Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

by Paul Doherty

  Ranulf sat picking at his food, his silver-chased goblets of red and white wine already emptied. De Craon noticed this and narrowed his eyes. He asked about the attack in Oxford. This was followed by a general discussion on maintaining the King’s peace. Only once did the tensions surface.

  ‘Where is the Italian doctor Cantrone?’ de Craon asked. ‘I would, so much, like to have words with him.’

  Sir William, who had drunk deeply and rather quickly, shrugged. He belched and, picking up scraps of meat, flung them down the hall at the waiting mastiffs.

  ‘If I knew,’ he slurred, ‘I’d tell you.’

  De Craon was about to press him further when the festivities were ended by an arrow which shattered one of the hall windows and buried itself deep in the wooden panelling. Dogs barked and yelped. Retainers hurried in. Sir William sat, mouth open, cup half-raised to his lips.

  ‘We are under attack!’ the old steward shouted. ‘Man the battlements!’

  Corbett wondered if the fellow had drunk too deeply of the wine he had been serving.

  ‘Nonsense!’ De Craon leaned back in his chair, laughing with his clerk.

  Corbett hurried down the hall. He noticed the scroll of parchment tied with a piece of twine to the arrow shaft.

  The Owlman goes wherever he wishes!

  He does whatever he chooses!

  Remember the Rose of Rye!

  Corbett studied the arrow, which was like any other, without distinguishing marks. Sir William had now joined him, slightly unsteady on his feet.

  ‘I need to have words with you, sir,’ Corbett said in a low voice. ‘About this.’ He held the manor lord’s gaze. ‘About the Owlman and, more importantly, this Italian physician and Piers Gaveston.’

  The colour drained from Sir William’s face.

  ‘I, I don’t know what you mean!’ Sir William gasped.

  ‘I want the truth!’ Corbett urged. ‘My lord, we could play cat and mouse all night.’

  He glanced back at the dais where de Craon slouched in his chair. Of Ranulf there was no sign.

  ‘Sir William,’ Corbett went on, face close to the manor lord’s. ‘De Craon is one of the King’s greatest enemies and a man who plots my destruction. Forget all the flowery language, the kiss of peace. If de Craon had me alone in an alleyway, it would be a rope round my neck or a dagger in my belly.’

  Sir William’s face was now damp with perspiration. ‘Now, sir, what’s it going to be? I cannot blunder round here, in the presence of my enemies, chasing will-o-the-wisps! Will I hear the truth or shall I go out and hire one of your minstrels and listen to his stories?’

  Sir William turned round. ‘Seigneur de Craon,’ he called out. ‘This is a petty nuisance.’

  De Craon waved a hand and shrugged.

  ‘I must have urgent words with Sir Hugh,’ Sir William continued.

  ‘As we all shall, sometime or other!’ the Frenchman sang out.

  But Sir William, followed by Corbett, was already walking down the hall. They went out along a cloistered walk, then through a door into a clean, paved porchway and up black oaken stairs.

  ‘Your brother’s chamber?’ Corbett enquired.

  Sir William looked as if he was about to refuse. Corbett glanced over his shoulder and quietly cursed Ranulf. He suspected where he had gone, in pursuit of the lovely Alicia Verlian. Sir William went further along the gallery until he stopped at one door, fumbled with some keys and opened it to reveal a lavishly furnished but untidy chamber. Corbett was aware of a large four-poster bed with curtains of dark murrey fringed with gold and silver tassels. Two large aumbries stood on either side of the windowseat, and there were chests and coffers, their lids thrown back. Armour lay piled on a stool. A sword rested in the centre of the broad oaken table. Sir William waved at Corbett to sit on a chair at the far side of this table. He brought across a tray bearing a wine jug and goblets. Corbett refused.

  ‘I have drunk enough, Sir William.’

  ‘But I haven’t and, as the scholars say, “In vino veritas”.’ He splashed a cup full to the brim, sat down opposite Corbett and toasted him silently.

  ‘Did you kill your brother?’ Corbett began.

  ‘I was emptying my bowels,’ Sir William replied. ‘I had no hand in his death. My name’s William, not Cain!’

  ‘And this woman’s corpse found in the forest?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why would the woman have a lily stamped on her shoulder?’

  Sir William’s head went down.

  ‘Come on!’ Corbett snapped. ‘You’ve visited the fleshpots like your brother. I half suspect what it is. It’s a brand sign for a whore.’

  ‘But not a common bawd. It’s usually a brothel keeper or a high-class courtesan.’

  ‘But why the lily?’

  Sir William snorted with laughter. ‘Sir Hugh, ride down to Rye and then cross the Narrow Seas to France. The woman must have been French. If what you say is correct, she must have come from Abbeville or Boulogne. The French are more tender with their whores than we English. If a woman is convicted of keeping a disorderly house that’s the brand they use. She is king’s property, liable to be fined.’

  ‘So, what was she doing in England?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh, but, naked, we are all the same, aren’t we? The English like whores, the French like whores, the Germans like whores. Even the priests like whores. It’s a currency common in every country.’ Sir William slammed his wine cup down. ‘For God’s sake, man! English whores work in France and the French come across to England. Oh, they pose as ladies in distress. For a farmer visiting Rye, Dover or Winchelsea, a French whore is regarded as a delicacy. However, I didn’t know this one! I don’t know why she was in Ashdown or why someone should loose an arrow at her throat!’

  ‘Did you discover her corpse and leave it outside Hawisia’s priory?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Or your brother?’

  ‘Henry would never have soiled his hands.’

  Corbett leaned back in the chair. He noticed, for the first time, shelves full of calfskin tomes. Some of the bindings, threaded with silver and gold, glowed in the candlelight.

  ‘These were alight when we came in here.’ Corbett gestured to one of the candles. ‘Aren’t you frightened of fire?’

  ‘Sniff the air,’ Sir William replied. ‘They are pure beeswax. They do not splutter. The holder is bronze, the cap is of copper. A fanciful notion of my brother’s.’ Sir William gestured around. ‘Ashdown is made of stone, the best the Fitzalans could purchase. Fire is not one of our fears.’

  ‘But mysterious bowmen are,’ Corbett observed. ‘And I know about the “Rose of Rye”.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘I didn’t say you did, but you lied to me. You do know what it means.’

  ‘Henry was a mad fool,’ Sir William explained, half-turning in his chair. ‘He whored and he lechered to his heart’s content. The wife of the taverner at the Red Rose was much taken by him. Henry deserted her so she hanged herself; her husband did likewise. The tavern was sold and changed its name. Father did his best to keep the scandal secret.’

  ‘So, who is this Owlman?’

  ‘Henry made careful search. The taverner and his wife died but they did have a boy, a son, five years old.’

  ‘Ah!’ Corbett breathed.

  ‘Lord save us,’ William continued. ‘I was only ten years old at the time.’

  ‘And this son could now be the Owlman?’

  ‘It’s possible. But it’s strange, Sir Hugh, he’s a master bowman yet he never poaches the venison, attacks our retainers, or offered violence to me or my brother.’

  ‘Do you think it could be a priest?’ Corbett asked. ‘Someone like Brother Cosmas?’

  ‘God’s bully-boy?’ Sir William replied. ‘He really did hate my brother. We had the church watched, but it’s not him.’

  ‘And de Craon?’ Corbett asked.

&n
bsp; Sir William pulled a face, for the wine was making him morose and sulky. Corbett stretched forward, picked up the sword and let it drop back with a crash on to the table, where it skittered about on the polished surface.

  ‘De Craon? You also mentioned Gaveston!’ Sir William lifted his head, a half-smile on his drunken face.

  ‘Ah, I see how this game goes,’ Corbett said, leaning his elbows on the table. ‘You will answer my questions if I protect you from the King.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, I did nothing wrong. The Prince of Wales came down here. It’s well known that Piers Gaveston is in England hiding. Now the Prince would never have anything to do with Lord Henry but he approached me. Gaveston has been hiding in manor houses and villages along the south coast. Would I bring him here to Ashdown? I told the Prince my brother would be furious. He became petulant; he reminded me that one day he would be king, that I was of his retinue and that he would remember younger brothers who had not helped him, so I agreed. Gaveston travelled to Ashdown disguised as a pilgrim. He hired a chamber at the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern and visited St Hawisia’s priory. The Prince met him in the tavern, and in the forest as well as the priory.’

  ‘And where is Gaveston now?’

  Sir William splashed more wine into his cup. ‘He left as soon as he knew a royal clerk was visiting here.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Like a morning mist.’

  ‘And Lady Madeleine? She knew all this?’

  ‘Oh, Madeleine knew. The Prince of Wales visited her, all sweetness and light, talking about that damnable shrine of hers.’

  ‘Damnable?’

  ‘It’s the only thing she cares for. The Prince sang the same song as he did to me. How, when he was king, he would frequent St Hawisia’s as often as he did Becket’s tomb at Canterbury. Madeleine rose, like the sour fish she is, to the golden bait. Gaveston was allowed into the priory and the Prince met him there.’

  ‘If the King knew of this?’ Corbett straightened in his chair. ‘You’d be summoned to Westminster and, how can I put it, while waiting for an audience, be lodged in chambers in the Tower.’

  Sir William sucked in his lips. ‘I have committed no crime. Gaveston’s a popinjay. He’s no threat to the King or kingdom. You should remember, Sir Hugh,’ he said hoarsely. ‘One day, God forbid, the King will die and the crown will rest on another brow.’

  ‘You speak the truth. But don’t you forget, Sir William, that it’s that crown I serve, not its wearer!’

  ‘Ever the lawyer, eh, master clerk?’

  ‘No sir, ever the truth. And the truth is that you have done no real harm but de Craon, now he’s a different dish. Why did the French king demand that Lord Henry lead the English envoys to Paris?’

  ‘Henry travelled a great deal,’ Sir William said. ‘He was a scholar, a collector of artefacts. He was well known at foreign courts.’

  ‘So am I,’ Corbett retorted. ‘The French were quite particular. They asked for Lord Henry Fitzalan. Now, sir, why?’

  Sir William looked up at the rafters. ‘The truth, Sir Hugh, is that I don’t really know.’ He held up a hand. ‘I will take an oath on it. My brother was certainly on pleasant terms with the French king.’

  ‘Did they correspond?’

  ‘Just gifts and brief letters.’

  ‘May I see these?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘But come, Sir William, you can offer more than this.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘You want my protection at court, then buy it.’

  Sir William clumsily got to his feet. He went to pull back one of the shutters and stared through the latticed window.

  ‘The key to all that, Sir Hugh, is Pancius Cantrone. But God knows where he is! It’s dark and I am feared for his safety.’

  Corbett sat back. Aye, he thought, and where is Master Ranulf?

  Ranulf-atte-Newgate, who’d drunk a little more than he’d wished, slipped out of the hallway, as planned, to meet Master Baldock. He found this new friend and ally sitting on the steps outside the main hall.

  ‘You are ready, Master Ranulf? You will mention my name to Sir Hugh?’

  Ranulf clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll take you in to the King himself, Baldock. But the house of Mistress Alicia?’

  Baldock beckoned him on. The ostler led him along a warren of passageways, through the kitchens, still thick with the odours of the cooking and baking which had preceded Sir William’s feast. The scullions, kitchen boys and slatterns were now feasting on the remains, picking at the bones, dipping their hands into the blancmange, oblivious to the two silent figures who slipped out by a postern door across the yard.

  It was a warm, soft night with a full harvest moon. Baldock found the cresset torch he had hidden, lit it and led Ranulf over a small footbridge past the stables, across the orchards to where the chief verderer’s house stood. A two-storied building, its base was built of red brick, while the rest was plaster and black beams. Its thatched roof had long been replaced with tiles and a chimney had been neatly built on one end. At the back was an outside staircase. Ranulf would have stopped there but Baldock urged him on. They climbed a fence into a herb garden. Eventually Baldock stopped beneath a pear tree.

  ‘I leave you here,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll not hurt the girl?’

  ‘Oh shut up!’ Ranulf hissed. ‘Go back and wait for me by the bridge. Keep the torch hidden. When you hear me come, lift it.’

  Baldock scurried off. Ranulf pulled down the collar of his stiff white cambric shirt and looked up at the window where a night-light glowed. He prided himself on his reading and self-education and knew all about the troubadours of France: the chanteurs, the minstrel men who recited poetry beneath their lady’s window and then left their poem pinned to the door. Ranulf had spent all afternoon preparing for this. A night of mystery! Of outpoured passion! He would not disturb this young woman who had smitten his heart so deeply, but would be the perfect, gentil knight, the chevalier of love. Alicia was no tavern wench but his lady in the tower to be courted, praised, flattered. Ranulf closed his eyes. The sweet smell of blossom on a cool breeze wafted across his hot face. He was alone under the stars. All thoughts of priesthood, of preferment at court or in the Chancery had now disappeared.

  He loosened his pouch and took out the love poem. It was too dark to read but he knew the lines by heart. He moved one foot forward like he had seen the minstrel men do.

  Eyes on the window, one hand on his heart, Ranulf began his poem:

  ‘Alicia my love,

  The love of my heart,

  My morning star!

  My tower of ivory!

  My castle of delight,

  Light of my life,

  Flame of my heart,

  All beauteous . . .’

  He felt a touch on his arm.

  ‘Good evening, Master Ranulf.’

  He whirled round.

  Alicia Verlian, wrapped in a dark cloak, looking as lovely as the night, stood looking up at him.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Love by moonlight, eh Ranulf?’

  His manservant sat on the edge of the cot bed and gazed dreamily back. Corbett undid his sword belt and threw it on the floor.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he warned. ‘You shouldn’t have left! I need you at my back and you shouldn’t be alone when de Craon’s around.’

  ‘I had Baldock.’

  ‘Ah yes, the ubiquitous, if not inquisitive, Baldock.’

  Corbett sat on the bed resting against the wall. He had met the ostler just before they had left Ashdown Hall and was secretly impressed by the young man. Indeed, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Maltote, not so much in looks but in manner and attitude. Already he revered Ranulf, was his willing accomplice in mischief, while, by the way he handled their horses, he was an accomplished rider and groom.

  ‘Will you take him, master? Fitzalan intends to pension off most retainers by Yuletide. I think he’ll remove every sign of his brother from that manor!’

  ‘Is Baldock honest?’<
br />
  ‘As I am, master.’

  Corbett laughed. ‘And the love of your life?’

  Corbett was secretly alarmed by the faraway look in Ranulf’s eyes. He wondered whether it was the wine or the secret amour in the dead of night. Corbett had seen many a man smitten, had felt the pangs of love himself, but always thought Ranulf was different. Now he mentally beat his breast and said, ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa.’ He was arrogant to consider he knew his manservant so well.

  ‘And you, master?’

  Ranulf realised attack was the best form of defence. Corbett had left Ashdown looking like a cat who had stolen both the cream and the cheese, even humming a tune under his breath as they took the forest paths back to the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern.

  ‘Sir William is in trouble,’ Corbett said. ‘He confessed little but he has given aid and sustenance to Piers Gaveston, supposedly exiled by royal decree from this kingdom. He and his sister have a great deal to answer for.’

  Ranulf rubbed his hands. There was nothing like Old Long Face teaching a lesson of humility to arrogant nobles and proud prioresses.

  ‘But that’s only a flea above our dish,’ Corbett continued. ‘Sir William told me that the corpse of the young woman found in the forest was probably a French whore, an expensive one.’

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what she was doing in Ashdown. Sir William also told me that both de Craon and Philip of France were not so much friendly towards Lord Henry as frightened of him. The key to this fear is that sallow-faced physician, Pancius Cantrone, but he has disappeared. Lord Henry and his precious physician! It’s my belief, as well as Sir William’s, that his brother discovered a secret scandal, something which could grievously harm Philip of France. Now, Lord Henry and Philip exchanged letters; England and France are at peace, so there’s no crime in that, but Philip also sent Lord Henry expensive gifts. Sir William showed me some of these: gold crowns, precious goblets, little gewgaws, but, assayed and weighed by some clerk of the Exchequer, it would amount to a small fortune. Now.’ Corbett bit his lower lip. ‘I believe Philip asked for Lord Henry to be sent to France, not only to conduct the negotiations regarding his daughter’s marriage but to buy back, once and for all, this secret.’