Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (26 page)

‘What makes you think she came from Rye?’

‘A good question, taverner: it’s a guess on my part. I believe this mysterious woman had business with Ashdown Manor. There is a strong link between the Fitzalans and the town of Rye so I suspect she came from there.’

The taverner coughed nervously.

‘I wouldn’t lie,’ Ranulf advised him. ‘My master gets into a fair rage with liars. Especially those who waste the time of royal clerks!’

‘It’s true what you say,’ the taverner stammered. ‘A stranger came here. He talked, well, as if he was foreign but he said he was from Rye. He arrived late in the afternoon. He ate and drank in the taproom, hired a chamber and then he left early the following morning, taking his saddlebags with him.’

‘Saddlebags?’ Corbett queried.

‘Small panniers which he slung over his shoulder,’ the taverner explained. ‘In the taproom he acted strangely, keeping the cowl over his head. He didn’t say much, really no more than a whisper. You know how it is, sir, there’s interest in strangers but this one wouldn’t be drawn. He had some chicken pie, a tankard of ale and kept to himself.’

‘Why did he leave his horse?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, sir. But he must have been travelling somewhere nearby, the manor, the church, the priory or some place in the woods.’ The taverner smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘Ah, that’s it, sir! On the morning he left, he was most interested in what hour it was. He ate and drank slowly. Now and again he’d get up and examine the hour candles on either side of the fireplace.’

‘And what time did he leave?’ Corbett asked.

‘I think it must have been an hour before midday. I thought he would return. After all, he’d left his horse, a saddle, some harness though nothing else.’

‘He didn’t rent a chamber for a second night?’

‘No sir, but he said, just before he left, that he might need one that evening but he would settle with me on his return.’

‘And you weren’t curious when he didn’t?’

‘Master clerk, I run a tavern. I do not ask people to come and go. Yes, I kept the horse and harness. I fed that stranger’s mount for a full week then I sold it to a chapman.’

‘And you never thought of alerting Lord Henry or anyone else?’

The taverner just shook his head.

‘I’ll tell you what happened, sir,’ Corbett began. ‘The young man who came here was really a woman in disguise, probably French. She travelled up from Rye for a meeting here in Ashdown. Some time around the hour of eleven, on the day following her arrival, she walked down the trackway leading to Ashdown Manor only to be killed by an arrow to the throat.’

‘And that was the corpse left at St Hawisia’s?’

‘Yes sir, it was.’

The taverner spread his hands beseechingly.

‘Sir Hugh, I didn’t know. Customers often leave . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve looked after us well, while the stranger did owe you money for the stabling. You could have been more helpful when I first asked though you can make up for that now. Is there anything else you wish to tell me? Such co-operation will not be forgotten.’

The taverner put his face in his hands.

‘Ashdown,’ he mumbled.

‘What was that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I asked the stranger if he, or she, knew anybody in the area. “Lord Henry” was the reply and that was it. The stranger smiled. I think it was said to impress me or to lull suspicion.’

‘And Lord Henry never came and made enquiries about this mysterious stranger?’

‘Nobody did. I did not know what to do, sir. A stranger comes to my tavern then disappears. What happened if the finger of accusation was pointed at me? True, I sold the horse and harness but what could I do?’

‘Never mind.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘Let him go. Keep the silver I have given you, sir. Buy yourself a tankard of ale.’

After the taverner had left Corbett lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

‘This is a tangled mess, Ranulf. The day is drawing on but I think we should visit Sir William again.’ He felt his body jerk as he relaxed. ‘Do what you want,’ he murmured. ‘But don’t travel far from the tavern.’ He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘I mean that, Ranulf, the assassin can hunt you as well as he can me.’

Corbett lay back down on the bed, his mind drifting back to that murderous assault in the forest. Who could it be? But, there again, as the taverner had said: everyone now knew of him, who he was and where he went. Ruefully, he reflected that the forest trackways of Ashdown were more dangerous than any alleyway or runnel in London. Yet again he tried to separate the threads one from another. Lord Henry was definitely going to betray Cantrone, hand him back to the French, make a settlement once and for all over the secret he held. But what was that secret? And this mysterious stranger? Why did she travel in disguise? Who was she going out to meet? What was she carrying? And those small hair bands? Why should a woman, whose hair was cropped closer than his own, carry them? Or did they belong to the murderer? Or were they just two items totally unrelated to the matter under investigation?

Corbett sighed and rolled over on his side. Tomorrow he would travel to Rye. He would ask the town council if any whore or brothel-keeper had disappeared. But what would that prove?

Corbett’s gaze drifted to the small grille built into the wall to allow air to circulate into the room. Through the grille he could see parts of a tree trunk and, as he moved his head, what he saw was changed, disjointed by the grille. It reminded him of that picture . . . Corbett swung himself off the bed so quickly, Ranulf, penning another poem to Alicia, started and cursed.

‘For the love of God, master! I thought you were asleep.’

He watched curiously. Corbett went over to his writing bag, muttering to himself. He took out the Book of Hours given to him by Sir William and opened it at the small parchment picture of Susannah facing her accusers where the eyes of each figure had been cut out. Corbett placed this on the pages at the back of the Book of Hours where Lord Henry had written his own personal memoranda.

‘What are you doing, master?’

‘I knew I had seen this before, Ranulf! What you do is write out something innocent like a letter with vague sentiments or items of gossip. However, if you impose a picture like this, on top of the writing, it picks out a secret message. The problem is, which way up do you place it? And which of these entries contains the cipher?’

Ranulf leaned over Corbett’s shoulder and watched as the clerk applied the picture to each page.

‘No, no, that means nothing.’

Corbett tried again.

‘And the same that way. All we have is a jumble of words which mean nothing.’

‘Are you sure, master?’

Corbett pointed over his shoulder at the grille in the wall.

‘I was lying there, looking through that grille. I was half-dozing when I noticed how the small iron bars twist what you see.’

‘But are you sure Lord Henry would use such a cipher?’

‘It’s possible. It certainly explains why we have a small picture, a scene from the Old Testament, where Lord Henry has carefully removed the eyes of each figure.’

Corbett continued to leaf over the pages, Ranulf went back to his poem. The poetry of the French troubadours had greatly impressed him and now he tried to recall certain lines so he could use them to describe Alicia’s beautiful blue eyes, the line of her face. Across the room Corbett was still muttering to himself.

The afternoon wore on. Corbett asked for candles and rush-lights to be lit. Now and again he would get up and stretch to ease the cramp. Ranulf thought of Alicia. If only Old Master Long Face would go to sleep, Ranulf could slip out. He wasn’t frightened of the forest while a meeting with his loved one removed any fear of attack.

Corbett, however, was now deeply immersed in his studies. When Ranulf had finished his poem he hid it in a small pocket of his doublet. He went down to the stables but Baldock was fast asleep on a bale of straw and Ranulf didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead he walked into the yard and scanned the sky. The sun was now setting, the tavern was quiet and the forest across the pathway seemed more dangerous, more threatening as the shadows lengthened. He heard his master call his name and went back, running up the stairs. Corbett was sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear.

‘I’ve found the secret!’ He held up the Book of Hours. ‘You remember that story about a saint Johanna Capillana?’

‘Yes, the one Lord Henry described in the back of his Book of Hours.’

‘I wager, Ranulf, a firkin of ale against a tun of wine, that there is no saint called Johanna Capillana.’ He opened the Book of Hours and placed the picture against the text.

‘Let me explain, Ranulf.
Capillana
is vulgar Latin for the head, it also stands for Capet.’

‘The name of the French royal family!’

Corbett tapped a page excitedly. ‘Two years ago Philip’s wife, Johanna of Navarre, died rather suddenly. People thought it was a fever but, if you use Lord Henry’s cipher, the story of Johanna Capillana becomes the story of Johanna Capet, Queen of France.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘A piece of parchment and a pen!’

Corbett opened the Book of Hours. ‘Now, write down the following: “
Johanna Capillana, regina occisa, mari, rex interfecit eam, non per gladum, sed vitrio secreto infuso, teste medico suo
.”

‘You have that?’

Ranulf nodded.

‘It’s doggerel Latin,’ Corbett explained. ‘Each of these words are framed by a gap in the picture of Susannah and translated . . .’

Ranulf whistled under his breath.

‘Johanna Capet,’ he said slowly. ‘The Queen was slain by her husband. The King killed her, not by the sword but by a secret infusion of poison. This was witnessed or known by her doctor.’ Ranulf shook his head. ‘Master, it can’t be?’

‘Clerk of the Green Wax, it can be! If I remember rightly, Gilles Malvoisin was physician to Queen Johanna. I met him on two occasions, a pompous man but a skilled practitioner.’

‘But why should Philip kill his own wife?’

‘I don’t know. But he has a lawyer, a member of his secret council called Pierre Dubois, who has written a confidential memorandum in which he urges Philip to extend his power in Europe, not through war but by marriage.’

‘Such as his own daughter Isabella to the Prince of Wales?’

‘Precisely. Philip has three sons betrothed to different princesses whose marriage portions and dowries will strengthen the power of the Capets and extend the borders of France.’

‘Flanders!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘The Count of Flanders has a daughter.’

Corbett tossed the Book of Hours back on the bed.

‘Ranulf, your wits are not as lovelorn as I think. Two years ago Philip invaded Flanders only to be disastrously defeated at Coutrai. It’s possible that our Spider King has designs on a Flemish princess though Edward of England would never allow such a marriage.’

‘So what else?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Philip also has designs on the Templar Order. He has, ever since he came to the throne. You’ve met the Templars, Ranulf: a powerful order of fighting monks. More importantly, the Templars are bankers with houses throughout Europe. Their wealth in France alone totals more than all the receipts of the royal exchequer. Now, a few months ago, there were rumours that Philip himself had applied, as a bachelor, to join the Templar Order.’ He glimpsed the puzzlement in Ranulf’s eyes. ‘Can’t you see the path he’s treading? Philip becomes a Templar, a fighting monk, dedicated to chastity. It harks back to his saintly ancestor Louis. How Europe would marvel at Philip Capet, king, Christian, warrior and monk. Yet that would only be the beginning of it. If the Templars accepted Philip, I would wager a gold crown that, within two years, he would be Grand Master of the Order.’

Corbett sat back on the bed.

‘Can’t you imagine it, Ranulf? Philip would not only be King of France but master of an order which spans Europe, from the cold wastes of Norway to the oases of North Africa. From Spain across the Middle Sea to Greece and Syria. He’d have access to their wealth, their power, their knowledge. Philip had everything to gain and nothing to lose by the removal of a wife who had served her days and purpose.’

‘And her murder is the secret Lord Henry knew?’

‘Yes, Ranulf. Pancius Cantrone was once an associate of Malvoisin the royal physician. Malvoisin died in a boating accident. He was probably murdered because of what he knew. Cantrone fled. Lord Henry provided protection, Cantrone revealed his secret and our sly lord hinted to Philip of France what he knew.’

‘In other words Lord Henry was blackmailing him?’

‘Yes he was: a few gifts, trinkets, but eventually Lord Henry demanded payment in full.’

‘That’s why Philip of France asked for him to lead the English embassy to France?’

‘Of course. Lord Henry would go there for the betrothal negotiations. He would receive some lavish reward in return for which he would give up his secret.’

‘And poor Pancius Cantrone?’

‘Cantrone was to be drugged, bundled aboard a ship and handed over to French officials. Our King could not object. Cantrone was not one of his subjects. Lord Henry would have some suitable story prepared to account for his actions. Amaury de Craon was sent to England, not only to conclude these marriage negotiations but to bring Lord Henry back and ensure he fulfilled his bargain.’

‘And what sort of reward would Lord Henry be looking for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘Possibly bullion. Whatever, Lord Henry would become one of the richest men in the kingdom. Philip would have silenced Cantrone and the murder of his wife would remain his secret, allowing him to pursue his nefarious designs.’

Ranulf pulled his stool closer. ‘But that’s dangerous, master.’