Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (18 page)

‘Oh shut up!’ Ranulf hissed. ‘Go back and wait for me by the bridge. Keep the torch hidden. When you hear me come, lift it.’

Baldock scurried off. Ranulf pulled down the collar of his stiff white cambric shirt and looked up at the window where a night-light glowed. He prided himself on his reading and self-education and knew all about the troubadours of France: the chanteurs, the minstrel men who recited poetry beneath their lady’s window and then left their poem pinned to the door. Ranulf had spent all afternoon preparing for this. A night of mystery! Of outpoured passion! He would not disturb this young woman who had smitten his heart so deeply, but would be the perfect, gentil knight, the chevalier of love. Alicia was no tavern wench but his lady in the tower to be courted, praised, flattered. Ranulf closed his eyes. The sweet smell of blossom on a cool breeze wafted across his hot face. He was alone under the stars. All thoughts of priesthood, of preferment at court or in the Chancery had now disappeared.

He loosened his pouch and took out the love poem. It was too dark to read but he knew the lines by heart. He moved one foot forward like he had seen the minstrel men do.

Eyes on the window, one hand on his heart, Ranulf began his poem:

He felt a touch on his arm.

‘Good evening, Master Ranulf.’

He whirled round.

Alicia Verlian, wrapped in a dark cloak, looking as lovely as the night, stood looking up at him.

‘Love by moonlight, eh Ranulf?’

His manservant sat on the edge of the cot bed and gazed dreamily back. Corbett undid his sword belt and threw it on the floor.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he warned. ‘You shouldn’t have left! I need you at my back and you shouldn’t be alone when de Craon’s around.’

‘I had Baldock.’

‘Ah yes, the ubiquitous, if not inquisitive, Baldock.’

Corbett sat on the bed resting against the wall. He had met the ostler just before they had left Ashdown Hall and was secretly impressed by the young man. Indeed, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Maltote, not so much in looks but in manner and attitude. Already he revered Ranulf, was his willing accomplice in mischief, while, by the way he handled their horses, he was an accomplished rider and groom.

‘Will you take him, master? Fitzalan intends to pension off most retainers by Yuletide. I think he’ll remove every sign of his brother from that manor!’

‘Is Baldock honest?’

‘As I am, master.’

Corbett laughed. ‘And the love of your life?’

Corbett was secretly alarmed by the faraway look in Ranulf’s eyes. He wondered whether it was the wine or the secret amour in the dead of night. Corbett had seen many a man smitten, had felt the pangs of love himself, but always thought Ranulf was different. Now he mentally beat his breast and said, ‘
Mea culpa, mea culpa
.’ He was arrogant to consider he knew his manservant so well.

‘And you, master?’

Ranulf realised attack was the best form of defence. Corbett had left Ashdown looking like a cat who had stolen both the cream and the cheese, even humming a tune under his breath as they took the forest paths back to the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern.

‘Sir William is in trouble,’ Corbett said. ‘He confessed little but he has given aid and sustenance to Piers Gaveston, supposedly exiled by royal decree from this kingdom. He and his sister have a great deal to answer for.’

Ranulf rubbed his hands. There was nothing like Old Long Face teaching a lesson of humility to arrogant nobles and proud prioresses.

‘But that’s only a flea above our dish,’ Corbett continued. ‘Sir William told me that the corpse of the young woman found in the forest was probably a French whore, an expensive one.’

‘What on earth . . . ?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what she was doing in Ashdown. Sir William also told me that both de Craon and Philip of France were not so much friendly towards Lord Henry as frightened of him. The key to this fear is that sallow-faced physician, Pancius Cantrone, but he has disappeared. Lord Henry and his precious physician! It’s my belief, as well as Sir William’s, that his brother discovered a secret scandal, something which could grievously harm Philip of France. Now, Lord Henry and Philip exchanged letters; England and France are at peace, so there’s no crime in that, but Philip also sent Lord Henry expensive gifts. Sir William showed me some of these: gold crowns, precious goblets, little gewgaws, but, assayed and weighed by some clerk of the Exchequer, it would amount to a small fortune. Now.’ Corbett bit his lower lip. ‘I believe Philip asked for Lord Henry to be sent to France, not only to conduct the negotiations regarding his daughter’s marriage but to buy back, once and for all, this secret.’

‘In exchange for what?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A small fortune.’

‘But wouldn’t that be dangerous? I mean, if Lord Henry visited Paris an accident could happen.’

‘I asked the same of Sir William. He said that Lord Henry, when he travelled abroad, always left Pancius Cantrone in England.’

‘Ah, and he would control the secret?’

‘Yes, but then Sir William confided in me how Lord Henry, in his cups, had intimated that when they reached Rye, he would entrust certain secrets to his brother while Cantrone would be bundled aboard ship and be taken to France.’

Ranulf rubbed his brow. He tried to remove the lovely face of Alicia from his mind as he concentrated on the conundrum his master now posed.

‘It would seem, Ranulf,’ Corbett continued, ‘that Philip of France asked for Lord Henry Fitzalan who wished to finish his private business with Philip once and for all. He would surrender the secret and betray the man who had handed it to him, probably for lands, castles or moveable treasures.’

‘And if anything happened to Lord Henry while he was abroad?’ Ranulf now warmed to the task in hand.

‘Sir William would pass on Lord Henry’s secret instructions to the King.’

‘I suspect so.’

‘But why didn’t Fitzalan tell these secrets to Edward of England?’

Corbett laughed. ‘Our King would demand them to be freely given as a vassal should to his liege lord.’

Corbett looked up at the ceiling beams. He sniffed and caught the different odours from the kitchen below. The tavern was falling silent, save for the odd creak of a stair. Somewhere from the kennel a dog growled softly and, on the night air outside, some drunk bellowed a hymn. A busy yet lonely place, Corbett reflected, ideal for Prince Edward meeting his blood-brother Gaveston.

‘So, why has Cantrone disappeared?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Sir William thinks he may have fled. You see, Sir William was used to being his brother’s principal retainer, travelling here and there which, of course, provided a suitable pretext for escorting Gaveston up and down from the south coast. Now, Sir William’s mind is all a jumble with his brother’s funeral as well as the finger of suspicion being pointed at him. He unwittingly let slip to Cantrone what his brother intended to do at Rye. Apparently Cantrone paled, became very agitated and confused, then withdrew to his chamber. The next day he left for St Hawisia’s priory. Sir William sent a messenger there. The Italian physician apparently treated Sister Fidelis’ swollen knuckles, collected his horse and left but neither hide nor hair has been found of him. He could have fled. He could have been waylaid by outlaws, the Owlman or the assassin.’

‘Or one of de Craon’s lovely boys?’ Ranulf interjected.

‘De Craon may be involved,’ Corbett agreed.

‘He must also be pleased.’

‘Yes and no. Lord Henry is dead. Cantrone may have joined him. However, Lord Henry and Cantrone were the sort of men who would leave this secret somewhere in writing, a surety, a bond for their own safety.’

Corbett pulled across the bulging saddlebags he had taken from the manor, undid the buckles and pulled back the straps. He shook the contents, a roll of vellum and two Books of Hours, out on the bed.

‘Now, because Sir William was eager to please, he handed over a copy of the letters between Lord Henry and King Philip.’

Corbett picked up the roll. Ranulf could see the letters had been stitched together by some clerk.

‘So I quickly went through these. There is very little: greetings, salutations. Nothing that you wouldn’t find in the chancery of every great nobleman of England. I am sure the Earl of Surrey has similar letters between himself and different rulers in Europe.’ He sighed. ‘But I will go through them again.’

‘And the pouches?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett undid the neck of one. ‘I found little in Cantrone’s chamber. Books of herbals, lists of spices, a few tracts on medicines, potions, philtres. I suspect our good physician kept his secrets upon his person.’ Corbett picked up a Book of Hours. ‘Lord Henry bought this recently.’

He handed it to Ranulf who opened the gold-edged prayer book. The pages were of the costliest parchment, clean and supple, the calligraphy exquisite. Each prayer began with a small miniature painting done in breathtaking colours. At the back Lord Henry had written down private notes. Nothing unusual: observations, lists of jewels in his caskets, monies owing to a certain church, nothing that couldn’t be found at the back of any such personal Book of Hours, Corbett’s included.

‘This second one.’ Corbett held up the small, calfskin tome. The cover was frayed, blackened with age, some of the small precious stones clustered in the shape of a cross were chipped, others were missing. ‘Now, Sir William told me that Lord Henry always took this with him.’ Corbett opened the pages, which crackled as he turned them. ‘Again nothing untoward, prayers, alms, readings from the scriptures, the lives of saints, even Saint Hawisia’s mentioned.’

Corbett reached the end, where the blank pages of the folio were covered in black handwriting. Ranulf also noticed what looked like a loose page sticking out, which he tapped with his finger.

‘What is that?’

Corbett leafed back. ‘Ah yes, it’s a devotional painting. Look!’

He handed it over. The painting was small, done on stiffened parchment. A scene from the Old Testament, it showed Susannah being accused of adultery by the elders: a painting often seen on the walls of churches or in Books of Hours such as this. Except here, the eyes of each of the figures had been cut out leaving a small gap.

‘Why should Lord Henry do that?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Deliberately injure a picture, then keep it in this Book of Hours he takes everywhere?’

He stifled a yawn and Corbett looked up. Ranulf’s eyes were now red-rimmed.

‘You’d best go to sleep,’ Corbett told him. ‘Tomorrow’s a busy day. At noon tomorrow I intend to set up my court of enquiry in the nave of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. I have asked Sir William. And he’s eager to please, to provide a small guard and to ensure that certain people are brought to us for questioning.’

‘Not Lady Madeleine?’ Ranulf scoffed.

‘No, she’s too grand for such an occasion and might refuse to come. But the hermit Odo, Brother Cosmas, Robert Verlian.’ Corbett glanced up. ‘And his daughter Alicia. Oh yes, and that strange woman Jocasta, the one they call the witch. It’s best if I examine them there.’

‘Sir William has been most co-operative.’

‘Sir William is terrified,’ Corbett replied. ‘Lest I send you back to Westminster with the story of his doings with Gaveston. But the King’s rage would be futile and I want Sir William where I can see him. He has also given me his word that he will keep a close eye on our good brother in Christ, Seigneur de Craon.’

Ranulf got up and undid his cloak. Corbett turned back to the old Book of Hours. At the front a blank page was filled with childish drawings, short prayers; Corbett recognised that Lord Henry had learned a clerkly hand. Some of the entries were years old, the ink fading to a dull grey. Others, in dark green or red, were of more recent origin. Corbett looked carefully at these. One was a short diary of a journey to France giving the dates when and the places where Lord Henry had stopped. Another, a drawing of a leopard Fitzalan had seen in the Tower of London. There was a list of provisions for the Feast of Fools and the costume Lord Henry designed for the Lord of Misrule. One full page, and Corbett noticed that here the ink was clearer, the writing done in a most clerkly way, told the story of a devout and holy woman called Johanna Capillana. Corbett read this but it was only a list of the woman’s pious deeds, her devotion to the poor, her tending of the sick, her knowledge of herbs.

‘Have you ever heard of a saint called Johanna Capillana?’ Corbett asked.

Ranulf was already lying on the bed, his blanket wrapped round him, his face towards the wall. Corbett smiled and put the book down. He undressed, placed his clothes over a stool, blew out the candles and stared out of the window. The tavern was now silent. He glanced down at Ranulf. Usually the clerk would be snoring his head off.