Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

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.