Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (8 page)

Corbett crouched down again to examine the stain on the ground.

‘I thank you for your courtesy, Sir William, but you know Seigneur de Craon resides with you. It would not be appropriate for us to share the same roof.’ He got to his feet and looked at the holes along the ground. ‘This is where the hunting palisade was erected?’

‘Yes, I’ve had it taken down.’

But Corbett wasn’t listening. He was already striding across the dell. Ranulf looked and Sir William shrugged and they followed. On the far side Corbett was already pushing into the brambles. He drew his sword and hacked a path through. The forest stretched ahead of him. The great oaks, the bracken sprouting between. A place of shifting darkness. Shadows flittered and Corbett was sure that, if he were by himself, his mind would play tricks, these shapes become figures, soft and menacing. No wonder legends were rife about eerie forest creatures; the dell reminded him of the heavily wooded valleys in Wales and the dense forest of Sherwood. He repressed a shiver when he thought of the ambushes in which he had nearly died. The others came crashing behind him. Corbett gazed back across the clearing to where Lord Henry had stood.

‘The assassin must have had a good view,’ he observed.

Corbett walked up and down. Sometimes the other side of the dell was hidden by overhanging branches and high stems of bracken but there were also clear views where a master bowman could stand, hidden in the shadows, and loose a shaft.

‘Ranulf,’ he ordered. ‘Go back to Lord Henry’s retainers. One of them must have a bow and a quiver of arrows. Bring them across.’

Ranulf hastened off. Corbett tried to put himself into the mind of the assassin.

‘This was no hunting accident,’ he said confidently.

He walked up and down and, at last, chose his spot where he stood until Ranulf returned. Corbett took the bow, selected an arrow from the quiver and stared at the cruel, steel-pointed head.

‘This is a war arrow?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Sir William replied. ‘If we were hunting, Sir Hugh, it would be sickle-shaped.’

Corbett held the cord grip round the middle of the yew bow and notched an arrow to the string. He took a deep breath and lifted the bow up. Once the shaft came level with his eye, he pulled back.

‘Right, Ranulf!’ he ordered. ‘Start counting!’

Corbett lowered the bow again and looked across to where Lord Henry had been killed. Then he raised the bow and took careful aim. He was conscious of a slight breeze on his cheek; his eyes remained fixed on that spot as he steadied his breathing. He could feel the power of the bow, the two forefingers of his left hand grasped the shaft just behind the grey goose quill. He sighed and, as he did, loosed the arrow. In a blur the shaft hurtled across the glade and disappeared into the trees on the far side. Ranulf had reached the number nine as he lowered the bow.

‘A very short time,’ Corbett declared. ‘A few seconds. The assassin has found his mark, now he must retreat. Across the glade all is chaos and consternation. What would the assassin do now, Ranulf?’

‘If it was I, master, I’d have left a horse some way off. I’d run as fast as I could, put as much distance between myself and here as possible.’

‘Sir William?’

‘I’d do the same.’

‘But that’s not the problem, is it?’ Corbett mused, handing the bow to the manor lord. ‘The assassin would have fled. The real danger wasn’t in that.’

‘It was beforehand, wasn’t it?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes. It took me some time to find a spot, the best place to shoot. Now the assassin may have known that Lord Henry intended to organise a hunt in Savernake Dell but he wouldn’t know where the manor lord would be standing. Nor would he know if he’d get a good view of him.’

‘Of course,’ Ranulf said. ‘The assassin may have come here, only to find Lord Henry screened by his retainers and his guests.’

‘Precisely. In which case our assassin may have tried to kill Lord Henry before or even waited for another day.’ He smiled over his shoulder at Sir William. ‘But there’s a weakness in what I say?’

The manor lord stared stonily back.

‘You know there’s a weakness, Sir William. Your brother Lord Henry was a man of power. He would stand second to no one. He would have to be in the front. He was the host, the great huntsman.’

‘But anyone would know that,’ Sir William stammered.

‘You mean not just his family?’ Ranulf taunted.

‘As Sir Hugh says,’ Sir William replied defensively, ‘Lord Henry was the first in all things. First born, first in the tournament, in the cavalcade and, yes, in the hunt.’

Corbett walked away, studying the great oak trees. He strode across to an ancient, hollowed one, probably struck by lightning. It was at least two yards in girth. Others, similar, stood nearby.

‘What is this place?’

‘We are on the edge of Savernake Dell,’ Sir William replied. ‘But they call this “Hollowman Place” after the oak trees. My father, when he was a boy, told of a great storm in which some of the trees were struck by lightning.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘It’s well known as a lovers’ tryst or a place where children play.’ William gave a lop-sided smile. ‘My brother and I often came here to play “Catch and See”.’

Corbett stepped into one of the hollowed oaks, where he smelt the strong odour of mildewed wood, fungi and forest bracken. It was like being in a small cell. He peered up at the sky. Such a place would be favoured by any child or outlaw, or an assassin waiting for his victim to appear.

‘Ranulf! Search the other hollow trees!’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘When you find it, you’ll know.’

Sir William stood nonplussed as Corbett and Ranulf moved from tree to tree in that dark-green glade. At each one Corbett crouched down, sifting among the soft moss and fern, dry twigs and rotting leaves. The hollowed trunks were dark but there was enough light to search carefully.

‘Over here!’ Ranulf called.

He was standing by one of the oaks further away. Corbett hurried across. Ranulf was sifting the dirt in the palms of his hands. Corbett glimpsed the small tassels of leather, the thin grey goose feather. He picked these up, scrutinised them and moved into the hollow trunk where Ranulf had found them but could discover no further traces. He put what they had found into his pouch.

‘We know this was no accident,’ he declared.

‘And this is where the assassin hid. I think he came here early in the morning, even the day before, and hid a bow and quiver. The feather and tassel are from these. He then came back and hid in one of these hollowed trunks, making sure Lord Henry was in Savernake Dell and this side of the wood was deserted.’

Corbett walked to where he calculated the assassin must have taken aim, counting under his breath all the time.

‘A very short while!’ he shouted. ‘The assassin would then hasten back, the bow and quiver are placed back in one of the hollow oaks and then he’d go looking for his horse.’

Ranulf had already anticipated this and was deep in the trees, kicking at the carpet of fallen leaves.

‘Sir Hugh! Sir William! Over here!’

Ranulf pushed away the leaves with his dagger, revealing scattered horse dung.

‘He tethered his horse to a tree,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Probably bridled, the hooves may have been covered in rags.’ He cut a piece of the dung with his dagger. ‘He even had time to cover this.’

‘So we know how,’ Corbett concluded. ‘But who or why?’

Corbett sat on a fallen tree trunk and gestured at Sir William to join him.

‘How many people wanted your brother killed?’ he asked.

‘Lord Henry was a law unto himself, Sir Hugh. Our family own vast estates. We have an ancient name. He was much favoured by the King, a nobleman who travelled to Italy, Sicily, Northern Spain and France.’

‘So have many people,’ Corbett replied. ‘But that doesn’t make people want to murder them in a lonely dell on a lovely autumn afternoon. Sir William, I would be grateful if you would answer my questions as bluntly and honestly as possible. You know, I know, we all know there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

‘The physician and my retainers are waiting.’ Sir William’s voice was tinged with complaint.

‘Ranulf,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Tell Sir William’s men that they can either stay or go back to the manor.’

‘Tell them to stay!’ Sir William snapped.

‘Good.’ Corbett sighed. ‘Now, Sir William, your brother?’

‘He was hated by Robert Verlian, his chief verderer.’

‘Why?’

‘He lusted after Verlian’s daughter, Alicia. A beautiful young woman, it’s hard to imagine Verlian having a daughter like that. Lord Henry said she had a face like an angel. He was used to having his way with wenches.’

‘And Alicia resisted?’

‘She despised my brother.’

‘And Verlian himself?’

‘At first he was the loyal retainer but even a worm will turn. On one occasion, the Verlians threatened to kill Lord Henry if he didn’t desist in his wanton lechery.’

‘So, that’s why you suspected your chief verderer?’

‘Yes. Verlian’s also a master bowman and he was not with the hunting party.’

‘So, where could he have been?’

‘It’s possible,’ Sir William looked shamefaced, ‘that Verlian stayed behind the hunters as they drove the deer into Savernake Dell. After all, that was his responsibility.’

‘But you think he may have gone ahead, seized his concealed bow, killed your brother and fled?’

Sir William picked up the corner of his cloak and dug with a dirty nail at the golden arrowhead stitching. He was about to answer when Ranulf came crashing back through the undergrowth.

‘Your men wait, Sir William!’ he called.

Corbett’s manservant sat down with his back to a tree, stretching out his legs. With his dagger he began to whittle away at a branch, humming softly under his breath.

‘You do think Verlian killed your brother?’

‘Sir Hugh, he had good reason and he had the means.’

‘But it isn’t logical, is it?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Verlian is a Sussex man who holds profitable office. He has a daughter; he must have known that murder of his lord would bring summary execution.’

‘A man can do anything, Sir Hugh, when his blood is heated and his wits disturbed.’

‘But Verlian, and I know I can ask him, was no rash fool. A chief verderer is a man of patience, of cunning, of steady wit. I gather, at first, he showed no objection to Lord Henry’s pursuit of his daughter?’

‘He turned a blind eye,’ Sir William agreed. ‘But Alicia has a will like steel and a tongue as sharp as a razor.’

‘And who else is there?’ Corbett persisted.

‘Brother Cosmas, the priest of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. As I have said, my brother was harsh. Cosmas was also a soldier, until he found God. He fought in the retinue of Henry, Earl of Huntingdon.’

‘And who else is there?’

‘My brother had strange ways, Sir Hugh. He had little time for God and even less for God’s servants.’

‘He didn’t like priests?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, he didn’t like priests. He didn’t like what he called their mumbling, mouldering words. Henry had visited the universities at Salerno and Bologna, he was aware of the new knowledge coming out of the east. He claimed there was more to man than what the Church taught. He collected grimoires, books written by magicians and wizards. He often went into the forest. There’s a witch-woman, Jocasta, and her fey-witted daughter Blanche. My brother gave them a cottage and a little plot of land.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Was your brother a generous man?’

‘No. Jocasta appeared about three or four years ago, her daughter trailing behind. She told some story about being cast out by the good burghers of Rye. My brother met her alone in the parlour of Ashdown Manor. They must have been closeted for hours. Afterwards I learned that he had given Jocasta a cottage and, about once a week when he was in residence, he’d visit her by himself.’

‘Why?’

‘The servants claimed he was interested in the black arts. Jocasta could weave spells.’

‘Is that the truth?’

‘No, I don’t think it is. Once my brother entertained a wandering magician. The man claimed he could ask Lord Satan to come up from hell. My brother riposted, “Yes, but would he come?” and bellowed with laughter. No, to be honest, Sir Hugh, my brother probably went there for another reason. If the truth be known, I have seen no evidence that Jocasta or her daughter are witches.’

‘And your half-sister?’

Sir William snorted with laughter. ‘The Lady Madeleine, prioress of St Hawisia’s? Madeleine has always been, and always will be, Lord Henry in petticoats. She is stubborn, arrogant and bows to no one.’

‘Was she on good terms with your brother?’

‘Like two cats, Sir Hugh. They would be welcoming but wary. They’d circle each other, hackles up, teeth bared, but they rarely fought.’