Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘I have drunk enough, Sir William.’

‘But I haven’t and, as the scholars say, “ In vino veritas ”.’ He splashed a cup full to the brim, sat down opposite Corbett and toasted him silently.

‘Did you kill your brother?’ Corbett began.

‘I was emptying my bowels,’ Sir William replied. ‘I had no hand in his death. My name’s William, not Cain!’

‘And this woman’s corpse found in the forest?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why would the woman have a lily stamped on her shoulder?’

Sir William’s head went down.

‘Come on!’ Corbett snapped. ‘You’ve visited the fleshpots like your brother. I half suspect what it is. It’s a brand sign for a whore.’

‘But not a common bawd. It’s usually a brothel keeper or a high-class courtesan.’

‘But why the lily?’

Sir William snorted with laughter. ‘Sir Hugh, ride down to Rye and then cross the Narrow Seas to France. The woman must have been French. If what you say is correct, she must have come from Abbeville or Boulogne. The French are more tender with their whores than we English. If a woman is convicted of keeping a disorderly house that’s the brand they use. She is king’s property, liable to be fined.’

‘So, what was she doing in England?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh, but, naked, we are all the same, aren’t we? The English like whores, the French like whores, the Germans like whores. Even the priests like whores. It’s a currency common in every country.’ Sir William slammed his wine cup down. ‘For God’s sake, man! English whores work in France and the French come across to England. Oh, they pose as ladies in distress. For a farmer visiting Rye, Dover or Winchelsea, a French whore is regarded as a delicacy. However, I didn’t know this one! I don’t know why she was in Ashdown or why someone should loose an arrow at her throat!’

‘Did you discover her corpse and leave it outside Hawisia’s priory?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Or your brother?’

‘Henry would never have soiled his hands.’

Corbett leaned back in the chair. He noticed, for the first time, shelves full of calfskin tomes. Some of the bindings, threaded with silver and gold, glowed in the candlelight.

‘These were alight when we came in here.’ Corbett gestured to one of the candles. ‘Aren’t you frightened of fire?’

‘Sniff the air,’ Sir William replied. ‘They are pure beeswax. They do not splutter. The holder is bronze, the cap is of copper. A fanciful notion of my brother’s.’ Sir William gestured around. ‘Ashdown is made of stone, the best the Fitzalans could purchase. Fire is not one of our fears.’

‘But mysterious bowmen are,’ Corbett observed. ‘And I know about the “Rose of Rye”.’

‘I had nothing to do with that.’

‘I didn’t say you did, but you lied to me. You do know what it means.’

‘Henry was a mad fool,’ Sir William explained, half-turning in his chair. ‘He whored and he lechered to his heart’s content. The wife of the taverner at the Red Rose was much taken by him. Henry deserted her so she hanged herself; her husband did likewise. The tavern was sold and changed its name. Father did his best to keep the scandal secret.’

‘So, who is this Owlman?’

‘Henry made careful search. The taverner and his wife died but they did have a boy, a son, five years old.’

‘Ah!’ Corbett breathed.

‘Lord save us,’ William continued. ‘I was only ten years old at the time.’

‘And this son could now be the Owlman?’

‘It’s possible. But it’s strange, Sir Hugh, he’s a master bowman yet he never poaches the venison, attacks our retainers, or offered violence to me or my brother.’

‘Do you think it could be a priest?’ Corbett asked. ‘Someone like Brother Cosmas?’

‘God’s bully-boy?’ Sir William replied. ‘He really did hate my brother. We had the church watched, but it’s not him.’

‘And de Craon?’ Corbett asked.

Sir William pulled a face, for the wine was making him morose and sulky. Corbett stretched forward, picked up the sword and let it drop back with a crash on to the table, where it skittered about on the polished surface.

‘De Craon? You also mentioned Gaveston!’ Sir William lifted his head, a half-smile on his drunken face.

‘Ah, I see how this game goes,’ Corbett said, leaning his elbows on the table. ‘You will answer my questions if I protect you from the King.’

‘Sir Hugh, I did nothing wrong. The Prince of Wales came down here. It’s well known that Piers Gaveston is in England hiding. Now the Prince would never have anything to do with Lord Henry but he approached me. Gaveston has been hiding in manor houses and villages along the south coast. Would I bring him here to Ashdown? I told the Prince my brother would be furious. He became petulant; he reminded me that one day he would be king, that I was of his retinue and that he would remember younger brothers who had not helped him, so I agreed. Gaveston travelled to Ashdown disguised as a pilgrim. He hired a chamber at the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern and visited St Hawisia’s priory. The Prince met him in the tavern, and in the forest as well as the priory.’

‘And where is Gaveston now?’

Sir William splashed more wine into his cup. ‘He left as soon as he knew a royal clerk was visiting here.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Like a morning mist.’

‘And Lady Madeleine? She knew all this?’

‘Oh, Madeleine knew. The Prince of Wales visited her, all sweetness and light, talking about that damnable shrine of hers.’

‘Damnable?’

‘It’s the only thing she cares for. The Prince sang the same song as he did to me. How, when he was king, he would frequent St Hawisia’s as often as he did Becket’s tomb at Canterbury. Madeleine rose, like the sour fish she is, to the golden bait. Gaveston was allowed into the priory and the Prince met him there.’

‘If the King knew of this?’ Corbett straightened in his chair. ‘You’d be summoned to Westminster and, how can I put it, while waiting for an audience, be lodged in chambers in the Tower.’

Sir William sucked in his lips. ‘I have committed no crime. Gaveston’s a popinjay. He’s no threat to the King or kingdom. You should remember, Sir Hugh,’ he said hoarsely. ‘One day, God forbid, the King will die and the crown will rest on another brow.’

‘You speak the truth. But don’t you forget, Sir William, that it’s that crown I serve, not its wearer!’

‘Ever the lawyer, eh, master clerk?’

‘No sir, ever the truth. And the truth is that you have done no real harm but de Craon, now he’s a different dish. Why did the French king demand that Lord Henry lead the English envoys to Paris?’

‘Henry travelled a great deal,’ Sir William said. ‘He was a scholar, a collector of artefacts. He was well known at foreign courts.’

‘So am I,’ Corbett retorted. ‘The French were quite particular. They asked for Lord Henry Fitzalan. Now, sir, why?’

Sir William looked up at the rafters. ‘The truth, Sir Hugh, is that I don’t really know.’ He held up a hand. ‘I will take an oath on it. My brother was certainly on pleasant terms with the French king.’

‘Did they correspond?’

‘Just gifts and brief letters.’

‘May I see these?’

‘If you wish.’

‘But come, Sir William, you can offer more than this.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘You want my protection at court, then buy it.’

Sir William clumsily got to his feet. He went to pull back one of the shutters and stared through the latticed window.

‘The key to all that, Sir Hugh, is Pancius Cantrone. But God knows where he is! It’s dark and I am feared for his safety.’