Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

Corbett sat back. Aye, he thought, and where is Master Ranulf?

Ranulf-atte-Newgate, who’d drunk a little more than he’d wished, slipped out of the hallway, as planned, to meet Master Baldock. He found this new friend and ally sitting on the steps outside the main hall.

‘You are ready, Master Ranulf? You will mention my name to Sir Hugh?’

Ranulf clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll take you in to the King himself, Baldock. But the house of Mistress Alicia?’

Baldock beckoned him on. The ostler led him along a warren of passageways, through the kitchens, still thick with the odours of the cooking and baking which had preceded Sir William’s feast. The scullions, kitchen boys and slatterns were now feasting on the remains, picking at the bones, dipping their hands into the blancmange, oblivious to the two silent figures who slipped out by a postern door across the yard.

It was a warm, soft night with a full harvest moon. Baldock found the cresset torch he had hidden, lit it and led Ranulf over a small footbridge past the stables, across the orchards to where the chief verderer’s house stood. A two-storied building, its base was built of red brick, while the rest was plaster and black beams. Its thatched roof had long been replaced with tiles and a chimney had been neatly built on one end. At the back was an outside staircase. Ranulf would have stopped there but Baldock urged him on. They climbed a fence into a herb garden. Eventually Baldock stopped beneath a pear tree.

‘I leave you here,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll not hurt the girl?’

‘Oh shut up!’ Ranulf hissed. ‘Go back and wait for me by the bridge. Keep the torch hidden. When you hear me come, lift it.’

Baldock scurried off. Ranulf pulled down the collar of his stiff white cambric shirt and looked up at the window where a night-light glowed. He prided himself on his reading and self-education and knew all about the troubadours of France: the chanteurs, the minstrel men who recited poetry beneath their lady’s window and then left their poem pinned to the door. Ranulf had spent all afternoon preparing for this. A night of mystery! Of outpoured passion! He would not disturb this young woman who had smitten his heart so deeply, but would be the perfect, gentil knight, the chevalier of love. Alicia was no tavern wench but his lady in the tower to be courted, praised, flattered. Ranulf closed his eyes. The sweet smell of blossom on a cool breeze wafted across his hot face. He was alone under the stars. All thoughts of priesthood, of preferment at court or in the Chancery had now disappeared.

He loosened his pouch and took out the love poem. It was too dark to read but he knew the lines by heart. He moved one foot forward like he had seen the minstrel men do.

Eyes on the window, one hand on his heart, Ranulf began his poem:

‘Alicia my love,

The love of my heart,

My morning star!

My tower of ivory!

My castle of delight,

Light of my life,

Flame of my heart,

All beauteous. .’

He felt a touch on his arm.

‘Good evening, Master Ranulf.’

He whirled round.

Alicia Verlian, wrapped in a dark cloak, looking as lovely as the night, stood looking up at him.

‘Love by moonlight, eh Ranulf?’

His manservant sat on the edge of the cot bed and gazed dreamily back. Corbett undid his sword belt and threw it on the floor.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he warned. ‘You shouldn’t have left! I need you at my back and you shouldn’t be alone when de Craon’s around.’

‘I had Baldock.’

‘Ah yes, the ubiquitous, if not inquisitive, Baldock.’

Corbett sat on the bed resting against the wall. He had met the ostler just before they had left Ashdown Hall and was secretly impressed by the young man. Indeed, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Maltote, not so much in looks but in manner and attitude. Already he revered Ranulf, was his willing accomplice in mischief, while, by the way he handled their horses, he was an accomplished rider and groom.

‘Will you take him, master? Fitzalan intends to pension off most retainers by Yuletide. I think he’ll remove every sign of his brother from that manor!’

‘Is Baldock honest?’

‘As I am, master.’

Corbett laughed. ‘And the love of your life?’

Corbett was secretly alarmed by the faraway look in Ranulf’s eyes. He wondered whether it was the wine or the secret amour in the dead of night. Corbett had seen many a man smitten, had felt the pangs of love himself, but always thought Ranulf was different. Now he mentally beat his breast and said, ‘ Mea culpa, mea culpa .’ He was arrogant to consider he knew his manservant so well.

‘And you, master?’

Ranulf realised attack was the best form of defence. Corbett had left Ashdown looking like a cat who had stolen both the cream and the cheese, even humming a tune under his breath as they took the forest paths back to the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern.

‘Sir William is in trouble,’ Corbett said. ‘He confessed little but he has given aid and sustenance to Piers Gaveston, supposedly exiled by royal decree from this kingdom. He and his sister have a great deal to answer for.’

Ranulf rubbed his hands. There was nothing like Old Long Face teaching a lesson of humility to arrogant nobles and proud prioresses.

‘But that’s only a flea above our dish,’ Corbett continued. ‘Sir William told me that the corpse of the young woman found in the forest was probably a French whore, an expensive one.’

‘What on earth. .?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what she was doing in Ashdown. Sir William also told me that both de Craon and Philip of France were not so much friendly towards Lord Henry as frightened of him. The key to this fear is that sallow-faced physician, Pancius Cantrone, but he has disappeared. Lord Henry and his precious physician! It’s my belief, as well as Sir William’s, that his brother discovered a secret scandal, something which could grievously harm Philip of France. Now, Lord Henry and Philip exchanged letters; England and France are at peace, so there’s no crime in that, but Philip also sent Lord Henry expensive gifts. Sir William showed me some of these: gold crowns, precious goblets, little gewgaws, but, assayed and weighed by some clerk of the Exchequer, it would amount to a small fortune. Now.’ Corbett bit his lower lip. ‘I believe Philip asked for Lord Henry to be sent to France, not only to conduct the negotiations regarding his daughter’s marriage but to buy back, once and for all, this secret.’

‘In exchange for what?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A small fortune.’

‘But wouldn’t that be dangerous? I mean, if Lord Henry visited Paris an accident could happen.’

‘I asked the same of Sir William. He said that Lord Henry, when he travelled abroad, always left Pancius Cantrone in England.’

‘Ah, and he would control the secret?’

‘Yes, but then Sir William confided in me how Lord Henry, in his cups, had intimated that when they reached Rye, he would entrust certain secrets to his brother while Cantrone would be bundled aboard ship and be taken to France.’

Ranulf rubbed his brow. He tried to remove the lovely face of Alicia from his mind as he concentrated on the conundrum his master now posed.

‘It would seem, Ranulf,’ Corbett continued, ‘that Philip of France asked for Lord Henry Fitzalan who wished to finish his private business with Philip once and for all. He would surrender the secret and betray the man who had handed it to him, probably for lands, castles or moveable treasures.’

‘And if anything happened to Lord Henry while he was abroad?’ Ranulf now warmed to the task in hand.