Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (9 page)

‘A clash of wills, eh?’

‘Sir Hugh, St Hawisia’s is deep in the forest. You are welcome to ask my half-sister whenever you want. I am sure she will give you the benefit of her wit and wisdom.’ He pulled a face. ‘Lord Henry did recently refurbish the shrine, for Madeleine nagged him until he did.’

Corbett looked across to where Ranulf had now fashioned a sharpened stake, his knife slicing into the white wood.

‘We do have one other person.’

‘Myself?’

‘Yes, Sir William, yourself. You are hardly the grieving brother. You were not present when Lord Henry was killed. You mentioned gossip. It’s possible that you disappeared into the forest, followed a trackway round the palisade, took the concealed bow, loosed the killing shaft, hid the weapon and hurried back.’

‘In which case, Sir Hugh, I wouldn’t have needed a horse, would I?’

Corbett threw his head back and laughed.

‘There’s another possibility,’ Ranulf intervened. He threw down the piece of wood and re-sheathed his dagger. ‘Whoever killed Lord Henry was a master bowman. How do we know it was someone he knew? There are enough landless soldiers, archers from the King’s wars, who could be hired, given a horse, a bow and arrow, and instructed whom to kill.’

‘Are you saying that I did that?’

‘No, Sir William, all I said was that it could be done.’

‘Did you love your brother?’ Corbett asked sharply.

Sir William put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes.

‘When I was a child, when Henry, Madeleine and I ran in these woods like imps from hell, there was no rancour, no jealousy, no bitterness.’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘Indeed, Madeleine and I, we worshipped the ground Henry trod on. We used to play in Savernake Dell. Henry was Arthur, Madeleine Guinevere and I was Sir Galahad. Summers which never seemed to end. Days which stretched like eternity. You see, Father married twice. Our mother, Henry’s and mine, she died fairly young. Father married again; his second wife died in childbirth but Madeleine survived. Father became morose and withdrawn, more concerned about his estates and his revenue than he was about his three children who, in his opinion, had cost the lives of the two women he loved. We were allowed to run wild.’

‘When did it change?’

‘Henry was sent up to the Halls of Cambridge. When he came back it was as a stranger: tall and arrogant, quoting Greek and French. He mocked me for my childhood games and Madeleine for her piety. More and more he became closeted with Father, immersing himself in the running of the estate. He went to court. He became the King’s friend, serving, as you know, with distinction on the Welsh and Scottish marches. Madeleine went into the priory. She would have nothing to do with the world of men. Father died. Everything was left to Henry.’ His voice grew bitter. ‘I am a knight, Sir Hugh. I have the right to carry a sword but I became a reeve, a steward. “Run here, William! Run there, William! Do this, William! Do that!”’ He stopped, breathing heavily. ‘I asked my brother for a portion of the estate, the honour of Manningtree. He gave his word, promised solemnly that he would . . .’

‘But then he reneged?’

‘He told me I would have to wait.’

‘But you could have left?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Many a younger brother has.’

‘I did. For a while I served as a knight banneret in the retinue of the Prince of Wales. Prince Edward often came to Ashdown as a child.’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’ Corbett held Ranulf’s gaze. So far he was secretly impressed by this manor lord’s candour and honesty, but was Sir William only telling the truth as far as he could see it?

‘Well, you can guess what happened.’ Sir William got to his feet and stretched. ‘The Prince of Wales is not a warrior, Sir Hugh. He prefers to dig a ditch, fight a mock tourney, be a Lord of Misrule. There was no profit in his service and so I came home. Oh, Henry was generous enough: silver, gold, horses, armour, but he was always the lord and I the constant petitioner. I had to beg, and sometimes I hated him.’

‘Enough to kill him?’ Corbett asked abruptly.

Sir William lowered his face, tears brimming in his eyes.

‘God forgive me, clerk! We all carry the mark of Cain within us, but Lord Henry was no Abel.’ He stood back. ‘Now, Sir Hugh, I am the manor lord. I own Ashdown and its estates. I bend the knee to no one except the King. You’ve listed possible assassins, but you forget one: the Frenchman de Craon.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘Sir William, on my oath, I may forget many things but I can never forget, will never forget, Seigneur de Craon! He is constantly in my thoughts.’

‘Why should de Craon want Lord Henry dead?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know. You are the royal emissary. De Craon is a mystery, an enigma, eager for my brother to lead the English envoys to Paris. But, Sir Hugh, why not ask him yourself? You may not stay under my roof but, tonight, I insist that you be my guest at Ashdown Manor. So, if you have no more questions, I’ll rejoin my men.’

Corbett got to his feet.

‘Why the hurry, Sir William? The day is good and it will be long.’ He stopped and listened as a blackbird began to sing, so clearly, so sweetly, Corbett marvelled at its beauty. ‘They say these forests are ancient, Sir William. And house all forms of creatures?’

‘Good and bad, Corbett. There are outlaws, we even have a hermit who lives in Dragon Rocks beyond the priory.’

‘Why Dragon?’ Ranulf asked.

‘If you visit there you’ll see a cave-mouth shaped like the mouth of a snarling dragon. The hermit’s harmless enough, slightly lame, his hands are mutilated. He lives off the goodwill of the forest people.’

‘A young man?’

‘Of mature years,’ Sir William replied. ‘I know little of him. He calls himself Odo Rievaulx.’

‘And the Owlman?’ Corbett asked. ‘The tavern keeper talked of him.’

‘A wolfs-head, an outlaw. He waged his own petty feud against my brother and, before you ask, Sir Hugh, I don’t know why.’

‘Yes, the taproom of the Devil-in-the-Woods is full of such gossip.’

‘The Owlman,’ Sir William said, ‘is a vexatious flea my brother wanted to scratch.’

‘In what way?’

‘Cryptic, secret messages tied to the end of an arrow shaft and shot into a door, or a tree, or the path Lord Henry used. The messages were often one word, badly written, “Remember”.’

‘Remember what?’

‘I don’t really know. My brother would curse and then destroy them.’ Sir William’s hand went to his lips. ‘One time I did see the message, because I found it.’ He closed his eyes and then opened them. ‘Yes, “Remember the Rose of Rye”!’

‘What does that mean?’

‘At first I thought it was a tavern so I made enquiries, but there’s no such place. Look, Sir Hugh, this forest divides the south coast from London. It is rich in game, has secretive, dark places. Pilgrims travel to St Hawisia’s. Wolfs-heads and outlaws hide well away from the sheriff’s men.’

‘And murder?’ Corbett asked.

‘It happens.’

‘Including that young woman whose corpse was found?’

Sir William shrugged. ‘Sir Hugh, I know nothing of that. However, if a young wench was stupid enough to travel on the forest paths by herself, well, she’s like a chicken which runs into a fox’s lair.’

‘And you know nothing of her death?’

‘Sir Hugh, if I did, I would tell you. The corpse was left outside St Hawisia’s priory. My good half-sister gave it Christian burial, more than that I cannot say.’ Sir William picked up the bow and quiver of arrows and slung them over his shoulder. ‘You have reminded me that you are the King’s envoy, so, please, be my guests tonight just after Vespers.’

And, not waiting for an answer, the manor lord turned and walked back across Savernake Dell.

‘Now there goes a worried man,’ Ranulf observed. ‘Master, I’ll collect the horses. Is it back to the tavern?’

‘No, I think a visit to St Hawisia’s would be opportune.’ Corbett smiled. ‘The more I know about Lord Henry’s family, the more intrigued I become. Sir William’s a worried man. Yet I don’t think he’s a murderer, though I could be wrong.’

Corbett studied his mud-stained boots. Blood-red, of high quality Moroccan leather, they had been made in Spain. Maeve had bought them at a fair held just outside the Tower. He looked at the silver spur attached to the heel and absent-mindedly brushed some moss from his leather leggings.

‘The forest is a quiet place,’ he mused. ‘But a man intent on murder. Wouldn’t he be noticed, Ranulf? The clinking of spurs, horse neighing, the crack and snap of twigs and fallen branches?’

‘Not if there’s a hunt going on,’ Ranulf said.

He stared up at the tree, searching for the blackbird which was singing so lustily.

‘Remember, Sir Hugh, Lord Henry was excited, as were his companions. The morning he was killed, the forest was full of noise, the shouts of huntsmen, the barking of dogs, the chatter of his guests.’

Corbett grinned. ‘I’ll make a countryman of you yet, Ranulf: fetch the horses!’

Ranulf, muttering under his breath at how he hated the countryside and loathed these dark-green places, walked back across the dell. One of Sir William’s grooms was guarding the horses, a pasty-faced youth with corn-coloured hair and a cast in one eye. He was talking to Corbett’s horse, gently stroking the muzzle, whispering into the cocked ear like any young swain to his sweetheart. He was short and thickset, podgy-fingered; one of the heels had fallen off his riding boot which made him limp as he moved.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Baldock. I used to be called Burdock but that didn’t sound well so I changed it.’

‘Strange name.’ Ranulf swung himself into the saddle and took the reins of Corbett’s horse. ‘Why did your mother give it to you?’

The ostler looked up. Despite the cast in his eye, he had a merry, open face.

‘Don’t know my mother,’ he replied. ‘Don’t know my father. I was a foundling left at the manor some years ago.’

‘And Lord Henry took you in?’

‘He was a kind enough man, a good lord. Oh, he was arrogant but they all are, aren’t they? They walk the earth as if they own it and don’t notice the worms they’ve trod on.’

‘You are a philosopher,’ Ranulf taunted, leaning down.

‘I’m an ostler,’ Baldock replied. ‘And a good one! Nothing better for your belly than riding the back of a horse. God’s gift to man they are. Horses love you. Never ask for anything except a bit of care.’

Ranulf recalled Maltote.

‘And what else can you do, Baldock? Are you good in a fight? Or when you draw that dagger, do you cut yourself?’

Baldock pointed to a pole still left from where the palisade had stood.

‘You see that, master?’

‘As sure as I do the nose on your face.’

Baldock turned away and Ranulf glimpsed a quick movement of his arm. The ostler’s hand came up in an arc; the knife, a thin-bladed stabbing dirk, flew through the air and hit the pole dead centre.

‘I learned that,’ Baldock boasted. ‘A wandering mountebank taught me. I’ve won many a coin in the taverns.’

‘And what else can you do?’ Ranulf had now forgotten Corbett. ‘Do you play dice, Baldock?’ He fished in his pouch and took out two of his genuine dice.

The change in the ostler’s face was wonderful to behold. Such a woebegone expression, anyone would have thought he had been threatened with a hanging.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ranulf purred. He pointed down to the piece of level ground. ‘Throw the dice!’

Baldock was about to refuse.

‘I am a royal clerk,’ Ranulf told him softly.

Baldock’s lower lip jutted out stubbornly.

‘Go on!’ Ranulf urged. ‘Look!’ He fished out a penny and threw it at Baldock, who deftly caught it. ‘For the love of God, man, throw the dice. I am paying you to!’

Baldock finally took the dice and crouched down.

‘You’ll see why,’ he grumbled. ‘You’ll see why and leave me alone.’

He let the two white polished dice fall. Ranulf blinked.

‘Two ones!’ he exclaimed. ‘Throw them again, Baldock!’

The young ostler heaved a sigh but obeyed.

‘Two ones! I don’t believe this! Again!’

This time it was a one and a two. Baldock picked up the dice and thrust them back into Ranulf’s hands.

‘I didn’t tell you my full name,’ he confessed. ‘Unlucky Baldock!’

‘No, no.’ Ranulf, intrigued, dug into his purse and took out another die heavily weighted to fall on six. ‘Go on, Unlucky Baldock, I’ll prove you wrong!’

The young ostler blinked. ‘Must I?’

Again another coin exchanged hands. Ranulf watched in fascination; he’d used these dice so many times to fleece an opponent. Baldock rolled the die along the ground until it turned over on the three.

‘It must be the forest floor,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘That’s never happened!’

‘If you think that’s bad,’ Baldock said, ‘have you ever heard me sing?’ His pale face had become flushed, his eyes gleaming with anger. ‘If you really want to make fun of me, I know you’ll go back to the manor and tell people what you saw, then they’ll all jeer and say, “Didn’t you hear him sing?”

Before Ranulf could answer, Baldock opened his mouth.

‘A nut brown maid . . .’

The horses reared and whinnied. Ranulf cursed and dug his heels in, at the same time grasping more firmly the reins of Corbett’s horse. But the more Baldock sang, the greater the horses’ agitation grew. Ranulf had never heard such a terrible sound, whether in tavern brawls, street fights, or from men suffering from the most hideous wounds. Baldock’s voice was indescribable, a harsh grating noise, like a man slowly choking.

‘Stop it!’ Ranulf bellowed. ‘For the love of God, stop it!’

Baldock closed his mouth. Ranulf quietened the horses and the young ostler came over and whispered to both of them. The horses whinnied and relaxed. Baldock fished into his purse and brought out an apple which he cut and fed half to each.