The Demon Archer

Chapter 10

Corbett rose from his stool. ‘Brother Cosmas, I thank you for your help. Sir William’s soldiers will be arriving soon. .’

‘Master!’

Corbett felt Ranulf touch his sleeve. If Alicia’s face was red with anger, Ranulf’s was white. He was gnawing the corner of his lips, his fingers tapping the dagger in his belt.

‘Master, a word with you?’

Corbett bowed coolly to the rest and followed Ranulf out of the sanctuary to a small side chapel dominated by a large statue of the Virgin and Child. Ranulf thrust his face close to Corbett.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Your brain clatters and turns like a wheel of a busy mill. I may be your servant but I am also a Clerk of the Green Wax: the King’s commission bears my name.’

Corbett went round him and, taking a taper, lit one of the small night-lights on the iron rail which ran beneath the statue of the Virgin.

‘One for Maeve,’ he murmured. He took another. ‘One for baby Eleanor! One for my unborn child.’ He took a fourth and put a coin in the box which, he noticed with some amusement, was cemented into the floor near the statue. ‘And one for my lovelorn Ranulf!’

‘I do not think it’s amusing, Sir Hugh!’

‘Murder never is, Ranulf. I didn’t tell you because I knew.’ He came back to his clerk. ‘I knew,’ he continued, lowering his voice, ‘what you would do. But, yes, I sat in the taproom this morning. I thought about Verlian, the hunt, his later flight. It’s a matter of logic, Ranulf. Sometimes, God forgive me, love and logic clash. I am no threat to you or to Alicia. But murder is murder. The King’s law is the King’s law. Justice must be done: that’s why you are a Clerk of the Green Wax, to enforce that. Otherwise we are no better than the animals in the forest where only the swiftest and most powerful survive.’

‘Lord Henry was powerful.’

‘And, Ranulf, Lord Henry was vulnerable. Think about it. If a great lord can be cut down with impunity, no matter what he was, or what he did, then no one is safe. You know that, be he a lord in his manor or a clerk on the streets of Oxford.’

Ranulf smiled ruefully.

‘But you do not think Alicia is the assassin?’

‘I’ll be honest, Ranulf, I don’t know.’ Corbett ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘She hated the Lord Henry. She was in the forest when he died. She was riding a horse. She carried a bow and quiver in the use of which she is skilled. Finally, there are no witnesses to where she was or what she did. So, like it or not, at this stage of the hunt, Mistress Alice is much suspected but nothing is proved.’

He looked over his shoulder; Brother Cosmas was now standing over the verderer and his daughter. Corbett gently pushed Ranulf deeper into the shadows of the side chapel.

‘There’s more to this forest and its people than meets the eye.’

‘Such as?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Use your logic, Ranulf. You’ve been through Ashdown Forest and what did you see? I know,’ Corbett held a hand up. ‘Miles and miles of trees and dark lanes, swamps and marshes. You could hide an army there and no one would know. Really the forest is like a deserted street, long and dark, houses on either side. Despite the dark tunnel which runs between them, the inhabitants of those houses know when someone goes along that street, particularly if it’s time and again.’

‘And?’ Ranulf asked.

‘The same is true of the forest. There may be trees as far as the eye can see but remember, Ranulf, what it was like? The dark, tangled undergrowth; those light green patches which may be marshes or swamp. Now, when you walk through a forest you are forced, whether you like it or not, to stumble through the undergrowth, crashing about like a wounded boar and blundering into God knows what danger, as well as being seen and heard by anyone who may be passing.’

‘Or,’ Ranulf intervened quickly, ‘you will seek certain paths and trackways where, again, you are likely to be seen or heard.’

‘Now there speaks a good and studious observer. So, let’s return to the questioning and, if you can, my noble Galahad, my knight of the moonlight, curb your passion and use your mind.’

Corbett left the side chapel and walked back into the sanctuary. Ranulf sighed, fished a coin from his purse which he put in the box, and lit a candle.

‘And that’s for Master Long Face,’ he muttered. ‘And his damnable logic!’

He followed Corbett into the sanctuary, where the clerk had already taken his stool.

‘Master Verlian?’

‘I did not like the way you questioned my daughter, Sir Hugh, or what you implied.’

‘If your daughter is innocent she has nothing to fear. And neither have you. True, my questions may bite.’ He half-smiled at Alicia who was now sitting on the floor, her back resting against a pillar. ‘But your answers are logical and you do not have the eyes of a murderer.’

Now Ranulf smiled to hide his anxiety. If they had been alone, he would have asked his master what the eyes of an assassin looked like, bearing in mind some of the sweet-faced villains they had crossed swords with over the years. When he caught the pleading look in the young woman’s eyes he glanced away. Did she have anything to hide?

Corbett, however, was now rubbing the side of his face, a sure sign that his sharp brain was hunting an idea.

‘You have questions for me, clerk?’ Verlian asked.

‘Yes, it’s not about Lord Henry’s murder. It’s about the forest. You know it well?’

‘As well as my child’s face.’

‘You are a skilled huntsman?’

Verlian shrugged. ‘Lord Henry said as much.’

‘You can track a deer?’

‘I can track anything which walks the face of God’s earth,’ Verlian replied proudly. ‘Be it man or beast.’

‘And your companions, the huntsmen and verderers, are people who live in and use the forest?’

‘Some are very good. Others have got a great deal to learn.’

‘So, what about the outlaws?’ Corbett asked abruptly.

Verlian looked guardedly at him.

‘The wolfs-heads, the outlaws?’ Corbett insisted.

‘Many of them don’t survive. They flee from the towns and villages. They do not last long in the forest. I have discovered many a corpse frozen in a snowdrift or the edge of some swamp. I’ve even found those who’ve hanged themselves, their wits disturbed. If they have any sense they do not stay long but travel on to another town.’

‘And the rest? Those who do stay? The peasants who kill the deer? Or who’ve fled a cruel lord?’

‘We leave them alone and they leave us. And we turn a blind eye to the little things they take.’

‘So, you do see them?’

Verlian nodded. ‘If they don’t interfere with us, as I have said, we don’t interfere with them.’

‘I can say the same,’ Brother Cosmas interrupted.

‘Ah yes, I was going to ask you that.’ Corbett smiled at the Franciscan. ‘You live here, Brother. You describe Ashdown as your parish. You must know all the forest people, as well as those poor unfortunates who have to flee?’

‘That’s true,’ the Franciscan replied proudly. ‘I am a friar, not one of the King’s officers. If a man snares a hare to put in his family pot, why should I object?’

‘And Mistress Alicia here? You who ride through the forest armed with bow and arrow?’

‘My father has answered for me. What are you implying, clerk?’

‘My name is Sir Hugh Corbett.’

Alicia shrugged her shoulders prettily.

‘I’d call you all lords of the forest,’ Corbett said humorously. ‘You probably know its pathways and trackways better than Lord Henry ever did. Nevertheless, that puzzles me because, in the forest, we have the Owlman, an outlaw different from the rest. Indeed, he intrigues me. When I was sitting in the taproom this morning I thought about him. He is an outlaw who does not prey on travellers, at least, there’s no proof that he does. He does not hunt the King’s venison. Indeed, his only quarrel seems with the Fitzalan family. He sends them threatening messages tied to a yard shaft but no one ever sees him! No one ever hears him! No one even knows what he looks like.’

He glimpsed the puzzlement in Verlian’s eyes, glanced quickly at Alicia then swiftly up at the friar. Brother Cosmas had turned away as if distracted by the candle spluttering on the altar. Corbett got to his feet.

‘Now this is truly a conundrum.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ Verlian declared. ‘It’s now autumn and the Owlman has been in this forest since spring. I have never seen anything suspicious nor have any of my verderers or huntsmen.’

‘Are you saying that he’s someone else?’ Alicia asked.

‘That’s one possibility,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He might even be one of you three. But, I tell you this. .’

‘Sir Hugh! Sir Hugh Corbett!’

Ranulf went to the mouth of the rood screen. The door of the church was flung open and archers wearing the Fitzalan livery stood in the entrance, a woman behind them. She had her arm round someone’s shoulder. Ranulf couldn’t see clearly because the figure was cloaked and cowled.

‘Ah, our guests have arrived.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Brother Cosmas, if you could help us?’

‘And you will reach your conclusions, clerk?’

‘In time, but, if I could use that as my desk?’ Corbett pointed to the offertory table.

Brother Cosmas helped Corbett and Ranulf move the table and place it at the top of the nave. He then brought benches from the transepts and a stool for himself. Corbett made himself comfortable. Ranulf opened his writing bag and laid out his sheaf of parchments, an ink pot carefully sealed and a velvet pouch of ready-sharpened quills.

‘Who have you there?’ Corbett called.

The archers shuffled their feet.

‘The woman Jocasta, her daughter and the hermit who calls himself Odo.’

‘I would be grateful if you would bring Jocasta forward. No, no!’ Corbett got to his feet and leaned over the table. ‘You stay in the porch, Brother Cosmas. Bring another bench for the lady to sit on.’

Ranulf was already writing down the woman’s name and that of her daughter Blanche according to Chancery regulations.

Jocasta took her seat on the bench opposite him, one arm round her slack-jawed, wary-eyed daughter. Corbett quietly cursed the poor light. Jocasta’s face was hidden in the shadow yet there was strength in those high cheekbones, the sharp, slightly slanted eyes, the strong mouth and firm chin. Her black hair was unveiled and slightly tinged with grey. Corbett noticed the strong fingers and clean nails. The woman wore a dark-brown smock; a silver chain with a small gold crescent moon hung round her thick brown neck.

‘You are the woman Jocasta?’

‘And who are you?’ The voice was low and throaty.

‘You know who I am, mistress: Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk, and Ranulf-atte-Newgate. .’

‘By what authority am I brought here?’ she interrupted. ‘Am I on trial?’

Corbett took the King’s commission from his pouch and spread it out on the table.

‘You are not on trial, mistress, but I have the right to question you as my commission attests.’

‘I cannot read, clerk, but I know letters bearing seals are important.’ She glanced at Brother Cosmas. ‘Good morrow, priest.’

‘Good morrow, Jocasta. It is good to see you here at last.’

Ranulf’s pen was moving across the page; when its tip broke, he quietly cursed, took another one out and dipped it in the ink pot.

‘You are not one of Brother Cosmas’ parishioners?’

‘She is most welcome here,’ the Franciscan interrupted.

‘I do not come to St Oswald’s,’ Jocasta replied sharply, her arm protectively round her daughter. ‘They say,’ she closed her eyes, ‘this is the House of God and the Gate of Heaven: a terrible place.’

‘Why do you not come?’

‘I am unworthy and my daughter becomes frightened.’

‘Is that the truth?’

‘Do you know any different, clerk?’

‘They say you are a witch.’

‘Who do?’

‘So, you don’t deny it?’

‘Don’t play words with me, clerk!’

Corbett raised his head. ‘I am sorry, mistress. I tease rather than question. Let me begin again. Why do you not come to church?’

‘I have led an unworthy life. My daughter is witless so I keep her away from others who might point the finger.’

‘And these gossips who say you are a witch?’

‘They are liars, as Brother Cosmas will attest. I know cures, I can distil potions, fashion a poultice, but I am no witch. I don’t dig up the mandrake root or pay bloody sacrifice to the midnight moon.’

‘So, why do you live in Ashdown?’

‘It’s the place I call home.’ The woman sighed; she whispered softly into her daughter’s ear and withdrew her arm. ‘You’ve kind eyes, clerk, no malice in them. You are here because of Lord Henry’s death, yes? Well, I shall tell you about Lord Henry. He is the father of this child.’ She ignored the Franciscan’s gasp of astonishment. ‘Oh yes, Lord Henry in his youth was known the length and breadth of the Cinque Ports, not a brothel or house of whores was left untouched by his presence. In my youth I played the role of a Magdalene.’ She half-smiled. ‘Before that great saint’s conversion. I have Spanish blood in me. I was married to a sailor, who got himself killed in a tavern brawl. The captain would not let me back on board, not even after I had favoured him with my body. So I became a streetwalker, a whore in the town of Rye. In my youth, clerk, I was considered beautiful.’

‘I would say the same now,’ Corbett commented. He caught the glint of amusement in Jocasta’s eyes.

‘Golden-tongued, eh clerk?’ She lowered her head, placing her hands in her lap. ‘Lord Henry Fitzalan was that. Oh, in many ways he had a soul of steel, locked and closed, with a heart of stone. But, when the fancy took him, he was generous with his praise and lavish with his purse. He came tripping into Rye. And bought my favours.’ She nodded at her daughter. ‘I was still unskilled. I became pregnant. Some kindly sisters took me in, not like the high-stepping ladies at St Hawisia’s!’

‘You’ve been to the priory?’ Corbett broke in.

‘Just once to ask for help. I swore never again.’

‘What help?’

‘Clothing and food for my daughter.’

‘Lady Madeleine,’ Cosmas said quietly, ‘is not known for her charity.’

‘And eventually you settled in Ashdown?’ Corbett asked.

‘I brought the child with me. At first, Lord Henry wouldn’t believe me but I took a great oath. Blanche.’ She stroked her daughter’s silvery-white hair.

Corbett looked pityingly at the child: the vacant eyes, the drooling mouth, the look of a frightened rabbit as she crouched next to her mother.

‘Blanche was born witless. God’s judgement against me. But, Lord Henry studied her; he believed me. He provided a cottage and a small pension.’

‘And he came to visit you?’

‘Sometimes.’ Jocasta’s gaze shifted. ‘Lord Henry was a man of fleshly desires. He did not lie with me but, how can I put it, clerk?’ She lifted her hands. ‘Sometimes I acted the whore for him.’

‘Did you hate him?’

Jocasta glanced behind Corbett, studying the crude, wooden cross on the altar. Her gaze moved to where Verlian and his daughter still sat, heads together, at the far side of the sanctuary.

‘Did you hate Lord Henry?’ Corbett repeated.

‘I felt nothing for him, clerk. Nothing but a terrible coldness. Age had not bettered him. A ruthless man, deeply in love with himself. There was no room in his heart or soul for anyone else, be it brother, sister, former lover or misbegotten bastard daughter.’ She put an arm round Blanche’s shoulders. ‘Never once did he touch his own flesh like a father would. Oh, I heard what they said about the Fitzalans, they come from the devil and to the devil they can go!’

‘Did you send him there?’ Ranulf asked.

Jocasta studied him intently. ‘Now, there’s a bold-eyed bully-boy,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Are you Corbett’s sword?’

‘I am a clerk like him.’

‘And an ambitious one too,’ Jocasta noted. ‘I did not kill Lord Henry.’

‘How did you learn of his death?’ Ranulf asked.

‘The same gossips, who say I am a witch, chatter constantly. I met a packman coming from the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern. He had hurt his shin and came for a poultice. It must have been a few hours after Lord Henry’s corpse had been removed from Savernake Dell.’

‘Do you have a bow and arrow, mistress?’

‘Why, yes I do. An old one and two quivers full of shafts, a gift from Lord Henry. Yes, clerk, I can use them with good effect. I have hunted when Lord Henry permitted it. Moreover, not everyone who passes through Ashdown is a courtly clerk or charming courtier.’

‘Do you have a horse?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No, I do not.’

‘And you know most people in the forest?’ Corbett insisted.

‘I know them and they know me. Verlian the verderer who now shelters here. He fled to my house. I told him to come here. Brother Cosmas, however, is the only man in the forest who would stand up to the power of the Fitzalans.’

‘Have you ever seen the Owlman?’ Corbett asked. ‘This outlaw who wages such a strange war upon the Fitzalans?’

‘I think so, once.’

‘You’ve actually seen him?’

‘I think so.’ Her gaze shifted to Brother Cosmas. ‘His face was masked, a sheet of leather with gaps cut for the eyes and mouth.’

‘Was he on horseback?’ Corbett asked.

Jocasta shook her head. ‘He wore a grey cloak, fastened at the back. I remember the texture was stained and dirty, but it looked of good quality. I was near Ferndown Brook. It’s a small rivulet, deep in the forest. I was collecting herbs. Blanche was sitting on a tree trunk some yards behind. I was by the brook, washing the plants I’d dug up, when suddenly this figure came out of the undergrowth and crouched by the brook. He was singing to himself, filling the waterskin he carried. I froze. He didn’t know I was there and then Blanche called out. He glanced up and left as quietly as he came.’

‘And he never saw you?’

Jocasta shook her head and demonstrated with her hand.

‘He was here on one side of the brook, I was crouching down on the other side beside some bushes. He wouldn’t have seen me.’ She plucked at her own threadbare green cloak. ‘In a way I was like some animal in the forest: I wore no bright clothes.’

‘What makes you think he was the Owlman?’

She laughed. ‘I’ve told you, clerk. Everyone in Ashdown knows everybody else. The other outlaws? Well, they blunder about dressed in rags. He was different. He moved with a purpose.’

‘Describe him,’ Corbett demanded.

‘I’ve told you. A deerskin mask, a hood, a grey cloak. I glimpsed a quiver of arrows and a long yew bow slung across his back.’

‘Was he old or young?’

‘Sir, I’m no witch.’

Corbett smiled. ‘But if you were on oath?’

‘I would say he was about your age. He moved with ease, quietly.’

‘What was he humming?’ Corbett asked.

‘Sir, I’m no witch nor am I skilled in music but it was no tavern tune. More a hymn you’d sing in church. I wouldn’t swear to it but some of the words were Latin.’

‘A dangerous thing to do,’ Ranulf said.

‘He thought he was alone,’ Jocasta reminded him. ‘Ferndown Brook is well off the beaten track. It was late in the afternoon. I wager he thought he was safe.’

‘And the morning Lord Henry died?’ Corbett asked. ‘Did you see anything in the forest? Anything untoward?’

Jocasta shook her head. ‘I knew, when I was brought here by Sir William’s soldiers, that I would have to answer questions. I am not on oath, clerk, but you can put me on it. I have told you what I know. There is nothing else to say but I tell you this.’ She rose to her feet. ‘You are sharp-eyed, keen-witted men. You’ll dig deep in Ashdown’s dirt. Remember this: whoever killed Lord Henry knew these forests well. Someone who knows its secret ways and hidden paths.’

‘And have you any suspicions?’ Corbett asked.

‘I am unlettered, clerk, but, at the end of the day, who profited most from Lord Henry’s death? Are you finished?’

Corbett opened his purse and brought out two silver coins. Jocasta looked as if she was about to refuse.

‘I take no favours, clerk.’

Corbett got to his feet. He took off his tunic, and undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing the dark purple scar high on his chest where the crossbow bolt had struck. Jocasta came and peered closely, her fingers pressing the healed scar.

‘The skin is clean,’ she said. ‘But does it hurt?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘An arrow wound.’

Corbett looked into her beautiful eyes, dark with a quiet sense of humour. She smelt fragrantly of lavender and something sharper but not unpleasant. She pressed the scar with her fingers again. Corbett winced.

‘You will feel sore,’ Jocasta declared. ‘This part of your body,’ she tapped his chest, ‘is protected by muscle and bone. The wound to the flesh soon heals, but the bone beneath. .’ She stepped back and took the silver coins from Corbett’s outstretched hand. ‘They will take months to heal properly. Even then, clerk, till the day you die, there’ll be twinges, small stabs of pain; these, like the other blows of life, you will have to accept.’

Corbett smiled his thanks, buttoned up his shirt and put his tunic back on.

‘Master,’ Ranulf said as Jocasta led Blanche back down towards the door of the church. ‘There are as good physicians in Sussex as there are in London.’

Corbett fastened the top button of his shirt.

‘It wasn’t my wound,’ he replied. ‘It was the final proof.’

‘Of what?’ Brother Cosmas asked.

‘That she speaks the truth. The best physicians in London have examined my wounds. Isn’t it strange, Brother, she said no differently to them? Now, she could have flattered, or offered some ointment or potion, but she told the truth. I suspect the same applies to everything she has told us.’ He picked up the quill Ranulf had discarded. ‘What she said will have to be sifted,’ he added. ‘Then I will reflect on her words.’

‘She accused Sir William!’ Brother Cosmas added eagerly. ‘Or in so many words.’

‘I’m not sure. But I was interested in her description of the Owlman. Well, let’s see this hermit!’

Ranulf got up from his bench and was halfway down the nave when the door was flung open and Sir William strode in.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett!’ he called out. ‘Come, man! And you, Brother!’

Corbett and Brother Cosmas hurried down the nave. Outside, the small churchyard was full of armed men. Jocasta and Blanche had stopped at the lych-gate and were looking back. Corbett glanced at the waiting soldiers, a ragged, dirty-faced figure, who must be the hermit, between them, but his attention was caught by the corpse which had been laid out on the ground, a threadbare cloak thrown over it. It had been unslung from a sumpter pony whose saddle was covered in slime and mud. Sir William pushed his way through his men, crouched by the body and pulled back the cloak.

‘Pancius Cantrone,’ he explained. ‘Former physician to my brother.’

The cadaver was covered from head to toe in a muddy slime which only worsened the terrible rictus of death, the half-open mouth stained with mud and blood. The eyes stared, the sallow skin was damp and criss-crossed with streaks of dirt; the hair was soaking wet and in the neck gaped a ragged hole full of congealing blood.

‘An arrow wound,’ Ranulf said. He took his dagger out and scraped away the mud.

‘Where was he found?’ Corbett asked.

‘On the edge of a marsh, deep in the forest.’

‘And the arrow?’

‘Plucked out.’

‘By the killer?’

‘It must have been,’ Sir William replied. ‘My huntsman only found it because the body had resurfaced, one boot sticking out of the water.’

Corbett turned the corpse over. Cantrone was still wearing his cloak, his dagger was still in its sheath, but the large wallet and small purse which hung from the belt were unbuckled and empty.

‘And his horse?’

Sir William, crouching on the other side of the corpse, pulled a face.

‘He was riding when he left St Hawisia’s but, of that, there’s no trace.’

‘I suspect the horse was unsaddled,’ Corbett said.

‘The harness was thrown into a marsh and the horse left to graze. It wouldn’t take long for such a valuable animal to be found and hidden away.’

‘It’s the same as the corpse we saw at St Hawisia’s,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘An arrow wound to the throat. His purse and wallet have been rifled.’

‘Amaury de Craon will be pleased,’ Corbett observed, wiping his hands and getting to his feet. ‘Sir William, the good physician, he was your house guest. You will see to honourable burial?’

Sir William nodded.

‘But who can this killer be, Sir Hugh?’

‘I don’t know. This mystery, Sir William, is becoming untangled. However, I have yet to pull a loose thread free. I would be grateful, sir, if you could keep your men out of the church.’ He glanced across to where Jocasta and Blanche were now walking away. ‘Did you know that the poor girl is your brother’s child?’ He glimpsed the astonishment in Sir William’s eyes. ‘We are all sinners, Sir William. As a kindness, I beg you, take good care of them.’

And Corbett walked back into the church, gesturing at Ranulf to bring the hermit in with him.