Paul Doherty: The Demon Archer

‘But I’m not sending you there for that.’ Edward’s mood had shifted from stricken prince to angry lord. ‘Hugh, this is England. You are going to Ashdown Forest. If de Craon lifted a finger against you, I’d have his head! Do you understand me, Corbett? I’d take his head clean off at the shoulders. I’d stick it on a pole above London Bridge so the crows can pick at it like they do the rest of the vermin.’

Corbett began to laugh. At first it came as a chuckle but the more he thought of what the King had said the greater his laughter grew.

‘You find this amusing, Hugh? You see a jest where your King does not?’

Corbett wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.

‘Your Majesty, I am clerk of your Secret Seal. The master of your secrets, your most loyal clerk but, at last, I do sense the game.’ Corbett’s face became grave. ‘I am not some pot boy in a tavern to be sent on this errand or that. Nor am I some new clerk, his hair freshly tonsured, priding himself on his new robes, to believe everything he’s told. So, sire, perhaps we can talk? As royal master and loyal servant, prince and councillor. Or, as you said at the beginning, two friends who have seen the days and the different seasons.

‘We are being sent to Sussex,’ Corbett continued in a more even tone, ‘because you really do want to know why a leading baron of this realm has been assassinated?’

‘Correct.’

‘You also want us to find out if there is a connection between Lord Henry’s death and the grisly offering left outside the priory of St Hawisia’s?’

‘Agreed.’

‘And you want me to keep an eye on de Craon: to discover the true relationship between Lord Henry Fitzalan and the French court?’

‘I’ve said as much.’

‘And, finally, you wouldn’t weep,’ Corbett continued, ‘if an incident occurred which you could use to nullify the marriage treaty with France. You hope it wouldn’t be my murder but, if that happened, you’d use it?’

‘Yes, yes, I would.’ The King sighed. ‘I love you dearly, Hugh. I’d take vengeance for your death. But this treaty?’

‘You must abide by it!’ Corbett insisted. ‘It was decided in full council. Any attempt to break that treaty would lead to a most savage war and incur the anger of the papacy.’

‘You agree with the treaty?’ the King asked.

‘You know I do, sire.’

Edward spread his hands. ‘Then let God decide.’ Edward pushed back his chair. ‘You must be in Sussex by nightfall.’

The King walked down the hall, patted Corbett on the shoulder, winked at Ranulf and, with de Warrenne hastening after, left, slamming the door behind him.

‘You should not have said that,’ Ranulf said heatedly. He pulled back a bench and sat next to his master.

‘I should tell the truth,’ Corbett replied. ‘Oh, I know Edward doesn’t want me dead but he does want to break that treaty. But I won’t be killed, will I, Ranulf, not with my guardian angel protecting me?’

His manservant coloured, green eyes evasive.

‘You always blink when you are nervous,’ Corbett laughed. ‘Like when Lady Maeve is telling me off.’

Ranulf beat his metal-studded gauntlets against the table.

‘I’m your man, Sir Hugh, in peace and war. You saved me from the gallows. I owe you my life. No pope, no king, no priest can ever cancel that debt.’

‘No, they can’t.’ Corbett sighed and got to his feet. ‘But they can try and you are an ambitious man, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. So it’s not back to Leighton for us.’ He rubbed his chest where it was still bruised. ‘We’ll have the clerks swear out the warrants and commissions and, before the day is out, we’ll be at Ashdown.’

The door opened, and a retainer wearing the royal blue, red and gold tabard entered holding a white wand which he tapped imperiously on the stone floor.

‘Good Lord!’ Ranulf mocked. ‘It’s the Archbishop of Canterbury!’

‘Your presence is required,’ the chamberlain declared pompously, ‘by Edward, Prince of Wales. He’s in the tiltyard.’

‘Now this,’ Corbett whispered, ‘is going to be interesting.’

They followed the chamberlain out of the great hall into the courtyard. The morning sun was glistening on the rain-soaked gravel. In that busy place, grooms were leading horses out of the stables, sumpter ponies were being unpacked, carts unhitched. Chickens pecked at the ground, clucking in anger as a palace dog came running up yapping. Servants and men-at-arms milled about. A group of royal archers had taken a thief out to judgement; stripping him bare, they’d lashed him to a tree and were now flogging him vigorously with white willow wands. The man gagged, strained at his bonds, wincing and twisting as the red-purple scars scored his white pimply back.

The chamberlain led them along a terraced walk and into the sand-covered tiltyard, which consisted of a long, dusty rectangle of land with a great wooden tilt fence down the middle. A horseman waited at either end, each dressed in full plate armour. One bore the crest of the Beaumonts of Norfolk, the other, nearest Corbett, the red dragon of Wales.

A trumpet blew a long fanfare, a shrill metallic blast. Both horses lumbered into a canter then into a gallop. Lances came down, swinging across the horses’ necks as the riders hurtled towards each other. The Prince of Wales was faster, his horse lighter and speedier. His lance avoided his opponent’s shield and caught him full in the chest. The Norfolk knight swayed in the saddle, tried to regain his seat then toppled in a crash and clouds of dust to the roar and acclamation of the onlookers. The victorious Prince dropped his lance, drew his sword and cantered towards his fallen opponent. The latter had more sense than to resist but took off his helmet and extended his hands in a gesture of submission.

Prince Edward dismounted, removed his tilting helm and, with the help of a squire, began to strip off his armour. He then helped the Norfolk knight to his feet, clapping him heartily on the back. When the Prince caught sight of Corbett he walked across, still loosening pieces of armour which he simply threw on the ground for the scampering squires to pick up. Edward was a strikingly good-looking man, tall, well over six feet, with blond, closely-cropped hair, a neatly clipped moustache and beard, and a rather thick-lipped and aggressive mouth. He had an oval face with deep-set, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. He didn’t stand on ceremony but gripped Corbett’s outstretched hand and clapped Ranulf on the shoulder.

‘Sir Hugh, it’s good to see you. You’ve recovered? And Lady Maeve?’ His smile widened. ‘After all, she’s from my principality. They say there’s nothing like a Welsh woman in bed.’ He caught himself and closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh.’

‘No offence given, none taken, sire.’

‘And the noble Ranulf?’ Edward tried to hide his embarrassment by punching Corbett’s manservant playfully on the shoulder. ‘A man much loved by the maidens, eh?’

He turned and beckoned a squire who came hurrying across with a tray of goblets. Edward filled three, although the man had been running so fast the silver tray shook. Once Edward had served the three cups he cuffed the man sharply on the ear, and the squire retreated, hand to the side of his head.

‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Corbett protested.

‘No, no, it wasn’t.’ Edward took a gulp of wine and turned. ‘Rushlett!’ he bawled.

The aggrieved squire came tottering back. Edward pointed to the three cups.

‘I am sorry I hit you. When we’ve finished, the three goblets and the tray, they are yours to sell.’

His squire retreated, profusely thanking him.

‘They are not mine to give,’ Edward admitted. ‘They belong to the Bishop of Winchester but, by the time he realises, they’ll be sold. Anyway, he’s rich enough to buy them back. You are off to Ashdown!’ he continued in a rush. ‘Lord Henry’s been killed and the French envoy frets for a replacement. Father’s in such a hurry to get me married, eh?’