Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘Sir William would pass on Lord Henry’s secret instructions to the King.’

‘I suspect so.’

‘But why didn’t Fitzalan tell these secrets to Edward of England?’

Corbett laughed. ‘Our King would demand them to be freely given as a vassal should to his liege lord.’

Corbett looked up at the ceiling beams. He sniffed and caught the different odours from the kitchen below. The tavern was falling silent, save for the odd creak of a stair. Somewhere from the kennel a dog growled softly and, on the night air outside, some drunk bellowed a hymn. A busy yet lonely place, Corbett reflected, ideal for Prince Edward meeting his blood-brother Gaveston.

‘So, why has Cantrone disappeared?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Sir William thinks he may have fled. You see, Sir William was used to being his brother’s principal retainer, travelling here and there which, of course, provided a suitable pretext for escorting Gaveston up and down from the south coast. Now, Sir William’s mind is all a jumble with his brother’s funeral as well as the finger of suspicion being pointed at him. He unwittingly let slip to Cantrone what his brother intended to do at Rye. Apparently Cantrone paled, became very agitated and confused, then withdrew to his chamber. The next day he left for St Hawisia’s priory. Sir William sent a messenger there. The Italian physician apparently treated Sister Fidelis’ swollen knuckles, collected his horse and left but neither hide nor hair has been found of him. He could have fled. He could have been waylaid by outlaws, the Owlman or the assassin.’

‘Or one of de Craon’s lovely boys?’ Ranulf interjected.

‘De Craon may be involved,’ Corbett agreed.

‘He must also be pleased.’

‘Yes and no. Lord Henry is dead. Cantrone may have joined him. However, Lord Henry and Cantrone were the sort of men who would leave this secret somewhere in writing, a surety, a bond for their own safety.’

Corbett pulled across the bulging saddlebags he had taken from the manor, undid the buckles and pulled back the straps. He shook the contents, a roll of vellum and two Books of Hours, out on the bed.

‘Now, because Sir William was eager to please, he handed over a copy of the letters between Lord Henry and King Philip.’

Corbett picked up the roll. Ranulf could see the letters had been stitched together by some clerk.

‘So I quickly went through these. There is very little: greetings, salutations. Nothing that you wouldn’t find in the chancery of every great nobleman of England. I am sure the Earl of Surrey has similar letters between himself and different rulers in Europe.’ He sighed. ‘But I will go through them again.’

‘And the pouches?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett undid the neck of one. ‘I found little in Cantrone’s chamber. Books of herbals, lists of spices, a few tracts on medicines, potions, philtres. I suspect our good physician kept his secrets upon his person.’ Corbett picked up a Book of Hours. ‘Lord Henry bought this recently.’

He handed it to Ranulf who opened the gold-edged prayer book. The pages were of the costliest parchment, clean and supple, the calligraphy exquisite. Each prayer began with a small miniature painting done in breathtaking colours. At the back Lord Henry had written down private notes. Nothing unusual: observations, lists of jewels in his caskets, monies owing to a certain church, nothing that couldn’t be found at the back of any such personal Book of Hours, Corbett’s included.

‘This second one.’ Corbett held up the small, calfskin tome. The cover was frayed, blackened with age, some of the small precious stones clustered in the shape of a cross were chipped, others were missing. ‘Now, Sir William told me that Lord Henry always took this with him.’ Corbett opened the pages, which crackled as he turned them. ‘Again nothing untoward, prayers, alms, readings from the scriptures, the lives of saints, even Saint Hawisia’s mentioned.’

Corbett reached the end, where the blank pages of the folio were covered in black handwriting. Ranulf also noticed what looked like a loose page sticking out, which he tapped with his finger.

‘What is that?’

Corbett leafed back. ‘Ah yes, it’s a devotional painting. Look!’

He handed it over. The painting was small, done on stiffened parchment. A scene from the Old Testament, it showed Susannah being accused of adultery by the elders: a painting often seen on the walls of churches or in Books of Hours such as this. Except here, the eyes of each of the figures had been cut out leaving a small gap.

‘Why should Lord Henry do that?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Deliberately injure a picture, then keep it in this Book of Hours he takes everywhere?’

He stifled a yawn and Corbett looked up. Ranulf’s eyes were now red-rimmed.

‘You’d best go to sleep,’ Corbett told him. ‘Tomorrow’s a busy day. At noon tomorrow I intend to set up my court of enquiry in the nave of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. I have asked Sir William. And he’s eager to please, to provide a small guard and to ensure that certain people are brought to us for questioning.’

‘Not Lady Madeleine?’ Ranulf scoffed.

‘No, she’s too grand for such an occasion and might refuse to come. But the hermit Odo, Brother Cosmas, Robert Verlian.’ Corbett glanced up. ‘And his daughter Alicia. Oh yes, and that strange woman Jocasta, the one they call the witch. It’s best if I examine them there.’

‘Sir William has been most co-operative.’

‘Sir William is terrified,’ Corbett replied. ‘Lest I send you back to Westminster with the story of his doings with Gaveston. But the King’s rage would be futile and I want Sir William where I can see him. He has also given me his word that he will keep a close eye on our good brother in Christ, Seigneur de Craon.’

Ranulf got up and undid his cloak. Corbett turned back to the old Book of Hours. At the front a blank page was filled with childish drawings, short prayers; Corbett recognised that Lord Henry had learned a clerkly hand. Some of the entries were years old, the ink fading to a dull grey. Others, in dark green or red, were of more recent origin. Corbett looked carefully at these. One was a short diary of a journey to France giving the dates when and the places where Lord Henry had stopped. Another, a drawing of a leopard Fitzalan had seen in the Tower of London. There was a list of provisions for the Feast of Fools and the costume Lord Henry designed for the Lord of Misrule. One full page, and Corbett noticed that here the ink was clearer, the writing done in a most clerkly way, told the story of a devout and holy woman called Johanna Capillana. Corbett read this but it was only a list of the woman’s pious deeds, her devotion to the poor, her tending of the sick, her knowledge of herbs.

‘Have you ever heard of a saint called Johanna Capillana?’ Corbett asked.

Ranulf was already lying on the bed, his blanket wrapped round him, his face towards the wall. Corbett smiled and put the book down. He undressed, placed his clothes over a stool, blew out the candles and stared out of the window. The tavern was now silent. He glanced down at Ranulf. Usually the clerk would be snoring his head off.

‘Love is a terrible thing,’ Corbett remarked. ‘A two-edged sword! It turns, it cuts and there is no cure.’

Ranulf, lying on his bed, just smiled but didn’t answer. He heard his master settle for the night but his mind was back in that moon-washed garden and his heart fair skipped for joy. He had expected Alicia to laugh at him but she had not! She had explained how her own maid was in the room above and would have been very flattered to hear the poem.

‘I always go out at night,’ she had said, then pointed into the darkness. ‘There’s a brook. My father and I always visit it when the evenings are warm. I listen to the sounds of the night. I’m glad I went there.’ She drew closer and gripped his wrist. ‘I’m used to lust, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, to bold stares and saucy quips. But a poem! Read quietly in the moonlight! You are indeed a strange one. I had you wrong.’ And, standing on tiptoe, she had kissed him gently on the cheek, plucked the poem from his hand and walked quietly away.