Paul Doherty: The Demon Archer

‘But you don’t believe it’s Verlian, do you?’ Corbett demanded.

‘No, no, I don’t.’ Edward sucked on his lips. ‘Fitzalan was a man I closely watched. Too many fingers in too many plots. Too much money. A man ruled by his cock. He should have married, settled down! Become as miserable as all of us, eh, de Warrenne?’

‘Marriage can be happy, sire!’ the Earl protested. ‘As long as you don’t share the same bed and house!’

Edward laughed softly.

‘I was going to let Fitzalan go to France,’ he continued. ‘I always wondered why he wanted to go and why my dearest brother in Christ, Philip the King, specifically asked for him.’

‘Was he a traitor?’

‘He had lands in Gascony, and I believe his mother was French, but I don’t think so. Traitors are passionate men, Corbett, passionate for an idea or desperate for gold. Fitzalan had no time for the former and too much of the latter. I think he knew something about the French court. He was going back to trade on this.’

Corbett curbed his excitement.

‘So, the French might have resorted to murder? De Craon always has assassins in his train.’

‘Not this time,’ Edward replied. ‘Apparently Fitzalan fell to the ground, and died immediately. Chaos broke out. Sir William immediately rode back to the manor to ensure there was no looting and the treasury was safe. De Craon followed shortly afterwards. From the little I know, none of de Craon’s retinue were unaccounted for.’

‘So, sire, who?’

Edward raised his eyes heavenwards.

‘Sir William stood to gain. He inherits the lot and there was bad blood between the two brothers. And, of course, there’s our dear sister in Christ, Lady Madeleine Fitzalan, prioress of St Hawisia’s, a well-endowed house in Ashdown Forest. Lady Madeleine was highly critical of her half-brother, particularly his views on religion.’

He paused.

‘Anyone else?’

‘Ashdown, like all our forests, has its fair share of outlaws. One in particular, calling himself the Owlman, sent warnings and threatening letters to Lord Henry in the months before he died. Brother Cosmas, a Franciscan parish priest of the local church St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees, also clashed with our good manor lord.’ Edward sighed. ‘The list is endless. And there’s more.’

The King got up and went to kick the door shut, turning the key in the lock.

‘I am sending you down there, Hugh, but you have to be careful. This may be a trap. De Craon might have wanted Fitzalan dead but he may also have come to complete the work of that mad assassin in Oxford!’

The King filled a goblet and put it down in front of Corbett, whom he studied closely.

‘You don’t seem worried, Hugh.’

Corbett shrugged. ‘De Craon’s been hunting my head for years.’

‘But this time he may intend it,’ de Warrenne put in. ‘Philip is meddling in every court in Europe. He’s made Pope Boniface VIII his virtual prisoner. We know he has spies with the rebels in Scotland and he would love to interfere with our wool trade to Flanders.’ The old earl cleared his throat. ‘He regards you as a bloody nuisance, Corbett. You may have won your wager with Ranulf but they truly want you dead.’

Surrey just wished he could shake this clerk’s composure, but Corbett had been in the game before. He’d heard the whispers, how de Warrenne dismissed him as a clerk, ignoring the dangers, the plots of secret assassins as well as Corbett’s own military service in Wales and Scotland.

‘Are you saying, sire, that de Craon killed Fitzalan knowing that you would send me to Ashdown?’

‘It’s possible there might be another accident in the forest,’ Edward agreed.

‘It’s a pretty theory. But you said there was more?’

‘Yes there is. On the morning Lord Henry was killed, the naked corpse of a young woman was left outside the postern gates of St Hawisia’s priory. Naturally, it sent the good sisters all a-flutter. We don’t know the identity of the girl, where she came from or who loosed an arrow straight into her throat. The corpse was decaying; soil, bits of leaves still clung to it. The nun at St Hawisia’s, who dressed the body for burial, believes this young woman had been killed some time ago and buried in a forest glade. The corpse was then dug up and, as some macabre jest, left at the priory gates.’

‘And what happened to it?’ Corbett asked.

‘Lady Madeleine recalled the Corporal Acts of Mercy and gave it burial in the priory’s own churchyard before reporting the matter to the local sheriff. So you see, Hugh, we have two deaths by arrow in Ashdown Forest. Is it the work of the Owlman? Are the deaths totally unrelated? Anyway, I am sending you down there, armed with warrants to do what you have to.’

‘But you really couldn’t care about Lord Henry’s death?’

‘No, Hugh, I couldn’t give a fig if he is in heaven or hell. However, his death provides the opportunity to discover why the French demanded that Lord Henry lead the English envoys to Paris for the betrothal negotiations. I want to see if he is a traitor, and the same goes for his household.’ Edward leaned back in his chair. ‘In a few years’ time the Princess Isabella comes of age. She will marry my feckless son, who will do his duty and beget an heir.’

‘And that heir will be Philip IV’s grandson?’

‘Precisely! Now, I am bound to this marriage by solemn treaty and papal decree. But, if I can find that Philip has broken this truce by conspiring with one of my magnates. .’

‘You will send your lawyers to Avignon,’ Corbett finished the sentence. ‘And demand that the peace treaty be rescinded. No treaty, no marriage, no grandson of Philip IV sitting on your throne at Westminster.’

Edward grinned. ‘You have a marvellous way with words, Hugh.’

Corbett put his hand over his mouth and looked down at the table. The old wound in his chest still ached but Corbett was trying to hide his feelings. Was Edward using him as bait? What happened if he went to Sussex and one of de Craon’s assassins struck? Could Edward lay his death at Philip’s door, scream for justice and rescind the papal peace treaty? Or worse? What if he went to Ashdown and Edward sent his own assassin? Would the King turn on him? Sacrifice him on the altar of expediency and then blame the French? Corbett looked up quickly. Edward was gazing at Ranulf. The clerk knew that look. Would Ranulf be the assassin? Would his ambitious clerk hold their friendship as something which could be bought and sold for further preferment? No, surely not!

‘You seem a little anxious, Hugh?’

Corbett shifted in the chair. He picked up the goblet and held it out. He wanted to show that he didn’t tremble.

‘What happens, sire, if Fitzalan’s death is nothing to do with de Craon?’

‘That is possible.’

‘And what happens, sire, if I travel down to Ashdown, the cheese to de Craon’s mouse? Seigneur Amaury might not be able to resist the temptation of sending one of his assassins after me.’

‘Continue.’ The King’s voice was almost a purr.

‘Wouldn’t you then turn round and lay my death at his door? Send the most irate letters to His Holiness in Avignon, loudly bemoaning the death of your senior clerk at the hands of a French assassin?’

‘Hugh, Hugh, how could you say that?’

‘You are being very blunt!’ de Warrenne snapped.

Corbett studied the old earl. You are a lecher and a drunkard, Corbett thought, but I had you wrong. You have a sense of honour. You may not like me but you, too, suspect that the King could be plotting. De Warrenne dropped his gaze.

‘I say you are very blunt, clerk,’ he muttered.

‘I’m being very honest,’ Corbett jibed back. ‘It is my life. The King himself said that de Craon may be after my head.’