Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer (5 page)

‘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 ‘And demand that the peace treaty be rescinded.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.’

‘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?’

‘You look forward to your nuptials?’ Corbett asked.

‘Don’t play the innocent fool with me, clerk!’ the Prince replied. He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to marry the bloody wench! For the rest of my life I’ll have Philip on my back. That sanctimonious, hypocritical, conniving . . .’

‘Future father-in-law!’ Corbett finished the sentence.

The Prince wiped the sweat from his face and took another sip from the goblet.

‘When Father dies,’ he added viciously.

‘May that day be far off,’ Corbett interrupted; even to discuss the King’s death was petty treason.

‘Yes, yes, but die he must! Anyway, when he dies, Corbett, Ranulf, I want you in my household. I’m going to need you. The nobles don’t like me, the bishops cluck their tongues like chickens.’

‘It’s not you, sire, it’s . . .’

‘Yes, yes, I know, Piers Gaveston!’

Corbett relaxed, now the name was out. The Prince of Wales’ favourite, some even whispered lover, was regarded as a Gascon upstart, the son of a witch who seemed to exercise undue influence over the King’s heir. Gaveston was sharp of wit, a born jouster and horseman. A beautiful man, Gaveston played Jonathan to Edward’s David. Rumours had abounded, gossip that the two had been found alone in bed and the King, infuriated, had exiled Gaveston from the kingdom.

‘I want Piers back!’ Edward stamped his foot. ‘If I cannot have my friends, what use a kingdom?’

Corbett glanced warningly at Ranulf.

‘I may join you at Ashdown.’ Edward turned away, watching Corbett out of the corner of his eye.

‘You were friends with Lord Henry?’ Corbett asked.

Edward waggled a finger playfully. ‘You stand there, Corbett, as pious as a nun with those innocent eyes and guileless face. You should have been a lawyer in King’s Bench. I had no great friendship with the Lord Henry but with his brother, Sir William, yes. And, as you well know, I have made pilgrimages to St Hawisia’s shrine.’

‘And you stayed at Ashdown Manor?’ Corbett asked.

‘There or that tavern on the Ashdown road. There’s good hunting in the forest though.’ He grimaced. ‘Lord Henry found it different, didn’t he? So, when do you leave?’

‘As soon as possible, sire. Your father has given us orders and to Ashdown we must go.’

Edward nodded. He absentmindedly clapped Corbett on the shoulder and, whispering under his breath, sauntered back to his retainers.

‘What was all that about?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘This is a tangled web, everybody’s telling lies. Philip’s a liar. De Craon wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him on the nose. Our King hides the truth while Prince Edward ploughs his own lonely furrow. What hour do you think it is?’