Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘She’s a clumsy girl,’ Lady Madeleine replied, her eyes shifting to Corbett.

‘But when I return,’ Corbett went on, ‘the bruises will have healed, will they not?’

Lady Madeleine snapped her fingers.

‘Go to the novice house, Sister Fidelis!’ She surveyed Corbett from head to toe. ‘I am Lady Madeleine Fitzalan. This is Sister Agnes, my sub-prioress.’

The other nun forced a smile.

‘And I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, his special emissary to these parts. I carry his warrant and authority. This is Ranulf-atte-Newgate, my manservant, senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’

‘You have no authority on church lands!’

‘I can get it.’

Lady Madeleine’s thin face broke into a smile.

‘Could you really, Sir Hugh?’ She brushed by him, walked towards the shrine and gave Ranulf the same critical look. ‘You have a bold stare, man!’

‘I was examining your habit, my lady, its snowy whiteness. Is that a symbol of holiness or just humility?’

Corbett closed his eyes at the hiss of indrawn breath.

‘Lady Madeleine.’ He came and stood beside her. ‘Your half-brother has been murdered.’

‘God assoil him!’

‘And a young woman’s corpse was left outside the postern of your priory. I understand she, too, had been murdered, by an arrow to the neck.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘His Majesty the King. Not to mention the gossips at the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern.’

‘It’s well named.’ Lady Madeleine’s icy gaze never faltered. ‘But, yes, the poor woman’s corpse was found and we gave it Christian burial.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s one of the Corporal Acts of Mercy.’

‘Did you know the woman?’

‘No, I did not!’

‘Had she ever visited this priory or shrine?’

‘No, she did not and you can ask that question of any of the community.’

‘And where is she buried?’

‘In our graveyard.’

Corbett produced his warrant bearing the royal seal.

‘Then, my lady, by the authority invested in me, I wish the corpse exhumed so I can examine it.’

‘You cannot do that.’

Corbett walked away. ‘Ranulf, find a mattock, hoe and spade. Use your authority to find out where this poor corpse lies buried. My lady prioress, I will explain my actions to the King and to the Archbishop, and you can then account for your refusal to co-operate with me.’

‘Sir Hugh.’

He turned. Lady Madeleine’s face had softened.

‘I did not mean to quarrel. First, let me answer your questions. The case containing the relic is never opened. Secondly, I will answer your questions in my parlour. Thirdly, since I am prioress here, I will have the body exhumed!’

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.’