Paul Doherty: The Demon Archer

Lord Henry recalled the close, secretive face, framed by raven-black hair, of the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, Edward’s most trusted confidant. Sir Hugh Corbett who, time and again, had crossed swords with his French adversary.

‘We heard he was dead,’ de Craon declared testily.

‘I wager you did.’ Lord Henry laughed. ‘And the bells of Paris must have pealed to the heavens.’

‘We heard he had been killed in Oxford, an arrow to the heart.’

‘He was wounded. He was attacked by an assassin whom his manservant Ranulf-atte-Newgate killed. The crossbow bolt was a hunting one, not an arbalest. It cracked bone but, I hear, Corbett now thanks God for the thick leather jerkin he wore as well as for the royal doctors and physicians. He has recovered.’ Lord Henry’s grin widened. ‘Indeed, he may well come to pay his compliments.’

Dr Craon hawked and spat.

‘Is it true?’ Lord Henry continued his taunting. He plucked at de Craon’s sleeve. ‘Is it true that your master has put up a reward on Corbett’s head?’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ de Craon snapped. ‘If Philip of France did that, Edward of England would retaliate.’

‘Yes, yes, he would.’

Lord Henry turned away; the rest of the hunting party were becoming excited. The horns now sounded closer and the bellowing of the dogs filled the dell.

‘We should take up our positions, my lord.’

Lord Henry walked across to the palisade, where a squire came running up and thrust a long yew bow in his hand. Next he chose a grey-goose-quilled arrow. A man who lived for each moment, he had now forgotten de Craon, Corbett, his sulky brother and the vexatious messages of the Owlman. He recalled the lovely, olive-skinned face of Alicia, his chief verderer’s daughter, and looked around.

‘Where is Verlian? Where’s my chief verderer?’

‘He has not yet returned, sir,’ one of his squires shouted, pointing across to the glade. ‘He’s probably over there ensuring all is well.’

‘The fool! He’ll be in the line of fire. He won’t be the first to be killed while hunting.’ Lord Henry shrugged. ‘But he knows the hunt is close, this will be upon his head.’

All around him his companions were preparing their bows, heads craned back towards the forest, waiting for the deer to appear. Lord Henry, however, was still distracted. If only Alicia would give way to him. Was that why her father was so sullen and withdrawn? Lord Henry notched the arrow and waited. In time he brought everything down and in his heart he couldn’t care what damage he caused. Glancing quickly around, he noticed William was gone. Where, sulking in the trees? Again came the braying of horns. A crashing in the undergrowth could be heard and a roe deer appeared head up, moving so fast its hooves hardly seemed to touch the ground. The speed of the animal caught the hunters unawares. Bows were strung and brought up, arrows loosed but the deer seemed to have a charmed life. It swept across the glade, glimpsed the palisade and, in one curving jump, cleared it.

The deer’s disappearance was greeted with cries of derision. Lord Henry flushed with anger. His arrow, like that of his companions, had missed its mark and he heard de Craon’s whinnying laugh. Again the hunting horn sounded, loud and clear. Another deer sped through the trees. Lord Henry raised his bow; he loosed but the deer slipped and this action saved its life as all the hunters’ arrows either whistled over or smacked into the ground around it. Lord Henry, beside himself with rage, grabbed another arrow, lifting up the bow. This time he would be ready. He glimpsed a blur just before an arrow took him deep in the chest. Lord Henry staggered back, dropping his bow. He stared in shocked horror, almost oblivious to the pain, then turned, glimpsing his squire’s look of fear. Finally he slumped to his knees and fell quietly on his side, eyes fluttering, the blood already spurting out of his mouth.

‘Hugh! They thought you were dead!’

Edward of England sat in the great hall of Eltham Palace on the south side of the Thames. Above the hall door hung a great pair of antlers, and on the walls the shields showing the principal knights of his kingdom. In the far corner one of his chaplains had lit a rose-tinted candle and placed it in front of the statue of the Madonna and Child. Edward clawed at his iron-grey hair which fell down on either side of his harsh, seamed face. He refilled his goblet and that of his companion, John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey. He then sighed and smiled at his Keeper of the Secret Seal who sat at the far end of the table, slouched in a high-backed chair.

‘Did you hear me, Hugh? They thought you were dead!’ The King grinned.

Corbett’s black hair, dusted with a dash of grey, framed a clean-shaven, olive-skinned face. His unwavering dark eyes gave little away: a gentle but secretive face. You are a closed book, Corbett, Edward thought. The clerk had thrown his cloak on the back of his chair against which his manservant Ranulf-atte-Newgate now leaned. Edward’s gaze moved to him. Ranulf looked the picture of health with his white, lean face, his red hair, cleaned and oiled, gathered in a queue behind him. Like his master he was dressed in a dark tunic over a white shirt.

‘Are you deaf?’ De Warrenne took a quaff from his wine cup and glared down the table, his popping, blue eyes even more protuberant than normal. He could never understand Edward’s tolerance of this secretive clerk. ‘Or,’ de Warrenne jibed, ‘perhaps you are dead?’

Corbett stretched out a hand. Ranulf sighed, opened his wallet and shook two silver pieces into his master’s palm.

‘Sire, my apologies.’ Corbett smiled. ‘But I had a wager with Ranulf that I’d be asked that question ten times before I knew the reason for my summons here.’ He bowed towards de Warrenne. ‘Apologies, my lord, but you were the tenth.’

Edward drummed his fists on the table and bellowed with laughter. He nudged de Warrenne, who glowered back.

‘It’s good to see you, Hugh.’ The King smiled. His right eye, which drooped constantly, remained almost closed. He chewed on his lip and removed morsels of food from the hunting tunic he had hastily thrown on after Mass. ‘Do you know something?’ he remarked. ‘When I go to Mass and pray to le bon Seigneur why don’t the priests get on with it? This morning my good Bishop of Winchester wanted to deliver a sermon! I told de Warrenne to start coughing, he soon got the message!’ Edward leaned back in the chair and gazed heavy-lidded at his Clerk of the Secret Seal. ‘We thought you were for the charnel house, Hugh! A crossbow bolt high in the chest?’

‘I was fortunate, sire. The bolt was small and not fired at full force because the assassin was running. It is wonderful what protection a thick calfskin jacket can afford.’

‘But you were ill?’

Corbett tapped his chest. ‘The bone shattered and healed but the flesh turned putrid.’

‘I sent you medicines.’

‘And my wife, the Lady Maeve, thanks you, sire.’

‘I was going to come and see you.’ The King became shamefaced. ‘But I couldn’t bear to see you die, Hugh. Not lose another loved one. They are all leaving me.’

Don’t start, Corbett thought. Don’t start weeping and becoming maudlin about the past. He respected his King, with his lean, warrior face, that fertile brain which teemed like a box of worms with subtle plans and strategies. But, if he wasn’t a prince, Corbett reflected, Edward should have been a chanteur, a storyteller. He could move, in the twinkling of an eye, from the grieving old king to the energetic bustling warlord, intent on smashing his enemies or sitting in his chancery weaving webs to trap his adversaries abroad. He could be mean-spirited, vicious and spiteful and, at other times, magnanimous, open-handed, forgiving an injury, forgetting an insult. He could sit with the children of his household retainers and roar with laughter at some mummers’ play then stride out into the exercise yard, seize a sword and show the young ones how to fight.