The Demon Archer

Chapter 3

Robert Verlian, chief verderer of the deceased Lord Henry Fitzalan, would have agreed with Corbett. He had not bathed or changed, and his face and hands were stung by the nettles and brambles he had crawled through.

He had returned to Savernake Dell and seen Lord Henry’s corpse, the yard-long arrow embedded deep in his chest. Verlian had crept back to the manor only to realise he was the prime suspect; tongues were soon wagging, fingers pointing. Verlian had killed his master! He was to be captured and tried! Verlian had fled, like the wolfs-head he had become, back into the forest. What justice could he expect at Sir William’s hands? The manor lord had the power of axe and tumbril. Verlian could be hauled before the manor court and hanged before the day was out, his possessions confiscated, and what would happen to Alicia then?

Verlian crouched beside an oak, an ancient tree which, forest lore maintained, had once been used by the pagan priests for their sacrifices. Verlian hadn’t eaten, apart from some bread and rotten meat he had filched from a charcoal-burner’s cottage. Now he listened, like the many animals he had hunted, for any sound of pursuit on the morning breeze.

Verlian folded his arms across his chest. He had slept at night out near Radwell Brook, and his body now ached from head to toe, but what could he do? Ashdown Manor was a hostile place, the local sheriff was many miles away. His tired mind went back to the events of the last few weeks. Lord Henry’s infatuation with his daughter Alicia had grown by the day. He would never leave her alone. There had been presents of sweet meats and wine, costly cloth, gifts, even a snow-white palfrey. Alicia had been obdurate.

‘I am no man’s whore!’ she had snapped. ‘And no lord’s mistress!’

She had sent the gifts back. Lord Henry had only become more importunate, even forcing himself into the cottage they occupied on the Ashdown estate. Alicia, her temper knowing no bounds, had taken a bow and arrow from his war chest and threatened Lord Henry that, if he did not leave, she would kill him and claim it was self-defence. Fitzalan had turned nasty, mouthing threats and warnings. He had reminded them that Verlian and his daughter were his servants; he owned the roof under which they lived and the roads of Sussex were no place for a landless man and his daughter. Verlian had gone to Sir William for help but that secretive younger brother could provide no assistance.

Verlian heard the undergrowth crackling and scanned his surroundings, but it was only a badger coming out of his sett to sniff the morning air. Had Sir William killed his brother? Verlian wondered. To seize his wealth and put the blame on a poor verderer? Verlian was not sure of anything. He was weak from hunger, his mind fitful, his wits wandering. Hadn’t he dreamed of killing Lord Henry? Or, even worse, Alicia, where had she been that morning? Could it have happened? He suddenly started. Was that his imagination? No, the sound of a hunting horn brayed through the forest. Verlian had heard the rumours: how Sir William, now lord of the manor, was determined to hunt down his brother’s killer. Already rewards had been posted, a hundred pounds sterling for his murderer, dead or alive. Verlian, a soldier who had seen experience on the Scottish march, whimpered with fear. Perhaps he had it wrong? Again the blast of a horn, perceptibly nearer, followed by the bellowing of the Fitzalan hunting dogs, mastiffs trained in tracking a man down.

Verlian rose to his feet and ran at a half-crouch as fast as he could from that terrible sound but, the further he went, the closer the hunt grew. Verlian tried to remember where he was. He recalled his own hunting days. If he could get to Radwell Brook, he could use the water to hide his scent, but where would that lead him?

He broke into a clearing and saw a cottage. The door was open, a plume of smoke rose from the middle of the thatched roof. He tried to recall where he was and squatted down for a while taking his bearings. Yes, yes, that was it: Jocasta the witch lived here, she and her fey-witted daughter. Surely they would help? He ran across to the open door. The women inside were seated at the table. Jocasta was a tall, swarthy-faced woman, with coal-black hair tumbling down her strong face. Her eyes never flinched. Her daughter, with mousey-coloured hair and vacant eyes, just lifted a hand and went back to crooning over the little wooden doll in her lap.

‘I need food!’ Verlian gasped.

‘Then you’ll find none here, Robert Verlian!’

‘I am innocent.’

‘No man is innocent.’

‘For the love of God!’ Verlian screamed as the sound of the hounds drew nearer.

Jocasta went to a basket near the door and thrust two apples into his hand.

‘You are a dead man, Verlian. If Sir William doesn’t kill you, his hounds will!’

‘Please!’

‘Use your noddle! Are your wits as wandering as my daughter’s? You have appealed to God, then to God you should go!’

She slammed the door in his face. Verlian bit at the apples. They tasted sour; he found it hard to chew, his mouth was so dry. He was about to run on when he remembered what the witch-woman had said and gasped in relief. Of course, there was only one place which could house him. He fled across the clearing. Gasping and retching, Verlian forced his way through the brambles, desperate to seek the path he needed. The hunt grew closer, the howls of the mastiffs sounding like a death knell. On and on Verlian ran, ignoring the bile at the back of his throat, the tears which stung his eyes, the shooting pains at the back of his legs and the terrible cramp in his left side. He stumbled, falling flat on his face, the hard pebbled tracks scoring his hands, bruising his cheeks. He got up, ran on and, at last, he reached the clearing where before him stood the open doors of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Gasping and stumbling, Verlian threw himself inside, slammed the door shut, pulling the bar down and leaning against it. The little church was dark, with only a glow of light from beneath the crudely carved rood screen. He was aware of benches and stools in the darkening transepts.

‘Who is there?’

A figure came through the rood screen. Verlian recognised Brother Cosmas. He stumbled up the church. The Franciscan held a knife in one hand, a candle he had been tapering in the other. Verlian reached the rood screen, pushed by the priest and staggered up the narrow steps. The verderer touched the altar then crouched down beside it as the Franciscan towered over him, a ghostly figure in his brown garb, the lower half of his pale face hidden by the shaggy black beard which fell down below his chest.

‘You are Robert Verlian!’ he declared. ‘Once chief verderer to Lord Henry. They say you are a murderer, an assassin!’

‘I am no assassin!’ Verlian spat back. ‘I am innocent of any crime! I claim sanctuary!’

The Franciscan sniffed and crouched beside him.

‘There’s little I can do for you, man.’ The hard eyes were kindly. ‘Sir William is lord of the manor.’

‘But not lord of this church!’ Verlian retorted.

‘No, no, he isn’t.’

The Franciscan rose to his feet at the hammering which rained on the door.

‘And, perhaps, it’s time I reminded him of that!’

In the spacious, well-timbered house which stood on the corner of the Rue St Denis within earshot of the bells of Notre Dame, Simon Roulles, the perpetual student, the wandering scholar, the loyal servant of King Edward of England, had found his own sanctuary in the opulent bedchamber of Madame Malvoisin. Simon, who now was known to his rather venerable lover as Bertrand, rolled over on the bed and stared down at his latest conquest.

‘You are indeed,’ she whispered, ‘a veritable cock, a strutting stag!’

Simon laughed and threw himself back on the bolsters.

‘Why me?’

The question had been asked many times over the last few days. Simon always tried to be honest. After all, what was he, just past his twenty-fourth or was it twenty-fifth summer? Well, the grey-haired lady who lay beside him was at least twice that age. In her youth Madame Malvoisin must have been comely: lustrous eyes, generous lips and the paint she had put on her face hid the seams and wrinkles of passing time. Her body was plump, warm, soft as silk and, if Simon was honest, a comfortable berth for a wandering soul such as himself.

He had met her in the marketplace, his hair crimped and prinked. He was wearing his best scholar gown, displaying the coloured silks of the student of the Quadrivium and Trivium at the Sorbonne. She had lost her maid and the bale of cloth she was carrying was heavy. Simon had helped. When they returned to the comfortable mansion with its wooden panelled chambers, Simon had agreed to a goblet of sweet wine and a plate of marchpane. Of course, he had been invited back and, of course, he accepted. He had taken Madame Malvoisin around the Latin Quarter, to those taverns full of devil-may-care, merry students, who drank, carolled and danced so expertly; then in the fields or a boat along the Seine, Simon had proved himself to be an assiduous suitor.

Madame Malvoisin had thrown discretion to the winds. This young student was the master of both her heart and her bedchamber. She really couldn’t care about the whispers and giggles of her maids or the gossip of her sharp-eyed neighbours. After all, what were they but jealous? Envious of her good fortune? Didn’t she deserve all this? She, the wife of a royal physician, until poor Gilles, too full of wine, had suffered that boating accident. He had been returning from a meeting of fellow physicians: according to the boatman, Gilles had insisted on standing up; the wherry had capsized, and only days later had poor Gilles’ fish-pecked body been dragged from the Seine.

Madame Malvoisin contemplated the golden tester over the four-poster bed. She often wondered about her husband’s death. Was it an accident or was it murder? Hadn’t Gilles hinted at certain dark secrets about the court, things no man should ever know? In turn she had poured out her heart to this handsome young clerk whose hands, once again, were caressing her breasts, running down her stomach to her secret place. She rolled over on her side, knocking his hand away.

‘You say you are going away?’

He kissed her on the lips. ‘Soon, my dear, but I will be back. A little business. My cousin owns a farm on the Calais road. I’ve been promising him a visit since midsummer.’

‘And when will you go?’

‘Around Michaelmas. But I’ll be back before October is halfway through.’

Simon tensed as he heard a creak in the gallery outside.

‘I thought you told your maids not to come up here, at least not until you had risen.’

Madame Malvoisin giggled like the young girl she felt. Simon was such a lusty lover and she could not help her cries and moans. She’d banished the servants from this gallery, strictly forbidding them to come anywhere near her chamber until she had risen and dressed for the day.

‘Why are you so nervous?’ she accused playfully. ‘That only intrigues the servants.’

‘Which servants?’ Simon’s voice was sharp.

‘My maid Isabeau. She’s always asking questions.’

Simon sat up. He heard another creak. He always prided himself on his prudence and cunning. Hadn’t he seen Isabeau talking to a stranger the afternoon before? He was sure he’d glimpsed coins being dropped into her hand. Again a sound. Ignoring the protests of Madame Malvoisin, Simon jumped from the bed. He hastily pulled on his woollen leggings and white cambric shirt. Madame Malvoisin was now sitting up, round-eyed. Simon looked at the door. The latch handle went down, and he was drawing both sword and dagger when the black-garbed assassins slipped into the chamber. Madame Malvoisin screamed, pulling the sheets up under her face. She gazed appalled at these horrors, hoods over their heads, masks across their faces. This could not be happening! This was some nightmare! Five, six figures she counted. They ignored her, intent on the young clerk. They could not be house-breakers. Where were her servants? She opened her mouth to scream but found the sound would not come. One of the black-garbed figures edged forward.

‘Monsieur, you are to come with us.’

Simon darted forward, sword and dagger snaking out. His opponent met him in a clash of steel. Simon withdrew. He looked back towards the window but the casement was too narrow and he knew the drop was too far. He cursed his own stupidity. He had made a mistake, one he’d vowed he never would: to be in a room where there was no escape, no other door or window which he could jump through, as he had so many a time. Again he closed but this time his opponent moved faster, twisting and turning as his sword dug into Simon’s shoulder. The English spy dropped his sword, doubling up at the fiery shaft of pain which raced across his chest. His opponents closed in, forcing him to the floor, twisting his arms behind him, before dragging him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder was intense.

‘Monsieur, you are under arrest!’

‘On what charge?’ Roulles gasped. ‘I object!’

‘Murder!’

‘Whose murder?’

The leader went across to Madame Malvoisin, still transfixed in terror. She struggled as he forced her back down the bed and, taking a bolster, clamped it over her face. Roulles stood horrified, watching his former lover struggle for her life, her body jerking, legs and arms lashing out. The assassin held firm until at last Madame Malvoisin lay still.

‘There’s your victim,’ the assassin replied. ‘Take him away!’

Corbett shaded his eyes to survey Savernake Dell and bent down to dig with the tip of his dagger at the dark patches still staining the dew-wet grass.

‘Your brother was standing here?’

Sir William Fitzalan nodded. ‘He’d notched an arrow to his bow; he was about to shoot when the assassin’s shaft took him full in the heart.’

‘And that assassin?’ Ranulf asked.

Sir William’s sweaty face twisted into a grimace.

‘You know full well: our verderer Robert Verlian, who fled! He has now taken sanctuary in St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees.’

‘How do you know he’s guilty? Because he’s fled? Because he’s taken sanctuary?’

‘He was the only one that wasn’t here when my brother died. Verlian knew this forest and he’s a master bowman.’

Corbett looked back to where the dark-garbed Italian physician, Pancius Cantrone, stood beneath the outstretched branches of an oak tree. A further distance away stood Fitzalan’s retainers holding the horses. A quiet, peaceful place, Corbett thought. The early morning mist was still lifting. Even the birds were quiet, not stirring until the sun fully rose. A ghostly place where tendrils of mist hovered and shifted. The early morning glow caught the dew on the leaves and grass, making the dell shimmer in the strengthening light. It reminded Corbett of Leighton, of his walks with Maeve down to the great meadow. They’d sit by the stream, cloaks wrapped around them, and watch the sun rise. A quiet part of the day and one Corbett loved, but this was different.

‘Verlian wasn’t the only one absent, was he?’ Corbett asked.

Sir William looked askance.

‘You weren’t here.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I talked to your servants. I made careful enquiries.’

‘You only arrived in Ashdown last night.’

‘Yes, but a tavern like the Devil-in-the-Woods is full of gossip. Mine host has a nose for all the news but, if he was wrong, I can set the record straight.’

Sir William glanced away. He was a warrior, a hunter, who prided himself on being frightened of no one, but this dark-faced clerk with his royal commissions and warrants, his cat-eyed servant, unnerved him.

‘I’d walked away,’ he replied. ‘I went into the trees to relieve myself.’

‘An inappropriate time. I understand that at least two deer had raced into the dell. The huntsmen were close,’ observed Ranulf.

‘I couldn’t care if the Holy Father galloped in!’ Sir William snapped. ‘A loose belly is a loose belly! I’ll not soil myself for anyone!’

‘Yet you have a physician on hand?’

‘He was back at the manor,’ Sir William snarled. ‘Sir Hugh, you embarrass me. The night before the hunt Lord Henry and his guests stayed at Beauclerc hunting lodge.’

‘Ah yes!’ Corbett scratched his chin. ‘You ate or drank something tainted?’

‘Both I and my brother did. We were sick, running to the latrines.’ He shrugged. ‘But it passed.’

‘No, no,’ Corbett insisted. ‘Tell us precisely what happened?’

‘We ate and drank late. We roistered and then we retired for the night. I was hardly in my bedchamber when my stomach began to purge itself. I vomited like I never have done in my life. So intensely that my stomach and bowels ached.’

‘And your brother?’

‘The same. Yet by morning we felt well enough and did not want to disappoint our guests.’

‘Were they ill?’

Sir William narrowed his eyes. ‘No, now you ask it, I don’t think they were. My brother and I were too embarrassed to ask but they showed no ill effects.’

Cantrone was still standing silently, almost like a statue, lost in his own thoughts.

‘Have you discussed this with your household physician?’ Corbett queried. ‘I mean, you and your brother were violently ill but, apparently, no one else was?’

William licked his dry lips.

‘And you know my next question?’ Corbett insisted.

‘And the answer is yes,’ Sir William replied. ‘My brother and I, we shared a special flask of wine.’

‘Who brought it?’

‘I–I don’t know. It was unstoppered by one of the servants.’

‘And you felt no ill effects before that?’

‘None.’

‘Who else was in the lodge?’

‘Seigneur de Craon, members of his household, our retainers. Oh, and Verlian as well as Brother Cosmas the priest at St Oswald’s. He came to deliver warnings.’

‘What about?’

‘My brother was a harsh lord, Sir Hugh. He enforced the forest law with great vigour.’

‘Ah yes, I’ve heard of the steel traps laid out in the forest. Poachers who’ve had their ears cut and noses slit for the first offence then been hanged out of hand for the second.’

‘The lords of Savernake have the right of axe and tumbril.’

‘Not while I’m here!’ Corbett snapped. ‘But I’ll come to that in a moment. Do you realise what you are saying, Sir William? It would seem that someone tried to poison you and your brother. Everything becomes tangled,’ Corbett continued. ‘Some might even whisper that you were not ill though your brother was.’

Sir William’s face suffused with rage.

‘What are you saying?’ His hand went to the dagger hanging from a ring on his belt.

‘Don’t touch it!’ Corbett warned. ‘Ranulf is of a quick disposition and may misunderstand you. Moreover, in these matters, Sir William, I must remind you that I represent the King. Look.’ Corbett sighed. ‘I merely point out what gossips might say. It would seem that someone did plot mischief against you at Beauclerc hunting lodge but facts can be twisted; people can jump to false conclusions.’

‘And if false conclusions can be drawn by you, Sir William,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘they can about Robert Verlian. All of Ashdown knows you hunted him through the forest, intent on his life.’

Sir William swallowed hard. ‘He killed my brother. He fled.’

‘You have no proof,’ Corbett countered. ‘And while I am here, Sir William, such actions will cease forthwith. Anyway, we were talking about your whereabouts when your brother was killed.’

‘I went in the trees,’ Sir William blustered. ‘Quite a distance away. I undid my points, I relieved myself. When I came back my brother was dead.’

‘And you stayed and grieved?’

‘You know what I did! My brother had an arrow through his heart. He was dead, there was nothing I could do.’

‘So you took horse. You and your faithful retainers rode back to the manor leaving others to bring your brother’s corpse back?’

‘Lord Henry was dead,’ Sir William repeated. ‘It is well known, Sir Hugh, what happens when a manor lord dies suddenly. Servants turn to plundering and pilfering. Ashdown Manor houses many treasures. If you accept the courtesies of staying there you’d see that for yourself.’

Corbett crouched down again to examine the stain on the ground.

‘I thank you for your courtesy, Sir William, but you know Seigneur de Craon resides with you. It would not be appropriate for us to share the same roof.’ He got to his feet and looked at the holes along the ground. ‘This is where the hunting palisade was erected?’

‘Yes, I’ve had it taken down.’

But Corbett wasn’t listening. He was already striding across the dell. Ranulf looked and Sir William shrugged and they followed. On the far side Corbett was already pushing into the brambles. He drew his sword and hacked a path through. The forest stretched ahead of him. The great oaks, the bracken sprouting between. A place of shifting darkness. Shadows flittered and Corbett was sure that, if he were by himself, his mind would play tricks, these shapes become figures, soft and menacing. No wonder legends were rife about eerie forest creatures; the dell reminded him of the heavily wooded valleys in Wales and the dense forest of Sherwood. He repressed a shiver when he thought of the ambushes in which he had nearly died. The others came crashing behind him. Corbett gazed back across the clearing to where Lord Henry had stood.

‘The assassin must have had a good view,’ he observed.

Corbett walked up and down. Sometimes the other side of the dell was hidden by overhanging branches and high stems of bracken but there were also clear views where a master bowman could stand, hidden in the shadows, and loose a shaft.

‘Ranulf,’ he ordered. ‘Go back to Lord Henry’s retainers. One of them must have a bow and a quiver of arrows. Bring them across.’

Ranulf hastened off. Corbett tried to put himself into the mind of the assassin.

‘This was no hunting accident,’ he said confidently.

He walked up and down and, at last, chose his spot where he stood until Ranulf returned. Corbett took the bow, selected an arrow from the quiver and stared at the cruel, steel-pointed head.

‘This is a war arrow?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Sir William replied. ‘If we were hunting, Sir Hugh, it would be sickle-shaped.’

Corbett held the cord grip round the middle of the yew bow and notched an arrow to the string. He took a deep breath and lifted the bow up. Once the shaft came level with his eye, he pulled back.

‘Right, Ranulf!’ he ordered. ‘Start counting!’

Corbett lowered the bow again and looked across to where Lord Henry had been killed. Then he raised the bow and took careful aim. He was conscious of a slight breeze on his cheek; his eyes remained fixed on that spot as he steadied his breathing. He could feel the power of the bow, the two forefingers of his left hand grasped the shaft just behind the grey goose quill. He sighed and, as he did, loosed the arrow. In a blur the shaft hurtled across the glade and disappeared into the trees on the far side. Ranulf had reached the number nine as he lowered the bow.

‘A very short time,’ Corbett declared. ‘A few seconds. The assassin has found his mark, now he must retreat. Across the glade all is chaos and consternation. What would the assassin do now, Ranulf?’

‘If it was I, master, I’d have left a horse some way off. I’d run as fast as I could, put as much distance between myself and here as possible.’

‘Sir William?’

‘I’d do the same.’

‘But that’s not the problem, is it?’ Corbett mused, handing the bow to the manor lord. ‘The assassin would have fled. The real danger wasn’t in that.’

‘It was beforehand, wasn’t it?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes. It took me some time to find a spot, the best place to shoot. Now the assassin may have known that Lord Henry intended to organise a hunt in Savernake Dell but he wouldn’t know where the manor lord would be standing. Nor would he know if he’d get a good view of him.’

‘Of course,’ Ranulf said. ‘The assassin may have come here, only to find Lord Henry screened by his retainers and his guests.’

‘Precisely. In which case our assassin may have tried to kill Lord Henry before or even waited for another day.’ He smiled over his shoulder at Sir William. ‘But there’s a weakness in what I say?’

The manor lord stared stonily back.

‘You know there’s a weakness, Sir William. Your brother Lord Henry was a man of power. He would stand second to no one. He would have to be in the front. He was the host, the great huntsman.’

‘But anyone would know that,’ Sir William stammered.

‘You mean not just his family?’ Ranulf taunted.

‘As Sir Hugh says,’ Sir William replied defensively, ‘Lord Henry was the first in all things. First born, first in the tournament, in the cavalcade and, yes, in the hunt.’

Corbett walked away, studying the great oak trees. He strode across to an ancient, hollowed one, probably struck by lightning. It was at least two yards in girth. Others, similar, stood nearby.

‘What is this place?’

‘We are on the edge of Savernake Dell,’ Sir William replied. ‘But they call this “Hollowman Place” after the oak trees. My father, when he was a boy, told of a great storm in which some of the trees were struck by lightning.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘It’s well known as a lovers’ tryst or a place where children play.’ William gave a lop-sided smile. ‘My brother and I often came here to play “Catch and See”.’

Corbett stepped into one of the hollowed oaks, where he smelt the strong odour of mildewed wood, fungi and forest bracken. It was like being in a small cell. He peered up at the sky. Such a place would be favoured by any child or outlaw, or an assassin waiting for his victim to appear.

‘Ranulf! Search the other hollow trees!’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘When you find it, you’ll know.’

Sir William stood nonplussed as Corbett and Ranulf moved from tree to tree in that dark-green glade. At each one Corbett crouched down, sifting among the soft moss and fern, dry twigs and rotting leaves. The hollowed trunks were dark but there was enough light to search carefully.

‘Over here!’ Ranulf called.

He was standing by one of the oaks further away. Corbett hurried across. Ranulf was sifting the dirt in the palms of his hands. Corbett glimpsed the small tassels of leather, the thin grey goose feather. He picked these up, scrutinised them and moved into the hollow trunk where Ranulf had found them but could discover no further traces. He put what they had found into his pouch.

‘We know this was no accident,’ he declared.

‘And this is where the assassin hid. I think he came here early in the morning, even the day before, and hid a bow and quiver. The feather and tassel are from these. He then came back and hid in one of these hollowed trunks, making sure Lord Henry was in Savernake Dell and this side of the wood was deserted.’

Corbett walked to where he calculated the assassin must have taken aim, counting under his breath all the time.

‘A very short while!’ he shouted. ‘The assassin would then hasten back, the bow and quiver are placed back in one of the hollow oaks and then he’d go looking for his horse.’

Ranulf had already anticipated this and was deep in the trees, kicking at the carpet of fallen leaves.

‘Sir Hugh! Sir William! Over here!’

Ranulf pushed away the leaves with his dagger, revealing scattered horse dung.

‘He tethered his horse to a tree,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Probably bridled, the hooves may have been covered in rags.’ He cut a piece of the dung with his dagger. ‘He even had time to cover this.’

‘So we know how,’ Corbett concluded. ‘But who or why?’