Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘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.’

Corbett and Ranulf left the Ancient One and walked back into the tavern. Mine host hurried off to cut slices of pork.

‘My, my, my,’ Ranulf exclaimed as they took their seats. ‘If the King knew of this, he would have one of his royal rages.’

‘The King will know of this,’ Corbett replied. ‘It would appear that Gaveston, who is supposed to be exiled, has now returned to England and is hiding in these parts.’

‘That’s why the Prince of Wales wanted to see us, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, I think it was. Sir William Fitzalan is one of the Prince of Wales’ coterie. I suspect, at the Prince’s insistence, Sir William brought Gaveston up into Ashdown. He stayed here where he was arrogant enough to wear his insignia. I also believe he was Lady Madeleine’s secret visitor. The Prince of Wales, full of false piety, came to Ashdown, ostensibly to hunt or pray at the famous shrine; but secretly, he was meeting his lover.’

Ranulf stared back alarmed.

‘If the King heard that,’ he replied, ‘your friendship, Sir Hugh, would not save you.’

‘The King knows the truth,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘The Prince of Wales is a man who likes the best of both worlds. Oh, he’ll marry whatever princess is trotted out.’ Corbett’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I suspect the true love of his life is, and always will be, the Gascon Piers Gaveston.’

‘And he sheltered here?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Here and in the priory.’

‘And the other matter?’

‘I am disappointed,’ Corbett said. ‘I really did think the Owlman was the husband of the young woman who killed herself at the Red Rose, but both are dead, so I have to think again.’