The Demon Archer

Chapter 8

Philip would have been pleased at the agitation which now troubled Pancius Cantrone. Indeed, the French king would have prostrated himself in thanksgiving for, on that sunlit autumn afternoon, Pancius Cantrone had only a very short time to live. The Italian, of course, did not know his death was so close. He was just determined to flee England, to escape the French and not to allow the English Crown to use him as a pawn, a bargaining counter with Philip of France.

The Italian physician had visited St Hawisia’s priory. He had ostentatiously attended the young novice Sister Fidelis, whose knuckles had swollen up so her fingers looked as if they had been stung by bees. Cantrone had acted the role of professional physician. He’d examined the skin, felt the bone and, even though the young novice was embarrassed, carefully scrutinised her urine lest the swelling had been caused by a malignant disturbance in her body humours. Of course, Lady Madeleine had welcomed him and they had chatted quietly in her chamber, both before and after he had attended the young novice. Pancius Cantrone had then taken a little wine and some sweetmeats in the refectory before collecting his horse. Now he was riding back through the forest paths to Ashdown Manor.

The Italian physician kept his thick woollen cloak tightly around him. He even wore wool-lined gauntlets because, although the English said it was not yet winter, Cantrone felt cold. He hated these gloomy, wet forests and yearned for the lush valleys of Tuscany. Cantrone was determined to flee. He had come to England because Lord Henry had offered him protection. In return Cantrone had whispered the secrets he had learned from Monsieur Malvoisin. Now those secrets came back to haunt him as his horse found its way along the lonely forest paths. Sombre images plagued his mind: black-cowled monks, tapers in their hands, winding their way up a cathedral church; behind them a velvet-draped coffin resting on the shoulders of pall-bearers. The solemn chorus rising and falling like a distant wave with a sequence from the funeral mass. Outside the cathedral mailed horsemen milled about, controlling the crowds. Cantrone had been in that procession. He’d stood next to Malvoisin. They had watched the royal mourners bend over the wax effigy placed on top of the coffin. Roses had been placed there along with pure white lilies. Malvoisin could apparently stand it no longer. Standing by themselves, he’d turned and whispered, ‘Not an infection of the lung.’

‘What?’ Cantrone had asked.

‘Not an infection of the lung,’ Malvoisin had repeated, keeping his voice low, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, eyes glittering, rubicund face flushed with wine. ‘She was poisoned.’

Cantrone had gone cold but Malvoisin, cunning as ever, had chosen his moment.

‘You know that I speak the truth.’

His watery eyes had held those of Cantrone and the Italian physician had given way to the doubts seething within him. Afterwards, when the church was empty and the incense hung like a forgotten prayer, curling up towards the stone ceiling, Cantrone had taken Malvoisin aside.

‘If you repeat what you said,’ he whispered, ‘it’s the scaffold for both of us!’

Malvoisin, now sobering up, had glanced nervously around.

‘My duties are finished now,’ he’d declared. ‘I have had enough. It’s time for peace, a little quiet.’

Malvoisin had resigned his post in the household. The general expectation was that Cantrone would seek the vacant preferment, but the Italian had studied intrigue as well as physic. He had noticed the men who had followed him to a tavern or stood outside his house when darkness fell. Cantrone knew the signs like a good physician should. He’d packed his coffers and fled in the dead of night. First to Italy and then, by sea, to the English-held city of Bordeaux. Even there he had felt hunted; he was looking further afield when he had met Lord Henry Fitzalan. The English milord needed a physician and, impressed by Cantrone’s skill, had offered him a place in his household. Cantrone had quickly accepted. Weeks turned into months. Cantrone discovered Fitzalan was high in the English court, a trusted envoy to France. So, to make his own position more secure, Cantrone had revealed his own dark secrets. Lord Henry Fitzalan seemed delighted. Cantrone had come to trust him, the only person he had ever done in his long, suspicion-laden life. Fitzalan had used those secrets against the French, hinting at what he knew both at meetings and in letters.

Cantrone reined in his horse and raised his eyes to the interlacing branches above.

‘I was a fool,’ he muttered, ‘to put my trust in him!’

Lord Henry had sworn that Cantrone would never have to accompany him to France. However, in the confusion following Fitzalan’s death, Cantrone had discovered that, although Lord Henry had given his solemn word, when he reached Rye, Cantrone would not have received sweet kisses and embraces of farewell. Instead he would have been bundled aboard some ship and handed over to the French. In return for what? More influence? More power? A bag of gold? Cantrone dug his heels in and the gentle cob ambled on. How could Lord Henry betray him when he had done so much?

Now Lord Henry was gone and Sir William? A blunt, naive young man, it was he who had unwittingly revealed that when they reached Rye, Cantrone would not have returned to Ashdown Manor. Did Sir William know the dark secret? Would he offer him protection? Cantrone shook his head. He doubted it. Sir William was more interested in clearing every vestige of his brother from his manor. Household retainers, servants, even grooms were being told to seek employment elsewhere.

Cantrone had kept well away from Seigneur Amaury de Craon but, on one occasion, he had caught the French envoy studying him; those cunning eyes had smiled and Cantrone had glimpsed more danger there than in a chamber full of horrors.

Cantrone breathed in then wrinkled his nose at the smell of rotting vegetation. He had been unable to find Lord Henry’s Book of Hours, which was the place where he kept all his secrets, but Cantrone had turned, like the snake he was, striking hard and fast, using the information he himself had discovered to earn more gold. He would return to Ashdown, collect his valuables and be away before nightfall, hide in one of the Channel ports and perhaps go north to Flanders, Hainault or even to the Baltic and German states.

Cantrone could have hugged himself. A simple sentence and he had provoked such suspicion and laughter in Lord Henry’s soul, one thing had followed another. Now he had the means to leave!

A sound just to his right made him rein in his horse. He peered among the trees. He was in no danger here. The Owlman, the outlaw, his quarrel was with the Fitzalans, not some Italian physician, while as for the French, Cantrone doubted if they’d strike now. Not here, where they could be detected and cause great scandal.

Cantrone took the small arbalest which hung over the horn of his saddle. Fumbling beneath his cloak, he took out a cruel barbed bolt and placed it in the groove, slowly winching back the cord. He laughed to himself, he was becoming as nervous as a maid!

The afternoon sun streamed through the trees. Birdsong broke the silence. Again a sound came as a rabbit raced across the trackway. Cantrone relaxed. He pulled the bolt out but still gripped the arbalest as he rode on. On the branches above him the leaves were turning a golden brown, a sure sign of autumn, but when the mists came he’d be gone with all this behind him. He pulled down the collar of his white cambric shirt, undoing the clasp at the neck. Little did he know that by this action he presented a clearer target for the archer hidden in the trees. The yew bow bent, the cord pulled back; there was a twang, soft, musical, and the grey-feathered shaft took Cantrone full in the throat. The physician dropped the reins and toppled gently on to the trackway. His horse, a little startled, moved on but then stopped and began to crop at the grass. The archer, garbed in a black cloak, hood and cowl, slipped out of the trees. For a while the figure just crouched, looking carefully up and down the trackway, and then it hurried across to the corpse. Pockets and pouches were emptied. Cantrone’s horse was brought back. The corpse was lifted over it and both killer and victim disappeared into the trees.

Sir William’s dinner at Ashdown Manor proved to be a magnificent occasion. Corbett and Ranulf had been met by grooms bearing torches on the great broad pathway which wound from the manor gates up to the main door of the beautiful stone and timbered manor house. Retainers wearing the Fitzalan livery had taken their cloaks and war belts then ushered them into the great hall. The walls of this magnificent chamber were half-covered in wooden panelling, the whitewashed plaster above decorated with flags, pennants, shields, pieces of shining armour and costly gold-tasselled drapes. Banners bearing the arms of France and England, as well as those of Flanders, hung from the rafters. The wooden floor had been swept, polished and covered with the freshest herbs. Silver pots of flowers stood in window embrasures and corners. Whippers-in and grooms kept the dogs well away from the great dais where a large table had been set out covered in green and white samite cloth bearing the costliest cups, goblets, traunchers, plates and ewers all stamped with the Fitzalan crest. Torches and beeswax candles provided light and a pleasing fragrance.

Sir William, seeming decidedly nervous, had met them there, loudly declaring that they should have come sooner while explaining that, though his brother’s body had not yet been buried, he would follow the Fitzalan tradition of magnificent generosity. Sir William’s hair, moustache and beard had been neatly clipped and oiled. He was dressed in a gold linen gown with a jewel-encrusted belt and wore soft red buskins on his feet. He told them that he was worried that Signor Cantrone had not returned and kept looking over his shoulder to where de Craon and his principal clerk already sat in their places on the dais.

‘I understand you know the French envoy,’ Sir William said.

‘Like my own cousin,’ Corbett replied with a smile.

Followed by Ranulf, he swept up on to the dais. De Craon, face wreathed in smiles, rose and came forward to meet him. They clasped hands, embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace.

‘Hugh, God save you, we thought you had been killed!’

‘God only knows, Amaury, how you must have mourned at such news!’

De Craon stood back.

‘You have not aged at all, Sir Hugh. Lady Maeve must take great care of you.’

Corbett studied de Craon’s red, thinning hair, yellowing face, straggly beard and moustache. De Craon would have been ugly if it hadn’t been for those eyes full of life and cunning. A charming courtier or a cold, ruthless killer? Corbett sometimes felt a slight affection for this most deadly of adversaries; he wondered if de Craon ever felt the same. The Frenchman’s face became a mask of concern.

‘And yet these are sad times! Lord Henry is dead! Most of my retinue are still lodged outside Rye. We want to return.’

‘The King will send someone else,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir William here or my lord of Surrey.’

‘Would you not come to Paris?’ de Craon asked, taking his seat. He smirked at his grey-faced clerk. ‘We have so much to show you, Hugh, especially my master’s gardens behind the Louvre.’

Sir William came between them and sat down in his great throne-like chair. Corbett decided not to reply. The steward standing nervously behind Sir William raised his hands. Trumpeters in the gallery at the far end of the hall blew a fanfare and the meal began. Brawn soup; fish in cream sauce; beef; venison; a whole roast swan. One dish followed another, the wine jugs circulating. Sir William strove to be a genial host. The conversation ebbed and flowed like water, ignoring the deeper undercurrents. Most of the chatter was about different courts and chanceries, the funeral arrangements for Lord Henry and the prospects of a lasting peace between England and France once the marriage of Princess Isabella and Prince Edward was consummated.

Ranulf sat picking at his food, his silver-chased goblets of red and white wine already emptied. De Craon noticed this and narrowed his eyes. He asked about the attack in Oxford. This was followed by a general discussion on maintaining the King’s peace. Only once did the tensions surface.

‘Where is the Italian doctor Cantrone?’ de Craon asked. ‘I would, so much, like to have words with him.’

Sir William, who had drunk deeply and rather quickly, shrugged. He belched and, picking up scraps of meat, flung them down the hall at the waiting mastiffs.

‘If I knew,’ he slurred, ‘I’d tell you.’

De Craon was about to press him further when the festivities were ended by an arrow which shattered one of the hall windows and buried itself deep in the wooden panelling. Dogs barked and yelped. Retainers hurried in. Sir William sat, mouth open, cup half-raised to his lips.

‘We are under attack!’ the old steward shouted. ‘Man the battlements!’

Corbett wondered if the fellow had drunk too deeply of the wine he had been serving.

‘Nonsense!’ De Craon leaned back in his chair, laughing with his clerk.

Corbett hurried down the hall. He noticed the scroll of parchment tied with a piece of twine to the arrow shaft.

The Owlman goes wherever he wishes!

He does whatever he chooses!

Remember the Rose of Rye!

Corbett studied the arrow, which was like any other, without distinguishing marks. Sir William had now joined him, slightly unsteady on his feet.

‘I need to have words with you, sir,’ Corbett said in a low voice. ‘About this.’ He held the manor lord’s gaze. ‘About the Owlman and, more importantly, this Italian physician and Piers Gaveston.’

The colour drained from Sir William’s face.

‘I, I don’t know what you mean!’ Sir William gasped.

‘I want the truth!’ Corbett urged. ‘My lord, we could play cat and mouse all night.’

He glanced back at the dais where de Craon slouched in his chair. Of Ranulf there was no sign.

‘Sir William,’ Corbett went on, face close to the manor lord’s. ‘De Craon is one of the King’s greatest enemies and a man who plots my destruction. Forget all the flowery language, the kiss of peace. If de Craon had me alone in an alleyway, it would be a rope round my neck or a dagger in my belly.’

Sir William’s face was now damp with perspiration. ‘Now, sir, what’s it going to be? I cannot blunder round here, in the presence of my enemies, chasing will-o-the-wisps! Will I hear the truth or shall I go out and hire one of your minstrels and listen to his stories?’

Sir William turned round. ‘Seigneur de Craon,’ he called out. ‘This is a petty nuisance.’

De Craon waved a hand and shrugged.

‘I must have urgent words with Sir Hugh,’ Sir William continued.

‘As we all shall, sometime or other!’ the Frenchman sang out.

But Sir William, followed by Corbett, was already walking down the hall. They went out along a cloistered walk, then through a door into a clean, paved porchway and up black oaken stairs.

‘Your brother’s chamber?’ Corbett enquired.

Sir William looked as if he was about to refuse. Corbett glanced over his shoulder and quietly cursed Ranulf. He suspected where he had gone, in pursuit of the lovely Alicia Verlian. Sir William went further along the gallery until he stopped at one door, fumbled with some keys and opened it to reveal a lavishly furnished but untidy chamber. Corbett was aware of a large four-poster bed with curtains of dark murrey fringed with gold and silver tassels. Two large aumbries stood on either side of the windowseat, and there were chests and coffers, their lids thrown back. Armour lay piled on a stool. A sword rested in the centre of the broad oaken table. Sir William waved at Corbett to sit on a chair at the far side of this table. He brought across a tray bearing a wine jug and goblets. Corbett refused.

‘I have drunk enough, Sir William.’

‘But I haven’t and, as the scholars say, “In vino veritas”.’ He splashed a cup full to the brim, sat down opposite Corbett and toasted him silently.

‘Did you kill your brother?’ Corbett began.

‘I was emptying my bowels,’ Sir William replied. ‘I had no hand in his death. My name’s William, not Cain!’

‘And this woman’s corpse found in the forest?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why would the woman have a lily stamped on her shoulder?’

Sir William’s head went down.

‘Come on!’ Corbett snapped. ‘You’ve visited the fleshpots like your brother. I half suspect what it is. It’s a brand sign for a whore.’

‘But not a common bawd. It’s usually a brothel keeper or a high-class courtesan.’

‘But why the lily?’

Sir William snorted with laughter. ‘Sir Hugh, ride down to Rye and then cross the Narrow Seas to France. The woman must have been French. If what you say is correct, she must have come from Abbeville or Boulogne. The French are more tender with their whores than we English. If a woman is convicted of keeping a disorderly house that’s the brand they use. She is king’s property, liable to be fined.’

‘So, what was she doing in England?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh, but, naked, we are all the same, aren’t we? The English like whores, the French like whores, the Germans like whores. Even the priests like whores. It’s a currency common in every country.’ Sir William slammed his wine cup down. ‘For God’s sake, man! English whores work in France and the French come across to England. Oh, they pose as ladies in distress. For a farmer visiting Rye, Dover or Winchelsea, a French whore is regarded as a delicacy. However, I didn’t know this one! I don’t know why she was in Ashdown or why someone should loose an arrow at her throat!’

‘Did you discover her corpse and leave it outside Hawisia’s priory?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Or your brother?’

‘Henry would never have soiled his hands.’

Corbett leaned back in the chair. He noticed, for the first time, shelves full of calfskin tomes. Some of the bindings, threaded with silver and gold, glowed in the candlelight.

‘These were alight when we came in here.’ Corbett gestured to one of the candles. ‘Aren’t you frightened of fire?’

‘Sniff the air,’ Sir William replied. ‘They are pure beeswax. They do not splutter. The holder is bronze, the cap is of copper. A fanciful notion of my brother’s.’ Sir William gestured around. ‘Ashdown is made of stone, the best the Fitzalans could purchase. Fire is not one of our fears.’

‘But mysterious bowmen are,’ Corbett observed. ‘And I know about the “Rose of Rye”.’

‘I had nothing to do with that.’

‘I didn’t say you did, but you lied to me. You do know what it means.’

‘Henry was a mad fool,’ Sir William explained, half-turning in his chair. ‘He whored and he lechered to his heart’s content. The wife of the taverner at the Red Rose was much taken by him. Henry deserted her so she hanged herself; her husband did likewise. The tavern was sold and changed its name. Father did his best to keep the scandal secret.’

‘So, who is this Owlman?’

‘Henry made careful search. The taverner and his wife died but they did have a boy, a son, five years old.’

‘Ah!’ Corbett breathed.

‘Lord save us,’ William continued. ‘I was only ten years old at the time.’

‘And this son could now be the Owlman?’

‘It’s possible. But it’s strange, Sir Hugh, he’s a master bowman yet he never poaches the venison, attacks our retainers, or offered violence to me or my brother.’

‘Do you think it could be a priest?’ Corbett asked. ‘Someone like Brother Cosmas?’

‘God’s bully-boy?’ Sir William replied. ‘He really did hate my brother. We had the church watched, but it’s not him.’

‘And de Craon?’ Corbett asked.

Sir William pulled a face, for the wine was making him morose and sulky. Corbett stretched forward, picked up the sword and let it drop back with a crash on to the table, where it skittered about on the polished surface.

‘De Craon? You also mentioned Gaveston!’ Sir William lifted his head, a half-smile on his drunken face.

‘Ah, I see how this game goes,’ Corbett said, leaning his elbows on the table. ‘You will answer my questions if I protect you from the King.’

‘Sir Hugh, I did nothing wrong. The Prince of Wales came down here. It’s well known that Piers Gaveston is in England hiding. Now the Prince would never have anything to do with Lord Henry but he approached me. Gaveston has been hiding in manor houses and villages along the south coast. Would I bring him here to Ashdown? I told the Prince my brother would be furious. He became petulant; he reminded me that one day he would be king, that I was of his retinue and that he would remember younger brothers who had not helped him, so I agreed. Gaveston travelled to Ashdown disguised as a pilgrim. He hired a chamber at the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern and visited St Hawisia’s priory. The Prince met him in the tavern, and in the forest as well as the priory.’

‘And where is Gaveston now?’

Sir William splashed more wine into his cup. ‘He left as soon as he knew a royal clerk was visiting here.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Like a morning mist.’

‘And Lady Madeleine? She knew all this?’

‘Oh, Madeleine knew. The Prince of Wales visited her, all sweetness and light, talking about that damnable shrine of hers.’

‘Damnable?’

‘It’s the only thing she cares for. The Prince sang the same song as he did to me. How, when he was king, he would frequent St Hawisia’s as often as he did Becket’s tomb at Canterbury. Madeleine rose, like the sour fish she is, to the golden bait. Gaveston was allowed into the priory and the Prince met him there.’

‘If the King knew of this?’ Corbett straightened in his chair. ‘You’d be summoned to Westminster and, how can I put it, while waiting for an audience, be lodged in chambers in the Tower.’

Sir William sucked in his lips. ‘I have committed no crime. Gaveston’s a popinjay. He’s no threat to the King or kingdom. You should remember, Sir Hugh,’ he said hoarsely. ‘One day, God forbid, the King will die and the crown will rest on another brow.’

‘You speak the truth. But don’t you forget, Sir William, that it’s that crown I serve, not its wearer!’

‘Ever the lawyer, eh, master clerk?’

‘No sir, ever the truth. And the truth is that you have done no real harm but de Craon, now he’s a different dish. Why did the French king demand that Lord Henry lead the English envoys to Paris?’

‘Henry travelled a great deal,’ Sir William said. ‘He was a scholar, a collector of artefacts. He was well known at foreign courts.’

‘So am I,’ Corbett retorted. ‘The French were quite particular. They asked for Lord Henry Fitzalan. Now, sir, why?’

Sir William looked up at the rafters. ‘The truth, Sir Hugh, is that I don’t really know.’ He held up a hand. ‘I will take an oath on it. My brother was certainly on pleasant terms with the French king.’

‘Did they correspond?’

‘Just gifts and brief letters.’

‘May I see these?’

‘If you wish.’

‘But come, Sir William, you can offer more than this.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘You want my protection at court, then buy it.’

Sir William clumsily got to his feet. He went to pull back one of the shutters and stared through the latticed window.

‘The key to all that, Sir Hugh, is Pancius Cantrone. But God knows where he is! It’s dark and I am feared for his safety.’

Corbett sat back. Aye, he thought, and where is Master Ranulf?

Ranulf-atte-Newgate, who’d drunk a little more than he’d wished, slipped out of the hallway, as planned, to meet Master Baldock. He found this new friend and ally sitting on the steps outside the main hall.

‘You are ready, Master Ranulf? You will mention my name to Sir Hugh?’

Ranulf clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll take you in to the King himself, Baldock. But the house of Mistress Alicia?’

Baldock beckoned him on. The ostler led him along a warren of passageways, through the kitchens, still thick with the odours of the cooking and baking which had preceded Sir William’s feast. The scullions, kitchen boys and slatterns were now feasting on the remains, picking at the bones, dipping their hands into the blancmange, oblivious to the two silent figures who slipped out by a postern door across the yard.

It was a warm, soft night with a full harvest moon. Baldock found the cresset torch he had hidden, lit it and led Ranulf over a small footbridge past the stables, across the orchards to where the chief verderer’s house stood. A two-storied building, its base was built of red brick, while the rest was plaster and black beams. Its thatched roof had long been replaced with tiles and a chimney had been neatly built on one end. At the back was an outside staircase. Ranulf would have stopped there but Baldock urged him on. They climbed a fence into a herb garden. Eventually Baldock stopped beneath a pear tree.

‘I leave you here,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll not hurt the girl?’

‘Oh shut up!’ Ranulf hissed. ‘Go back and wait for me by the bridge. Keep the torch hidden. When you hear me come, lift it.’

Baldock scurried off. Ranulf pulled down the collar of his stiff white cambric shirt and looked up at the window where a night-light glowed. He prided himself on his reading and self-education and knew all about the troubadours of France: the chanteurs, the minstrel men who recited poetry beneath their lady’s window and then left their poem pinned to the door. Ranulf had spent all afternoon preparing for this. A night of mystery! Of outpoured passion! He would not disturb this young woman who had smitten his heart so deeply, but would be the perfect, gentil knight, the chevalier of love. Alicia was no tavern wench but his lady in the tower to be courted, praised, flattered. Ranulf closed his eyes. The sweet smell of blossom on a cool breeze wafted across his hot face. He was alone under the stars. All thoughts of priesthood, of preferment at court or in the Chancery had now disappeared.

He loosened his pouch and took out the love poem. It was too dark to read but he knew the lines by heart. He moved one foot forward like he had seen the minstrel men do.

Eyes on the window, one hand on his heart, Ranulf began his poem:

‘Alicia my love,

The love of my heart,

My morning star!

My tower of ivory!

My castle of delight,

Light of my life,

Flame of my heart,

All beauteous. .’

He felt a touch on his arm.

‘Good evening, Master Ranulf.’

He whirled round.

Alicia Verlian, wrapped in a dark cloak, looking as lovely as the night, stood looking up at him.