Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘You are the woman Jocasta?’

‘And who are you?’ The voice was low and throaty.

‘You know who I am, mistress: Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk, and Ranulf-atte-Newgate. .’

‘By what authority am I brought here?’ she interrupted. ‘Am I on trial?’

Corbett took the King’s commission from his pouch and spread it out on the table.

‘You are not on trial, mistress, but I have the right to question you as my commission attests.’

‘I cannot read, clerk, but I know letters bearing seals are important.’ She glanced at Brother Cosmas. ‘Good morrow, priest.’

‘Good morrow, Jocasta. It is good to see you here at last.’

Ranulf’s pen was moving across the page; when its tip broke, he quietly cursed, took another one out and dipped it in the ink pot.

‘You are not one of Brother Cosmas’ parishioners?’

‘She is most welcome here,’ the Franciscan interrupted.

‘I do not come to St Oswald’s,’ Jocasta replied sharply, her arm protectively round her daughter. ‘They say,’ she closed her eyes, ‘this is the House of God and the Gate of Heaven: a terrible place.’

‘Why do you not come?’

‘I am unworthy and my daughter becomes frightened.’

‘Is that the truth?’

‘Do you know any different, clerk?’

‘They say you are a witch.’

‘Who do?’

‘So, you don’t deny it?’

‘Don’t play words with me, clerk!’

Corbett raised his head. ‘I am sorry, mistress. I tease rather than question. Let me begin again. Why do you not come to church?’

‘I have led an unworthy life. My daughter is witless so I keep her away from others who might point the finger.’

‘And these gossips who say you are a witch?’

‘They are liars, as Brother Cosmas will attest. I know cures, I can distil potions, fashion a poultice, but I am no witch. I don’t dig up the mandrake root or pay bloody sacrifice to the midnight moon.’

‘So, why do you live in Ashdown?’

‘It’s the place I call home.’ The woman sighed; she whispered softly into her daughter’s ear and withdrew her arm. ‘You’ve kind eyes, clerk, no malice in them. You are here because of Lord Henry’s death, yes? Well, I shall tell you about Lord Henry. He is the father of this child.’ She ignored the Franciscan’s gasp of astonishment. ‘Oh yes, Lord Henry in his youth was known the length and breadth of the Cinque Ports, not a brothel or house of whores was left untouched by his presence. In my youth I played the role of a Magdalene.’ She half-smiled. ‘Before that great saint’s conversion. I have Spanish blood in me. I was married to a sailor, who got himself killed in a tavern brawl. The captain would not let me back on board, not even after I had favoured him with my body. So I became a streetwalker, a whore in the town of Rye. In my youth, clerk, I was considered beautiful.’

‘I would say the same now,’ Corbett commented. He caught the glint of amusement in Jocasta’s eyes.

‘Golden-tongued, eh clerk?’ She lowered her head, placing her hands in her lap. ‘Lord Henry Fitzalan was that. Oh, in many ways he had a soul of steel, locked and closed, with a heart of stone. But, when the fancy took him, he was generous with his praise and lavish with his purse. He came tripping into Rye. And bought my favours.’ She nodded at her daughter. ‘I was still unskilled. I became pregnant. Some kindly sisters took me in, not like the high-stepping ladies at St Hawisia’s!’

‘You’ve been to the priory?’ Corbett broke in.

‘Just once to ask for help. I swore never again.’

‘What help?’

‘Clothing and food for my daughter.’

‘Lady Madeleine,’ Cosmas said quietly, ‘is not known for her charity.’

‘And eventually you settled in Ashdown?’ Corbett asked.

‘I brought the child with me. At first, Lord Henry wouldn’t believe me but I took a great oath. Blanche.’ She stroked her daughter’s silvery-white hair.

Corbett looked pityingly at the child: the vacant eyes, the drooling mouth, the look of a frightened rabbit as she crouched next to her mother.

‘Blanche was born witless. God’s judgement against me. But, Lord Henry studied her; he believed me. He provided a cottage and a small pension.’

‘And he came to visit you?’

‘Sometimes.’ Jocasta’s gaze shifted. ‘Lord Henry was a man of fleshly desires. He did not lie with me but, how can I put it, clerk?’ She lifted her hands. ‘Sometimes I acted the whore for him.’

‘Did you hate him?’

Jocasta glanced behind Corbett, studying the crude, wooden cross on the altar. Her gaze moved to where Verlian and his daughter still sat, heads together, at the far side of the sanctuary.

‘Did you hate Lord Henry?’ Corbett repeated.

‘I felt nothing for him, clerk. Nothing but a terrible coldness. Age had not bettered him. A ruthless man, deeply in love with himself. There was no room in his heart or soul for anyone else, be it brother, sister, former lover or misbegotten bastard daughter.’ She put an arm round Blanche’s shoulders. ‘Never once did he touch his own flesh like a father would. Oh, I heard what they said about the Fitzalans, they come from the devil and to the devil they can go!’

‘Did you send him there?’ Ranulf asked.

Jocasta studied him intently. ‘Now, there’s a bold-eyed bully-boy,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Are you Corbett’s sword?’

‘I am a clerk like him.’

‘And an ambitious one too,’ Jocasta noted. ‘I did not kill Lord Henry.’

‘How did you learn of his death?’ Ranulf asked.

‘The same gossips, who say I am a witch, chatter constantly. I met a packman coming from the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern. He had hurt his shin and came for a poultice. It must have been a few hours after Lord Henry’s corpse had been removed from Savernake Dell.’

‘Do you have a bow and arrow, mistress?’

‘Why, yes I do. An old one and two quivers full of shafts, a gift from Lord Henry. Yes, clerk, I can use them with good effect. I have hunted when Lord Henry permitted it. Moreover, not everyone who passes through Ashdown is a courtly clerk or charming courtier.’

‘Do you have a horse?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No, I do not.’

‘And you know most people in the forest?’ Corbett insisted.

‘I know them and they know me. Verlian the verderer who now shelters here. He fled to my house. I told him to come here. Brother Cosmas, however, is the only man in the forest who would stand up to the power of the Fitzalans.’

‘Have you ever seen the Owlman?’ Corbett asked. ‘This outlaw who wages such a strange war upon the Fitzalans?’

‘I think so, once.’

‘You’ve actually seen him?’

‘I think so.’ Her gaze shifted to Brother Cosmas. ‘His face was masked, a sheet of leather with gaps cut for the eyes and mouth.’

‘Was he on horseback?’ Corbett asked.

Jocasta shook her head. ‘He wore a grey cloak, fastened at the back. I remember the texture was stained and dirty, but it looked of good quality. I was near Ferndown Brook. It’s a small rivulet, deep in the forest. I was collecting herbs. Blanche was sitting on a tree trunk some yards behind. I was by the brook, washing the plants I’d dug up, when suddenly this figure came out of the undergrowth and crouched by the brook. He was singing to himself, filling the waterskin he carried. I froze. He didn’t know I was there and then Blanche called out. He glanced up and left as quietly as he came.’

‘And he never saw you?’

Jocasta shook her head and demonstrated with her hand.

‘He was here on one side of the brook, I was crouching down on the other side beside some bushes. He wouldn’t have seen me.’ She plucked at her own threadbare green cloak. ‘In a way I was like some animal in the forest: I wore no bright clothes.’