Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

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?’