by Paul Doherty
‘You’ve been to the priory?’ Corbett broke in.
‘Just once to ask for help. I swore never again.’
‘What help?’
‘Clothing and food for my daughter.’
‘Lady Madeleine,’ Cosmas said quietly, ‘is not known for her charity.’
‘And eventually you settled in Ashdown?’ Corbett asked.
‘I brought the child with me. At first, Lord Henry wouldn’t believe me but I took a great oath. Blanche.’ She stroked her daughter’s silvery-white hair.
Corbett looked pityingly at the child: the vacant eyes, the drooling mouth, the look of a frightened rabbit as she crouched next to her mother.
‘Blanche was born witless. God’s judgement against me. But, Lord Henry studied her; he believed me. He provided a cottage and a small pension.’
‘And he came to visit you?’
‘Sometimes.’ Jocasta’s gaze shifted. ‘Lord Henry was a man of fleshly desires. He did not lie with me but, how can I put it, clerk?’ She lifted her hands. ‘Sometimes I acted the whore for him.’
‘Did you hate him?’
Jocasta glanced behind Corbett, studying the crude, wooden cross on the altar. Her gaze moved to where Verlian and his daughter still sat, heads together, at the far side of the sanctuary.
‘Did you hate Lord Henry?’ Corbett repeated.
‘I felt nothing for him, clerk. Nothing but a terrible coldness. Age had not bettered him. A ruthless man, deeply in love with himself. There was no room in his heart or soul for anyone else, be it brother, sister, former lover or misbegotten bastard daughter.’ She put an arm round Blanche’s shoulders. ‘Never once did he touch his own flesh like a father would. Oh, I heard what they said about the Fitzalans, they come from the devil and to the devil they can go!’
‘Did you send him there?’ Ranulf asked.
Jocasta studied him intently. ‘Now, there’s a bold-eyed bully-boy,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Are you Corbett’s sword?’
‘I am a clerk like him.’
‘And an ambitious one too,’ Jocasta noted. ‘I did not kill Lord Henry.’
‘How did you learn of his death?’ Ranulf asked.
‘The same gossips, who say I am a witch, chatter constantly. I met a packman coming from the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern. He had hurt his shin and came for a poultice. It must have been a few hours after Lord Henry’s corpse had been removed from Savernake Dell.’
‘Do you have a bow and arrow, mistress?’
‘Why, yes I do. An old one and two quivers full of shafts, a gift from Lord Henry. Yes, clerk, I can use them with good effect. I have hunted when Lord Henry permitted it. Moreover, not everyone who passes through Ashdown is a courtly clerk or charming courtier.’
‘Do you have a horse?’ Ranulf asked.
‘No, I do not.’
‘And you know most people in the forest?’ Corbett insisted.
‘I know them and they know me. Verlian the verderer who now shelters here. He fled to my house. I told him to come here. Brother Cosmas, however, is the only man in the forest who would stand up to the power of the Fitzalans.’
‘Have you ever seen the Owlman?’ Corbett asked. ‘This outlaw who wages such a strange war upon the Fitzalans?’
‘I think so, once.’
‘You’ve actually seen him?’
‘I think so.’ Her gaze shifted to Brother Cosmas. ‘His face was masked, a sheet of leather with gaps cut for the eyes and mouth.’
‘Was he on horseback?’ Corbett asked.
Jocasta shook her head. ‘He wore a grey cloak, fastened at the back. I remember the texture was stained and dirty, but it looked of good quality. I was near Ferndown Brook. It’s a small rivulet, deep in the forest. I was collecting herbs. Blanche was sitting on a tree trunk some yards behind. I was by the brook, washing the plants I’d dug up, when suddenly this figure came out of the undergrowth and crouched by the brook. He was singing to himself, filling the waterskin he carried. I froze. He didn’t know I was there and then Blanche called out. He glanced up and left as quietly as he came.’
‘And he never saw you?’
Jocasta shook her head and demonstrated with her hand.
‘He was here on one side of the brook, I was crouching down on the other side beside some bushes. He wouldn’t have seen me.’ She plucked at her own threadbare green cloak. ‘In a way I was like some animal in the forest: I wore no bright clothes.’
‘What makes you think he was the Owlman?’
She laughed. ‘I’ve told you, clerk. Everyone in Ashdown knows everybody else. The other outlaws? Well, they blunder about dressed in rags. He was different. He moved with a purpose.’
‘Describe him,’ Corbett demanded.
‘I’ve told you. A deerskin mask, a hood, a grey cloak. I glimpsed a quiver of arrows and a long yew bow slung across his back.’
‘Was he old or young?’
‘Sir, I’m no witch.’
Corbett smiled. ‘But if you were on oath?’
‘I would say he was about your age. He moved with ease, quietly.’
‘What was he humming?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir, I’m no witch nor am I skilled in music but it was no tavern tune. More a hymn you’d sing in church. I wouldn’t swear to it but some of the words were Latin.’
‘A dangerous thing to do,’ Ranulf said.
‘He thought he was alone,’ Jocasta reminded him. ‘Ferndown Brook is well off the beaten track. It was late in the afternoon. I wager he thought he was safe.’
‘And the morning Lord Henry died?’ Corbett asked. ‘Did you see anything in the forest? Anything untoward?’
Jocasta shook her head. ‘I knew, when I was brought here by Sir William’s soldiers, that I would have to answer questions. I am not on oath, clerk, but you can put me on it. I have told you what I know. There is nothing else to say but I tell you this.’ She rose to her feet. ‘You are sharp-eyed, keen-witted men. You’ll dig deep in Ashdown’s dirt. Remember this: whoever killed Lord Henry knew these forests well. Someone who knows its secret ways and hidden paths.’
‘And have you any suspicions?’ Corbett asked.
‘I am unlettered, clerk, but, at the end of the day, who profited most from Lord Henry’s death? Are you finished?’
Corbett opened his purse and brought out two silver coins. Jocasta looked as if she was about to refuse.
‘I take no favours, clerk.’
Corbett got to his feet. He took off his tunic, and undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing the dark purple scar high on his chest where the crossbow bolt had struck. Jocasta came and peered closely, her fingers pressing the healed scar.
‘The skin is clean,’ she said. ‘But does it hurt?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘An arrow wound.’
Corbett looked into her beautiful eyes, dark with a quiet sense of humour. She smelt fragrantly of lavender and something sharper but not unpleasant. She pressed the scar with her fingers again. Corbett winced.
‘You will feel sore,’ Jocasta declared. ‘This part of your body,’ she tapped his chest, ‘is protected by muscle and bone. The wound to the flesh soon heals, but the bone beneath . . .’ She stepped back and took the silver coins from Corbett’s outstretched hand. ‘They will take months to heal properly. Even then, clerk, till the day you die, there’ll be twinges, small stabs of pain; these, like the other blows of life, you will have to accept.’
Corbett smiled his thanks, buttoned up his shirt and put his tunic back on.
‘Master,’ Ranulf said as Jocasta led Blanche back down towards the door of the church. ‘There are as good physicians in Sussex as there are in London.’
Corbett fastened the top button of his shirt.
‘It wasn’t my wound,’ he replied. ‘It was the final proof.’
‘Of what?’ Brother Cosmas asked.
‘That she speaks the truth. The best physicians in London have examined my wounds. Isn’t it strange, Bro
ther, she said no differently to them? Now, she could have flattered, or offered some ointment or potion, but she told the truth. I suspect the same applies to everything she has told us.’ He picked up the quill Ranulf had discarded. ‘What she said will have to be sifted,’ he added. ‘Then I will reflect on her words.’
‘She accused Sir William!’ Brother Cosmas added eagerly. ‘Or in so many words.’
‘I’m not sure. But I was interested in her description of the Owlman. Well, let’s see this hermit!’
Ranulf got up from his bench and was halfway down the nave when the door was flung open and Sir William strode in.
‘Sir Hugh Corbett!’ he called out. ‘Come, man! And you, Brother!’
Corbett and Brother Cosmas hurried down the nave. Outside, the small churchyard was full of armed men. Jocasta and Blanche had stopped at the lych-gate and were looking back. Corbett glanced at the waiting soldiers, a ragged, dirty-faced figure, who must be the hermit, between them, but his attention was caught by the corpse which had been laid out on the ground, a threadbare cloak thrown over it. It had been unslung from a sumpter pony whose saddle was covered in slime and mud. Sir William pushed his way through his men, crouched by the body and pulled back the cloak.
‘Pancius Cantrone,’ he explained. ‘Former physician to my brother.’
The cadaver was covered from head to toe in a muddy slime which only worsened the terrible rictus of death, the half-open mouth stained with mud and blood. The eyes stared, the sallow skin was damp and criss-crossed with streaks of dirt; the hair was soaking wet and in the neck gaped a ragged hole full of congealing blood.
‘An arrow wound,’ Ranulf said. He took his dagger out and scraped away the mud.
‘Where was he found?’ Corbett asked.
‘On the edge of a marsh, deep in the forest.’
‘And the arrow?’
‘Plucked out.’
‘By the killer?’
‘It must have been,’ Sir William replied. ‘My huntsman only found it because the body had resurfaced, one boot sticking out of the water.’
Corbett turned the corpse over. Cantrone was still wearing his cloak, his dagger was still in its sheath, but the large wallet and small purse which hung from the belt were unbuckled and empty.
‘And his horse?’
Sir William, crouching on the other side of the corpse, pulled a face.
‘He was riding when he left St Hawisia’s but, of that, there’s no trace.’
‘I suspect the horse was unsaddled,’ Corbett said.
‘The harness was thrown into a marsh and the horse left to graze. It wouldn’t take long for such a valuable animal to be found and hidden away.’
‘It’s the same as the corpse we saw at St Hawisia’s,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘An arrow wound to the throat. His purse and wallet have been rifled.’
‘Amaury de Craon will be pleased,’ Corbett observed, wiping his hands and getting to his feet. ‘Sir William, the good physician, he was your house guest. You will see to honourable burial?’
Sir William nodded.
‘But who can this killer be, Sir Hugh?’
‘I don’t know. This mystery, Sir William, is becoming untangled. However, I have yet to pull a loose thread free. I would be grateful, sir, if you could keep your men out of the church.’ He glanced across to where Jocasta and Blanche were now walking away. ‘Did you know that the poor girl is your brother’s child?’ He glimpsed the astonishment in Sir William’s eyes. ‘We are all sinners, Sir William. As a kindness, I beg you, take good care of them.’
And Corbett walked back into the church, gesturing at Ranulf to bring the hermit in with him.
Chapter 11
Corbett settled himself on the bench and looked quickly at the memorandum Ranulf had been writing. Sometimes he found it unnerving, how his companion’s style of writing so closely imitated his own. He idly wondered what dangers this might pose for the future.
Brother Cosmas, who had stayed to bless the corpse, came striding up the church. Corbett noted wryly how agitated the Franciscan had become. He went into the sanctuary and relayed what had happened to Verlian, who still sat with his daughter Alicia.
‘My father wasn’t there when he died,’ Alicia declared in a loud voice.
Corbett turned on the bench. ‘Hush now, mistress!’ he said soothingly. ‘There is no evidence against your father.’
The church door opened and closed. Ranulf walked up the aisle, the hermit Odo striding purposefully beside him. Odo sat on a bench before the table. A youngish man, his hair, black as a crow’s feather, tumbled down to his shoulders. The ragged beard and moustache were slightly streaked with grey. He had large eyes, a hooked nose; his face was sallow and lined. Corbett studied the eyes: worried, anxious? He looked at the man’s hands wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. The bare feet in the rather tattered sandals were dirty and chapped. His robe had once been bottle-green but now it was cut and sweat-stained. A piece of hempen cord bound his waist.
‘You know why you are here?’ Corbett began.
He was aware of Brother Cosmas coming back and sitting on the stool. Ranulf had eased himself down, taken a new quill and was busy writing the hermit’s name.
‘Master Ranulf has told me who you are,’ the hermit replied. His voice was soft and cultured, in stark contrast to his rough appearance. ‘He has also told me why you are here. But he gave no reason why you should question me.’
‘We are not questioning you. Rather asking what you know, if anything, about the circumstances leading to Fitzalan’s murder.’
‘I am the hermit. I live out at Dragon’s Mouth cave. I spend my life in prayer and penance. For your sins and mine.’
‘Thank you,’ Corbett said. He spread his hands on the table. ‘I know my sins, Master Odo. What are yours?’
The hermit stared back in surprise.
‘You are not a man of the church,’ Corbett continued. ‘You are not protected by its laws. I can ask for your assistance and you must give it. You, by your own confession, live in the forest of Ashdown. You must see, hear things that may be of interest.’
‘I was at prayer when Lord Henry was killed. I rarely leave my cave.’ He held up his bandaged hands. ‘I was born with a rottenness of the skin. I cannot use my hands for work so I pray for God’s faithful.’
‘And how do you eat?’ Corbett asked curiously.
‘The goodness and generosity of the forest people is well known.’
‘They bring you food and drink?’
‘I would like to say that, like the prophet Elijah, I am fed by the ravens. But men like Verlian and Brother Cosmas,’ he looked quickly at the Franciscan, ‘are kind and generous.’
‘Do you know anyone called the Owlman?’ Corbett asked.
‘I do not. I have neither seen nor heard anything which could be of help, master clerk. I beg you to let me go. I will remember you in my prayers.’
‘Not so. Not so.’ Corbett beat on the table-top. ‘Shall I tell you what you are, sir? You are a liar. You are no more a hermit than I am.’
‘How can you say that?’ Brother Cosmas broke in. ‘Odo has been . . .’
‘Yes, when did you arrive in Ashdown?’ Corbett asked.
‘Early spring of this year.’ The hermit was now agitated.
‘It may cross your mind to get up and flee. I would advise against that. If you have done nothing wrong you have nothing to fear.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Here you are,’ Corbett pointed out. ‘A self-confessed hermit. A stranger in these parts. Why come to Ashdown? It’s not a place of sanctity or holiness. St Hawisia’s Priory is not the sort which attracts men dedicated to the service of God.’
‘I have nothing to do with that place.’
‘No, no, you haven’t. But I wager you have a great deal to do with Brother Cosmas.’
‘This is nonsense!’ The Franciscan sprang to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, this is God’s house and my church!’ He went and pat
ted the hermit gently on the shoulder.
‘Would you mind taking the bandages off Odo’s hands?’ asked Corbett.
Brother Cosmas looked as if he was about to refuse so Ranulf went and stood over the hermit with his dagger drawn. He was surprised as anyone at what his master had said, but if the King’s commissioner wished these bandages to be removed, then Ranulf would see it was done.
Odo sighed. He undid the bandages and dropped them slowly on the floor. Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger and took the man’s hands in his.
‘The skin is white and soft, isn’t it?’ Corbett asked.
‘Unmarked, cleaner than the bandages themselves.’ Ranulf gripped both hands and squeezed tightly. The hermit winced in pain.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘He is the Owlman,’ Corbett declared. ‘Release him, Ranulf.’
Ranulf returned to his writing. The hermit now had his hands in his lap, head down. Brother Cosmas was staring at a point above Corbett’s head, lips moving quietly.
‘Don’t be so nervous, Odo. It’s no crime to wear bloodstained bandages on your hand. And, apart from a few arrows and cryptic messages despatched to me, Lord Henry and, last night, through a window at Ashdown Manor, you’ve committed no real crime. Well, the evidence so far shows. Shall I tell you how I know?’ He paused.
Alicia Verlian had come up beside them, engrossed as the drama unfolded.
‘The great Aquinas, echoing the words of Abelard, said a logical conclusion can be reached by two methods.’ Corbett paused. ‘The first is by evidence, and I have some of that already; the second is by logic. Let me explain.
‘First, the Owlman is a recent arrival in Ashdown Forest, as you are. Secondly, the Owlman must be someone who can move around with impunity. Ergo, he must be someone who lives in the forest and is acquainted with its paths. More importantly, he must be able to travel around undetected, not only because he’s disguised, but also because of the help and succour another provides. You are that person, while your friend and helper is Brother Cosmas of the Church of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Thirdly, the Owlman is not a common outlaw, or even a poacher. He has the opportunity to slay Lord Henry, or at least wreak considerable damage, but he does not. He simply tells him to remember the “Rose of Rye”. Fourthly, the chain linking Lord Henry to the Owlman is centred on that tavern. As far as I know, such a connection cannot be placed at the door of anyone I have met in Ashdown. There was one exception, Mistress Jocasta, but she has purged herself. Her relationship with Lord Henry was honestly explained.’
