Pancius Cantrone?’ Philip asked.

  Roulles jerked.

  ‘You must know him,’ Philip insisted. ‘And the scandalous tittle-tattle he depicts as the truth.’

  ‘I know of no such man.’

  ‘Come, come, Master Roulles. Let me refresh your memory. Monsieur Malvoisin, before he died in a most unfortunate boating accident, believed he had learned certain secrets.’

  ‘It’s the truth!’ the prisoner blurted, fighting a wave of nausea. He must not collapse; if he could only ignore the pain!

  ‘No, no, Monsieur Malvoisin shared this gossip with Signor Cantrone. Somehow or other you discovered it.’

  Roulles kept his head down.

  ‘You are going to die,’ Philip continued remorselessly. ‘Either quickly or at the end of a rope in my orchard.’

  Roulles refused to reply.

  ‘What was the secret?’ Philip insisted. ‘Is that why your master sent you to Paris?’ Philip nodded to one of the torturers, who yanked back Roulles’ head. ‘Lord Henry Fitzalan is dead,’ he declared. ‘Killed by an arrow to the heart. And as for Signor Cantrone. Well, Seigneur Amaury de Craon is now within breathing distance of him. Or perhaps you’ll take comfort that the secrets you discovered have been despatched to England. That pedlar, the chapman, the tinker, the trader, what’s his name? Ah yes, Malsherdes. You think Malsherdes reached Boulogne and took ship to England?’

  Roulles tried to concentrate. Despite the agony in mind and body, he thought of little Malsherdes and his pack pony going along the cobbled streets of Paris and out into the countryside.

  ‘You drank with him, didn’t you?’ Philip continued. ‘At an auberge on the Fontainebleau road. Two of you there in the corner, whispering away like children. Malsherdes left.’ Philip paused. ‘You can have some more wine. Take as much as you wish.’ He waited until the prisoner’s mouth was full. ‘Malsherdes is dead. My men caught him out in the countryside, a quiet place.’

  Roulles coughed and spluttered the wine he had drunk. Philip, as gentle as a mother, patted his lips with the blood-soaked napkin.

  ‘However, Malsherdes was faster than we thought. He’d lit a fire for himself. Before we could stop him, your letters were burned, so my men burned him!’

  Roulles forced a grin. ‘Then you know as much as I do, Philip of France.’

  The king leaned back in his throne-like chair and, cocking his head, he half-listened to the songbird imprisoned in a silver cage hanging from the branches of a cherry tree. From another part of the palace he heard the bray of trumpets and realised it must be time for the midday prayer. He was wasting his time here. He nodded to the torturers.

  ‘Take him out! Hang him!’

  Roulles was dragged to his feet and bundled out. Philip fastidiously wiped the blood from the goblet’s brim and sipped at it. He was glad Fitzalan was dead. There would be no more letters, no hints of blackmail. But Cantrone? Would de Craon kill him? Philip couldn’t care less. What was one man’s death in the great design? However, he must not give offence to Edward of England! Would Cantrone, whom he would have loved to hang alongside Roulles, bargain with his secret? Or flee? If he bargained, how much trouble would he cause? What scandal would Edward’s agents here in Paris or in Avignon fan with their tongues? Philip looked towards the door. Did de Craon have a hand in Fitzalan’s death? Had he taken his orders too literally? Philip rubbed the side of his face. He must go and pray, must petition his sainted ancestor Louis that Cantrone’s path, and that of the meddlesome clerk Corbett, never crossed.

  Chapter 8

  Philip would have been pleased at the agitation which now troubled Pancius Cantrone. Indeed, the French king would have prostrated himself in thanksgiving for, on that sunlit autumn afternoon, Pancius Cantrone had only a very short time to live. The Italian, of course, did not know his death was so close. He was just determined to flee England, to escape the French and not to allow the English Crown to use him as a pawn, a bargaining counter with Philip of France.

  The Italian physician had visited St Hawisia’s priory. He had ostentatiously attended the young novice Sister Fidelis, whose knuckles had swollen up so her fingers looked as if they had been stung by bees. Cantrone had acted the role of professional physician. He’d examined the skin, felt the bone and, even though the young novice was embarrassed, carefully scrutinised her urine lest the swelling had been caused by a malignant disturbance in her body humours. Of course, Lady Madeleine had welcomed him and they had chatted quietly in her chamber, both before and after he had attended the young novice. Pancius Cantrone had then taken a little wine and some sweetmeats in the refectory before collecting his horse. Now he was riding back through the forest paths to Ashdown Manor.

  The Italian physician kept his thick woollen cloak tightly around him. He even wore wool-lined gauntlets because, although the English said it was not yet winter, Cantrone felt cold. He hated these
gloomy, wet forests and yearned for the lush valleys of Tuscany. Cantrone was determined to flee. He had come to England because Lord Henry had offered him protection. In return Cantrone had whispered the secrets he had learned from Monsieur Malvoisin. Now those secrets came back to haunt him as his horse found its way along the lonely forest paths. Sombre images plagued his mind: black-cowled monks, tapers in their hands, winding their way up a cathedral church; behind them a velvet-draped coffin resting on the shoulders of pall-bearers. The solemn chorus rising and falling like a distant wave with a sequence from the funeral mass. Outside the cathedral mailed horsemen milled about, controlling the crowds. Cantrone had been in that procession. He’d stood next to Malvoisin. They had watched the royal mourners bend over the wax effigy placed on top of the coffin. Roses had been placed there along with pure white lilies. Malvoisin could apparently stand it no longer. Standing by themselves, he’d turned and whispered, ‘Not an infection of the lung.’

  ‘What?’ Cantrone had asked.

  ‘Not an infection of the lung,’ Malvoisin had repeated, keeping his voice low, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, eyes glittering, rubicund face flushed with wine. ‘She was poisoned.’

  Cantrone had gone cold but Malvoisin, cunning as ever, had chosen his moment.

  ‘You know that I speak the truth.’

  His watery eyes had held those of Cantrone and the Italian physician had given way to the doubts seething within him. Afterwards, when the church was empty and the incense hung like a forgotten prayer, curling up towards the stone ceiling, Cantrone had taken Malvoisin aside.

  ‘If you repeat what you said,’ he whispered, ‘it’s the scaffold for both of us!’

  Malvoisin, now sobering up, had glanced nervously around.

  ‘My duties are finished now,’ he’d declared. ‘I have had enough. It’s time for peace, a little quiet.’

  Malvoisin had resigned his post in the household. The general expectation was that Cantrone would seek the vacant preferment, but the Italian had studied intrigue as well as physic. He had noticed the men who had followed him to a tavern or stood outside his house when darkness fell. Cantrone knew the signs like a good physician should. He’d packed his coffers and fled in the dead of night. First to Italy and then, by sea, to the English-held city of Bordeaux. Even there he had felt hunted; he was looking further afield when he had met Lord Henry Fitzalan. The English milord needed a physician and, impressed by Cantrone’s skill, had offered him a place in his household. Cantrone had quickly accepted. Weeks turned into months. Cantrone discovered Fitzalan was high in the English court, a trusted envoy to France. So, to make his own position more secure, Cantrone had revealed his own dark secrets. Lord Henry Fitzalan seemed delighted. Cantrone had come to trust him, the only person he had ever done in his long, suspicion-laden life. Fitzalan had used those secrets against the French, hinting at what he knew both at meetings and in letters.

  Cantrone reined in his horse and raised his eyes to the interlacing branches above.

  ‘I was a fool,’ he muttered, ‘to put my trust in him!’

  Lord Henry had sworn that Cantrone would never have to accompany him to France. However, in the confusion following Fitzalan’s death, Cantrone had discovered that, although Lord Henry had given his solemn word, when he reached Rye, Cantrone would not have received sweet kisses and embraces of farewell. Instead he would have been bundled aboard some ship and handed over to the French. In return for what? More influence? More power? A bag of gold? Cantrone dug his heels in and the gentle cob ambled on. How could Lord Henry betray him when he had done so much?

  Now Lord Henry was gone and Sir William? A blunt, naive young man, it was he who had unwittingly revealed that when they reached Rye, Cantrone would not have returned to Ashdown Manor. Did Sir William know the dark secret? Would he offer him protection? Cantrone shook his head. He doubted it. Sir William was more interested in clearing every vestige of his brother from his manor. Household retainers, servants, even grooms were being told to seek employment elsewhere.

  Cantrone had kept well away from Seigneur Amaury de Craon but, on one occasion, he had caught the French envoy studying him; those cunning eyes had smiled and Cantrone had glimpsed more danger there than in a chamber full of horrors.

  Cantrone breathed in then wrinkled his nose at the smell of rotting vegetation. He had been unable to find Lord Henry’s Book of Hours, which was the place where he kept all his secrets, but Cantrone had turned, like the snake he was, striking hard and fast, using the information he himself had discovered to earn more gold. He would return to Ashdown, collect his valuables and be away before nightfall, hide in one of the Channel ports and perhaps go north to Flanders, Hainault or even to the Baltic and German states.

  Cantrone could have hugged himself. A simple sentence and he had provoked such suspicion and laughter in Lord Henry’s soul, one thing had followed another. Now he had the means to leave!

  A sound just to his right made him rein in his horse. He peered among the trees. He was in no danger here. The Owlman, the outlaw, his quarrel was with the Fitzalans, not some Italian physician, while as for the French, Cantrone doubted if they’d strike now. Not here, where they could be detected and cause great scandal.

  Cantrone took the small arbalest which hung over the horn of his saddle. Fumbling beneath his cloak, he took out a cruel barbed bolt and placed it in the groove, slowly winching back the cord. He laughed to himself, he was becoming as nervous as a maid!

  The afternoon sun streamed through the trees. Birdsong broke the silence. Again a sound came as a rabbit raced across the trackway. Cantrone relaxed. He pulled the bolt out but still gripped the arbalest as he rode on. On the branches above him the leaves were turning a golden brown, a sure sign of autumn, but when the mists came he’d be gone with all this behind him. He pulled down the collar of his white cambric shirt, undoing the clasp at the neck. Little did he know that by this action he presented a clearer target for the archer hidden in the trees. The yew bow bent, the cord pulled back; there was a twang, soft, musical, and the grey-feathered shaft took Cantrone full in the throat. The physician dropped the reins and toppled gently on to the trackway. His horse, a little startled, moved on but then stopped and began to crop at the grass. The archer, garbed in a black cloak, hood and cowl, slipped out of the trees. For a while the figure just crouched, looking carefully up and down the trackway, and then it hurried across to the corpse. Pockets and pouches were emptied. Cantrone’s horse was brought back. The corpse was lifted over it and both killer and victim disappeared into the trees.

  Sir William’s dinner at Ashdown Manor proved to be a magnificent occasion. Corbett and Ranulf had been met by grooms bearing torches on the great broad pathway which wound from the manor gates up to the main door of the beautiful stone and timbered manor house. Retainers wearing the Fitzalan livery had taken their cloaks and war belts then ushered them into the great hall. The walls of this magnificent chamber were half-covered in wooden panelling, the whitewashed plaster above decorated with flags, pennants, shields, pieces of shining armour and costly gold-tasselled drapes. Banners bearing the arms of France and England, as well as those of Flanders, hung from the rafters. The wooden floor had been swept, polished and covered with the freshest herbs. Silver pots of flowers stood in window embrasures and corners. Whippers-in and grooms kept the dogs well away from the great dais where a large table had been set out covered in green and white samite cloth bearing the costliest cups, goblets, traunchers, plates and ewers all stamped with the Fitzalan crest. Torches and beeswax candles provided light and a pleasing fragrance.

  Sir William, seeming decidedly nervous, had met them there, loudly declaring that they should have come sooner while explaining that, though his brother’s body had not yet been buried, he would follow the Fitzalan tradition of magnificent generosity. Sir William’s hair, moustache and beard had been neatly clipped and oiled. He was dressed in a gold linen gown with a jewel-encrusted belt and wore soft re
d buskins on his feet. He told them that he was worried that Signor Cantrone had not returned and kept looking over his shoulder to where de Craon and his principal clerk already sat in their places on the dais.

  ‘I understand you know the French envoy,’ Sir William said.

  ‘Like my own cousin,’ Corbett replied with a smile.

  Followed by Ranulf, he swept up on to the dais. De Craon, face wreathed in smiles, rose and came forward to meet him. They clasped hands, embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace.

  ‘Hugh, God save you, we thought you had been killed!’

  ‘God only knows, Amaury, how you must have mourned at such news!’

  De Craon stood back.

  ‘You have not aged at all, Sir Hugh. Lady Maeve must take great care of you.’

  Corbett studied de Craon’s red, thinning hair, yellowing face, straggly beard and moustache. De Craon would have been ugly if it hadn’t been for those eyes full of life and cunning. A charming courtier or a cold, ruthless killer? Corbett sometimes felt a slight affection for this most deadly of adversaries; he wondered if de Craon ever felt the same. The Frenchman’s face became a mask of concern.

  ‘And yet these are sad times! Lord Henry is dead! Most of my retinue are still lodged outside Rye. We want to return.’

  ‘The King will send someone else,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir William here or my lord of Surrey.’

  ‘Would you not come to Paris?’ de Craon asked, taking his seat. He smirked at his grey-faced clerk. ‘We have so much to show you, Hugh, especially my master’s gardens behind the Louvre.’

  Sir William came between them and sat down in his great throne-like chair. Corbett decided not to reply. The steward standing nervously behind Sir William raised his hands. Trumpeters in the gallery at the far end of the hall blew a fanfare and the meal began. Brawn soup; fish in cream sauce; beef; venison; a whole roast swan. One dish followed another, the wine jugs circulating. Sir William strove to be a genial host. The conversation ebbed and flowed like water, ignoring the deeper undercurrents. Most of the chatter was about different courts and chanceries, the funeral arrangements for Lord Henry and the prospects of a lasting peace between England and France once the marriage of Princess Isabella and Prince Edward was consummated.