Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (25 page)

Before Corbett could make a reply, she slammed the door shut in his face. Corbett tied the leather bag to his war belt, eased the strap, pulled his cloak around him and walked across the heathland into the trees, following the path which would lead him down to the trackway and the Devil-in-the-Woods. The day was drawing on. He was distracted by the birdsong, and by crashing in the thicket; he stopped to watch two stoats scurry across the path into the undergrowth on the other side. Now and again he’d pause, looking around to ensure all was well. He felt uncomfortable and, once again, realised he had made a mistake.

‘You never think, Hugh!’ Maeve had scolded. ‘You’re that busy, lost in your own thoughts, you wander into danger and don’t realise it! Please!’ She had grasped his face between her hands. ‘Promise me you’ll never be alone!’

Corbett drew a deep breath.

‘God forgive me, Maeve!’

The birdsong had fallen silent, or was that his imagination? He undid his war belt, as the jars were weighing heavy, and re-hitched it tighter. Holding the leather bag in one hand, his dagger in the other, Corbett walked on quickly. The forest reminded him of the heavy wooded valleys of Wales. He recalled the advice of a master bowman, a scout responsible for leading the King’s troops.

‘Remember,’ he had warned. ‘Look to your left and your right. Ignore your imaginings. Listen to the sounds of the forest. If you hear anything strange, move faster, never stand still. A running man is much harder to hit.’

Corbett walked quickly. He felt a pang of pain high in his chest from the wound he had received in Oxford. Memories flooded back. He controlled his panic, listening carefully, watching the trees on either side. A bird broke free from the branches crying in alarm. Corbett again quickened his pace. A twig snapped to his right. Something hit the trackway as if a stone had been thrown. Corbett didn’t wait any longer but, body hunched, head down, he broke into a run; moving from side to side, he felt the arrow whistle by his face. He was tempted to stop, throw himself down. The assassin must be somewhere to his right so, leaving the trackway, he plunged into the undergrowth, using the trees as a barrier. He thought he was free but then an arrow thudded into a tree; it quivered with such force, the assassin must be close. Corbett ran on. He tried not to move in a straight line. Branches caught his face, nettles and briars stung his legs. He stumbled and this probably saved his life as another shaft went whirring above his head. Corbett glanced to his right. He must keep the trackway in sight, he must not become lost.

He dropped the leather sack and ran, the pain in his neck intense. He found it hard to breathe. At last he was forced to stop; leaning against a tree, coughing and retching, Corbett scanned the woods and behind him. He could see no sign of the assassin. He looked at his scarred hands, took the gloves from a small pouch in his cloak and put them on. Then he pushed through the undergrowth, back on to the trackway, sure he had left the assassin behind. Whoever it was must have realised pursuit was too dangerous. Ahead of him Corbett heard the creak of a cart. He unhitched his cloak, ignoring the stabs of pain in his belly and the soreness where the branches had caught his skin, and stumbled on, round a corner to the crossroads. The carter, a peasant with his family in the back, gaped in surprise as Corbett grabbed the side of his cart.

‘Don’t worry!’ Corbett gasped. ‘I am Sir William Fitzalan’s guest, a royal clerk.’

The man continued to register amazement.

‘The Devil-in-the-Woods tavern?’

The man nodded his head. Corbett took a coin out of his purse and pushed it into the man’s callused hand.

‘Take me there!’

Without waiting for an answer, Corbett climbed up beside the driver. He smiled reassuringly at the family, a mother and four children, staring owl-like at him. The farmer snapped the reins.

‘The Devil-in-the-Woods you want, sir, then the Devil-in-the-Woods it will be. But, by the looks of you, it seems you’ve already met the devil!’

Corbett relaxed as the farmer, loudly chuckling over his own joke, urged his horse on. Corbett glanced over his shoulder into the green darkness. He quietly vowed that he would use all his power and skill to bring his demon to justice.

‘So, you found nothing?’ Corbett asked, dabbing his face with the salted water the taverner had given him.

Ranulf, seated on his bed, shook his head.

‘Nothing untoward, no sign of any hidden weapons.’

‘But could Sir William have gone round the other side of Savernake Dell?’ Corbett persisted. ‘Taken a hidden bow and a quiver of arrows then killed his brother?’

‘It’s possible.’ Ranulf was secretly wondering how he could explain the sudden brutal attack on his master to Lady Maeve. ‘It would only take a short while, a few minutes.’

Corbett winced as he dabbed at his face again.

‘Do not tell Lady Maeve what happened.’

Ranulf lifted one hand. ‘Oh, on that master, you have my word!’

‘So.’ Corbett ate a few mouthfuls of rabbit stew a pot boy had brought up and sipped from a blackjack of ale.

‘Chapter and verse, Ranulf, what do we have?’

‘First, Lord Henry was murdered by an arrow to the heart. The culprits could include his brother, the Owlman who we now know to be the hermit Odo, Brother Cosmas, Robert Verlian and, yes master, even Alicia.’

Corbett smiled at the soft glow in Ranulf’s eyes. ‘We could include,’ he continued, ‘the woman Jocasta or an assassin, paid by any of the people we have mentioned. Nor must we forget Seigneur Amaury de Craon.’

‘Or the Lady Madeleine,’ Corbett added.

‘I don’t think that’s possible.’

‘She could have left her convent,’ Corbett pointed out. ‘Gone to one of the hollowed oaks, taken out a bow and an arrow and shot her brother dead.’

‘But why?’ Ranulf asked. ‘What grudge did she have against her brother? Alive or dead he meant nothing to her. And the other deaths? Moreover, I can’t imagine Lady Madeleine riding through the forest, shooting an arrow and hurrying back to her convent walls. She would be fairly distinctive in a nun’s gown. Finally . . .’

Corbett lowered his blackjack of ale. Ranulf smiled in triumph.

‘All good archers are right-handed. You know that. A left-handed archer is always clumsy. Remember poor Maltote? He couldn’t pick a bow up without hurting himself. When we were in the priory I noticed Lady Madeleine was left-handed, the way she held a quill.’

Corbett agreed.

‘What else do we have, Ranulf?’

‘We have the murder of that young woman, killed by an arrow to the throat. If your conclusion is right, she travelled to Ashdown as a man which was why her corpse was stripped. The clothes probably lie at the bottom of some swamp. Did you find anything?’

Corbett took out from his wallet the two pieces of fabric he had found.

‘These, they’re braided cloth loops.’

He handed them to Ranulf who went to the window to get a better view, holding each up as if it were a coin.

‘They are small fillets,’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Hair bands. Lady Maeve uses the same to braid her hair at the back. She slips it through similar ones to keep the plaiting tight.’

‘But the corpse had short hair,’ Corbett mused. ‘Cropped and close like that of a man? I wonder who she was? I must have words with our taverner. Go on, Ranulf.’

‘The Italian physician Pancius Cantrone, also killed by an arrow to the throat. He was coming from St Hawisia’s. We know that there was some connection between him, Lord Henry and Amaury de Craon.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Cantrone may have sold or given Lord Henry some great secret which the French were frightened of. Cantrone may have been killed by outlaws, or by one of de Craon’s men to shut his mouth once and for all. Now, we can’t question de Craon. He’ll claim diplomatic status and send a fiery protest up to Westminster. In the end, Ranulf, we have three murders. Are they separate or are they connected? Is it one assassin, two or even three? Lord Henry’s is simple. Everybody hated him. But Cantrone, and that of our mysterious young woman, we cannot fit them into the puzzle.’

‘Did you believe the hermit Odo?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes and no. He and Cosmas are still waters which run deep. On the one hand they are priests, basically good men. However, both of them, Odo in particular, nourish deep grievances against the Fitzalans.’

He paused at a knock on the door and Baldock shambled into the room.

‘You always wait for Sir Hugh to call you in!’ Ranulf told him.

Baldock grinned and shuffled his feet.

Corbett studied the young ostler from head to toe. He had attempted to make himself clean, patting down his hair with water, washing his hands and face, though as a result he had simply pushed the dirt up around his ears.

‘What’s your first name?’

‘Baldock, sir. I’ve only got one name, Baldock.’ He thrust the piece of parchment into Corbett’s hand. ‘My letter of release, sir.’

‘For God’s sake, stand still!’ Corbett demanded.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m just excited.’

‘Ranulf here tells me you are skilled at throwing a knife. And even better with horses?’

‘I sleep with them, sir.’

Corbett glanced warningly at Ranulf. He didn’t want his manservant making any quip or joke. Baldock had an innocent face; the cast in one eye gave him a vulnerable, rather innocent look. It was obvious how much the young man wished to join them.

‘Have you ever been in trouble, Baldock?’

‘Never, sir.’

‘Never been taken by an officer of the law?’

‘Ah.’ Baldock shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I’ve done a bit of poaching, sir. Been chased by verderers, more times than I’d like to count. But I’m a good, loyal servant. I’ve never stolen from my master.’

Corbett held his hand out. ‘Go on man, clasp it.’

Baldock did. His grip was warm and strong.

‘Master Baldock, that handshake means everything to me. You are my man in peace and war. You will look after me. I will look after you. You are now an officer of the law, a clerk of the stables. Where I go, you follow. My home is yours. You will answer to Master Ranulf, who will draw up an indenture this evening. You will be paid well. Share our food, carry sword, dagger and a crossbow. You will be given robes, three times a year, payment once a week with special gifts at Easter, Christmas and midsummer. You will never tell anyone what you hear me say. Do you understand?’

Baldock nodded.

‘Good man! Now go to the stables. I want the horses ready for Rye tomorrow morning. We’ll leave before first light.’

Baldock fairly skipped from the room.

‘Oh!’ Corbett shouted after him. ‘And tell the taverner I wish to see him now.’

‘There goes a happy man,’ Ranulf said as Baldock clattered along the passageway and down the stairs. ‘But when you have time, master, you must hear him sing. He’d fair frighten Lady Maeve. I’m pleased he’s joined us,’ he added wistfully. ‘I miss old Maltote. I’m glad I killed his assassins.’

Corbett mopped his face again with a rag. He put it back in the bowl at the knock on the door.

‘Come in!’

The taverner sidled in wiping blood-streaked hands. He stood in the doorway, fearful of this sharp-eyed clerk and what the gossips in the taproom were saying about him.

‘I was in the fleshing-house, sir. You wanted to see me?’

Corbett took a silver piece from his purse and held it out.

‘Go on, take it!’

The taverner wiped his fingers then snatched the coin from Corbett.

‘Do you know,’ Corbett continued, ‘the old proverb: “Always ask the taverner”? Tavern masters have sharp eyes and good memories.’ Corbett gestured at a stool. ‘Sit down, Master Taybois. Do you remember me asking you about a young woman coming here by herself?’

The taverner nodded.

‘I think she did stop here. But she was disguised as a man.’

At this the taverner narrowed his eyes.

‘She must have come here,’ Corbett shuddered inwardly as he recalled the corpse, ‘within the last month, travelling by herself.’

The taverner was now decidedly nervous, rubbing his hands on his apron, swallowing hard.

‘Of course,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘You know full well what I am talking about! Ranulf, we should have this man arrested!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ the taverner protested.

‘You are a horse thief,’ Corbett declared. ‘This woman wasn’t from Ashdown or the local villages. She must have ridden here. Where’s her horse?’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.’

‘I think you do! You know full well what happened. Let me guess. A young man came here. He probably arrived, how far is it from Rye, a few hours? He stabled his horse, had something to eat, stayed overnight, then left the tavern but he never returned. Days turn into weeks and you, master taverner, are left with a horse and harness. Now, do you remember?’