Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (7 page)

‘Who is there?’

A figure came through the rood screen. Verlian recognised Brother Cosmas. He stumbled up the church. The Franciscan held a knife in one hand, a candle he had been tapering in the other. Verlian reached the rood screen, pushed by the priest and staggered up the narrow steps. The verderer touched the altar then crouched down beside it as the Franciscan towered over him, a ghostly figure in his brown garb, the lower half of his pale face hidden by the shaggy black beard which fell down below his chest.

‘You are Robert Verlian!’ he declared. ‘Once chief verderer to Lord Henry. They say you are a murderer, an assassin!’

‘I am no assassin!’ Verlian spat back. ‘I am innocent of any crime! I claim sanctuary!’

The Franciscan sniffed and crouched beside him.

‘There’s little I can do for you, man.’ The hard eyes were kindly. ‘Sir William is lord of the manor.’

‘But not lord of this church!’ Verlian retorted.

‘No, no, he isn’t.’

The Franciscan rose to his feet at the hammering which rained on the door.

‘And, perhaps, it’s time I reminded him of that!’

 

In the spacious, well-timbered house which stood on the corner of the Rue St Denis within earshot of the bells of Notre Dame, Simon Roulles, the perpetual student, the wandering scholar, the loyal servant of King Edward of England, had found his own sanctuary in the opulent bedchamber of Madame Malvoisin. Simon, who now was known to his rather venerable lover as Bertrand, rolled over on the bed and stared down at his latest conquest.

‘You are indeed,’ she whispered, ‘a veritable cock, a strutting stag!’

Simon laughed and threw himself back on the bolsters.

‘Why me?’

The question had been asked many times over the last few days. Simon always tried to be honest. After all, what was he, just past his twenty-fourth or was it twenty-fifth summer? Well, the grey-haired lady who lay beside him was at least twice that age. In her youth Madame Malvoisin must have been comely: lustrous eyes, generous lips and the paint she had put on her face hid the seams and wrinkles of passing time. Her body was plump, warm, soft as silk and, if Simon was honest, a comfortable berth for a wandering soul such as himself.

He had met her in the marketplace, his hair crimped and prinked. He was wearing his best scholar gown, displaying the coloured silks of the student of the Quadrivium and Trivium at the Sorbonne. She had lost her maid and the bale of cloth she was carrying was heavy. Simon had helped. When they returned to the comfortable mansion with its wooden panelled chambers, Simon had agreed to a goblet of sweet wine and a plate of marchpane. Of course, he had been invited back and, of course, he accepted. He had taken Madame Malvoisin around the Latin Quarter, to those taverns full of devil-may-care, merry students, who drank, carolled and danced so expertly; then in the fields or a boat along the Seine, Simon had proved himself to be an assiduous suitor.

Madame Malvoisin had thrown discretion to the winds. This young student was the master of both her heart and her bedchamber. She really couldn’t care about the whispers and giggles of her maids or the gossip of her sharp-eyed neighbours. After all, what were they but jealous? Envious of her good fortune? Didn’t she deserve all this? She, the wife of a royal physician, until poor Gilles, too full of wine, had suffered that boating accident. He had been returning from a meeting of fellow physicians: according to the boatman, Gilles had insisted on standing up; the wherry had capsized, and only days later had poor Gilles’ fish-pecked body been dragged from the Seine.

Madame Malvoisin contemplated the golden tester over the four-poster bed. She often wondered about her husband’s death. Was it an accident or was it murder? Hadn’t Gilles hinted at certain dark secrets about the court, things no man should ever know? In turn she had poured out her heart to this handsome young clerk whose hands, once again, were caressing her breasts, running down her stomach to her secret place. She rolled over on her side, knocking his hand away.

‘You say you are going away?’

He kissed her on the lips. ‘Soon, my dear, but I will be back. A little business. My cousin owns a farm on the Calais road. I’ve been promising him a visit since midsummer.’

‘And when will you go?’

‘Around Michaelmas. But I’ll be back before October is halfway through.’

Simon tensed as he heard a creak in the gallery outside.

‘I thought you told your maids not to come up here, at least not until you had risen.’

Madame Malvoisin giggled like the young girl she felt. Simon was such a lusty lover and she could not help her cries and moans. She’d banished the servants from this gallery, strictly forbidding them to come anywhere near her chamber until she had risen and dressed for the day.

‘Why are you so nervous?’ she accused playfully. ‘That only intrigues the servants.’

‘Which servants?’ Simon’s voice was sharp.

‘My maid Isabeau. She’s always asking questions.’

Simon sat up. He heard another creak. He always prided himself on his prudence and cunning. Hadn’t he seen Isabeau talking to a stranger the afternoon before? He was sure he’d glimpsed coins being dropped into her hand. Again a sound. Ignoring the protests of Madame Malvoisin, Simon jumped from the bed. He hastily pulled on his woollen leggings and white cambric shirt. Madame Malvoisin was now sitting up, round-eyed. Simon looked at the door. The latch handle went down, and he was drawing both sword and dagger when the black-garbed assassins slipped into the chamber. Madame Malvoisin screamed, pulling the sheets up under her face. She gazed appalled at these horrors, hoods over their heads, masks across their faces. This could not be happening! This was some nightmare! Five, six figures she counted. They ignored her, intent on the young clerk. They could not be house-breakers. Where were her servants? She opened her mouth to scream but found the sound would not come. One of the black-garbed figures edged forward.

‘Monsieur, you are to come with us.’

Simon darted forward, sword and dagger snaking out. His opponent met him in a clash of steel. Simon withdrew. He looked back towards the window but the casement was too narrow and he knew the drop was too far. He cursed his own stupidity. He had made a mistake, one he’d vowed he never would: to be in a room where there was no escape, no other door or window which he could jump through, as he had so many a time. Again he closed but this time his opponent moved faster, twisting and turning as his sword dug into Simon’s shoulder. The English spy dropped his sword, doubling up at the fiery shaft of pain which raced across his chest. His opponents closed in, forcing him to the floor, twisting his arms behind him, before dragging him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder was intense.

‘Monsieur, you are under arrest!’

‘On what charge?’ Roulles gasped. ‘I object!’

‘Murder!’

‘Whose murder?’

The leader went across to Madame Malvoisin, still transfixed in terror. She struggled as he forced her back down the bed and, taking a bolster, clamped it over her face. Roulles stood horrified, watching his former lover struggle for her life, her body jerking, legs and arms lashing out. The assassin held firm until at last Madame Malvoisin lay still.

‘There’s your victim,’ the assassin replied. ‘Take him away!’

 

Corbett shaded his eyes to survey Savernake Dell and bent down to dig with the tip of his dagger at the dark patches still staining the dew-wet grass.

‘Your brother was standing here?’

Sir William Fitzalan nodded. ‘He’d notched an arrow to his bow; he was about to shoot when the assassin’s shaft took him full in the heart.’

‘And that assassin?’ Ranulf asked.

Sir William’s sweaty face twisted into a grimace.

‘You know full well: our verderer Robert Verlian, who fled! He has now taken sanctuary in St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees.’

‘How do you know he’s guilty? Because he’s fled? Because he’s taken sanctuary?’

‘He was the only one that wasn’t here when my brother died. Verlian knew this forest and he’s a master bowman.’

Corbett looked back to where the dark-garbed Italian physician, Pancius Cantrone, stood beneath the outstretched branches of an oak tree. A further distance away stood Fitzalan’s retainers holding the horses. A quiet, peaceful place, Corbett thought. The early morning mist was still lifting. Even the birds were quiet, not stirring until the sun fully rose. A ghostly place where tendrils of mist hovered and shifted. The early morning glow caught the dew on the leaves and grass, making the dell shimmer in the strengthening light. It reminded Corbett of Leighton, of his walks with Maeve down to the great meadow. They’d sit by the stream, cloaks wrapped around them, and watch the sun rise. A quiet part of the day and one Corbett loved, but this was different.

‘Verlian wasn’t the only one absent, was he?’ Corbett asked.

Sir William looked askance.

‘You weren’t here.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I talked to your servants. I made careful enquiries.’

‘You only arrived in Ashdown last night.’

‘Yes, but a tavern like the Devil-in-the-Woods is full of gossip. Mine host has a nose for all the news but, if he was wrong, I can set the record straight.’

Sir William glanced away. He was a warrior, a hunter, who prided himself on being frightened of no one, but this dark-faced clerk with his royal commissions and warrants, his cat-eyed servant, unnerved him.

‘I’d walked away,’ he replied. ‘I went into the trees to relieve myself.’

‘An inappropriate time. I understand that at least two deer had raced into the dell. The huntsmen were close,’ observed Ranulf.

‘I couldn’t care if the Holy Father galloped in!’ Sir William snapped. ‘A loose belly is a loose belly! I’ll not soil myself for anyone!’

‘Yet you have a physician on hand?’

‘He was back at the manor,’ Sir William snarled. ‘Sir Hugh, you embarrass me. The night before the hunt Lord Henry and his guests stayed at Beauclerc hunting lodge.’

‘Ah yes!’ Corbett scratched his chin. ‘You ate or drank something tainted?’

‘Both I and my brother did. We were sick, running to the latrines.’ He shrugged. ‘But it passed.’

‘No, no,’ Corbett insisted. ‘Tell us precisely what happened?’

‘We ate and drank late. We roistered and then we retired for the night. I was hardly in my bedchamber when my stomach began to purge itself. I vomited like I never have done in my life. So intensely that my stomach and bowels ached.’

‘And your brother?’

‘The same. Yet by morning we felt well enough and did not want to disappoint our guests.’

‘Were they ill?’

Sir William narrowed his eyes. ‘No, now you ask it, I don’t think they were. My brother and I were too embarrassed to ask but they showed no ill effects.’

Cantrone was still standing silently, almost like a statue, lost in his own thoughts.

‘Have you discussed this with your household physician?’ Corbett queried. ‘I mean, you and your brother were violently ill but, apparently, no one else was?’

William licked his dry lips.

‘And you know my next question?’ Corbett insisted.

‘And the answer is yes,’ Sir William replied. ‘My brother and I, we shared a special flask of wine.’

‘Who brought it?’

‘I – I don’t know. It was unstoppered by one of the servants.’

‘And you felt no ill effects before that?’

‘None.’

‘Who else was in the lodge?’

‘Seigneur de Craon, members of his household, our retainers. Oh, and Verlian as well as Brother Cosmas the priest at St Oswald’s. He came to deliver warnings.’

‘What about?’

‘My brother was a harsh lord, Sir Hugh. He enforced the forest law with great vigour.’

‘Ah yes, I’ve heard of the steel traps laid out in the forest. Poachers who’ve had their ears cut and noses slit for the first offence then been hanged out of hand for the second.’

‘The lords of Savernake have the right of axe and tumbril.’

‘Not while I’m here!’ Corbett snapped. ‘But I’ll come to that in a moment. Do you realise what you are saying, Sir William? It would seem that someone tried to poison you and your brother. Everything becomes tangled,’ Corbett continued. ‘Some might even whisper that you were not ill though your brother was.’

Sir William’s face suffused with rage.

‘What are you saying?’ His hand went to the dagger hanging from a ring on his belt.

‘Don’t touch it!’ Corbett warned. ‘Ranulf is of a quick disposition and may misunderstand you. Moreover, in these matters, Sir William, I must remind you that I represent the King. Look.’ Corbett sighed. ‘I merely point out what gossips might say. It would seem that someone did plot mischief against you at Beauclerc hunting lodge but facts can be twisted; people can jump to false conclusions.’

‘And if false conclusions can be drawn by you, Sir William,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘they can about Robert Verlian. All of Ashdown knows you hunted him through the forest, intent on his life.’

Sir William swallowed hard. ‘He killed my brother. He fled.’

‘You have no proof,’ Corbett countered. ‘And while I am here, Sir William, such actions will cease forthwith. Anyway, we were talking about your whereabouts when your brother was killed.’

‘I went in the trees,’ Sir William blustered. ‘Quite a distance away. I undid my points, I relieved myself. When I came back my brother was dead.’

‘And you stayed and grieved?’

‘You know what I did! My brother had an arrow through his heart. He was dead, there was nothing I could do.’

‘So you took horse. You and your faithful retainers rode back to the manor leaving others to bring your brother’s corpse back?’

‘Lord Henry was dead,’ Sir William repeated. ‘It is well known, Sir Hugh, what happens when a manor lord dies suddenly. Servants turn to plundering and pilfering. Ashdown Manor houses many treasures. If you accept the courtesies of staying there you’d see that for yourself.’