Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

‘Go on, take it!’

The taverner wiped his fingers then snatched the coin from Corbett.

‘Do you know,’ Corbett continued, ‘the old proverb: “Always ask the taverner”? Tavern masters have sharp eyes and good memories.’ Corbett gestured at a stool. ‘Sit down, Master Taybois. Do you remember me asking you about a young woman coming here by herself?’

The taverner nodded.

‘I think she did stop here. But she was disguised as a man.’

At this the taverner narrowed his eyes.

‘She must have come here,’ Corbett shuddered inwardly as he recalled the corpse, ‘within the last month, travelling by herself.’

The taverner was now decidedly nervous, rubbing his hands on his apron, swallowing hard.

‘Of course,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘You know full well what I am talking about! Ranulf, we should have this man arrested!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ the taverner protested.

‘You are a horse thief,’ Corbett declared. ‘This woman wasn’t from Ashdown or the local villages. She must have ridden here. Where’s her horse?’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.’

‘I think you do! You know full well what happened. Let me guess. A young man came here. He probably arrived, how far is it from Rye, a few hours? He stabled his horse, had something to eat, stayed overnight, then left the tavern but he never returned. Days turn into weeks and you, master taverner, are left with a horse and harness. Now, do you remember?’

‘What makes you think she came from Rye?’

‘A good question, taverner: it’s a guess on my part. I believe this mysterious woman had business with Ashdown Manor. There is a strong link between the Fitzalans and the town of Rye so I suspect she came from there.’

The taverner coughed nervously.

‘I wouldn’t lie,’ Ranulf advised him. ‘My master gets into a fair rage with liars. Especially those who waste the time of royal clerks!’

‘It’s true what you say,’ the taverner stammered. ‘A stranger came here. He talked, well, as if he was foreign but he said he was from Rye. He arrived late in the afternoon. He ate and drank in the taproom, hired a chamber and then he left early the following morning, taking his saddlebags with him.’

‘Saddlebags?’ Corbett queried.

‘Small panniers which he slung over his shoulder,’ the taverner explained. ‘In the taproom he acted strangely, keeping the cowl over his head. He didn’t say much, really no more than a whisper. You know how it is, sir, there’s interest in strangers but this one wouldn’t be drawn. He had some chicken pie, a tankard of ale and kept to himself.’

‘Why did he leave his horse?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, sir. But he must have been travelling somewhere nearby, the manor, the church, the priory or some place in the woods.’ The taverner smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘Ah, that’s it, sir! On the morning he left, he was most interested in what hour it was. He ate and drank slowly. Now and again he’d get up and examine the hour candles on either side of the fireplace.’

‘And what time did he leave?’ Corbett asked.

‘I think it must have been an hour before midday. I thought he would return. After all, he’d left his horse, a saddle, some harness though nothing else.’

‘He didn’t rent a chamber for a second night?’

‘No sir, but he said, just before he left, that he might need one that evening but he would settle with me on his return.’

‘And you weren’t curious when he didn’t?’

‘Master clerk, I run a tavern. I do not ask people to come and go. Yes, I kept the horse and harness. I fed that stranger’s mount for a full week then I sold it to a chapman.’

‘And you never thought of alerting Lord Henry or anyone else?’

The taverner just shook his head.

‘I’ll tell you what happened, sir,’ Corbett began. ‘The young man who came here was really a woman in disguise, probably French. She travelled up from Rye for a meeting here in Ashdown. Some time around the hour of eleven, on the day following her arrival, she walked down the trackway leading to Ashdown Manor only to be killed by an arrow to the throat.’

‘And that was the corpse left at St Hawisia’s?’

‘Yes sir, it was.’

The taverner spread his hands beseechingly.

‘Sir Hugh, I didn’t know. Customers often leave. .’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve looked after us well, while the stranger did owe you money for the stabling. You could have been more helpful when I first asked though you can make up for that now. Is there anything else you wish to tell me? Such co-operation will not be forgotten.’

The taverner put his face in his hands.

‘Ashdown,’ he mumbled.

‘What was that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I asked the stranger if he, or she, knew anybody in the area. “Lord Henry” was the reply and that was it. The stranger smiled. I think it was said to impress me or to lull suspicion.’

‘And Lord Henry never came and made enquiries about this mysterious stranger?’

‘Nobody did. I did not know what to do, sir. A stranger comes to my tavern then disappears. What happened if the finger of accusation was pointed at me? True, I sold the horse and harness but what could I do?’

‘Never mind.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘Let him go. Keep the silver I have given you, sir. Buy yourself a tankard of ale.’

After the taverner had left Corbett lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

‘This is a tangled mess, Ranulf. The day is drawing on but I think we should visit Sir William again.’ He felt his body jerk as he relaxed. ‘Do what you want,’ he murmured. ‘But don’t travel far from the tavern.’ He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘I mean that, Ranulf, the assassin can hunt you as well as he can me.’

Corbett lay back down on the bed, his mind drifting back to that murderous assault in the forest. Who could it be? But, there again, as the taverner had said: everyone now knew of him, who he was and where he went. Ruefully, he reflected that the forest trackways of Ashdown were more dangerous than any alleyway or runnel in London. Yet again he tried to separate the threads one from another. Lord Henry was definitely going to betray Cantrone, hand him back to the French, make a settlement once and for all over the secret he held. But what was that secret? And this mysterious stranger? Why did she travel in disguise? Who was she going out to meet? What was she carrying? And those small hair bands? Why should a woman, whose hair was cropped closer than his own, carry them? Or did they belong to the murderer? Or were they just two items totally unrelated to the matter under investigation?

Corbett sighed and rolled over on his side. Tomorrow he would travel to Rye. He would ask the town council if any whore or brothel-keeper had disappeared. But what would that prove?

Corbett’s gaze drifted to the small grille built into the wall to allow air to circulate into the room. Through the grille he could see parts of a tree trunk and, as he moved his head, what he saw was changed, disjointed by the grille. It reminded him of that picture. . Corbett swung himself off the bed so quickly, Ranulf, penning another poem to Alicia, started and cursed.

‘For the love of God, master! I thought you were asleep.’

He watched curiously. Corbett went over to his writing bag, muttering to himself. He took out the Book of Hours given to him by Sir William and opened it at the small parchment picture of Susannah facing her accusers where the eyes of each figure had been cut out. Corbett placed this on the pages at the back of the Book of Hours where Lord Henry had written his own personal memoranda.

‘What are you doing, master?’