Paul Doherty: The Demon Archer

Alicia studied her father’s face. She loved him so deeply. He was gentle and kindly, being both mother and father to her. A man who loved the forest, he’d taught her everything she knew. Even as a little girl he would take her out to show her a badger’s sett or a fox’s lair, even climb a tree to study the thrush’s eggs. How could she tell him about her secret?

‘You wouldn’t become a nun?’ he teased. ‘Not one of Lady Madeleine’s ladies?’

‘I don’t know, Father.’

Verlian’s heart sank. He’d meant it as a joke but she didn’t object as he had expected.

‘I have. .’ She stumbled over her words. ‘I know what I do not want to be. I. . I wish. .’

‘Do whatever you want, child,’ he reassured her.

Alicia was going to reply when there was a loud rapping on the front door. She made to rise but Verlian, embarrassed by his own fears, shrugged a shoulder and got to his feet.

‘Stay there, daughter. It will only be one of the forest folk looking for Brother Cosmas.’ Pulling the cowl over his head, Verlian limped towards the door and opened it. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

Outside a cold breeze had sprung up, setting the fallen leaves whirling like lost souls. Verlian smelt the fragrance of the forest; his anger curdled to be locked away from it. He walked out on to the porch. Behind him the door swung open. Verlian stepped forward, then realised he had made a mistake. No one was about and he was a target against the light behind him. He turned but, even as he did, the arrow caught him full in the heart.

Corbett contemplated the corpse laid out in its Franciscan robe. The coffin was no more than a wooden casket, probably an arrow box; thick, white bandages bulged over the dead man’s chest. These closed the wound, yet death was never presentable: two coins kept Verlian’s eyes closed but the face was sunken, unshaven, the mouth slightly open. The man’s hands lay across his chest clasping a wooden crucifix. Corbett heard the sound of weeping. He went and stood in the entrance in the rood screen of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees from where he saw that Ranulf sat on the bench with Alicia.

The young woman’s grief over her father’s murder was uncontrollable. Her eyes were red-rimmed with crying, her face pallid, her beautiful hair fell into tangles to her shoulders. She sat head forward, hands clasped in her lap. Ranulf had one hand on her shoulder, whispering to her, but she seemed not to listen to what he was saying. Corbett went over and knelt down.

‘Mistress Alicia, I am truly sorry. I am also sad that there’s nothing I can say, or do, to ease your terrible grief.’

‘My father was murdered.’ Alicia brought her head up. ‘He was a good man, clerk. It was so sudden,’ she gasped. ‘We were sitting in the priest’s kitchen. There was a knock on the door. Father went on to the porch, he called out then I heard him fall. I ran out but no one was there, nothing but the forest.’

Corbett patted her gently on the hands before returning to put the lid on the coffin. He glanced across at Brother Cosmas kneeling at the prie-dieu before the Lady Chapel.

‘Why?’ the Franciscan grated, getting to his feet. ‘Why do such murders occur, Corbett? Why didn’t Christ send one of his angels?’

‘You know the reason,’ Corbett said. He pointed to the wall where an artist had drawn a crude but vivid picture of Satan, depicted as a hare, chasing foxes with human faces. The hare had a demonic mask, its long ears were horns, its eyes fiery red and in its sharp claws it carried a net. ‘Christ called Satan the first killer. We are all assassins, Brother. Here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘In our hearts we wish to kill and destroy. Didn’t you ever want to lift a sword, a club against Lord Henry? God forgive me, Brother, but the Frenchman, Amaury de Craon, I would love to finish matters with him! Pay a reckoning which has increased over the years.’ Corbett walked towards the priest. ‘But I tell you this. I am going to take my net and trap this killer. Our only defence, our only protection against these sons of Cain, who put their murderous lusts into action, is the law.’

‘And the justice of God,’ the Franciscan added.

‘Aye and there’s the mystery. God’s justice depends on us. You should pray, Brother.’

‘I always do.’

‘No, you should pray for Verlian and for yourself.’

Brother Cosmas looked puzzled.

‘I don’t believe the killer intended to slay Verlian,’ Corbett explained. ‘I think he intended to kill you!’

The Franciscan’s fingers went to his lips. ‘ Jesu miserere! ’

‘Think about it, Brother. A knock on the door at night, Verlian answered it. .’

‘Of course, he was dressed in one of my robes! Alicia told me the cowl was up!’

‘The killer didn’t know Verlian was sheltering in your house, that you had gone to see Odo.’

The Franciscan nodded.

‘The assassin would only have a short while, a few seconds. In the poor light Verlian would look like you. An arrow is loosed and so is the poor man’s soul.’

‘So, who could it be? Who would want me dead?’

‘I don’t know yet, brother, though I have a suspicion. And you know the true irony? I think the assassin, even if you had been killed, would have made a mistake. But now I must go.’

Corbett went through the rood screen and saw that Ranulf was still sitting next to Alicia. The young woman was talking softly, earnestly. When Ranulf looked up, Corbett had never seen him look so stricken, no longer the roaring boy, the street fighter, Jack the lad with his sardonic smile. Ranulf looked younger, like a child who has learned a hideous secret.

‘I’ll be at the tavern,’ Corbett told him. ‘When you are ready, join me.’

Corbett nodded to the priest and walked down the church. He collected his horse, still weary and mud-spattered from their hasty ride from Rye, and slung himself into the saddle. As he was about to spur into a gallop riders broke from the trees. Corbett’s hand went to his sword but he reined in as he glimpsed the Fitzalan livery. Sir William rode up, pushing back the hood of his military cloak.

‘I thought you’d gone to Rye, Corbett?’

‘I did. We left there before dawn.’

Sir William nodded at the church.

‘Another killing, poor Verlian.’

‘Aye, poor Verlian.’

Sir William searched Corbett’s face for sarcasm.

‘He was a good verderer, very skilled in forest law.’

‘He was also a good man and a loving father,’ Corbett said.

‘I know. I know,’ Sir William replied testily. ‘I came here last night to pay my respects.’ He shifted in the saddle. ‘Sir clerk, I admit, we Fitzalans have done great harm to that family. I will ensure Verlian gets proper burial.’

‘And his daughter?’ Corbett asked.

‘Why, sir, hasn’t she told you?’ Sir William didn’t wait for an answer. ‘She has a kinswoman, a prioress at Malmesbury. I have agreed to provide Mistress Alicia with a proper dowry. .’

‘She’s to enter a convent!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘She will take vows?’

‘She will enter a convent,’ Sir William affirmed, leaning down and patting his horse’s neck. ‘But whether she takes vows is a matter for her. Last night I swore an oath and my word is good. She will receive a dowry and an annual pension.’

He gathered his reins but Corbett held out a restraining hand.

‘Sir William, why did you leave the hunt the morning your brother was killed?’

‘I’ve told you. My belly was weak, my bowels like water.’

‘No, they weren’t,’ Corbett said, pushing his horse alongside. ‘You drank very little wine the night before, even though it was tainted.’