Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (6 page)

Ranulf peered up at the sky.

‘Not yet nine.’

‘Pack our belongings. Our two horses, the sumpter pony and make sure you bring my saddlebags.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ll walk round the palace,’ Corbett said. ‘When you’re finished, join me at the main gate. We are going to cross the moat and walk down towards the village, to a tavern, the Tree of Jesse. Its landlord rents out a chamber called the Star of Bethlehem, supposedly painted by some pilgrim who visited the Holy Land.’

‘For the love of God, master, what are you chattering about?’

‘Me?’ Corbett smiled. ‘With my nun’s face and holier-than-thou looks?’

Ranulf sighed. He stared across at a page dragging a heavy war saddle from one of the destriers.

‘I miss Maltote, master, not just because he looked after the horses.’

Corbett followed Ranulf’s gaze, watching the page stumble away, the heavy harness over his shoulder. Maltote had been their horse squire, a clumsy young man with a gift for horses. He had been murdered in a filthy alleyway in Oxford and his body now lay under the flagstones of the manor chapel at Leighton.

‘I really miss him,’ Ranulf said again. ‘I am glad I killed his murderer. I hope his soul rots in hell!’

He strode away, as he always did, to hide the tears.

Corbett wandered round the palace greeting acquaintances, being stopped now and again by other clerks who shook his hand to welcome him back. He went into the buttery and persuaded a cook to provide bread, cheese and a small pot of ale. He sat quietly and ate, watching the hour candle fixed on its iron spigot near the door; when it was about to reach the tenth red circle, Corbett went down to the main gateway where Ranulf was already waiting.

‘I was going to ask you, master, why the Tree of Jesse and this chamber the Star of Bethlehem?’

‘I told you.’

Corbett slipped his arm through Ranulf’s. They walked under the gatehouse across the bridge and on to the trackway which wound down through the trees towards the village. Corbett loosened his white collar. The day was autumnally warm, the trees shedding their leaves to lay a crisp, golden matting beneath their feet. They stood aside to allow a pack train by, horses whinnying at the scent of blood from the deer carcasses, throats cut and bellies gutted, which had been slung across their backs. The blood-daubed verderers and foresters were in good humour. It was not yet noon and they had only been hunting since dawn to provide fresh meat for the royal kitchens.

‘You were going to say, master?’ Ranulf wished Corbett would not lapse into reflective silences.

‘Well, now we are free of the palace, I’ll tell you. Everybody’s lying, Ranulf. Now, when I lay in my great four-poster bed at Leighton, being fussed and spoilt by Lady Maeve, I still received reports from spies, merchants, pedlars, tinkers and scholars.’

‘You said they provided nothing but chatter! Gossip from the village well.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘Most of it was. However, I say this, Ranulf, if I had to stay in that bed for another day, my wits would have wandered. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I love Lady Maeve more than life itself. And, as for Eleanor, well, you know how it is?’

‘And Lady Maeve is expecting again?’ Ranulf asked.

‘As full as a rose at midday.’

‘A boy this time?’

‘A living child is all I pray for. Now, my mind is like any other, you have to keep sharpening it. I know de Craon would have found out about my injuries and probably prayed for my death. We are approaching an exciting time, Ranulf. An English heir is going to marry a French princess. Philip of France is going to see his dream realised, that a descendant of his great ancestor St Louis will sit on the throne at Westminster. Edward wishes to break free. If he does, there will be bloody war. So, I listen to my spies, one in particular: Aidan Smallbone, a lonely clerk from the King’s own secret chancery.’

‘But I thought . . .’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘Yes, I know! I hold the Secret Seals. Such messages should come to me, but there’s one verse of Scripture our King truly believes in: he does not like his left hand to know what his right hand’s doing. Accordingly, certain messages, certain documents, go directly to him. All Master Smallbone does, when they are finished with, is place them in a secret muniment room. Edward is always present when he does that. Anyway, Master Smallbone is a friend of mine. He sent me a letter asking about my health, expressing a desire to see me, and that means he has something to sell.’

They entered the Tree of Jesse, where the taproom was sweet with the smell of hams and haunches of venison all being dried smoked and cured against the approaching winter. The landlord greeted Corbett, bobbing and bowing, and led them up the wooden stairs. Ranulf found the Star of Bethlehem a disappointment. It was a large room, well furnished, but the paintings on the wall depicting the birth of Christ were rather shabby and hastily executed, the gold stars on the blue ceiling faded and peeling. Master Smallbone was a nondescript balding man, with a perpetually running nose which he constantly wiped on the sleeve of his grubby jerkin. Corbett greeted him warmly enough and they sat round the small trestle table exchanging gossip and banter while the landlord served blackjacks of ale and strips of venison. Once he had gone, Corbett bolted the door. Smallbone was eating as if his life depended on it, but when Corbett produced a gold coin, he snatched it and dropped it into his purse.

‘Very well, Master Smallbone, the fee is paid. Let me hear your song.’

‘The King wants to break the treaty.’

‘I know that.’

Smallbone sniffed. ‘He believes Gaveston is back in England.’

‘What! But he was exiled on pain of forfeit of life and limb!’

‘Some life, some limb!’ Smallbone scoffed. ‘He’s been seen in London and there’s similar gossip from the port reeves but whether he’s still here is not known.’

‘Continue.’

‘The King is deeply interested in the dead Fitzalan’s physician. You know Lord Henry had, for some time, patronised an Italian, Pancius Cantrone. He hired him during his travels.’

‘And why should the King be interested in him?’

‘Because he once worked with Gilles Malvoisin.’

Corbett lowered his blackjack of ale.

‘Malvoisin? He was formerly physician to the French court. In particular, Johanna of Navarre, Philip IV’s dead wife. I thought Malvoisin died in a boating accident on the Seine?’

‘He did,’ Smallbone replied, gulping the venison, allowing the juices to dribble down his chin.

‘And what else, Master Smallbone?’

‘Well, the King is so interested, Simon Roulles has been despatched to Paris.’

‘Roulles!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Who is he?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I trained with him,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s a merry rogue, Ranulf, a nimble dancer, a chanteur, a troubadour, a man who loves the ladies. I thought he had been killed in a street brawl in Rome.’

Smallbone shook his head. ‘He’s alive and kicking in Paris and, if the truth be known, paying assiduous court to Mistress Malvoisin. That’s all I have to sell.’

‘The dead physician’s wife?’

‘The same.’

‘My, my, my,’ Ranulf remarked.

‘Do you know why, Master Smallbone?’ Corbett asked.

The little clerk shook his head.

Corbett pushed away his trauncher of venison, gave his thanks and, followed by Ranulf, left the chamber. At the top of the stairs Corbett paused.

‘Mark my words, Ranulf. When we reach Ashdown, you be on your guard: that place will prove to be a pit of treason and murder!’ He paused. ‘There’s something very nasty, very secretive about all we’ve been told.’

Robert Verlian, chief verderer of the deceased Lord Henry Fitzalan, would have agreed with Corbett. He had not bathed or changed, and his face and hands were stung by the nettles and brambles he had crawled through.

He had returned to Savernake Dell and seen Lord Henry’s corpse, the yard-long arrow embedded deep in his chest. Verlian had crept back to the manor only to realise he was the prime suspect; tongues were soon wagging, fingers pointing. Verlian had killed his master! He was to be captured and tried! Verlian had fled, like the wolfs-head he had become, back into the forest. What justice could he expect at Sir William’s hands? The manor lord had the power of axe and tumbril. Verlian could be hauled before the manor court and hanged before the day was out, his possessions confiscated, and what would happen to Alicia then?

Verlian crouched beside an oak, an ancient tree which, forest lore maintained, had once been used by the pagan priests for their sacrifices. Verlian hadn’t eaten, apart from some bread and rotten meat he had filched from a charcoal-burner’s cottage. Now he listened, like the many animals he had hunted, for any sound of pursuit on the morning breeze.

Verlian folded his arms across his chest. He had slept at night out near Radwell Brook, and his body now ached from head to toe, but what could he do? Ashdown Manor was a hostile place, the local sheriff was many miles away. His tired mind went back to the events of the last few weeks. Lord Henry’s infatuation with his daughter Alicia had grown by the day. He would never leave her alone. There had been presents of sweet meats and wine, costly cloth, gifts, even a snow-white palfrey. Alicia had been obdurate.

‘I am no man’s whore!’ she had snapped. ‘And no lord’s mistress!’

She had sent the gifts back. Lord Henry had only become more importunate, even forcing himself into the cottage they occupied on the Ashdown estate. Alicia, her temper knowing no bounds, had taken a bow and arrow from his war chest and threatened Lord Henry that, if he did not leave, she would kill him and claim it was self-defence. Fitzalan had turned nasty, mouthing threats and warnings. He had reminded them that Verlian and his daughter were his servants; he owned the roof under which they lived and the roads of Sussex were no place for a landless man and his daughter. Verlian had gone to Sir William for help but that secretive younger brother could provide no assistance.

Verlian heard the undergrowth crackling and scanned his surroundings, but it was only a badger coming out of his sett to sniff the morning air. Had Sir William killed his brother? Verlian wondered. To seize his wealth and put the blame on a poor verderer? Verlian was not sure of anything. He was weak from hunger, his mind fitful, his wits wandering. Hadn’t he dreamed of killing Lord Henry? Or, even worse, Alicia, where had she been that morning? Could it have happened? He suddenly started. Was that his imagination? No, the sound of a hunting horn brayed through the forest. Verlian had heard the rumours: how Sir William, now lord of the manor, was determined to hunt down his brother’s killer. Already rewards had been posted, a hundred pounds sterling for his murderer, dead or alive. Verlian, a soldier who had seen experience on the Scottish march, whimpered with fear. Perhaps he had it wrong? Again the blast of a horn, perceptibly nearer, followed by the bellowing of the Fitzalan hunting dogs, mastiffs trained in tracking a man down.

Verlian rose to his feet and ran at a half-crouch as fast as he could from that terrible sound but, the further he went, the closer the hunt grew. Verlian tried to remember where he was. He recalled his own hunting days. If he could get to Radwell Brook, he could use the water to hide his scent, but where would that lead him?

He broke into a clearing and saw a cottage. The door was open, a plume of smoke rose from the middle of the thatched roof. He tried to recall where he was and squatted down for a while taking his bearings. Yes, yes, that was it: Jocasta the witch lived here, she and her fey-witted daughter. Surely they would help? He ran across to the open door. The women inside were seated at the table. Jocasta was a tall, swarthy-faced woman, with coal-black hair tumbling down her strong face. Her eyes never flinched. Her daughter, with mousey-coloured hair and vacant eyes, just lifted a hand and went back to crooning over the little wooden doll in her lap.

‘I need food!’ Verlian gasped.

‘Then you’ll find none here, Robert Verlian!’

‘I am innocent.’

‘No man is innocent.’

‘For the love of God!’ Verlian screamed as the sound of the hounds drew nearer.

Jocasta went to a basket near the door and thrust two apples into his hand.

‘You are a dead man, Verlian. If Sir William doesn’t kill you, his hounds will!’

‘Please!’

‘Use your noddle! Are your wits as wandering as my daughter’s? You have appealed to God, then to God you should go!’

She slammed the door in his face. Verlian bit at the apples. They tasted sour; he found it hard to chew, his mouth was so dry. He was about to run on when he remembered what the witch-woman had said and gasped in relief. Of course, there was only one place which could house him. He fled across the clearing. Gasping and retching, Verlian forced his way through the brambles, desperate to seek the path he needed. The hunt grew closer, the howls of the mastiffs sounding like a death knell. On and on Verlian ran, ignoring the bile at the back of his throat, the tears which stung his eyes, the shooting pains at the back of his legs and the terrible cramp in his left side. He stumbled, falling flat on his face, the hard pebbled tracks scoring his hands, bruising his cheeks. He got up, ran on and, at last, he reached the clearing where before him stood the open doors of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Gasping and stumbling, Verlian threw himself inside, slammed the door shut, pulling the bar down and leaning against it. The little church was dark, with only a glow of light from beneath the crudely carved rood screen. He was aware of benches and stools in the darkening transepts.