Paul Doherty: The Demon Archer

‘Come, come, brother!’ Lord Henry felt a spurt of good humour.

His brother walked across, his high-heeled riding boots squelching on the soft earth. He threw his cloak back over his shoulder and Henry studied him quickly from head to toe. The tunic was wine-stained, the leggings already covered in mud. His brother was a good soldier but a poor courtier and, above all, a bad loser. Henry’s smile widened as he grasped William by the shoulder and pulled him closer.

‘Today, sweet brother,’ he hissed, smile fixed, ‘I enjoy a day’s hunting. I entertain the King’s guests.’ He gestured with his head to where Seigneur Amaury de Craon, the pale, red-haired, foxy-faced envoy from the French court stood quietly gossiping with his own entourage.

‘I don’t give a fig for the French, brother!’ William snapped. ‘You gave me your promise that the manor of Manningtree would be mine when I passed my thirtieth birthday.’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Lord Henry replied. ‘Manningtree will stay with me.’

‘And me?’ William accused. ‘Am I to stay with you, brother? Become a hanger-on at your court? Feeding on scraps from your table?’

‘You are my dearest brother. You are my heir.’ Lord Henry pulled a face. ‘Well, until I marry and beget a thousand and one sons.’

‘Why can’t I have Manningtree?’

‘First, because I have said so. Secondly, I need it. And thirdly, brother, I want to keep you close. I don’t want you skulking off and plotting with some of my, let us say, disaffected knights. I’ve given you a choice. You can stay here and, in all things, be my brother. Or I can give you a hundred pounds, two good horses and a suit of armour and you can go and seek your fortune elsewhere. Until then,’ his grip tightened, ‘you will smile when I tell you to! You will do what I tell you to do!’

His brother broke free and stood back, his hand going to the dagger in the belt around his waist.

‘What are you going to do, brother?’ Henry taunted. ‘Settle matters here?’ He stepped closer, his face now drained of any good humour. ‘Go on, sweet brother, draw your dagger, let’s have it out now. But, I tell you this.’ He grasped the hilt of his sword. ‘Your head will leave your shoulders before that dagger leaves its sheath. Now, play the man.’

William’s hand fell away.

‘That’s a good boy.’ He was about to turn away.

‘Who’s the Owlman?’ William whispered.

‘Why, brother, he’s an outlaw, a wolfs-head, an irritant.’

‘But why does he threaten you? Those messages left pinned to the manor gate or shot into doors and shutters? A good archer, brother, why should he taunt you?’

‘Brother, I am a great lord,’ Lord Henry explained. ‘I come of ancient family as you do. I make enemies, not only among my own kith and kin, but further afield! One day I’ll go hunting, not the fallow or roe deer but the Owlman. When I catch him, I’ll hang him from my manor gate and that will be the end of the matter.’

‘He must hate you deeply?’

‘Brother, better to be hated than despised.’

‘And the French?’ William asked. ‘Why have they asked the King. .?’

‘Why have they asked the King?’ Lord Henry interrupted, drawing so close William could smell his wine-drenched breath. ‘Why has the King asked me to lead an embassy to Paris to represent the Crown at the betrothal of the Lord Edward to the Princess Isabella? Yes.’ His eyes rounded in mock surprise. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m doing, William! Because I am what you are not! I am a great lord, a friend and confidant of the King. I am feared not only here but in places you’ve never even visited.’

‘Aye, feared and hated!’ William spat back. ‘You threaten me, like last night. .’

‘ Mes excuses , brother.’ Henry drew closer. ‘I have only hinted at what I know, so now I will tell you! I know about the catamite Gaveston!’

And, spinning on his heel, Lord Henry walked back to his squires.

‘Soon our quarry will be here,’ he reminded them. ‘Shall we agree a wager, gentlemen? That my arrow will bring the first deer down? That my arrow will go deep into the heart?’

The murmur of conversation stilled. Lord Henry drained his cup and tossed it away.

‘Come, come, gentlemen, aren’t there any takers?’

‘I accept.’ Amaury de Craon raised a hand. ‘Ten pounds in gold, my lord.’

The French envoy came forward, hand outstretched. Lord Henry clasped it, his eyes narrowing as de Craon held it fast, pulling him a little closer. The Frenchman’s dark eyes never wavered.

‘And when you come to Fontainebleau, Lord Henry, I can take you hunting in our forests.’

‘Seigneur Amaury, your wager is accepted. I will take your gold and my hand back.’

The French envoy laughed and let go.

‘In France,’ Lord Henry felt the anger boiling within him at this French envoy’s impudence, ‘I intend to go hunting for more than a deer.’

His enigmatic remark had its effect. De Craon nervously licked his lips and his eyes shifted.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Lord Henry reassured him, slipping his arm through that of the Frenchman and drawing away from the rest. ‘They know nothing of what I say.’

‘You’ll come to France, Lord Henry?’

‘I will journey back with you.’

‘And Signor Pancius Cantrone?’

‘My physician doesn’t know it, but he will join us.’

‘And my master,’ Amaury de Craon continued in a whisper, ‘will be pleased to see Signor Cantrone and silence his lying mouth. But, how will it be done?’

‘We’ll journey down to Rye. My household will go with me, including my brother William whom I like to keep an eye on. What has to be done will be done then.’

Amaury de Craon withdrew his arm.

‘And isn’t the King suspicious that we asked you to lead the English envoys?’

‘My dear Amaury, I have led similar embassies before. I own land in Gascony. I am the King’s most trusted councillor. Why shouldn’t I go to Paris? The marriage negotiations between the Prince of Wales and the Lady Isabella have been ordained by his Holiness the Pope and, in time, will lead to peace between our two kingdoms.’

Amaury de Craon studied this sly, secretive English lord, who was tall and thickset, his black hair swept back. In the florid face, those cunning light blue eyes reminded Amaury of his master Philip IV of France: ice cold, soulless, constantly plotting. Amaury knew why Philip wanted this nobleman in Paris and, above all, why that traitor Cantrone, who had fled the French court, should be brought back.

‘Won’t the English court object over Cantrone?’

Amaury forced a smile, fearful lest others become suspicious of this hushed conversation.

‘Amaury, Amaury.’ Lord Henry mimicked the Frenchman’s accent. ‘You worry about so many things. It won’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, that someone dies or disappears in Paris. And why should the English court object? Cantrone is not a citizen of this kingdom. He is an Italian who wanders the face of the earth. It will all be forgotten in the betrothal celebrations.’

Amaury stared up at the overhanging oak tree. He watched a squirrel skip across the branch. He became aware of the liquid song of some bird high in the trees, singing its own sweet carol, oblivious to the treachery plotted below and to the bloody carnage which would break out when the distant hunters panicked their quarry into the killing pen.

‘My Lord Henry.’ De Craon wiped some crumbs from his red woollen tunic, slipping a thumb into his belt. ‘I am not fearful of you, or of your king, or of what might happen.’

‘Corbett!’ Lord Henry taunted. ‘You are fearful of Sir Hugh Corbett. I have heard of the rivalry between you.’