The Demon Archer

Chapter 15

Corbett contemplated the corpse laid out in its Franciscan robe. The coffin was no more than a wooden casket, probably an arrow box; thick, white bandages bulged over the dead man’s chest. These closed the wound, yet death was never presentable: two coins kept Verlian’s eyes closed but the face was sunken, unshaven, the mouth slightly open. The man’s hands lay across his chest clasping a wooden crucifix. Corbett heard the sound of weeping. He went and stood in the entrance in the rood screen of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees from where he saw that Ranulf sat on the bench with Alicia.

The young woman’s grief over her father’s murder was uncontrollable. Her eyes were red-rimmed with crying, her face pallid, her beautiful hair fell into tangles to her shoulders. She sat head forward, hands clasped in her lap. Ranulf had one hand on her shoulder, whispering to her, but she seemed not to listen to what he was saying. Corbett went over and knelt down.

‘Mistress Alicia, I am truly sorry. I am also sad that there’s nothing I can say, or do, to ease your terrible grief.’

‘My father was murdered.’ Alicia brought her head up. ‘He was a good man, clerk. It was so sudden,’ she gasped. ‘We were sitting in the priest’s kitchen. There was a knock on the door. Father went on to the porch, he called out then I heard him fall. I ran out but no one was there, nothing but the forest.’

Corbett patted her gently on the hands before returning to put the lid on the coffin. He glanced across at Brother Cosmas kneeling at the prie-dieu before the Lady Chapel.

‘Why?’ the Franciscan grated, getting to his feet. ‘Why do such murders occur, Corbett? Why didn’t Christ send one of his angels?’

‘You know the reason,’ Corbett said. He pointed to the wall where an artist had drawn a crude but vivid picture of Satan, depicted as a hare, chasing foxes with human faces. The hare had a demonic mask, its long ears were horns, its eyes fiery red and in its sharp claws it carried a net. ‘Christ called Satan the first killer. We are all assassins, Brother. Here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘In our hearts we wish to kill and destroy. Didn’t you ever want to lift a sword, a club against Lord Henry? God forgive me, Brother, but the Frenchman, Amaury de Craon, I would love to finish matters with him! Pay a reckoning which has increased over the years.’ Corbett walked towards the priest. ‘But I tell you this. I am going to take my net and trap this killer. Our only defence, our only protection against these sons of Cain, who put their murderous lusts into action, is the law.’

‘And the justice of God,’ the Franciscan added.

‘Aye and there’s the mystery. God’s justice depends on us. You should pray, Brother.’

‘I always do.’

‘No, you should pray for Verlian and for yourself.’

Brother Cosmas looked puzzled.

‘I don’t believe the killer intended to slay Verlian,’ Corbett explained. ‘I think he intended to kill you!’

The Franciscan’s fingers went to his lips. ‘Jesu miserere!’

‘Think about it, Brother. A knock on the door at night, Verlian answered it. .’

‘Of course, he was dressed in one of my robes! Alicia told me the cowl was up!’

‘The killer didn’t know Verlian was sheltering in your house, that you had gone to see Odo.’

The Franciscan nodded.

‘The assassin would only have a short while, a few seconds. In the poor light Verlian would look like you. An arrow is loosed and so is the poor man’s soul.’

‘So, who could it be? Who would want me dead?’

‘I don’t know yet, brother, though I have a suspicion. And you know the true irony? I think the assassin, even if you had been killed, would have made a mistake. But now I must go.’

Corbett went through the rood screen and saw that Ranulf was still sitting next to Alicia. The young woman was talking softly, earnestly. When Ranulf looked up, Corbett had never seen him look so stricken, no longer the roaring boy, the street fighter, Jack the lad with his sardonic smile. Ranulf looked younger, like a child who has learned a hideous secret.

‘I’ll be at the tavern,’ Corbett told him. ‘When you are ready, join me.’

Corbett nodded to the priest and walked down the church. He collected his horse, still weary and mud-spattered from their hasty ride from Rye, and slung himself into the saddle. As he was about to spur into a gallop riders broke from the trees. Corbett’s hand went to his sword but he reined in as he glimpsed the Fitzalan livery. Sir William rode up, pushing back the hood of his military cloak.

‘I thought you’d gone to Rye, Corbett?’

‘I did. We left there before dawn.’

Sir William nodded at the church.

‘Another killing, poor Verlian.’

‘Aye, poor Verlian.’

Sir William searched Corbett’s face for sarcasm.

‘He was a good verderer, very skilled in forest law.’

‘He was also a good man and a loving father,’ Corbett said.

‘I know. I know,’ Sir William replied testily. ‘I came here last night to pay my respects.’ He shifted in the saddle. ‘Sir clerk, I admit, we Fitzalans have done great harm to that family. I will ensure Verlian gets proper burial.’

‘And his daughter?’ Corbett asked.

‘Why, sir, hasn’t she told you?’ Sir William didn’t wait for an answer. ‘She has a kinswoman, a prioress at Malmesbury. I have agreed to provide Mistress Alicia with a proper dowry. .’

‘She’s to enter a convent!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘She will take vows?’

‘She will enter a convent,’ Sir William affirmed, leaning down and patting his horse’s neck. ‘But whether she takes vows is a matter for her. Last night I swore an oath and my word is good. She will receive a dowry and an annual pension.’

He gathered his reins but Corbett held out a restraining hand.

‘Sir William, why did you leave the hunt the morning your brother was killed?’

‘I’ve told you. My belly was weak, my bowels like water.’

‘No, they weren’t,’ Corbett said, pushing his horse alongside. ‘You drank very little wine the night before, even though it was tainted.’

‘How do you. .!’

‘Never mind! Why did you leave the hunt and go into the trees? Was it to be away from the marksman? The assassin hiding on the other side of the forest dell?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Don’t threaten me, my lord! Tell me this. You Fitzalans are hunters, aren’t you? You were all born to the chase?’

Fitzalan’s anger was replaced by puzzlement.

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘Never mind. Now, if Lord Henry, who drank the tainted wine, could recover, why not his brother?’

‘I’ll tell you, Corbett. On the morning of the hunt there was nothing wrong with my belly or my bowels. But, as I waited in Savernake Dell, my brother threatened me over my help for Gaveston. You didn’t really know the Lord Henry, did you? He was a man who drank deep of power, particularly over other people. If he had the knife in you, he’d turn it until you screamed.’

‘Like he did with the King of France?’

Sir William looked shocked. ‘What? What?’ he stammered.

‘Just tell that to Amaury de Craon,’ Corbett murmured. ‘But you were talking about your brother?’

‘Once I realised he knew about Gaveston,’ Sir William’s shoulders sagged, ‘I knew I would never hear the end of it. Not as long as he lived. I went away, frightened and humiliated, to be sick. I puked like some little boy. I couldn’t stop trembling. Can you imagine it, Corbett, living at the beck and call of someone like Henry?’

‘Is that why Lady Madeleine became a nun?’

‘I confess this, Corbett and, if you ever repeat it, I’ll drive my gauntlet into your face. Madeleine hates men and can you blame her? Years ago, every time Henry had the opportunity, he had his hands up her skirts as if she were some tavern wench.’

Corbett drew back his horse, shocked at what Sir William had told him.

‘So, I bid you adieu, clerk.’

Sir William was about to ride on but Corbett caught the reins. Sir William’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword.

‘Hush, my lord,’ Corbett said. ‘Just remember to tell Seigneur de Craon exactly what I said to you about Henry and his master!’

‘He’ll be gone soon, thank God! He’s away to Eltham for an audience with the King.’

‘And Gaveston?’

‘Why, clerk, I am now a manor lord. The King’s most faithful subject. Gaveston is well beyond the seas.’

Sir William rode on into the small yard in front of the church, his horsemen clustered about him. Deep in thought about what Sir William had said, Corbett dug his spurs in.

Once he had reached the tavern, Corbett went up to his own chamber where he cleared the small table, took out a piece of parchment, quills and pumice stone and wrote down everything he had learned. A scullion brought up a trauncher of food and some ale. Corbett absentmindedly thanked him and went back to his writing.

He listed the names of the victims who had been killed in the forest, all slain by an arrow, then looked up and tapped his quill against his cheek. Somewhere on the edge of the forest a wood pigeon cooed rhythmically time and again. Corbett felt a twinge of pain in his neck and nursed the scar left by the assassin in Oxford. And the secret? Fitzalan’s blackmailing of the French king. Where was the proof? Sir William didn’t know anything about it. Was de Craon involved? He wrote down ‘Pancius Cantrone the Italian physician’, then laughed softly.

Of course there were no hidden manuscripts! Cantrone was the proof! He had been physician to the royal court in France: that’s how the pact was to be sealed! Philip would be only too pleased and pay heavily to have his hands on such a man. Once Cantrone was gone, Lord Henry Fitzalan could say nothing. True, Corbett reflected, Lord Henry might have left some cryptic message with his brother but, ‘Oh, the beauty of it all!’ he murmured. Of course, Philip would have Cantrone but Lord Henry would have gold bullion despatched by Philip’s bankers. The French king would effectively silence Fitzalan: how could an English lord explain to his King how he became so rich at the hands of the French? He might even be accused of treason! It was like a game of chess. Philip and Lord Henry would have checkmated each other.

Corbett heard a sound on the stairs and Ranulf slipped into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, a woebegone expression on his face.

‘I talked to Alicia.’

‘Does she love you?’ Corbett asked. ‘I am sorry to be so abrupt but that’s what it’s all about. Not power, money or influence. Does she love you? For, as the poet says, “What is love if it is not returned?”’

Ranulf put his face in his hands. ‘She doesn’t know,’ he muttered. ‘She cannot say, she will not tell.’ He stamped one foot. ‘But she’s intent on entering a nunnery, a house near Malmesbury, and her mind will not be changed. I asked her why. She said she wants peace, a time to think and reflect.’ He raised tear-filled eyes. ‘But I know, once she enters, she’ll never come out. And when she’s gone I’ve lost her for ever. I didn’t think it would be like this, master. Kiss them and tease them! But this emptiness.’ He got up and walked to the door. ‘I’ll be across the trackway.’ Ranulf didn’t turn his face. ‘You are close to the killer, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘I can see that in your eyes.’

‘Yes, I’m close.’

‘You have the evidence?’

‘No, Ranulf, I don’t. This is going to be a mixture of logic and trickery. I want to go through Fitzalan’s Book of Hours again.’ He paused. ‘Ranulf, where I take you and Baldock, I want your word, no violence.’

‘You have my word, master. No violence.’

Ranulf closed the door. Corbett sighed and turned to his parchment. Again he listed all the victims. All the items he had learned. ‘What is common to all of these?’ he asked himself. ‘What is the single factor which answers each question?’

Corbett scribbled down a name and then, putting the quill down, recalled all that had happened, putting himself into the mind of the assassin, watching that dark shape slip through the trees meting out death without pity or remorse. Killing and killing again for what? Corbett got up and fastened on his war belt.

‘It’s best done now,’ he said out loud to the empty room. ‘If de Craon is returning to Eltham, I must be there when he meets the King!’

Corbett took his cloak, went down the stairs and out into the stable yard shouting for Baldock. They led out Ranulf’s horse and found him sitting on a fallen log across the trackway.

‘It’s time, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, it’s time.’

On reaching St Hawisia’s priory, Corbett was in no mood for the moans and barbed comments of Sister Veronica.

‘I wish to see the lady prioress!’ he demanded. He thrust the King’s commission into her face. ‘And I wish to see her now, alone in the priory church! She’ll know where to meet me.’

The little nun scuttled off, now quite frightened by this grim-faced clerk and his attendants. Corbett walked up the path, through the rose garden and in by a side door. The church was quiet, calm; the air still rich with the smell of incense and beeswax candles after the midday service.

‘Ranulf! Baldock! Stay at the back!’ He grasped Ranulf’s arm. ‘Promise me! You will do nothing!’

When Corbett plucked both Ranulf’s sword and dagger from their sheaths Ranulf didn’t demur and Corbett walked up into the side chapel. He placed both sword and dagger on the great oaken sarcophagus and stared through the tinted, silver-rimmed glass at the beautiful golden hair which lay coiled on its silken couch.

‘Blasphemy and sacrilege!’ he whispered.

The far door opened but Corbett didn’t look up until Lady Madeleine stopped at the tomb before him.

‘You’ve come to venerate our relic, Sir Hugh?’ Her voice was soft.

Corbett glanced up. ‘Why should I do that, Lady Madeleine? Why should I venerate the hair of a whore from the town of Rye?’

Lady Madeleine gripped the tomb more tightly and swayed slightly. Corbett grasped her elbow and took her over to the small stone plinth which ran along the wall.

‘Why do you say that, Sir Hugh?’ Lady Madeleine’s face had paled, her eyes were watchful. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘Lady Madeleine Fitzalan,’ Corbett replied. ‘Daughter of a noble family, half-sister to Lord Henry and Sir William. A woman who was raised in the noble tradition, an accomplished horse-rider, huntress and archer. In your golden days, before life turned sour, you played in Ashdown Forest. You and your brothers came to know these woods better than any of the forest people, particularly Savernake Dell and the hollow oaks.’

Lady Madeleine had her head down, hands resting in her lap.

‘But life changes,’ Corbett continued. ‘As the heart grows older it comes on colder sights. The harshness of age begins to freeze the joy of youth. You grew to hate your brother Henry. And why not? Perhaps you had good cause. A lord who feared neither God nor man. However, the Fitzalans used their influence to make you prioress at St Hawisia’s: this became your castle, your fortress against the world of men. A community of women, devoted to the memory of a woman who had been killed by her own family.’ Corbett paused.

‘Are you going to say I killed my brother?’ Lady Madeleine asked coolly. She lifted her face. Corbett could see she had regained her wits.

‘Yes, you are a murderess,’ he replied. ‘You have the blood of many people on your hands: Lord Henry, Pancius Cantrone, Robert Verlian, as well as the whore Francoise Sourtillon.’

‘And pray, clerk, how did I murder these? And why should I?’

‘You don’t deny it,’ Corbett noted. ‘And you know of Verlian’s death.’

‘Gossip spreads quickly in Ashdown.’

‘Aye, it does. Let me go to the beginning.’ Corbett pointed at the tomb. ‘Your patron saint Hawisia is the cause of all these deaths, isn’t she? I learned how this shrine had been closed for a while.’ He gazed round the pink-washed walls. ‘Refurbished, wasn’t it?’

‘Stop your questions, clerk, and come to the point!’

‘Lord Henry came here,’ Corbett continued. ‘While you were away collecting your rents, acting lady of the manor. He brought that Italian physician Cantrone with him. Lord Henry was a cynic, constantly ridiculing you about your shrine and its sacred relic so he opened the glass case to examine the hair more carefully, or rather Cantrone did it for him. The glass case is fixed by clasps. A man skilled as Cantrone could loosen these and take the hair out. He examined its texture. He wanted to please his lord and prove that this was no relic. I don’t know what really happened but the hair decayed. Perhaps some contagion in the air? They put the hair back but it began to wither and rot. You returned and realised what had happened. The relic had been violated. Lord Henry returned to the priory. Did he come back to bait you? Rejoice in what he had done?’

‘Do you have proof of this?’ she asked. ‘Such blasphemy, such sacrilege would cause both uproar and outcry.’

‘I don’t think so, my lady. You had come back to St Hawisia’s. By your own admission you go away as rarely as possible. You hear your brother had been here, locking himself in the church. You recall his baiting, his cynical attacks upon your relic. The first thing you do is go and check. At first you see nothing disturbed, nothing out of place. But a day, maybe two days later, you notice the hair decaying. The shrine is closed and Lord Henry is immediately invited here. You are furious but you want to keep the matter secret. After all, the relic is a source of revenue as well as status. I can imagine Lord Henry’s malicious glee. How did you threaten him, eh? What happened during that furious, hushed row between brother and sister? Lord Henry must have realised the danger he had placed himself in. After all, if the relic was destroyed, you could claim it was due to sacrilege, a blasphemous act. Holy Mother Church does not like such actions. If the scandal reached Canterbury, Lord Henry could face excommunication. Now, for a powerful lord, one who hopes to lead an embassy to France on behalf of his King. .’ Corbett paused and let his words hang in the air.

Further down the church he could see Ranulf sitting with his back to a pillar. Baldock sat beside him, whispering in his ear, and Corbett realised that Ranulf had found a new friend. He could tell by Baldock’s face that the groom was doing his best to console his new-found patron. Corbett glanced round. Lady Madeleine now had her hands folded as if in prayer. As she looked at him, her face smooth, eyes wide, he caught a glimpse of the beauty she must have been as a young woman but he also saw the glint of obsession, the gleam of a fanatic in her eyes.

‘Lord Henry must have sobered up,’ Corbett went on. ‘What he’d done as a jibe against his pious sister had gone terribly wrong. So he offers reparation, something which can please you both. The shrine will be sealed off for refurbishment; the walls repainted and gilded at his expense. This will hide the damage to the relic while he tries to look for a replacement.’

‘And I accepted this, clerk?’

‘You had no choice. No relic, no pilgrims, no royal status.’ Corbett paused. ‘I wondered how you could be drawn into Sir William’s petty meddling with Gaveston and the Prince of Wales. You did it for one reason. Not because of any childhood friendship. No, help the Prince now and, when he became King, St Hawisia’s would become one of the most famous shrines in all of England. You couldn’t lose that.’ Corbett tapped the oaken sarcophagus. ‘Anyway, the shrine is sealed off. Workmen are not brought in till Lord Henry has fulfilled his side of the bargain. Unknown to you he goes to Rye. He buys the beautiful golden hair of a whore. He pays her off and bundles her aboard a ship to France. Her golden locks, her glory, are brought here, probably by Cantrone, a skilled physician. The hair is dressed in certain potions and unguents which will keep it fresh and supple. If decay occurs again it can always be replaced. The hair is brought secretly to the shrine. You open the glass case and replace the relic. The rest of the shrine is repainted and refurbished and, once again, opened to receive the prayers of the good nuns and the pious faithful. Now that should have been the end of the matter!’

Corbett sat down beside her.

‘With any other man it would have been the end. Lord Henry had fulfilled his side of the bargain, but he had some control over you. He must have reminded you about that. How, if matters between you ever became bitter, he could deny his sacrilege but, perhaps, let it be known the true origins of your famous relic. Did he then tell you where it came from? Did he hint? Did he think that it was amusing and mock you with his revelation?’

‘As you said, sir clerk.’ Lady Madeleine turned her face. ‘Lord Henry feared neither God nor man.’

‘Unfortunately for both of you,’ Corbett continued, ‘someone found out what had been done: a brothel mistress from Rye. She had a special affection for the young whore Cecilia whose hair had been sacrificed. She made careful enquiries. She discovered that Cecilia had been sent abroad, so Francoise comes to Ashdown. Now, I doubt if Lord Henry would have told her why he plucked Cecilia’s golden tresses. However, Francoise Sourtillon was a woman of the world, wasn’t she? I suspect she came here to St Hawisia’s and visited the relic. One among many pilgrims. Francoise knew Cecilia’s hair, she had combed it often enough, she realised the truth behind your relic. Did she confront you? Or would the great prioress refuse to see her?

‘So, Francois writes you a letter. At first glance an innocent-looking missive but you would read between the lines. Did she threaten you with blackmail or public ignominy? You, of course, sent a sweet, innocent note back. Why shouldn’t Francoise come up and discuss these matters? Perhaps she could stay at the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern? Francoise, full of anger, would accept this. She wanted reparation. She wanted justice.’

‘And I left my priory and rode out and killed her?’ Lady Madeleine taunted.

‘I think it’s possible. You have your own house, kitchens and stable. There is a side gate leading from there into the forest. You answer to no one. You can issue an order that you are not to be disturbed and go riding. Dressed in a cloak and cowl who would suspect this was the prioress? You have fixed the date and time when Francoise should meet you. I checked with the taverner. Francoise stayed there one night, then the next morning she left the tavern. She walked along that lonely trackway to be at the prearranged meeting place at the appointed hour. It would be some lonely spot, not far from the tavern, a dell or a clearing? Perhaps you even offered to meet Francoise on the trackway?’

‘To send such a letter would be dangerous.’

‘Would it? Unsigned? Unsealed? Especially if you told Francoise to bring it for identification.’

‘She could have told someone else.’

‘Why should she, if blackmail was intended?’

Lady Madeleine glanced away.

‘Meanwhile,’ Corbett continued, ‘you had left the priory by a secret route. Your bow and quiver of arrows were already hidden away. You’d be there in good time. You did the same as you did to me, threw a pebble on the track. Francoise stopped and looked up, the arrow shaft took her in the throat. You make sure the way is clear and you hurry across. You roll the body down the bank, take her purse and saddle panniers, strip the corpse then bury it. You were calm enough to go through her personal possessions. I suspect Francoise brought a strand of Cecilia’s hair.’ Corbett opened his wallet and took out the two cloth clasps. ‘That lock you took away but dropped these in your hurry. Disguised, you creep back along the trackway, mount your horse, throw Sourtillon’s possessions into a marsh and return to St Hawisia’s.’

‘An interesting tale, clerk.’

‘God knows what happened next,’ Corbett went on evenly. ‘Did your brother, who visited the brothel in Rye, discover Francoise was missing? Did he threaten you? Or did he continue his secret taunts about your sacred relic? Enough was enough: Lord Henry was the cause of all your trouble. You heard about the hunt. You went to that dell, where you had played as a child, the afternoon before the hunt took place. You put a bow and quiver in the hollow of an oak tree. The next morning, cloaked and cowled, you left the priory. This time you’d silence your brother’s taunts about the relic and possible jibes about Gaveston for good. You could settle, once and for all, your longstanding grievances with this hated man.’

Lady Madeleine put her head down.

‘A fine, sunny morning,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Lord Henry would prove a good target, this time not to the neck but an arrow straight in his heart. Even as he fell to the ground, you’d be hurrying back to your horse, bow and quiver hidden away, and return to St Hawisia’s.’

‘But why should I kill my brother?’ Lady Madeleine lifted her head. ‘If, as you say, the Italian physician Cantrone already knew?’

‘He was a stranger. A foreigner. What proof could he offer? Who would believe him or the whore Cecilia now Francoise and Lord Henry were dead?’ Corbett paused. ‘In a few months,’ he continued, ‘what could Cantrone say? But, you were committed to the hunt and Cantrone was an easy victim. So why let him go? He’d dared to threaten you, not realising how vulnerable he made himself. However, Lady Madeleine, when you kill, you not only trample lives but become immersed in other plots, other schemes. Cantrone didn’t give a whit about the relic. He and Lord Henry were involved in other stratagems, very dangerous to himself. Cantrone simply wanted to flee. His patron was dead and the French wanted to get their hands on him. He needed gold and silver, didn’t he? You didn’t send for him. He came to the priory demanding to see you. He mentioned the relic and insisted that you buy his silence. Some gold and silver for his journey, he would be gone and that would be the end of it. Cantrone really meant that but you didn’t trust him.’

‘But I was here when he left!’

‘No, Lady Madeleine, you are cunning. You probably paid him then remembered little Sister Fidelis. She would be your excuse, the reason for his visit. You gave out some story that you’d sent for him. Cantrone would accept that. He’d be a little puzzled but,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘what was that to him? Or that you offered food? Ashdown Manor was in uproar following Lord Henry’s death. Servants and retainers were departing. Cantrone would be hungry. You order him to be taken to the refectory, given something to eat. In the meantime you once again left the priory as you did with me. Ashdown, particularly for a stranger, is a death trap. There’s only one road out to the manor. I, Cantrone, Francoise Sourtillon, must take that trackway or become lost in the trees.

‘By the time Cantrone had reached it you were waiting. Again an arrow to the throat. His wallet and purse are taken. A slender, light man, you’d put Cantrone’s corpse across the saddle of his horse, take it deep into the woods and hide it in a marsh.’

Corbett stood up and glanced down the church where he noted that Ranulf was still sitting at the foot of the pillar.

‘Finally, madam, we come to a death, a murder that need not have occurred! The death of Robert Verlian!’