Paul Doherty - Nightshade

Robert de Scott, captain of Lord Scrope’s retinue, was the first to die. Full of resentment at Corbett, he had adjourned to the Honeycomb tavern, then on to the Portal of Heaven, which also fronted the marketplace. There he had drowned his sorrows in cheap ale, then bought the favours of a slattern to entertain him in a grubby garret upstairs. He came lurching out of the Portalof Heaven even as three long blasts of the hunting horn announced that bloody mayhem had once again returned to Mistleham. Robert was so drunk he could only stand staring bleary-end whilst others fled. He swayed on his feet, meaning to move just as the yard-long iron-tipped ash shaft pierced him in the heart. A deadly shot, which threw him on to his back to quiver gargling on his own blood. Chaos engulfed the marketplace as traders fled or hid beneath their stalls. Women grabbed their children and ran shrieking into alcoves, doorways and runnels. Two brave souls raced across to help Robert de Scott, but he was dead and all they could do was drag his corpse into the tap room of the Portal of Heaven, locking the door behind them. A short while passed. People peeped out of their hiding places, the light greying, the air turning colder as evening set in. William Le Vavasour, another of Scrope’s men, died next. Confident that the danger had passed, he crept out of the runnel where he’d hidden, glimpsing another of Scrope’s retainers emerging eager for the warmth and shelter of the tavern. Vavasour moved first and was struck in the throat, the iron barb piercing skin, muscle and bone. Mutwart, the second retainer, had reached the door to the tavern and was thumbing at the latch when the arrow came thudding into his back and out through his chest, pinning him like a fly to the wood.

The townspeople were still hiding when Corbett and Ranulf, accompanied by Scrope and the rest of his henchmen, thundered into the marketplace. Scrope’s retainers had brought long oval shields from the manor armoury. Corbett and his companions dismounted and hid behind the shields as the henchmen formed a protective screen around them. Corbett peered over the rim of the shield-wall and saw a corpse almost floating in a puddle ofblood as well as the body of the last victim still sprawled gruesomely against the tavern door. He ordered the shield-wall to hold, telling Chanson and others to keep the horses quiet. Scrope, beside himself with rage, was glaring around. He glimpsed Claypole waving agitatedly from a window.

‘How many?’ Scrope bellowed.

Catchpole lifted a hand, three fingers extended.

‘Vavasour and Mutwart,’ declared one of Scrope’s men, with a keener sight than the rest.

‘Robert de Scott is also dead.’ Claypole’s voice carried across the marketplace.

Scrope gave vent to a litany of curses. Corbett ignored him as he gazed at the entrance to the Portal of Heaven then round the marketplace. He admired the skill of the assassin. This was a good place for a master bowman to move and hide. He studied the empty doorways, the dark mouths of alleyways and runnels; the killer could lurk in any of these, not to mention the houses, four or five storeys high, with their garrets, narrow windows, ledges and roofs. Nevertheless, Corbett sensed the Sagittarius would not strike again. Time had passed. It would be too dangerous now; a flurry of movement or a flash of colour might betray the killer. The Sagittarius not only hid in the dark but used panic and fear to disguise himself.

‘In God’s name, I beg you cease this!’

Corbett spun around. Father Thomas, preceded by Master Benedict Le Sanglier carrying a cross, processed across the marketplace. In one hand the parish priest carried a lighted candle capped against the breeze, in the other a hand bell, which he shook vigorously.

‘In God’s name,’ the priest shouted, ‘I adjure you to cease this.’ He paused in the middle of the square. A dog came snuffling over. Corbett ordered the shield wall to stand aside and walked across.

‘I think the danger has passed,’ he said softly.

‘It will return,’ Father Thomas retorted, face all concerned. ‘As it has in the past …’ He broke off abruptly. ‘I was closeted in my house.’ The priest’s anger drained away. ‘Master Benedict came running through the church to tell me what had happened.’ He blew out the candle and pointed at the Portal of Heaven. ‘I must see to the dead.’

Father Thomas hurried away even as people began to emerge from their hiding places. Doors were flung open, shutters removed. A boy came racing across the cobbles, ignoring the shrieks of his mother. Lord Scrope’s retinue broke up. The manor lord became busy talking to Master Claypole, who’d emerged from his house looking rather ridiculous, a dagger in one hand, a large pan in the other to serve as a shield. A bell sounded. The market returned to business, but Corbett sensed the mood had grown ugly. There were dark looks, mutterings and mumbles. The people of Mistleham now believed that the Sagittarius and his dreadful acts were connected to those hideous events out at Modern. Corbett told Chanson to guard the horses, plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and gestured towards the Portal of Heaven. ‘The Bowman must have stood directly opposite.’ He turned and pointed to the line of houses across the square, facing the tavern.

‘Search the alleyways, alcoves and runnels, Ranulf. Go literally from house to house and room to room, see what you can find.’

‘He must have carried his bow,’ Ranulf murmured.

‘Or had it hidden away, ready for use. There again,’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip, ‘a bow can be unstrung, it can look like a stave, whilst the quiver of arrows remains hidden under a cloak. See what you can find.’

Ranulf nodded and walked across. Corbett went over to where Scrope and Catchpole were deep in conversation. He paused. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the more he stared at these two men with their harsh, pugnacious faces, the more he could see the blood tie between them. What was more important was that both the manor lord and the mayor were in heated conversation. Corbett wondered what it was about, whilst he was eager to question both about that strange half-finished remark by Father Thomas about the Sagittarius returning as he had in the past.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope turned, a bland smile on his ugly face, ‘this is damnable.’

‘So is the cause, Lord Oliver! The Sagittarius, who gave him that name?’

Scrope glanced at Claypole; the mayor just pursed his lips, shrugged and glanced away.

‘I asked a question.’ Corbett paused as a crowd of townsmen headed towards them, carrying clubs, faces full of resentment. Corbett drew his sword in a slashing curl of light. Scrope also drew his, whilst his men-at-arms began to drift back, uncertain about what was happening.

‘I am the King’s man.’ Corbett advanced to confront the angry mob. ‘You will see justice done. This is not your business! Go about your trade.’

‘This is Scrope’s doing!’ a voice shouted. ‘Those young ones out at Mordern, it should never have happened.’

‘In the King’s name,’ Corbett repeated loudly, ‘go about your business.’ His hand went behind his back, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and walked closer to the hostile traders. ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he said softly to their leader, a burly faced, popping-eyed man, apparently a butcher from the bloody apron wrapped around him. ‘Go back to your business, sir; take your friends with you. This will end and justice will be done, I assure you.’

The butcher glanced at his companions. Corbett lowered his sword.

‘As you say,’ the man muttered, ‘this must end.’ He gestured with his hands; the tradesmen broke up, drifting back, muttering and cursing over their shoulders.