The Demon Archer

Chapter 6

One of the priory lay brothers dug the edge of his spade under the coffin lid, pushed it up and hastily walked away. The casket itself was nothing more than a long narrow chest tightly nailed down. Corbett told Ranulf to stand aside and, putting a cloth soaked in wine, vinegar and herbs to his mouth and nose, drew his dagger and walked closer. The lay brothers had hastily withdrawn. Lady Madeleine and the community did not wish to be present. Ranulf stood some distance away under the spreading branches of a gnarled yew tree. Corbett pushed the lid away. Despite the wine-soaked cloth, the stench was offensive; the corpse beneath its gauze veil was now in mortal decay. Yet, at the same time, Corbett felt a deep sadness. The body, dressed in a simple white gown, looked young, pathetic and forlorn. He pulled back the makeshift coif and noticed the close-cropped hair. He rubbed a few strands between his fingers. For some reason he felt certain the hair was dyed. The wound in the throat was a repellent blue-black.

‘God have mercy on you!’ Corbett whispered. ‘But it’s true, there’s no beauty in death.’

Suddenly he was back in Oxford, that wild-eyed assassin running towards him, crossbow coming up, its quarrel speeding towards him. Corbett pushed the thought away.

‘Remember man, that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return.’

‘Sic transit gloria mundi. .’

Corbett glanced round. A man stood, cowled and hooded. He seemed a Franciscan by his brown habit. In addition he wore simple sandals on his feet, and carried a thick ash cane clutched in his hand. Ranulf was walking towards them.

‘Tell your manservant, Sir Hugh, that I am no threat.’

A vein-streaked hand pushed back the cowl. Corbett saw a black, bushy moustache and beard, a balding head, a harsh face but one with merry eyes crinkled in amusement. Corbett found the stench of putrefaction from the coffin unbearable. He got to his feet.

‘I am Brother Cosmas, parish priest of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Lady Madeleine told me who you were.’ The Franciscan’s smile widened, revealing yellow, jagged teeth. ‘Well, not her precisely, but the blessed Sister Veronica who, in a former life, must have been a town herald.’

Corbett grinned. He had always liked Franciscans: their devotion to the poor, their rough and ready ways and their blunt, straightforward speech.

‘I come here for provisions,’ the friar continued. ‘Anything I can beg and Lady Madeleine loves acting the lady of the manor. In Paradise I am sure she will be given a position of rank, organising the angels!’ He nodded at the corpse. ‘The smell’s terrible.’

Corbett pulled down the bandage round his nose and mouth and nodded in agreement.

‘You seem unperturbed, Brother.’

‘What’s the body but a bag of blood?’ the Franciscan replied. ‘The soul it housed has gone.’ His eyes softened. ‘Poor bairn. And, to answer your question bluntly, Sir Hugh, I have been a soldier, a barber surgeon in the King’s wars. I’ve seen more corpses than I’d like to count. We humans love killing, don’t we?’ He crouched down beside the coffin, muttered words from the Requiem and sketched a cross in the air. ‘An arrow wound.’ He pointed to the throat. ‘A good marksman.’

‘You know about archery, Brother?’

‘I was a master bowman in the King’s armies. Always aim for the neck I was told. The head, the chest, the belly, they are protected. But there’s no cure for a piece of steel in the windpipe. She must have died instantly. Do you want any help, King’s clerk?’

Corbett pulled the bandage back up. He felt slightly nauseous and wished to be away from this paltry grave and its grisly cadaver. Assisted by the Franciscan, he turned the body over. From under the yew tree he heard Ranulf cough and curse as the smell wafted across but he grimly pressed on. He pulled the rope up to examine the back and front of the corpse.

No marks except a brand on the shoulder, in the form of a lily. The mark was old and peeled. The corpse was placed back and the gauze veil pulled down. Corbett had to walk away to take the air while the Franciscan, grasping a piece of stone, hammered the lid back on.

Corbett reached the yew tree, took off the cloth and watched a bird skim over the herbal plots. A thrush, he wondered? He tried to concentrate on something pleasant. Ranulf went to speak but Corbett just shook his head. The Franciscan finished and strode across.

‘It won’t be left there, will it?’

‘No, the lay brothers will put it back.’

Corbett squinted up at him. ‘Do you know anything of her death, Brother?’

The Franciscan shook his head. ‘Nothing! I don’t even recognise her and I know most faces in these parts. A strange death,’ he continued. ‘Rumour has it that her body was buried but then dug up and left at the priory gates.’ He studied Corbett carefully. ‘I saw you once, you know? Years ago on the Welsh march. They said you were a moody bugger but the King’s trusted clerk.’

Ranulf stifled a laugh.

‘And this must be your manservant? The one who has got devil’s eyes and hair to match. Two of the King’s bully-boys, eh?’

‘I’m a royal clerk,’ Corbett replied. ‘And I am still a moody bugger. However, I dispense the King’s justice and that remains the same, constant.’

‘Does it now? Does it now? In which case I must introduce you to one of my parishioners: Robert Verlian, chief verderer to Lord Henry Fitzalan, now deceased. He’s taken sanctuary in my church. It was either that or Sir William would have strung him up from the nearest tree.’

‘Is he innocent?’ Corbett asked.

‘He says he is.’

‘And what do you think, Brother? I mean, you’ve set yourself up as a judge of other people.’

The Franciscan laughed and clapped Corbett on the back.

‘Well said, royal clerk.’ He beat his breast. ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, I have sinned. If you are the royal judge in these parts, Verlian has some chance. Yes, he says he’s innocent and, yes, I think he is. Will you come and visit him?’

‘I’ll do better than that,’ Corbett replied. ‘I carry the royal warrant of Oyer and Terminer. I have the right to set up a court and hear any cases.’

‘And so you want to use my church?’

‘Yes, it would save a lot of time. And I will name you as a royal witness. I’d prefer St Oswald’s than anywhere else. Now. I’ll wash my hands and face and see if Lady Madeleine will have words with me.’

‘In which case I’ll say goodbye.’ The Franciscan clasped Corbett’s hand. ‘You are for my lady’s parlour and I’m for the kitchen to beg some scraps.’

‘Oh, Brother!’

Cosmas turned.

‘You went to Beauclerc hunting lodge the night before Lord Henry was killed?’

‘Yes, just for a short while. I warned him against his harsh enforcement of the forest laws.’

‘And on the morning he was killed?’

‘I was praying, clerk, as I always do!’ And the Franciscan walked away.

A short while later Corbett, his hands and face scrubbed clean, a half-cup of red wine settling his stomach, was ushered across the cobbled yard and into the comfortable parlour of the prioress’s house. The room was wood-panelled, carved in the linen fashion. This stretched three quarters of the way up the wall; above it the plaster was a washed pink. Small pictures in ornate gold frames were placed along the walls above the panelling. Each contained scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary. Carpets of pure wool were laid across the scrubbed paving stones. Coffers, cupboards, chairs and benches were arranged round the room. The prioress’s desk stood before the main bay window which looked out over her own private garden. Lady Madeleine was seated behind it, dictating to another sister who sat at a high desk to her right. When Corbett and Ranulf came in, Lady Madeleine dismissed the sister; she did not rise to greet them but waved Corbett to a rather high stool on the other side of the desk. Ranulf she ignored.

‘You’ve seen what you had to?’ she asked.

Corbett ignored the stool but stood, arms folded, looking down at her while Ranulf leaned against the door and whistled softly under his breath. He intended to annoy and it had the desired effect. Lady Madeleine, looking daggers at him, pushed back her chair so she was forced to look up at Corbett.

‘You have questions for me, master clerk?’

‘No, my lady, the King has questions for you. Your brother’s death?’

‘He was killed while hunting,’ Lady Madeleine replied tartly. ‘He loved blood, did Henry. Blood and destruction! Showing off, as he always did, to his French visitors.’

‘You are not the grieving sister?’

‘Half-sister, master clerk!’

‘But still not grieving?’

‘Grief is a private thing. Lord Henry lived in his world and I in mine.’

‘And you have no knowledge of his death?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Corbett stared coolly back. ‘Why should someone want your brother dead?’

Lady Madeleine threw her head back and laughed.

‘Master clerk, you have seen our church, yes? I could fill the nave with people who wanted him dead. His cruelty, his lechery. Oh, I grieve for him, for the boy he once was as well as his immortal soul.’

‘You were informed of his death immediately?’

‘I was here in my own chamber when Sir William sent a messenger.’ Her face softened. ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh.’ She gripped the edge of the desk. ‘Look.’ She pointed to a chair in the far corner. ‘Would you like to sit? Some wine?’

Corbett went across and pulled the chair over.

‘Your sisters in the kitchen were most kind,’ he replied, settling himself. ‘But my stomach is still queasy after what I have seen. So, you cannot help me with your brother’s death or that of the young woman whose corpse I have viewed?’

Lady Madeleine shook her head.

‘Did you meet Lord Henry often?’

‘Sometimes I would visit Ashdown Manor. When I travelled to Rye, he or Sir William would accompany me. We have property there managed by a steward.’

‘The priory is wealthy,’ Corbett confirmed.

‘On certain afternoons we open the gates to pilgrims. Their offerings are generous,’ she replied, glaring at Ranulf, who was still whistling softly.

Corbett glanced across, winked and the whistling stopped.

‘Did Sir Henry believe in St Hawisia, I mean her relic?’

‘Henry believed in nothing!’

‘But he refurbished the shrine?’

‘The Fitzalans have always maintained it!’

‘But it was generous of him to do it?’

Lady Madeleine yawned. ‘I nagged him.’ She put her hand to her mouth, stifling another yawn. ‘Henry always had to be nagged to do his duty.’

‘And this Owlman?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, I know about him. I suspect he is the killer rather than poor Verlian.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I believe the Owlman is someone from Lord Henry’s past,’ she continued. ‘Both Henry and William were feckless young men. They seduced and they lechered to their hearts’ content. No man’s sister, wife, daughter, even mother, was safe from them.’

‘You know of this?’

‘I heard stories. Rumours of a young wife who hanged herself somewhere on the outskirts of Rye.’

‘Do you know what the Rose of Rye is?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ah yes.’ Her fingers flew to her lips. ‘Lord Henry mentioned that. The Owlman left messages, asking if he remembered such a name.’

‘And did Lord Henry?’

‘Yes, I think he did. What’s more, I think William does as well.’ She paused. ‘I heard a vague rumour about a tavern or alehouse called the Red Rose. It’s supposed to have stood on the road leading out of Rye. It was owned by a married couple, a taverner and his pretty young wife. According to the gossip, Henry and William stayed there years ago. Henry is said to have seduced her, made the young wife his mistress, but then abandoned her.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

He started as a black shape jumped on Lady Madeleine’s lap. The cat was black as night; it nestled, purring deep in its throat.

‘Now, now, Lucifer.’ Lady Madeleine stroked it gently. ‘My constant companion.’ She smiled. ‘The scourge of our mice and other vermin.’

‘The young wife?’

‘According to the gossip, she committed suicide, hanged herself from a beam in the taproom. I had entered the priory when that occurred. Father, then in his last years, hastily covered the story up.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Oh, it must be some twenty or twenty-five years. They say that the ghost of the young woman haunted that tavern, so the name was changed.’

‘And this Owlman could be the dead woman’s husband?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘And the corpse which lies buried in your churchyard?’ Corbett asked. ‘You know nothing of her?’

‘Nothing. Nothing.’

‘She never visited here?’

‘I’ve told you, Sir Hugh, I know nothing.’

Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘She had a lily, like a brand mark, on her shoulder.’

Lady Madeleine shook her head. ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot help you.’

‘And His Highness the Prince of Wales visits here?’

‘The shrine of St Hawisia is visited by many nobles. The King himself has been here.’

‘And the King comes with a retinue?’

‘One or two of his household.’

‘But no man comes here unannounced?’

Lady Madeleine coloured. ‘Sir Hugh, you go too far! But why do you ask that?’

‘I am sorry,’ Corbett apologised. ‘But the King demands answers to the mysteries here, my lady, and I have to deliver them.’ He got to his feet and bowed. ‘I thank you for your time and courtesy. If there are further questions, I shall, of course, return.’

Lady Madeleine didn’t answer. She picked up a quill from the ink pot and pulled across a piece of vellum as if returning to her duties.

‘Then I bid you farewell, Sir Hugh. One of the sisters will show you to the stables.’

A short while later Corbett and Ranulf left the priory. They took directions from one of the lay brothers and found the forest path which would lead them back to the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern.

‘A high born lady,’ Ranulf commented. ‘Full of arrogance and a liar to boot!’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett reined back his horse.

‘Master, with all due respect, Edward of Carnarvon may be many things, but a pilgrim?’ Ranulf snorted with laughter. ‘If he came here, he’s up to devilry and we both know that. But,’ he continued, ‘at least we know who the Owlman is.’

‘I wonder?’ Corbett mused. ‘This is a murky pool, Ranulf. The Fitzalans had their secrets and they won’t be dragged to the top of the mire without a great deal of struggle and hard work.’

They arrived back at the tavern just after midday. Labourers, peasants from the fields, verderers and charcoal-burners had all flocked in. They sat around the cobbled yard, backs to the wall, sunning themselves. A group were laying wagers on a dog baiting a badger. A huckster selling pilgrims’ badges, gewgaws, ribbons and laces, wandered about the yard, trundling his little cart before him. A pickpocket who had been expelled from the town of Rye was sitting by the well bathing the tips of his ears where the town bailiffs had clipped them. Grooms and ostlers brought horses and pack ponies in and out of the stables. At the far end, the small dovecote was being cleaned and the pungent smell of dung filled the yard, raising protests from those eating their midday bread and cheese.

Corbett and Ranulf handed their horses over to a groom and walked into the spacious taproom. The ceiling was of timbered rafters, the stone floor covered in thick green rushes. At the far end shutters and doors had been opened allowing in the fragrance from the tavern’s herb gardens. Flitches of ham, hunks of bacon, and even cheeses in white linen cloths hung from the rafters to be cured. Despite the fair day, a roaring fire burned in the hearth and a sweating tapboy slowly turned the spit on which a huge side of pork had been fixed. Beside him a little girl, braving the heat, ladled a thick herb sauce over the crackling meat. The sweet smell filled the taproom and even Corbett found his mouth watering at the delicious aroma. The taverner, a fat-bellied, balding, deep-eyed man, came striding across. He recognised good custom when he saw it and was eager to please these envoys from the court.

‘The pork will be done in a trice,’ he told them. ‘I recommend it, sirs! A jug of our ale, some port and the best bread you’ll find this side of Rye.’

Corbett agreed and the taverner ushered them over to a more private table, as he put it, near the window. Corbett and Ranulf took off their sword belts and sat on the benches. Corbett ordered the taverner to bring three ales, one for himself. Then he gestured at a stool beside him.

‘Do you have any important visitors here? I mean, of good quality?’

‘They come and go,’ the taverner replied cautiously.

‘Anyone mysterious?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, sir, this is Ashdown Forest. The roads are often used by those travelling between the coast and London, if they decide not to travel by Canterbury. We have scholars, sailors, the usual beggars, pilgrims and merchants.’

‘You know what I am asking!’ Corbett demanded. ‘Anyone of note? Cloaking themselves in mystery, paying good gold and silver to be left alone.’

‘We have outlaws,’ the taverner said. ‘Wolfs-heads.’

Corbett sighed in exasperation. ‘Anyone else?’

The taverner glanced away.

‘And the Prince of Wales has been here?’

‘Yes, he took the best chamber on the first gallery, the one which has a four-poster bed and woollen rugs on the floor.’

‘I’m not interested in your furnishings!’ Corbett said. ‘Was there anyone else here when the Prince arrived?’

‘There was one,’ the fellow replied quickly. ‘Tall, blondish hair, soft hands. He walked with a swagger. A knight, I think. He spoke in a cultured way but rarely showed his face down here.’

‘I wager he didn’t,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘He would also take a chamber on the first gallery and pay you well for food to be brought to his room.’

The taverner gaped in astonishment at this dark-eyed clerk.

‘How did you know?’

‘Did this knight show any insignia?’ Corbett asked. He tapped the man on his bulbous nose. ‘I wager a silver coin to a gold one that he did. A red eagle with two heads?’ He pressed the toe of his boot on Ranulf’s foot as he stirred in surprise.

‘Yes, yes, he did.’ The taverner was now frightened. ‘He kept himself well hidden, dressed like a monk in dark cloak and cowl. But, on his chamber table, I saw a ring which bore the escutcheon you describe.’

Corbett slipped a silver coin across the table.

‘You’ve nothing to fear,’ he told the nervous man. ‘I assure you, you’ve done no wrong. This stranger was here while the Prince of Wales visited the tavern?’ Mine host nodded, fingers now covering the silver piece.

‘And he left shortly after the Prince did?’

‘Yes, he was on pilgrimage to St Hawisia’s.’ Corbett picked up the tankard and sipped from it, licking the white foam from his lips. He recalled the cadaver he’d studied so carefully earlier that day.

‘And you’ve heard about the corpse?’ he asked. ‘The young woman?’

‘Ah yes, the one left outside St Hawisia’s priory. I wager it fair gave those nuns a shock!’

‘She was a stranger round here, wasn’t she?’

‘Oh yes. If any young wench from the forest villages had gone missing, the hue and cry would be raised. It would be “Harrow! Harrow!” throughout the forest.’

‘So, if she was a traveller or a pilgrim,’ Corbett continued, ‘she must have stopped here?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Oh, come, come, master taverner. Young women just don’t walk along forest trackways, naked as the day they were born. I have seen this woman’s flesh, it’s soft, that of a lady of quality.’

‘She may well have been,’ the taverner replied. ‘But, sir, she didn’t stop here. Describe her to me!’

Corbett gave the best description he could; the taverner shook his head and held up his right hand.

‘You can put me on oath before the local coroner, sir. I’ve never seen or heard of such a person.’

Another silver piece appeared between Corbett’s fingers. He played with it, moving it along the back of his hand, a trick much envied by Ranulf.

‘You are very generous, sir. But, give me all the silver in the kingdom’s exchequer, I still can’t say I met someone I didn’t.’

‘No, Master. .?’

‘Taybois. Edmund Taybois.’

‘It’s something else I want to ask you. Well, a number of things to be exact. The Owlman?’

The taverner laughed, a deep growl in his throat, his eyes never leaving the silver coin on the back of Corbett’s hand.

‘He’s like the flies in summer, sir. He’s a nuisance but he doesn’t trouble us.’

‘Does he come here for sustenance?’

‘Never. I mean, sir, he’d be a fool to come into this taproom, say, I’m the Owlman and can I have some venison to eat?’

Corbett flicked the coin and caught it.

‘No, sir, I was thinking more of the dead of night, when prying eyes and ears are closed.’

‘We are named the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern, sir, but we don’t give sustenance to outlaws.’ The taverner scraped back his stool and made to rise.

Ranulf leaned over and squeezed him gently on the shoulder.

‘You rise when my master tells you.’

The taverner sighed. ‘I meant no offence.’

‘None taken,’ Corbett replied. ‘Now, sir, the Fitzalans, your taproom last night was fair full of gossip about them.’

‘The Fitzalans come from the devil and, as far as I am concerned, they can return to him.’ The taverner sipped from his blackjack of ale.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Lords of the soil, sir, they don’t bother the likes of us.’

‘Are you a free man, Master Edmund?’

‘I am a yeoman, sir. I own this tavern and the fields beyond. I pay my taxes. I’m an upright man. I’m an honest taverner and I show charity to those who need it.’

Corbett studied the taverner’s fat, thickset features.

‘But you were an archer once. I can tell from the calluses on your fingers. You’ve pulled back a bow many a time?’

‘Aye, sir, and I buy my venison from those who sell it. I don’t go hunting in the greenwood.’

Corbett tapped his blackjack against the taverner’s.

‘Then God bless you, sir. How long have you been a taverner?’

‘Like my father before me.’

‘You are a member of a guild?’

‘Aye. We meet at Christmas and Easter, usually at one of the ports, Winchelsea or Rye.’

‘Have you ever heard of the Red Rose?’ Corbett asked. ‘A tavern which stood on the outskirts of Rye?’

‘No, sir, but I think I know someone who has.’ The taverner finished off his blackjack and got to his feet. ‘And that silver coin will be mine?’

Corbett tossed it over. ‘It’s yours already.’

The taverner led them out through the back door and across the garden. In the far corner was an orchard of apple and pear trees. One of the pot boys was there, picking up the fallen fruit and placing it gently into baskets. Beyond the orchard, surrounded by a small garden, stood a thatched cottage. An old man sat sunning himself on the stool outside its door, carefully munching on one of the pears.

‘My father,’ the taverner said. ‘We call him the Ancient One.’

Corbett could see why. The old man looked as old as Methuselah with his lined, seamed face, milky-blue eyes, scrawny beard and moustache. He peered up as they approached.

‘Is that you, son?’

‘It is, oh Ancient One of days,’ the taverner replied jokingly. ‘I’ve brought visitors.’

‘I’m ninety-five years of age,’ the old man cackled. ‘Do you realise that? I remember the King’s grandfather, John Lackland. He came through Ashdown when he was on his way to Runnymede. I’ve seen them all. They call me the Ancient One but my memory’s still good.’ His smile widened in a display of half-munched pear. ‘But I always says, it’s not what’s between your ears, but between your legs, which counts.’ He peered at the ring on Corbett’s right hand. ‘You are a King’s clerk, aren’t you?’

Corbett crouched down.

‘Father.’ He touched the old man’s hand. ‘It is good to see you.’

‘Plums,’ the Ancient One replied. ‘It’s autumn now and there’ll be damsons ripe and full like a young maid’s tits.’

Corbett marvelled at this old man, who must have been a lad when King John led his armies against his barons.

‘What is it you want?’ The old man’s head came forward like a bird.

‘Father, did you know a tavern called the Red Rose outside the town of Rye?’

‘I knew a wench we called Red Rose. She lived in Rye. We called her Red because that’s the colour she painted her tits.’

‘A tavern, Father?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Owned by a young man and his wife. She killed herself.’

‘Ah, I remember that.’ The old man tapped the side of his nose. ‘People tell me everything. There was such a tavern, but it’s now called the Golden Cresset. It was a brothel once you know, in the King’s father’s time, often visited by the soldiers, then it changed hands. The sheriff cleaned it up. A young man owned it, yes, that’s right, Alwayn, Alwayn Rothmere and his wife, I think she was called Katherine. Well, the Fitzalan boys used to visit it. One thing led to another.’

‘This was about twenty or twenty-five years ago,’ Corbett interrupted.

‘They were just lads at the time. All mouth and cock,’ the Ancient One declared. ‘Henry was the bad one. Not a bodice he didn’t rip or a petticoat he wouldn’t lift. He acted the young lord, nimble on his feet, quick of wit and sharp of eye. He seduced her. Alwayn found out, so the poor girl killed herself, stepped on a table she did then hanged herself.’

‘And Alwayn, he disappeared?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, he didn’t disappear. You’ve only been told half the story.’ The old man cackled and peered at his son. ‘I don’t think I’ve told you this, have I? Alwayn found the corpse and took her down.’ The old man sniffed. ‘Then he hanged himself in the same place.’ He must have glimpsed the astonishment on Corbett’s face. ‘Both gone,’ he murmured sadly. ‘Into the dark! I am sure they were there to greet Lord Henry.’