The Demon Archer

Chapter 13

‘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?’

‘What makes you think she came from Rye?’

‘A good question, taverner: it’s a guess on my part. I believe this mysterious woman had business with Ashdown Manor. There is a strong link between the Fitzalans and the town of Rye so I suspect she came from there.’

The taverner coughed nervously.

‘I wouldn’t lie,’ Ranulf advised him. ‘My master gets into a fair rage with liars. Especially those who waste the time of royal clerks!’

‘It’s true what you say,’ the taverner stammered. ‘A stranger came here. He talked, well, as if he was foreign but he said he was from Rye. He arrived late in the afternoon. He ate and drank in the taproom, hired a chamber and then he left early the following morning, taking his saddlebags with him.’

‘Saddlebags?’ Corbett queried.

‘Small panniers which he slung over his shoulder,’ the taverner explained. ‘In the taproom he acted strangely, keeping the cowl over his head. He didn’t say much, really no more than a whisper. You know how it is, sir, there’s interest in strangers but this one wouldn’t be drawn. He had some chicken pie, a tankard of ale and kept to himself.’

‘Why did he leave his horse?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, sir. But he must have been travelling somewhere nearby, the manor, the church, the priory or some place in the woods.’ The taverner smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘Ah, that’s it, sir! On the morning he left, he was most interested in what hour it was. He ate and drank slowly. Now and again he’d get up and examine the hour candles on either side of the fireplace.’

‘And what time did he leave?’ Corbett asked.

‘I think it must have been an hour before midday. I thought he would return. After all, he’d left his horse, a saddle, some harness though nothing else.’

‘He didn’t rent a chamber for a second night?’

‘No sir, but he said, just before he left, that he might need one that evening but he would settle with me on his return.’

‘And you weren’t curious when he didn’t?’

‘Master clerk, I run a tavern. I do not ask people to come and go. Yes, I kept the horse and harness. I fed that stranger’s mount for a full week then I sold it to a chapman.’

‘And you never thought of alerting Lord Henry or anyone else?’

The taverner just shook his head.

‘I’ll tell you what happened, sir,’ Corbett began. ‘The young man who came here was really a woman in disguise, probably French. She travelled up from Rye for a meeting here in Ashdown. Some time around the hour of eleven, on the day following her arrival, she walked down the trackway leading to Ashdown Manor only to be killed by an arrow to the throat.’

‘And that was the corpse left at St Hawisia’s?’

‘Yes sir, it was.’

The taverner spread his hands beseechingly.

‘Sir Hugh, I didn’t know. Customers often leave. .’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve looked after us well, while the stranger did owe you money for the stabling. You could have been more helpful when I first asked though you can make up for that now. Is there anything else you wish to tell me? Such co-operation will not be forgotten.’

The taverner put his face in his hands.

‘Ashdown,’ he mumbled.

‘What was that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I asked the stranger if he, or she, knew anybody in the area. “Lord Henry” was the reply and that was it. The stranger smiled. I think it was said to impress me or to lull suspicion.’

‘And Lord Henry never came and made enquiries about this mysterious stranger?’

‘Nobody did. I did not know what to do, sir. A stranger comes to my tavern then disappears. What happened if the finger of accusation was pointed at me? True, I sold the horse and harness but what could I do?’

‘Never mind.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘Let him go. Keep the silver I have given you, sir. Buy yourself a tankard of ale.’

After the taverner had left Corbett lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

‘This is a tangled mess, Ranulf. The day is drawing on but I think we should visit Sir William again.’ He felt his body jerk as he relaxed. ‘Do what you want,’ he murmured. ‘But don’t travel far from the tavern.’ He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘I mean that, Ranulf, the assassin can hunt you as well as he can me.’

Corbett lay back down on the bed, his mind drifting back to that murderous assault in the forest. Who could it be? But, there again, as the taverner had said: everyone now knew of him, who he was and where he went. Ruefully, he reflected that the forest trackways of Ashdown were more dangerous than any alleyway or runnel in London. Yet again he tried to separate the threads one from another. Lord Henry was definitely going to betray Cantrone, hand him back to the French, make a settlement once and for all over the secret he held. But what was that secret? And this mysterious stranger? Why did she travel in disguise? Who was she going out to meet? What was she carrying? And those small hair bands? Why should a woman, whose hair was cropped closer than his own, carry them? Or did they belong to the murderer? Or were they just two items totally unrelated to the matter under investigation?

Corbett sighed and rolled over on his side. Tomorrow he would travel to Rye. He would ask the town council if any whore or brothel-keeper had disappeared. But what would that prove?

Corbett’s gaze drifted to the small grille built into the wall to allow air to circulate into the room. Through the grille he could see parts of a tree trunk and, as he moved his head, what he saw was changed, disjointed by the grille. It reminded him of that picture. . Corbett swung himself off the bed so quickly, Ranulf, penning another poem to Alicia, started and cursed.

‘For the love of God, master! I thought you were asleep.’

He watched curiously. Corbett went over to his writing bag, muttering to himself. He took out the Book of Hours given to him by Sir William and opened it at the small parchment picture of Susannah facing her accusers where the eyes of each figure had been cut out. Corbett placed this on the pages at the back of the Book of Hours where Lord Henry had written his own personal memoranda.

‘What are you doing, master?’

‘I knew I had seen this before, Ranulf! What you do is write out something innocent like a letter with vague sentiments or items of gossip. However, if you impose a picture like this, on top of the writing, it picks out a secret message. The problem is, which way up do you place it? And which of these entries contains the cipher?’

Ranulf leaned over Corbett’s shoulder and watched as the clerk applied the picture to each page.

‘No, no, that means nothing.’

Corbett tried again.

‘And the same that way. All we have is a jumble of words which mean nothing.’

‘Are you sure, master?’

Corbett pointed over his shoulder at the grille in the wall.

‘I was lying there, looking through that grille. I was half-dozing when I noticed how the small iron bars twist what you see.’

‘But are you sure Lord Henry would use such a cipher?’

‘It’s possible. It certainly explains why we have a small picture, a scene from the Old Testament, where Lord Henry has carefully removed the eyes of each figure.’

Corbett continued to leaf over the pages, Ranulf went back to his poem. The poetry of the French troubadours had greatly impressed him and now he tried to recall certain lines so he could use them to describe Alicia’s beautiful blue eyes, the line of her face. Across the room Corbett was still muttering to himself.

The afternoon wore on. Corbett asked for candles and rush-lights to be lit. Now and again he would get up and stretch to ease the cramp. Ranulf thought of Alicia. If only Old Master Long Face would go to sleep, Ranulf could slip out. He wasn’t frightened of the forest while a meeting with his loved one removed any fear of attack.

Corbett, however, was now deeply immersed in his studies. When Ranulf had finished his poem he hid it in a small pocket of his doublet. He went down to the stables but Baldock was fast asleep on a bale of straw and Ranulf didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead he walked into the yard and scanned the sky. The sun was now setting, the tavern was quiet and the forest across the pathway seemed more dangerous, more threatening as the shadows lengthened. He heard his master call his name and went back, running up the stairs. Corbett was sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear.

‘I’ve found the secret!’ He held up the Book of Hours. ‘You remember that story about a saint Johanna Capillana?’

‘Yes, the one Lord Henry described in the back of his Book of Hours.’

‘I wager, Ranulf, a firkin of ale against a tun of wine, that there is no saint called Johanna Capillana.’ He opened the Book of Hours and placed the picture against the text.

‘Let me explain, Ranulf. Capillana is vulgar Latin for the head, it also stands for Capet.’

‘The name of the French royal family!’

Corbett tapped a page excitedly. ‘Two years ago Philip’s wife, Johanna of Navarre, died rather suddenly. People thought it was a fever but, if you use Lord Henry’s cipher, the story of Johanna Capillana becomes the story of Johanna Capet, Queen of France.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘A piece of parchment and a pen!’

Corbett opened the Book of Hours. ‘Now, write down the following: “Johanna Capillana, regina occisa, mari, rex interfecit eam, non per gladum, sed vitrio secreto infuso, teste medico suo.”

‘You have that?’

Ranulf nodded.

‘It’s doggerel Latin,’ Corbett explained. ‘Each of these words are framed by a gap in the picture of Susannah and translated. .’

Ranulf whistled under his breath.

‘Johanna Capet,’ he said slowly. ‘The Queen was slain by her husband. The King killed her, not by the sword but by a secret infusion of poison. This was witnessed or known by her doctor.’ Ranulf shook his head. ‘Master, it can’t be?’

‘Clerk of the Green Wax, it can be! If I remember rightly, Gilles Malvoisin was physician to Queen Johanna. I met him on two occasions, a pompous man but a skilled practitioner.’

‘But why should Philip kill his own wife?’

‘I don’t know. But he has a lawyer, a member of his secret council called Pierre Dubois, who has written a confidential memorandum in which he urges Philip to extend his power in Europe, not through war but by marriage.’

‘Such as his own daughter Isabella to the Prince of Wales?’

‘Precisely. Philip has three sons betrothed to different princesses whose marriage portions and dowries will strengthen the power of the Capets and extend the borders of France.’

‘Flanders!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘The Count of Flanders has a daughter.’

Corbett tossed the Book of Hours back on the bed.

‘Ranulf, your wits are not as lovelorn as I think. Two years ago Philip invaded Flanders only to be disastrously defeated at Coutrai. It’s possible that our Spider King has designs on a Flemish princess though Edward of England would never allow such a marriage.’

‘So what else?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Philip also has designs on the Templar Order. He has, ever since he came to the throne. You’ve met the Templars, Ranulf: a powerful order of fighting monks. More importantly, the Templars are bankers with houses throughout Europe. Their wealth in France alone totals more than all the receipts of the royal exchequer. Now, a few months ago, there were rumours that Philip himself had applied, as a bachelor, to join the Templar Order.’ He glimpsed the puzzlement in Ranulf’s eyes. ‘Can’t you see the path he’s treading? Philip becomes a Templar, a fighting monk, dedicated to chastity. It harks back to his saintly ancestor Louis. How Europe would marvel at Philip Capet, king, Christian, warrior and monk. Yet that would only be the beginning of it. If the Templars accepted Philip, I would wager a gold crown that, within two years, he would be Grand Master of the Order.’

Corbett sat back on the bed.

‘Can’t you imagine it, Ranulf? Philip would not only be King of France but master of an order which spans Europe, from the cold wastes of Norway to the oases of North Africa. From Spain across the Middle Sea to Greece and Syria. He’d have access to their wealth, their power, their knowledge. Philip had everything to gain and nothing to lose by the removal of a wife who had served her days and purpose.’

‘And her murder is the secret Lord Henry knew?’

‘Yes, Ranulf. Pancius Cantrone was once an associate of Malvoisin the royal physician. Malvoisin died in a boating accident. He was probably murdered because of what he knew. Cantrone fled. Lord Henry provided protection, Cantrone revealed his secret and our sly lord hinted to Philip of France what he knew.’

‘In other words Lord Henry was blackmailing him?’

‘Yes he was: a few gifts, trinkets, but eventually Lord Henry demanded payment in full.’

‘That’s why Philip of France asked for him to lead the English embassy to France?’

‘Of course. Lord Henry would go there for the betrothal negotiations. He would receive some lavish reward in return for which he would give up his secret.’

‘And poor Pancius Cantrone?’

‘Cantrone was to be drugged, bundled aboard a ship and handed over to French officials. Our King could not object. Cantrone was not one of his subjects. Lord Henry would have some suitable story prepared to account for his actions. Amaury de Craon was sent to England, not only to conclude these marriage negotiations but to bring Lord Henry back and ensure he fulfilled his bargain.’

‘And what sort of reward would Lord Henry be looking for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘Possibly bullion. Whatever, Lord Henry would become one of the richest men in the kingdom. Philip would have silenced Cantrone and the murder of his wife would remain his secret, allowing him to pursue his nefarious designs.’

Ranulf pulled his stool closer. ‘But that’s dangerous, master.’

‘Yes, I know what you are saying,’ Corbett mused. ‘But let’s keep to the main line of our argument. I think Lord Henry knew that Sir William had helped Gaveston, that’s why they quarrelled. Lord Henry did not want anything to occur which might prevent him travelling to France with de Craon. Now, let’s address the problem you’ve raised, Ranulf.’ He tapped the Book of Hours. ‘This is only a story, a rumour, a scurrilous allegation. Philip could reject it out of hand. Secondly, Lord Henry must have realised that travelling into the spider’s web was highly dangerous. Which means what, Ranulf? How would Lord Henry protect himself in France?’