Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

by Paul Doherty

  ‘In exchange for what?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘A small fortune.’

  ‘But wouldn’t that be dangerous? I mean, if Lord Henry visited Paris an accident could happen.’

  ‘I asked the same of Sir William. He said that Lord Henry, when he travelled abroad, always left Pancius Cantrone in England.’

  ‘Ah, and he would control the secret?’

  ‘Yes, but then Sir William confided in me how Lord Henry, in his cups, had intimated that when they reached Rye, he would entrust certain secrets to his brother while Cantrone would be bundled aboard ship and be taken to France.’

  Ranulf rubbed his brow. He tried to remove the lovely face of Alicia from his mind as he concentrated on the conundrum his master now posed.

  ‘It would seem, Ranulf,’ Corbett continued, ‘that Philip of France asked for Lord Henry Fitzalan who wished to finish his private business with Philip once and for all. He would surrender the secret and betray the man who had handed it to him, probably for lands, castles or moveable treasures.’

  ‘And if anything happened to Lord Henry while he was abroad?’ Ranulf now warmed to the task in hand.

  ‘Sir William would pass on Lord Henry’s secret instructions to the King.’

  ‘I suspect so.’

  ‘But why didn’t Fitzalan tell these secrets to Edward of England?’

  Corbett laughed. ‘Our King would demand them to be freely given as a vassal should to his liege lord.’

  Corbett looked up at the ceiling beams. He sniffed and caught the different odours from the kitchen below. The tavern was falling silent, save for the odd creak of a stair. Somewhere from the kennel a dog growled softly and, on the night air outside, some drunk bellowed a hymn. A busy yet lonely place, Corbett reflected, ideal for Prince Edward meeting his blood-brother Gaveston.

  ‘So, why has Cantrone disappeared?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Sir William thinks he may have fled. You see, Sir William was used to being his brother’s principal retainer, travelling here and there which, of course, provided a suitable pretext for escorting Gaveston up and down from the south coast. Now, Sir William’s mind is all a jumble with his brother’s funeral as well as the finger of suspicion being pointed at him. He unwittingly let slip to Cantrone what his brother intended to do at Rye. Apparently Cantrone paled, became very agitated and confused, then withdrew to his chamber. The next day he left for St Hawisia’s priory. Sir William sent a messenger there. The Italian physician apparently treated Sister Fidelis’ swollen knuckles, collected his horse and left but neither hide nor hair has been found of him. He could have fled. He could have been waylaid by outlaws, the Owlman or the assassin.’

  ‘Or one of de Craon’s lovely boys?’ Ranulf interjected.

  ‘De Craon may be involved,’ Corbett agreed.

  ‘He must also be pleased.’

  ‘Yes and no. Lord Henry is dead. Cantrone may have joined him. However, Lord Henry and Cantrone were the sort of men who would leave this secret somewhere in writing, a surety, a bond for their own safety.’

  Corbett pulled across the bulging saddlebags he had taken from the manor, undid the buckles and pulled back the straps. He shook the contents, a roll of vellum and two Books of Hours, out on the bed.

  ‘Now, because Sir William was eager to please, he handed over a copy of the letters between Lord Henry and King Philip.’

  Corbett picked up the roll. Ranulf could see the letters had been stitched together by some clerk.

  ‘So I quickly went through these. There is very little: greetings, salutations. Nothing that you wouldn’t find in the chancery of every great nobleman of England. I am sure the Earl of Surrey has similar letters between himself and different rulers in Europe.’ He sighed. ‘But I will go through them again.’

  ‘And the pouches?’ Ranulf asked.

  Corbett undid the neck of one. ‘I found little in Cantrone’s chamber. Books of herbals, lists of spices, a few tracts on medicines, potions, philtres. I suspect our good physician kept his secrets upon his person.’ Corbett picked up a Book of Hours. ‘Lord Henry bought this recently.’

  He handed it to Ranulf who opened the gold-edged prayer book. The pages were of the costliest parchment, clean and supple, the calligraphy exquisite. Each prayer began with a small miniature painting done in breathtaking colours. At the back Lord Henry had written down private notes. Nothing unusual: observations, lists of jewels in his caskets, monies owing to a certain church, nothing that couldn’t be found at the back of any such personal Book of Hours, Corbett’s included.

  ‘This second one.’ Corbett held up the small, calfskin tome. The cover was frayed, blackened with age, some of the small precious stones clustered in the shape of a cross were chipped, others were missing. ‘Now, Sir William told me that Lord Henry always took this with him.’ Corbett opened the pages, which crackled as he turned them. ‘Again nothing untoward, prayers, alms, readings from the scriptures, the lives of saints, even Saint Hawisia’s mentioned.’

  Corbett reached the end, where the blank pages of the folio were covered in black handwriting. Ranulf also noticed what looked like a loose page sticking out, which he tapped with his finger.

  ‘What is that?’

  Corbett leafed back. ‘Ah yes, it’s a devotional painting. Look!’

  He handed it over. The painting was small, done on stiffened parchment. A scene from the Old Testament, it showed Susannah being accused of adultery by the elders: a painting often seen on the walls of churches or in Books of Hours such as this. Except here, the eyes of each of the figures had been cut out leaving a small gap.

  ‘Why should Lord Henry do that?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Deliberately injure a picture, then keep it in this Book of Hours he takes everywhere?’

  He stifled a yawn and Corbett looked up. Ranulf’s eyes were now red-rimmed.

  ‘You’d best go to sleep,’ Corbett told him. ‘Tomorrow’s a busy day. At noon tomorrow I intend to set up my court of enquiry in the nave of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. I have asked Sir William. And he’s eager to please, to provide a small guard and to ensure that certain people are brought to us for questioning.’

  ‘Not Lady Madeleine?’ Ranulf scoffed.

  ‘No, she’s too grand for such an occasion and might refuse to come. But the hermit Odo, Brother Cosmas, Robert Verlian.’ Corbett glanced up. ‘And his daughter Alicia. Oh yes, and that strange woman Jocasta, the one they call the witch. It’s best if I examine them there.’

  ‘Sir William has been most co-operative.’

  ‘Sir William is terrified,’ Corbett replied. ‘Lest I send you back to Westminster with the story of his doings with Gaveston. But the King’s rage would be futile and I want Sir William where I can see him. He has also given me his word that he will keep a close eye on our good brother in Christ, Seigneur de Craon.’

  Ranulf got up and undid his cloak. Corbett turned back to the old Book of Hours. At the front a blank page was filled with childish drawings, short prayers; Corbett recognised that Lord Henry had learned a clerkly hand. Some of the entries were years old, the ink fading to a dull grey. Others, in dark green or red, were of more recent origin. Corbett looked carefully at these. One was a short diary of a journey to France giving the dates when and the places where Lord Henry had stopped. Another, a drawing of a leopard Fitzalan had seen in the Tower of London. There was a list of provisions for the Feast of Fools and the costume Lord Henry designed for the Lord of Misrule. One full page, and Corbett noticed that here the ink was clearer, the writing done in a most clerkly way, told the story of a devout and holy woman called Johanna Capillana. Corbett read this but it was only a list of the woman’s pious deeds, her devotion to the poor, her tending of the sick, her knowledge of herbs.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a saint called Johanna Capillana?’ Corbett asked.

  Ranulf was already lying on the bed, his blanket wrapped round him, his face towards the wall. Corbett smiled and put the book down. He undressed, placed his clothes
over a stool, blew out the candles and stared out of the window. The tavern was now silent. He glanced down at Ranulf. Usually the clerk would be snoring his head off.

  ‘Love is a terrible thing,’ Corbett remarked. ‘A two-edged sword! It turns, it cuts and there is no cure.’

  Ranulf, lying on his bed, just smiled but didn’t answer. He heard his master settle for the night but his mind was back in that moon-washed garden and his heart fair skipped for joy. He had expected Alicia to laugh at him but she had not! She had explained how her own maid was in the room above and would have been very flattered to hear the poem.

  ‘I always go out at night,’ she had said, then pointed into the darkness. ‘There’s a brook. My father and I always visit it when the evenings are warm. I listen to the sounds of the night. I’m glad I went there.’ She drew closer and gripped his wrist. ‘I’m used to lust, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, to bold stares and saucy quips. But a poem! Read quietly in the moonlight! You are indeed a strange one. I had you wrong.’ And, standing on tiptoe, she had kissed him gently on the cheek, plucked the poem from his hand and walked quietly away.

  ‘As you are, so once were we! As we are, so shall ye be.’

  Corbett read the inscriptions around the Doom above the dark wooden church of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees.

  ‘In the end,’ he commented to Ranulf, pushing open the door, ‘all of us will be as God wants us.’

  He paused inside the porch. The little church was built entirely of wood: the builder had ingeniously used a row of oaks as pillars for the roof and on either side of the nave were darkened transepts with small, square windows providing light. The roof itself looked like that of a barn, great timbers running across. The rood screen at the top looked ancient; some of the carvings, St John and other saints clustered around the crucified Christ, were battered and worn. Corbett went through the rood-screen door and into the sanctuary. A man sat there dressed in a Franciscan robe. In the alcove behind was a small, thin mattress, blankets neatly piled on top of the bolster; the remains of a meal on a trauncher lay on the floor.

  ‘Robert Verlian?’ Corbett asked.

  He studied the thin-haired chief verderer. Verlian nodded and got to his feet, wincing at the pain and rubbing his right knee.

  ‘In my flight,’ he explained, ‘I must have injured it.’

  He hobbled forward, hand outstretched. Corbett grasped it. The verderer was of medium height, his face, roughened by the wind and sun, was lined and seamed, the eyes bloodshot with fatigue and worry. He was clean-shaven but had cut himself a number of times.

  ‘I apologise for my appearance,’ he explained. ‘But I am now prisoner of this place, dependent on the generosity of Brother Cosmas.’

  ‘We met your daughter Alicia.’ Ranulf, smiling from ear to ear, stepped forward.

  ‘Yes, I know. You must be Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s emissary, and his clerk Ranulf-atte-Newgate. My daughter visits me but Brother Cosmas urged her not to bring a change of clothing or food and wine.’ He glimpsed the puzzlement in Ranulf’s face.

  ‘The law of sanctuary,’ Corbett explained. ‘If it is to be maintained no one is to bring clothing, food or drink or provide any other sustenance.’

  ‘But you are safe now,’ Ranulf insisted. ‘We hold the King’s writ. There is no proof of murder and you are not guilty of any other crime.’

  Verlian shrugged. ‘I dare not leave this church, not now. Sir William’s hand is turned against me. I’d best stay here until this matter is settled once and for all.’

  ‘I would agree with that.’

  Corbett turned round. Brother Cosmas had come out of the side door leading to the sacristy. He sketched a blessing in their direction.

  ‘I received Sir William’s assurances, but I heard what you said, Robert, and I agree. Stay here until this matter is finished.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Ashdown can be a lonely place.’

  The priest came across the sanctuary, his sandals slapping the floor. He took a tinder and lit the two candles on the altar.

  ‘Robert Verlian is an innocent man. I don’t want some accident happening to him. He’s claimed sanctuary. Let him stay. He’s safer here than elsewhere. Don’t you agree, Robert?’

  The verderer rubbed his chin.

  ‘You have the sanctuary,’ the priest continued reassuringly. ‘And at night you may use my house. What more could you ask?’

  ‘But, if you are innocent,’ Ranulf asked, ‘why not go out and face your accusers?’

  Verlian sat down on a bench and cupped his face in his hands. For a while he just sat then he looked up.

  ‘The morning Lord Henry died I went back to my house to make sure that Alicia was safe. I came back to join the hunt. I saw nothing untoward. However, when I reached Savernake Dell, Lord Henry was dead, an arrow deep in his heart.’

  ‘How did you come?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I was hurrying from my house,’ Verlian explained. ‘Ahead of me I could hear the hunters and their hounds, the crashing of deer as they bolted through the thicket towards the dell.’

  ‘Which side did you approach? The side on which Lord Henry was standing or the other?’

  Verlian closed his eyes. ‘I came from behind,’ he said. ‘Following the same path as the huntsmen.’

  ‘So, you were at the entrance to the dell?’

  ‘Yes, I stopped there. I could see something had happened. Figures clustered around a fallen man. Someone shouted Lord Henry had been killed.’

  ‘But why didn’t you hurry across?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Verlian glanced up, eyes blinking. ‘I really don’t know. I was frightened. One thought occurred to me. Everybody is where they are supposed to be, except me.’

  ‘Sir William wasn’t,’ Corbett said. ‘He had gone into the woods to ease his bowels.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Verlian shook his head. ‘You must remember, Sir Hugh, I was all agitated. I was Lord Henry’s chief verderer. I was also father of the young woman who was the object of his lust and lechery. I am not a man skilled in law. Even as I turned to run, I could think of what my accusers would say. When Lord Henry was killed, Verlian wasn’t where he was supposed to be! Verlian is a master bowman! Verlian knows the forests like the palm of his hand and, above all, Verlian had the motive, good enough reason to slay his lord!’

  Corbett took a stool from just inside the rood screen and sat down next to the verderer.

  ‘Master Verlian, I came here early this morning because I wanted to question you before others arrived who might eavesdrop, take what you say and do mischief with it.’ He saw the wary look in Verlian’s eyes.

  ‘What . . . what do you mean?’ he stammered.

  ‘I can understand your panic and fear.’ Corbett tried to sound reassuring. ‘But there are gaps in your story, aren’t there? You see, Master Robert, I don’t know the times, who was where when the hunt began. Your task was to lead the huntsmen and drive the deer into Savernake Dell, yes?’

  Verlian nodded.

  ‘But you didn’t do that. We know from Alicia that you went home to ensure Lord Henry hadn’t left the hunt and visited her. You left Beauclerc hunting lodge early, went to the stables and ensured the verderers, huntsmen and whippers-in had all the preparations in hand. You probably visited the deer trap in Savernake Dell, built for the quarry to be driven in. After all, Lord Henry would not wish to disappoint his guests. Now we know,’ Corbett continued, ‘the hunt went wrong. You were not present. The huntsmen drove the quarry too fast and, by the time they reached Savernake Dell, two deer were running like the wind! So fast the archers missed them and the deer jumped the fence cunningly built to trap them.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ Verlian nervously touched one of the cuts on his cheek.

  ‘Oh, I’ll come to that in a moment. I believe you are innocent, Master Verlian. What I am trying to say is that you were gone from the hunt far too long. You planned to leave it for a short while th
en come hurrying back. But something delayed you.’ Corbett paused.

  He glanced up at Brother Cosmas standing beside him. The friar was looking sternly at the chief verderer.

  ‘Have you lied to me, Robert?’ he demanded. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me?’

  ‘Tell me.’ Corbett tapped the verderer on the knee. ‘When you fled did you go back home?’

  ‘Well, no I wouldn’t.’ Verlian forced a smile. ‘I . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘You were frightened of Lord Henry’s retainers capturing you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that was it.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Corbett retorted. ‘It would take some time for the news of their lord’s death to reach the manor. You didn’t go back home to Alicia because Alicia wasn’t there, was she?’ Corbett ignored Ranulf’s quick intake of breath. ‘You left the hunting lodge early that morning,’ Corbett continued, ‘and hurried back to your house. You expected to find Alicia there but she wasn’t. You cast about, anxious, wondering where she had gone. After all, that was the day of the hunt. The last place Alicia should be was wandering the forest.

  ‘By the time you returned, the hunters and verderers were too far ahead of you and, because they lacked your skill, your discipline, the deer were driven too fast into Savernake Dell. When you reached the dell you realised something terrible had happened. You knew you could be accused, as indeed, Sir William did, so you fled.’ Corbett paused. ‘Not home, because you knew Alicia wasn’t there and what was the use of putting yourself in danger? So you fled into the forest, didn’t you?’

  ‘You are in God’s house,’ Brother Cosmas’ harsh voice commanded. ‘And in his sanctuary.’ He pointed to the silver pyx. ‘Beneath the appearance of bread, the Lord Jesus dwells among us. I have given you sanctuary, taken you as a guest.’ His voice became softer. ‘Not because of the law of the church, Robert, but because I believe you. Where was Alicia?’