Paul Doherty - The Demon Archer

Ranulf pulled his stool closer. ‘But that’s dangerous, master.’

‘Yes, I know what you are saying,’ Corbett mused. ‘But let’s keep to the main line of our argument. I think Lord Henry knew that Sir William had helped Gaveston, that’s why they quarrelled. Lord Henry did not want anything to occur which might prevent him travelling to France with de Craon. Now, let’s address the problem you’ve raised, Ranulf.’ He tapped the Book of Hours. ‘This is only a story, a rumour, a scurrilous allegation. Philip could reject it out of hand. Secondly, Lord Henry must have realised that travelling into the spider’s web was highly dangerous. Which means what, Ranulf? How would Lord Henry protect himself in France?’

Corbett stood outside the two-storied house in the narrow, cobbled lane which ran from Rye marketplace. The houses on either side were of stone and half-timber; glass glinted in the windows. The woodwork was painted a gleaming black and russet brown, its plaster limewashed in white or pink. The sewer down the middle of the street was clean and filled with saltpetre, which made his nose wrinkle. Baldock, holding their horses at the far end of the street, was sneezing at the acrid smell. Ranulf had his hand across his nose. Corbett glanced over his shoulder at the sheriff’s man.

‘You are sure this is the place? It looks more like a rich merchant’s house than a brothel.’

The man pulled back his hood and scratched his balding pate. His lined, wrinkled face broke into a smile, showing the one tooth his mouth boasted.

‘When the rich take their pleasures, Sir Hugh, they like to do so discreetly. Clean chambers, crisp linen and the softest flesh, be it from the fields of England or France.’

Corbett looked up at the house. On either side of the door hung shiny brass hooks carrying lantern horns. Above these black iron rods protruded from which flower baskets hung, exuding the sweetest fragrance. The clapper on the door was shaped in the form of a jovial friar, bagpipes in hand, the usual sign for lechery.

‘The street’s quiet,’ he observed.

‘It’s only noon,’ the sheriff’s man replied. ‘And on Thursdays there’s no market.’

‘What are we waiting for?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Master, why not just knock?’

‘You can’t enter, until the mayor’s commission arrives.’

‘We carry the King’s warrant!’ Ranulf snapped.

‘The law is,’ the sheriff’s man repeated ponderously, ‘in a royal borough the King’s writ must be shown to the mayor before it is executed.’

Corbett winked at Ranulf.

‘It will come and I am awaiting it.’

Corbett walked back up the street towards Baldock, gesturing at the other two to follow.

‘I don’t want the ladies within to be warned.’

Corbett had arrived in Rye just as the bells were sounding for morning Mass. He’d gone to the town hall where the mayor and leading aldermen had been hastily summoned. Corbett had wasted no time. He demanded if they knew a whore, hair cropped short, a lily branded on her shoulder, who had disappeared recently from the town. Of course, there were the usual head-shakings, murmurings and lowered glances. However, Corbett knew that these venerable city fathers could help, despite their assurances that they knew nothing of such women. Corbett loudly wondered whether the royal justices should be summoned to assist. Memories were stirred and a name had been given. Francoise Sourtillon, a courtesan and joint keeper of a discreet house of pleasure in Friar Lane.

‘We know nothing of this woman,’ the mayor insisted. Except that, how can I put it, her “sister” who lives in the same house, one Roheisia Blancard, has petitioned the city council regarding Francoise’s disappearance.’

‘And what did you do?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘We organised a search.’ The mayor spread podgy hands. ‘But where such women go is not our concern.’

Corbett had thanked them but the mayor had insisted that they wait for his writ before demanding entrance. Corbett replied he would tarry no more than half an hour and he sincerely hoped that, when he entered the house, he would find no disturbance.

‘You are not saying we would warn them?’

‘Of course not. But I tell you this, sirs, if anyone did, a visit to the Marshalsea prison in London is an experience they’d never forget.’

‘Here he comes,’ Ranulf said.

A tipstaff was hurrying along the lane, white wand of office in one hand, in the other a scroll tied with a red ribbon. Ranulf didn’t wait for Corbett to take it but went to the door and brought the clapper down with a resounding crash. Corbett looked up at the windows. He suspected the ladies inside hadn’t even risen for the day. As Ranulf had caustically pointed out, they worked so late at night. Ranulf was now enjoying himself, bringing the clapper up and down until a voice shrieked: ‘We have heard! We have heard!’

There was a sound of locks being turned, bolts being drawn. The door swung open. A tall, grey-haired woman, a fur-lined gown over her shoulders, peered out heavy-eyed at them.

‘The Dulcis Domus ,’ she told them, ‘is closed until dusk.’

‘Oh, is that what you call it?’ Corbett pushed the door aside. ‘The House of Sweetness! And you must be Roheisia Blancard?’

‘If you are sheriff’s men,’ Roheisia answered, glaring at the little official behind Corbett, ‘we have paid our dues, as members of the corporation who visit here could attest!’

Corbett surveyed the passageway, quietly marvelling at the comfortable opulence. The air was fragrant with beeswax candles, pots of herbs and the savoury smells of cooking. The paved floor was covered with woollen rugs; the wooden linen-panelling gleamed like bronze.

‘Roheisia Blancard?’ he said quietly.

‘Yes, and you?’

‘I am the King’s clerk, Sir Hugh Corbett. This is Ranulf. I think you know the gentleman who accompanied us.’ Corbett tapped the sheriff’s man gently on the shoulder. ‘Now you may leave.’

Ranulf almost pushed the protesting official out of the door back into the street. He closed it and pulled across the bolts.

‘Now, madam.’ Corbett walked closer. ‘I carry the King’s warrant. I want the truth from you. Or I’ll send to Arundel Castle, have you all placed in carts and transported to London for questioning.’

‘There’s no need to threaten.’

‘I am not threatening, madam. I’m promising. Francoise is dead, murdered in Ashdown Forest.’

‘I see. I see,’ Roheisia said. ‘Then you’d best come with me.’

She led them off the passageway into a small parlour, a well-furnished room. The fire in the grate had already been lit. On the walls hung gaudy paintings, garish, not well done but purporting to show scenes from the Old Testament and the classics. They all had one motif in common: plump young wenches in various stages of undress. Roheisia pushed two chairs up in front of the fire while she sat on a bench alongside the wall.

‘Do you want something to eat or drink?’ she mumbled, clawing her grey hair away from her face.

‘No, madam, just the truth and the quicker the better.’

‘Francoise came from Abbeville,’ she began. She fought back the tears and lifted her face. ‘She had been mistress to a nobleman who turned her out so Francoise stole a considerable part of his treasure and fled to Rye.’ She shrugged. ‘Like is drawn to like. I met her and we decided to share our resources. We bought this house and keep it well stocked with plump, fair flesh.’

‘And why did Francoise leave?’

‘I don’t know.’ She saw the warning look in Corbett’s face. ‘Truly, sir, I don’t. A month ago, she took a horse from the stables, filled some saddlebags and said she would be away for two or three days but she’d come back a wealthy woman. Now, you can take me to London, you can burn and tear my flesh but that’s all I know.’ She leaned back against the panelling and looked up at the ceiling. ‘How did she die?’