Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (31 page)

‘An act of compassion. It is one of the Corporal Works of Mercy.’

‘You don’t understand the meaning of the word!’ Corbett snapped. ‘You buried her corpse to get it out of the way, hidden in the soil as quickly as possible. If it had been any other corpse, you would have sent it to St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees for interment in the common plot. I did wonder why the great Lady Madeleine manifested such speedy and merciful measures? You kept well away from the corpse but you made careful enquiries. Perhaps this is where God’s hand makes itself felt; for you became very suspicious why the corpse of your victim was left at your priory gate. Was someone pointing the finger of suspicion? Had your attack on poor Françoise been seen? Was this a reminder? Now, and this is a series of coincidences, on any other day you might have thought it was your brother. One of his subtle tricks to prick your memory. But, that particular morning, it couldn’t have been. He was preparing for his great hunt in which he was later killed.’

‘So?’ she asked, a touch of humour in her voice.

‘You went down to the death house, where the corpse had been placed in a habit. You carefully studied the cloak in which it had been wrapped when it was left at your postern gate. I would wager a tun of wine that you recognised that cloak, one your priory had given to Brother Cosmas.’

‘Where is this cloak?’ Lady Madeleine asked, eyebrows raised.

‘Oh, madam, I am sure it’s gone now. You would, perhaps, recognise the distinctive stitching and draw the logical conclusion that the corpse had been left by Brother Cosmas. What you didn’t know was that Cosmas, in turn, had given that cloak to the hermit, Odo, who was also the Owlman. Odo had come to this forest in search of justice against Lord Henry.’

‘And so it was he who found the corpse?’ Lady Madeleine asked quietly.

‘Yes he did and he’s confessed to it. He didn’t want to carry the corpse to St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees, that might create suspicions. The corpse was that of a woman, so he left it at the priory.’

Lady Madeleine abruptly rose to her feet. Corbett’s hand dropped to the dagger on his belt. She moved to stand beside the oaken sarcophagus but kept well away from Ranulf’s sword and dagger lying on the top. For a while she stood caressing the dark polished oak. Then, going round the side, she stared squarely across at Corbett.

‘This is a beautiful shrine, Corbett,’ she said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘And I am its keeper and prioress. There’s no one here to witness what I say.’

‘Except God, his host of saints and all the heavenly force.’

‘In which case, clerk, they already know the innermost workings of my heart!’ She leaned on the tomb and half-smiled. ‘Now, sir, you’ve walked into this shrine and laid serious allegations against me, one of the Lords Spiritual of Holy Mother Church. Yet what proof do you have? Where are the witnesses? Where is the documentation? How can you prove that I left the priory to go murdering in the forest?’

‘I have very little proof, madam. I said that from the beginning. But there’s a logic to it. You wanted your brother dead. You had to kill Françoise. Cantrone had to be silenced and Verlian’s murder was the work of your tortuous, twisted soul.’

Lady Madeleine stood back as if Corbett had struck her in the face.

‘How dare you!’ she hissed. ‘How dare you come swaggering in here!’

‘You are a demon.’ Corbett grasped the sword and dagger and pulled them away. ‘You are a demon, Lady Madeleine, dressed in the clothes of an angel. God knows what you worship here but it isn’t God. You talk of proof. I could go searching for that. Where is the cloak in which the corpse of Françoise was left? Shall we summon Sister Veronica? I am sure that she’ll find it has disappeared and wonder why. Or Sister Fidelis? Or the other nuns? We will certainly establish just who did send for Cantrone?’ He paused. ‘Which of your servants took the message? Which peasant? Did anyone at Ashdown remember such a message arriving? Then, of course, I could go across to your lodgings, make a careful search for the dark cloak and cowl you probably wear when you ride out. Perhaps examine the harness and saddle of your horse? Inspect the trackway which lies outside the gates leading from your private quarters? Or shall I just prove where you actually were when your brother, Cantrone and Verlian were killed?’

Corbett tapped his finger against the polished oak.

‘Ranulf said you were left-handed so you’d make a poor archer but you’re gifted, I’ve noticed that, in the use of left or right. Do you still have the bow and quiver of arrows?’ He raised his hand. ‘You nearly killed me, you devil in flesh! You’re a consummate archer who’ll do anything to defend this shrine. Now Henry, Françoise and Cantrone are gone who can really challenge you?’

‘Yes, clerk,’ came the curt reply. ‘Who can? Will you, with your meagre evidence?’

Corbett spread his hands. ‘Perhaps I can have the royal searchers seek out this young prostitute, Cecilia. Have her brought back to England and closely questioned. Or shall I offer a reward to the chapmen and tinkers who ply their trade between Rye and Ashdown? See if anyone brought a message from Françoise Sourtillon to the prioress?’ Corbett held up Ranulf’s sword as if it were a cross. He could tell by Lady Madeleine’s face that he had struck his mark. ‘You are an assassin. I don’t know whether you are just evil or mad or both. And all this.’ Corbett banged the wooden sarcophagus with the sword. ‘It’s all mummery! The corpses of dead saints, relics of golden hair! You no more believe in the Lord Christ than the animals which dwell in the forest. At least they are true to their nature. You, Lady Madeleine, are true to nothing!’

And, turning on his heel, Corbett walked out of the shrine and down the nave of the church.

 

Edward of England lounged in a high-backed chair. He drummed his fingers carefully on the table as Corbett recounted what had happened at Ashdown. The King, dressed simply in a brown tunic and leggings with high-heeled riding boots, played with the tassels of his war belt on the table before him. He picked up the jewelled goblet and stared at its engraving of a knight kneeling, hands clasped, in front of a crucifix.

‘You are sure of this, Corbett?’

The King kept his face down so the clerk wouldn’t catch his excitement.

‘As I am that I sit here, my lord. Lady Madeleine is an assassin and, somehow or other, she should be brought to justice.’

‘Oh, never mind that.’ The King sipped from the goblet and stared over the rim at Corbett. ‘I am interested that Piers Gaveston has the impudence to come stealing back into my kingdom like a riffler along an alleyway.’

‘But, sir, you promised not to raise it with your son?’

‘Oh, I won’t do that.’ The King scratched the side of his head and gazed sweetly on this, his most favoured clerk. ‘I think I’ll post rewards in every port and harbour. Gaveston will think twice before he sets foot in this kingdom again. No, no, it’s more what you tell me about my beloved brother in Christ, Philip of France!’

The King hugged the cup to his chest, scraping back the chair. He stared at Corbett from under heavy-lidded eyes.

‘Can you imagine it, eh? The descendant of St Louis of France killing his own wife? We’d heard rumours, you know.’

Corbett kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to tell the King about Master Aidan Smallbone. After all, Smallbone was a veritable source of gossip and chatter. The King quickly crossed himself.

‘Do you remember Simon Roulles?’

Corbett nodded.

‘They found his mangled corpse on a muddy bank of the Seine. A few days earlier, they’d discovered the half-naked body of Mistress Malvoisin, a few yards further up.’

‘The widow of the royal physician?’

‘The same. Poor Simon was searching for what you discovered at Ashdown, and he may have even found it. What a waste! A good spy, a cunning clerk but not as good as you, eh Hugh?’

‘You won’t use it, sire?’

Corbett glanced sideways at Ranulf who sat tense, eyes watchful. Ever since they’d left Ashdown and journeyed up to Eltham, Ranulf had been obsessed with bringing Lady Madeleine to justice.

‘What do you mean, I won’t use it!’

‘Sire, the treaty!’

The King’s smile widened. ‘Ah, you mean my beloved son’s marriage to the Princess Isabella?’

‘Sire, you know that marriage treaty has the support of the papacy, not to mention your Council and the Commons who recently met in parliament. If you break it, there’ll be war within a month and French ships will be helping the rebels in Scotland.’

Corbett studied his king. Edward was almost beside himself with glee yet Corbett, who had sat with the rest of the King’s Council and negotiated this treaty which was to bring a lasting peace, knew how deeply Edward nurtured his hatred against Philip.

‘Seigneur Amaury de Craon,’ Corbett said, ‘is now outside, in your antechamber. He is insistent on returning to France. You must name the lord who is to lead the English delegation.’

‘Does he know that I know?’ the King teased.

‘He may suspect, sire, but what proof do we have? An entry in a Book of Hours, the corpse of a dead Italian physician?’

Edward put the cup down. He rubbed his hands together like a little boy who has won a game.

‘In a short while, Corbett, de Craon will know that I know what Philip knows but, what he doesn’t know,’ the King laughed at the turn of phrase, ‘is what I really know and where I have hidden the proof.’

‘What proof, sire?’ Ranulf exclaimed.

The King chuckled.

‘Precisely, Ranulf! They’ll always wonder just what proof I really have.’ The King raised his hands as a sign that the meeting was over. ‘I don’t think you should stay, Sir Hugh, when I see de Craon.’

Corbett and Ranulf got to their feet and bowed. Edward rubbed his fingers along the top of the table.

‘Do you know, Corbett,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes I wonder if the game is more important than winning? I met Philip’s wife Johanna. I often wondered how long Philip would tolerate her. I wonder what he really is after? Marriage to a Flemish princess? I’ll stop that. And, as for the Templars? Soon it will be Christmas. Perhaps it’s time I invited the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, back to England.’ Edward clapped his hands. ‘Oh, Corbett, Ranulf, I think we’ll celebrate the feast of All Saints at Leighton!’

Corbett smiled to hide his deep anguish at having to act as host to Edward and his cronies. They would sweep into his manor and all harmony would be shattered.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘When Lady Maeve’s child is born,’ Corbett replied quickly, because he knew the King loved such requests, ‘if you could stand godfather at the font?’

‘Done.’ The King raised his hand. ‘And, before you leave, Corbett, I have something for Lady Maeve. A necklace.’ His eyes softened. ‘Once worn by my Eleanor.’ He opened the large wallet which hung from his war belt and tossed a purse of gold coins down the table. ‘And that’s for you, my Clerk of the Green Wax!’

Ranulf let it lie.

‘Come! Come!’ Edward drew his brows together. ‘Do you refuse a prince’s gift? What else do you want, Clerk of the Green Wax? Promotion? A bishopric?’

‘Lady Madeleine dead!’ Ranulf spat the words out, ignoring Corbett’s hiss of disapproval.

‘Pick the gold up!’ Edward ordered. ‘Pick it up, boy!’

Ranulf obeyed.

‘I can’t give you Lady Madeleine’s head on a platter.’ Edward drew his dagger, clasping his fingers round the hilt. ‘But, I, Edward, King of England, Ireland and Scotland, give my solemn word: before Easter comes and goes, Lady Madeleine Fitzalan will join her brother before the court of Heaven. That matter’s finished!’

Corbett tugged at Ranulf’s arm. They bowed and walked out of the chamber. De Craon, lounging in a window seat, got up.

‘Ah, Sir Hugh, your king is pleased?’

‘My king is always pleased, Seigneur Amaury.’

De Craon pulled his face into mock grief and spread his hands.

‘I hope His Majesty is in good humour. We were grieved to hear of the death of one of his clerks, Simon Roulles, a student of the Sorbonne. Such a dreadful death! Surely it proves Scripture, that we never know the time or the place of our demise?’

‘My dear Amaury.’ Corbett faced him squarely. ‘None of us know the time and place. But the good Lord be my witness. If there is a time and place when I can settle accounts with you,’ he held his hand up in a gesture of peace, ‘
pax et bonum
, my dear Amaury.’

The French envoy bowed, stepped aside and swept into the royal chamber.

‘My dear, dear Amaury!’ Edward of England half-rose from his seat, then slouched back as if the effort was too much. He gestured at the chair Corbett had vacated. ‘I understand you have been enjoying the air of Sussex?’

‘I am grieved, sir.’ De Craon took a seat.

Edward offered his cup. De Craon took it and sipped, pleased at this mark of favour.

‘At the death of Lord Henry and, of course, Signor Cantrone. Now I bring you official news of the death of Simon Roulles. Sire, accept my condolences as well as those of his most gracious majesty the King of France.’

‘God only knows your grief,’ Edward replied. He gestured at a sheaf of documents in front of him. ‘And I have similar bad news: Pierre Rafael?’ He raised one eyebrow. De Craon tensed. ‘A French student in the Halls of Oxford,’ the King explained. ‘A man, indeed, who seemed to spend most of his life in study. Pierre often journeyed to our eastern ports, he appeared very interested in shipping . . .’

‘What happened to him?’ de Craon asked quickly.

‘Unfortunately he was drowned,’ the King replied. ‘His body was fished out of the Thames. My own clerk, Master Aidan Smallbone, was in the vicinity at the time. He examined the corpse most carefully, a boating accident.’ Edward spread his hands apologetically. ‘These students and their drinking!’

De Craon swallowed hard. He would miss Pierre. He wondered how Edward of England had discovered his spy’s true identity.