Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘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.