Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘And Seigneur de Craon?’ he asked. ‘The French envoy, has he ever come here?’

‘He made two visits to our shrine. I met him on one occasion. I did not like his impudent eyes, but I know nothing of his dealings with my brothers.’ She rose to her feet. ‘But you wished to see the sisters I have named?’

Corbett made to refuse.

‘No, I insist!’

And, without a word, Lady Madeleine left the room. A short while later the harsh-faced Lady Marcellina, together with a smiling Sister Fidelis, her fingers wreathed in bandages, came into the room. Corbett questioned them. Sister Fidelis was subdued but smiled at him with her eyes.

‘Oh yes,’ she declared, glancing sideways at Lady Marcellina. ‘My knuckles began to swell like small plums. I showed this to Lady Marcellina and she told our prioress.’

‘And the physician was sent for?’

‘One of the grooms must have brought him,’ the novice mistress said.

‘You don’t have a leech and an apothecary here?’

‘Sir Hugh, we are nuns, not physicians. Sister Fidelis’ fingers did alarm Lady Madeleine. Moreover, the Italian had been invited here on a number of occasions to treat certain of our sisters. He was a man skilled in the use of physic.’

‘Was?’ Corbett queried.

Lady Marcellina forced her face into a sympathetic smile.

‘Lady Madeleine has told us the terrible news of how the poor man was murdered after he left here.’

‘Did he say or do anything untoward?’ Corbett asked.

He heard the door open beside him and Lady Madeleine returned.

‘All I know,’ Lady Marcellina said in exasperation, ‘is that I was summoned to the prioress’s chamber. She introduced the physician and told me to take him to Sister Fidelis. He examined her knuckles, pronounced the swellings were deep bruises under the skin. He recommended a herbal poultice.’

‘And then what?’

‘Sister Veronica brought him some food and drink. He ate, drank and left.’

Corbett gazed at the young nun, who listened round-eyed to her superior, all the time nodding her head in agreement.

‘He did seem distracted,’ Sister Fidelis offered. ‘Oh, he was kind and patient but it was as if his mind were elsewhere.’

‘If there’s nothing else, Sir Hugh?’ Lady Madeleine murmured.

‘No, my lady, there’s nothing else.’

‘Well, stay there a while, I will send some food and drink. You must refresh yourself before you leave. Please.’ Lady Madeleine smiled. ‘I feel, Sir Hugh, as if I have been discourteous. I would like to give you a gift before you leave. Our honey is famous throughout Sussex. Sister Veronica will bring you a jar. In the meantime let our kitchens refresh the inner man.’

Corbett was about to object but he realised he was being churlish so he agreed. The three nuns left. Corbett finished the mead. He heard the bells of the priory calling the sisters to prayer.

‘I’ll be back in the tavern by late afternoon,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I’ll put down everything I’ve learned today. Study it, look for the gaps.’

The door opened and Sister Veronica came in bearing a small platter with roast hare, covered in a thick wine sauce, a goblet of wine and a small bowl with a manchet loaf cut up, the portions covered in butter.

Corbett ate the food hungrily. It was delicious and reminded him of Maeve’s skill in the kitchen. When Sister Veronica returned, now silent and morose, she gave him a small leather bag containing two jars sealed with parchment and twine.

‘You’ll not find better honey in the kingdom,’ she declared.

Corbett pushed away the trauncher, grasped the bag and rose.

‘Then, Sister Veronica, all I can ask of you is to show me out and I’ll be gone.’

The little nun led him from the guest house, through the grounds and out by the side postern door.

‘And, before you ask!’ she snapped. ‘Yes, this is where the corpse was found!’

Before Corbett could make a reply, she slammed the door shut in his face. Corbett tied the leather bag to his war belt, eased the strap, pulled his cloak around him and walked across the heathland into the trees, following the path which would lead him down to the trackway and the Devil-in-the-Woods. The day was drawing on. He was distracted by the birdsong, and by crashing in the thicket; he stopped to watch two stoats scurry across the path into the undergrowth on the other side. Now and again he’d pause, looking around to ensure all was well. He felt uncomfortable and, once again, realised he had made a mistake.

‘You never think, Hugh!’ Maeve had scolded. ‘You’re that busy, lost in your own thoughts, you wander into danger and don’t realise it! Please!’ She had grasped his face between her hands. ‘Promise me you’ll never be alone!’

Corbett drew a deep breath.

‘God forgive me, Maeve!’

The birdsong had fallen silent, or was that his imagination? He undid his war belt, as the jars were weighing heavy, and re-hitched it tighter. Holding the leather bag in one hand, his dagger in the other, Corbett walked on quickly. The forest reminded him of the heavy wooded valleys of Wales. He recalled the advice of a master bowman, a scout responsible for leading the King’s troops.

‘Remember,’ he had warned. ‘Look to your left and your right. Ignore your imaginings. Listen to the sounds of the forest. If you hear anything strange, move faster, never stand still. A running man is much harder to hit.’

Corbett walked quickly. He felt a pang of pain high in his chest from the wound he had received in Oxford. Memories flooded back. He controlled his panic, listening carefully, watching the trees on either side. A bird broke free from the branches crying in alarm. Corbett again quickened his pace. A twig snapped to his right. Something hit the trackway as if a stone had been thrown. Corbett didn’t wait any longer but, body hunched, head down, he broke into a run; moving from side to side, he felt the arrow whistle by his face. He was tempted to stop, throw himself down. The assassin must be somewhere to his right so, leaving the trackway, he plunged into the undergrowth, using the trees as a barrier. He thought he was free but then an arrow thudded into a tree; it quivered with such force, the assassin must be close. Corbett ran on. He tried not to move in a straight line. Branches caught his face, nettles and briars stung his legs. He stumbled and this probably saved his life as another shaft went whirring above his head. Corbett glanced to his right. He must keep the trackway in sight, he must not become lost.

He dropped the leather sack and ran, the pain in his neck intense. He found it hard to breathe. At last he was forced to stop; leaning against a tree, coughing and retching, Corbett scanned the woods and behind him. He could see no sign of the assassin. He looked at his scarred hands, took the gloves from a small pouch in his cloak and put them on. Then he pushed through the undergrowth, back on to the trackway, sure he had left the assassin behind. Whoever it was must have realised pursuit was too dangerous. Ahead of him Corbett heard the creak of a cart. He unhitched his cloak, ignoring the stabs of pain in his belly and the soreness where the branches had caught his skin, and stumbled on, round a corner to the crossroads. The carter, a peasant with his family in the back, gaped in surprise as Corbett grabbed the side of his cart.

‘Don’t worry!’ Corbett gasped. ‘I am Sir William Fitzalan’s guest, a royal clerk.’

The man continued to register amazement.

‘The Devil-in-the-Woods tavern?’

The man nodded his head. Corbett took a coin out of his purse and pushed it into the man’s callused hand.

‘Take me there!’

Without waiting for an answer, Corbett climbed up beside the driver. He smiled reassuringly at the family, a mother and four children, staring owl-like at him. The farmer snapped the reins.