Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (29 page)

Corbett patted her gently on the hands before returning to put the lid on the coffin. He glanced across at Brother Cosmas kneeling at the prie-dieu before the Lady Chapel.

‘Why?’ the Franciscan grated, getting to his feet. ‘Why do such murders occur, Corbett? Why didn’t Christ send one of his angels?’

‘You know the reason,’ Corbett said. He pointed to the wall where an artist had drawn a crude but vivid picture of Satan, depicted as a hare, chasing foxes with human faces. The hare had a demonic mask, its long ears were horns, its eyes fiery red and in its sharp claws it carried a net. ‘Christ called Satan the first killer. We are all assassins, Brother. Here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘In our hearts we wish to kill and destroy. Didn’t you ever want to lift a sword, a club against Lord Henry? God forgive me, Brother, but the Frenchman, Amaury de Craon, I would love to finish matters with him! Pay a reckoning which has increased over the years.’ Corbett walked towards the priest. ‘But I tell you this. I am going to take my net and trap this killer. Our only defence, our only protection against these sons of Cain, who put their murderous lusts into action, is the law.’

‘And the justice of God,’ the Franciscan added.

‘Aye and there’s the mystery. God’s justice depends on us. You should pray, Brother.’

‘I always do.’

‘No, you should pray for Verlian and for yourself.’

Brother Cosmas looked puzzled.

‘I don’t believe the killer intended to slay Verlian,’ Corbett explained. ‘I think he intended to kill you!’

The Franciscan’s fingers went to his lips. ‘
Jesu miserere!
’

‘Think about it, Brother. A knock on the door at night, Verlian answered it . . .’

‘Of course, he was dressed in one of my robes! Alicia told me the cowl was up!’

‘The killer didn’t know Verlian was sheltering in your house, that you had gone to see Odo.’

The Franciscan nodded.

‘The assassin would only have a short while, a few seconds. In the poor light Verlian would look like you. An arrow is loosed and so is the poor man’s soul.’

‘So, who could it be? Who would want me dead?’

‘I don’t know yet, brother, though I have a suspicion. And you know the true irony? I think the assassin, even if you had been killed, would have made a mistake. But now I must go.’

Corbett went through the rood screen and saw that Ranulf was still sitting next to Alicia. The young woman was talking softly, earnestly. When Ranulf looked up, Corbett had never seen him look so stricken, no longer the roaring boy, the street fighter, Jack the lad with his sardonic smile. Ranulf looked younger, like a child who has learned a hideous secret.

‘I’ll be at the tavern,’ Corbett told him. ‘When you are ready, join me.’

Corbett nodded to the priest and walked down the church. He collected his horse, still weary and mud-spattered from their hasty ride from Rye, and slung himself into the saddle. As he was about to spur into a gallop riders broke from the trees. Corbett’s hand went to his sword but he reined in as he glimpsed the Fitzalan livery. Sir William rode up, pushing back the hood of his military cloak.

‘I thought you’d gone to Rye, Corbett?’

‘I did. We left there before dawn.’

Sir William nodded at the church.

‘Another killing, poor Verlian.’

‘Aye, poor Verlian.’

Sir William searched Corbett’s face for sarcasm.

‘He was a good verderer, very skilled in forest law.’

‘He was also a good man and a loving father,’ Corbett said.

‘I know. I know,’ Sir William replied testily. ‘I came here last night to pay my respects.’ He shifted in the saddle. ‘Sir clerk, I admit, we Fitzalans have done great harm to that family. I will ensure Verlian gets proper burial.’

‘And his daughter?’ Corbett asked.

‘Why, sir, hasn’t she told you?’ Sir William didn’t wait for an answer. ‘She has a kinswoman, a prioress at Malmesbury. I have agreed to provide Mistress Alicia with a proper dowry . . .’

‘She’s to enter a convent!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘She will take vows?’

‘She will enter a convent,’ Sir William affirmed, leaning down and patting his horse’s neck. ‘But whether she takes vows is a matter for her. Last night I swore an oath and my word is good. She will receive a dowry and an annual pension.’

He gathered his reins but Corbett held out a restraining hand.

‘Sir William, why did you leave the hunt the morning your brother was killed?’

‘I’ve told you. My belly was weak, my bowels like water.’

‘No, they weren’t,’ Corbett said, pushing his horse alongside. ‘You drank very little wine the night before, even though it was tainted.’

‘How do you . . . !’

‘Never mind! Why did you leave the hunt and go into the trees? Was it to be away from the marksman? The assassin hiding on the other side of the forest dell?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Don’t threaten me, my lord! Tell me this. You Fitzalans are hunters, aren’t you? You were all born to the chase?’

Fitzalan’s anger was replaced by puzzlement.

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘Never mind. Now, if Lord Henry, who drank the tainted wine, could recover, why not his brother?’

‘I’ll tell you, Corbett. On the morning of the hunt there was nothing wrong with my belly or my bowels. But, as I waited in Savernake Dell, my brother threatened me over my help for Gaveston. You didn’t really know the Lord Henry, did you? He was a man who drank deep of power, particularly over other people. If he had the knife in you, he’d turn it until you screamed.’

‘Like he did with the King of France?’

Sir William looked shocked. ‘What? What?’ he stammered.

‘Just tell that to Amaury de Craon,’ Corbett murmured. ‘But you were talking about your brother?’

‘Once I realised he knew about Gaveston,’ Sir William’s shoulders sagged, ‘I knew I would never hear the end of it. Not as long as he lived. I went away, frightened and humiliated, to be sick. I puked like some little boy. I couldn’t stop trembling. Can you imagine it, Corbett, living at the beck and call of someone like Henry?’

‘Is that why Lady Madeleine became a nun?’

‘I confess this, Corbett and, if you ever repeat it, I’ll drive my gauntlet into your face. Madeleine hates men and can you blame her? Years ago, every time Henry had the opportunity, he had his hands up her skirts as if she were some tavern wench.’

Corbett drew back his horse, shocked at what Sir William had told him.

‘So, I bid you adieu, clerk.’

Sir William was about to ride on but Corbett caught the reins. Sir William’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword.

‘Hush, my lord,’ Corbett said. ‘Just remember to tell Seigneur de Craon exactly what I said to you about Henry and his master!’

‘He’ll be gone soon, thank God! He’s away to Eltham for an audience with the King.’

‘And Gaveston?’

‘Why, clerk, I am now a manor lord. The King’s most faithful subject. Gaveston is well beyond the seas.’

Sir William rode on into the small yard in front of the church, his horsemen clustered about him. Deep in thought about what Sir William had said, Corbett dug his spurs in.

Once he had reached the tavern, Corbett went up to his own chamber where he cleared the small table, took out a piece of parchment, quills and pumice stone and wrote down everything he had learned. A scullion brought up a trauncher of food and some ale. Corbett absentmindedly thanked him and went back to his writing.

He listed the names of the victims who had been killed in the forest, all slain by an arrow, then looked up and tapped his quill against his cheek. Somewhere on the edge of the forest a wood pigeon cooed rhythmically time and again. Corbett felt a twinge of pain in his neck and nursed the scar left by the assassin in Oxford. And the secret? Fitzalan’s blackmailing of the French king. Where was the proof? Sir William didn’t know anything about it. Was de Craon involved? He wrote down ‘Pancius Cantrone the Italian physician’, then laughed softly.

Of course there were no hidden manuscripts! Cantrone was the proof! He had been physician to the royal court in France: that’s how the pact was to be sealed! Philip would be only too pleased and pay heavily to have his hands on such a man. Once Cantrone was gone, Lord Henry Fitzalan could say nothing. True, Corbett reflected, Lord Henry might have left some cryptic message with his brother but, ‘Oh, the beauty of it all!’ he murmured. Of course, Philip would have Cantrone but Lord Henry would have gold bullion despatched by Philip’s bankers. The French king would effectively silence Fitzalan: how could an English lord explain to his King how he became so rich at the hands of the French? He might even be accused of treason! It was like a game of chess. Philip and Lord Henry would have checkmated each other.

Corbett heard a sound on the stairs and Ranulf slipped into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, a woebegone expression on his face.

‘I talked to Alicia.’

‘Does she love you?’ Corbett asked. ‘I am sorry to be so abrupt but that’s what it’s all about. Not power, money or influence. Does she love you? For, as the poet says, “What is love if it is not returned?”’

Ranulf put his face in his hands. ‘She doesn’t know,’ he muttered. ‘She cannot say, she will not tell.’ He stamped one foot. ‘But she’s intent on entering a nunnery, a house near Malmesbury, and her mind will not be changed. I asked her why. She said she wants peace, a time to think and reflect.’ He raised tear-filled eyes. ‘But I know, once she enters, she’ll never come out. And when she’s gone I’ve lost her for ever. I didn’t think it would be like this, master. Kiss them and tease them! But this emptiness.’ He got up and walked to the door. ‘I’ll be across the trackway.’ Ranulf didn’t turn his face. ‘You are close to the killer, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘I can see that in your eyes.’

‘Yes, I’m close.’

‘You have the evidence?’

‘No, Ranulf, I don’t. This is going to be a mixture of logic and trickery. I want to go through Fitzalan’s Book of Hours again.’ He paused. ‘Ranulf, where I take you and Baldock, I want your word, no violence.’

‘You have my word, master. No violence.’

Ranulf closed the door. Corbett sighed and turned to his parchment. Again he listed all the victims. All the items he had learned. ‘What is common to all of these?’ he asked himself. ‘What is the single factor which answers each question?’

Corbett scribbled down a name and then, putting the quill down, recalled all that had happened, putting himself into the mind of the assassin, watching that dark shape slip through the trees meting out death without pity or remorse. Killing and killing again for what? Corbett got up and fastened on his war belt.

‘It’s best done now,’ he said out loud to the empty room. ‘If de Craon is returning to Eltham, I must be there when he meets the King!’

Corbett took his cloak, went down the stairs and out into the stable yard shouting for Baldock. They led out Ranulf’s horse and found him sitting on a fallen log across the trackway.

‘It’s time, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, it’s time.’

On reaching St Hawisia’s priory, Corbett was in no mood for the moans and barbed comments of Sister Veronica.

‘I wish to see the lady prioress!’ he demanded. He thrust the King’s commission into her face. ‘And I wish to see her now, alone in the priory church! She’ll know where to meet me.’

The little nun scuttled off, now quite frightened by this grim-faced clerk and his attendants. Corbett walked up the path, through the rose garden and in by a side door. The church was quiet, calm; the air still rich with the smell of incense and beeswax candles after the midday service.

‘Ranulf! Baldock! Stay at the back!’ He grasped Ranulf’s arm. ‘Promise me! You will do nothing!’

When Corbett plucked both Ranulf’s sword and dagger from their sheaths Ranulf didn’t demur and Corbett walked up into the side chapel. He placed both sword and dagger on the great oaken sarcophagus and stared through the tinted, silver-rimmed glass at the beautiful golden hair which lay coiled on its silken couch.

‘Blasphemy and sacrilege!’ he whispered.

The far door opened but Corbett didn’t look up until Lady Madeleine stopped at the tomb before him.

‘You’ve come to venerate our relic, Sir Hugh?’ Her voice was soft.

Corbett glanced up. ‘Why should I do that, Lady Madeleine? Why should I venerate the hair of a whore from the town of Rye?’

Lady Madeleine gripped the tomb more tightly and swayed slightly. Corbett grasped her elbow and took her over to the small stone plinth which ran along the wall.

‘Why do you say that, Sir Hugh?’ Lady Madeleine’s face had paled, her eyes were watchful. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘Lady Madeleine Fitzalan,’ Corbett replied. ‘Daughter of a noble family, half-sister to Lord Henry and Sir William. A woman who was raised in the noble tradition, an accomplished horse-rider, huntress and archer. In your golden days, before life turned sour, you played in Ashdown Forest. You and your brothers came to know these woods better than any of the forest people, particularly Savernake Dell and the hollow oaks.’

Lady Madeleine had her head down, hands resting in her lap.

‘But life changes,’ Corbett continued. ‘As the heart grows older it comes on colder sights. The harshness of age begins to freeze the joy of youth. You grew to hate your brother Henry. And why not? Perhaps you had good cause. A lord who feared neither God nor man. However, the Fitzalans used their influence to make you prioress at St Hawisia’s: this became your castle, your fortress against the world of men. A community of women, devoted to the memory of a woman who had been killed by her own family.’ Corbett paused.

‘Are you going to say I killed my brother?’ Lady Madeleine asked coolly. She lifted her face. Corbett could see she had regained her wits.