by Paul Doherty
The Owlman looked up at the crows circling high above their nests. What could he do now? Leave her here? The corpse brought back memories of his own; rekindled his nightmares, the hatred he felt for Lord Henry. He couldn’t leave the body here, not for the scavengers. It would weigh on his conscience and arouse fears of himself being left to die in some lonely spot, his corpse untended. The Owlman recalled his true calling and, bending down, whispered a requiem followed by words of absolution.
On the early morning air, he heard the distant chimes of the bells of St Hawisia’s priory summoning the young ladies to sing their devotions, and smiled. Weren’t nuns committed to doing good works? To tending the sick and burying the dead? The forest was safe. Lord Henry’s verderers and huntsmen would be down near the lodge, well away from any path he had to take. Yes, that was what he’d do. He dare not take it to St Oswald’s, that wouldn’t be fair. No, he’d give Lady Madeleine and her good nuns an opportunity to show some charity. He slung his bow over his back, took off the cloak his friend had given him and wrapped it round the corpse, then lifted it up and ran, at a half-crouch, back across the trackway and into the trees.
‘Exsurge Domine! Exsurge et vindica causam meam!’
‘Arise, O Lord! Arise and judge my cause!’
The good nuns of St Hawisia’s priory chanted, as they had been taught to by the choir mistress the Lady Johanna, the opening verses of the office of Prime. They stood in polished, wooden stalls, row upon row of white-garbed ladies, their habits of pure wool offset only by the starched creamy wimples which framed their faces. Black velvet cords bound their slim waists and a silver medal, depicting their patron saint Hawisia, hung round each of their necks. They all held their Book of Hours as they had been instructed to, carefully mouthing the words, fearful of the eagle eye of their prioress Lady Madeleine, who sat in her great, throne-like stall.
A woman of indeterminate age, the Lady Madeleine! Her hair, of course, was hidden but her oval face was unlined, not marked by any seam or wrinkle of age. She had ice-blue eyes, a sharp beaked nose and a mouth thin and tight when her temper flared. A woman of poise and good breeding, half-sister to the Lord Henry, Lady Madeleine ruled her lavish priory as strictly as any baron did his fief, or constable his castle. She could walk like a queen or as stealthily as a cat when she was on the prowl, as the good sisters put it, looking for any misdemeanour or anything out of place. She seemed to have the ability to be in all places at all times, to be all-knowing about their hidden faults and secret foibles. Above all, the Lady Madeleine appeared to have the gift of being able to read her Book of Hours, sing the divine chant and yet scrupulously study each and every one of them. They all confessed to be in fear of her, be it the sub-prioress, the Lady Agnes, or the novice mistress, the Lady Marcellina.
If the truth be known, Lady Madeleine could also keep her thoughts to herself and, although she studied her Book of Hours, listening to the chant and watching her good sisters in Christ, she was also distracted by the words of the Psalm. How Satan roamed like an enemy! Even here, Lady Madeleine reflected. Her priory of St Hawisia might be a brilliant jewel in the green calm of Ashdown Forest, yet beyond the walls lurked outlaws like the Owlman, that fiery preacher Brother Cosmas, the forest people and, above all, her mocking half-brother, Lord Henry.
Lady Madeleine closed her eyes, then remembered herself and glanced at the illuminated Book of Hours on the lectern before her. The painter had drawn, to mark the beginning of the Psalm, a small picture of the devil as a knight dressed in red armour, in his clawed hand a banner displaying three black frogs. How apposite, Lady Madeleine thought. Satan was a fallen seraph, a knight in eternal revolt against le bon Seigneur, Jesus, just like her half-brother. Just like many a knight! Madeleine was proud that her beautiful priory was a sanctuary for women against the cruel, iron world of men.
The prioress glanced to her right through the marble pillars which divided the sanctuary from the great side chapel which bore the blessed remains of the virgin martyr St Hawisia. The saint lay there beneath her polished oaken sarcophagus. On top rested a pure glass case, strengthened with silver beading, the work of a craftsman specially hired from Chartres in France. Madeleine narrowed her eyes. From where she stood she could see the golden hair which lay coiled on the embroidered silk pillow beneath the glass case. The priory’s most precious relic, a source of veneration, pilgrimage and, of course, the income it attracted. Now, thanks to her half-brother’s recent refurbishment, the shrine was more beautiful. Come spring, the word would spread and more pilgrims flock to pay their devotions. Lady Madeleine prided herself on how famous the priory was becoming, not only as a centre of learning and piety for ladies of good breeding, but a hallowed place of pilgrimage. She glimpsed a figure out of the corner of her eye and turned in annoyance. Sister Veronica, the cellarer, was gazing anxiously up, her thin sour face wreathed in concern.
‘What is it?’ Lady Madeleine leaned down.
‘Oh, my lady,’ the cellarer stammered. ‘The corpse of a young woman has been found outside the postern gate.’
Lady Madeleine closed her eyes: this truly must be a day of tribulation.
Chapter 1
A few hours later, just before noon, Lord Henry Fitzalan and his hunting party gathered behind the palisade built around Savernake Dell, a natural clearing in the great forest, the most suitable location for the slaughter to take place. In the distance they could hear the braying horn of a huntsman, the shouts and halloos of the beaters and the deep bell-like baying of the dogs. Lord Henry stretched, cracking his muscles, and surveyed the dell. Everything was ready; the makeshift palisade stretched like a horseshoe screening off the trees. If the huntsmen did their job, particularly that varlet Robert Verlian the chief verderer, the deer would stream into here and his hunting party would have good sport. He snapped his fingers and a young squire hurried up with a gold-chased goblet, which Lord Henry snatched from his hand and sipped. The claret was strong, the best of Bordeaux. The great manor lord handed it back and gripped his stomach; the pains he’d suffered the night before had disappeared. They would spend the afternoon hunting and, this evening, feast on the most succulent venison in his great hall at Ashdown Manor. He looked over his shoulder to where his brother William stood glowering at him, his face full of grievance.
‘Come, come, brother!’ Lord Henry felt a spurt of good humour.
His brother walked across, his high-heeled riding boots squelching on the soft earth. He threw his cloak back over his shoulder and Henry studied him quickly from head to toe. The tunic was wine-stained, the leggings already covered in mud. His brother was a good soldier but a poor courtier and, above all, a bad loser. Henry’s smile widened as he grasped William by the shoulder and pulled him closer.
‘Today, sweet brother,’ he hissed, smile fixed, ‘I enjoy a day’s hunting. I entertain the King’s guests.’ He gestured with his head to where Seigneur Amaury de Craon, the pale, red-haired, foxy-faced envoy from the French court stood quietly gossiping with his own entourage.
‘I don’t give a fig for the French, brother!’ William snapped. ‘You gave me your promise that the manor of Manningtree would be mine when I passed my thirtieth birthday.’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Lord Henry replied. ‘Manningtree will stay with me.’
‘And me?’ William accused. ‘Am I to stay with you, brother? Become a hanger-on at your court? Feeding on scraps from your table?’
‘You are my dearest brother. You are my heir.’ Lord Henry pulled a face. ‘Well, until I marry and beget a thousand and one sons.’
‘Why can’t I have Manningtree?’
‘First, because I have said so. Secondly, I need it. And thirdly, brother, I want to keep you close. I don’t want you skulking off and plotting with some of my, let us say, disaffected knights. I’ve given you a choice. You can stay here and, in all things, be my brother. Or I can give you a hundred pounds, two good horses and a suit of armour and you can go and seek your fortune e
lsewhere. Until then,’ his grip tightened, ‘you will smile when I tell you to! You will do what I tell you to do!’
His brother broke free and stood back, his hand going to the dagger in the belt around his waist.
‘What are you going to do, brother?’ Henry taunted. ‘Settle matters here?’ He stepped closer, his face now drained of any good humour. ‘Go on, sweet brother, draw your dagger, let’s have it out now. But, I tell you this.’ He grasped the hilt of his sword. ‘Your head will leave your shoulders before that dagger leaves its sheath. Now, play the man.’
William’s hand fell away.
‘That’s a good boy.’ He was about to turn away.
‘Who’s the Owlman?’ William whispered.
‘Why, brother, he’s an outlaw, a wolfs-head, an irritant.’
‘But why does he threaten you? Those messages left pinned to the manor gate or shot into doors and shutters? A good archer, brother, why should he taunt you?’
‘Brother, I am a great lord,’ Lord Henry explained. ‘I come of ancient family as you do. I make enemies, not only among my own kith and kin, but further afield! One day I’ll go hunting, not the fallow or roe deer but the Owlman. When I catch him, I’ll hang him from my manor gate and that will be the end of the matter.’
‘He must hate you deeply?’
‘Brother, better to be hated than despised.’
‘And the French?’ William asked. ‘Why have they asked the King . . . ?’
‘Why have they asked the King?’ Lord Henry interrupted, drawing so close William could smell his wine-drenched breath. ‘Why has the King asked me to lead an embassy to Paris to represent the Crown at the betrothal of the Lord Edward to the Princess Isabella? Yes.’ His eyes rounded in mock surprise. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m doing, William! Because I am what you are not! I am a great lord, a friend and confidant of the King. I am feared not only here but in places you’ve never even visited.’
‘Aye, feared and hated!’ William spat back. ‘You threaten me, like last night . . .’
‘Mes excuses, brother.’ Henry drew closer. ‘I have only hinted at what I know, so now I will tell you! I know about the catamite Gaveston!’
And, spinning on his heel, Lord Henry walked back to his squires.
‘Soon our quarry will be here,’ he reminded them. ‘Shall we agree a wager, gentlemen? That my arrow will bring the first deer down? That my arrow will go deep into the heart?’
The murmur of conversation stilled. Lord Henry drained his cup and tossed it away.
‘Come, come, gentlemen, aren’t there any takers?’
‘I accept.’ Amaury de Craon raised a hand. ‘Ten pounds in gold, my lord.’
The French envoy came forward, hand outstretched. Lord Henry clasped it, his eyes narrowing as de Craon held it fast, pulling him a little closer. The Frenchman’s dark eyes never wavered.
‘And when you come to Fontainebleau, Lord Henry, I can take you hunting in our forests.’
‘Seigneur Amaury, your wager is accepted. I will take your gold and my hand back.’
The French envoy laughed and let go.
‘In France,’ Lord Henry felt the anger boiling within him at this French envoy’s impudence, ‘I intend to go hunting for more than a deer.’
His enigmatic remark had its effect. De Craon nervously licked his lips and his eyes shifted.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Lord Henry reassured him, slipping his arm through that of the Frenchman and drawing away from the rest. ‘They know nothing of what I say.’
‘You’ll come to France, Lord Henry?’
‘I will journey back with you.’
‘And Signor Pancius Cantrone?’
‘My physician doesn’t know it, but he will join us.’
‘And my master,’ Amaury de Craon continued in a whisper, ‘will be pleased to see Signor Cantrone and silence his lying mouth. But, how will it be done?’
‘We’ll journey down to Rye. My household will go with me, including my brother William whom I like to keep an eye on. What has to be done will be done then.’
Amaury de Craon withdrew his arm.
‘And isn’t the King suspicious that we asked you to lead the English envoys?’
‘My dear Amaury, I have led similar embassies before. I own land in Gascony. I am the King’s most trusted councillor. Why shouldn’t I go to Paris? The marriage negotiations between the Prince of Wales and the Lady Isabella have been ordained by his Holiness the Pope and, in time, will lead to peace between our two kingdoms.’
Amaury de Craon studied this sly, secretive English lord, who was tall and thickset, his black hair swept back. In the florid face, those cunning light blue eyes reminded Amaury of his master Philip IV of France: ice cold, soulless, constantly plotting. Amaury knew why Philip wanted this nobleman in Paris and, above all, why that traitor Cantrone, who had fled the French court, should be brought back.
‘Won’t the English court object over Cantrone?’
Amaury forced a smile, fearful lest others become suspicious of this hushed conversation.
‘Amaury, Amaury.’ Lord Henry mimicked the Frenchman’s accent. ‘You worry about so many things. It won’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, that someone dies or disappears in Paris. And why should the English court object? Cantrone is not a citizen of this kingdom. He is an Italian who wanders the face of the earth. It will all be forgotten in the betrothal celebrations.’
Amaury stared up at the overhanging oak tree. He watched a squirrel skip across the branch. He became aware of the liquid song of some bird high in the trees, singing its own sweet carol, oblivious to the treachery plotted below and to the bloody carnage which would break out when the distant hunters panicked their quarry into the killing pen.
‘My Lord Henry.’ De Craon wiped some crumbs from his red woollen tunic, slipping a thumb into his belt. ‘I am not fearful of you, or of your king, or of what might happen.’
‘Corbett!’ Lord Henry taunted. ‘You are fearful of Sir Hugh Corbett. I have heard of the rivalry between you.’
Lord Henry recalled the close, secretive face, framed by raven-black hair, of the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, Edward’s most trusted confidant. Sir Hugh Corbett who, time and again, had crossed swords with his French adversary.
‘We heard he was dead,’ de Craon declared testily.
‘I wager you did.’ Lord Henry laughed. ‘And the bells of Paris must have pealed to the heavens.’
‘We heard he had been killed in Oxford, an arrow to the heart.’
‘He was wounded. He was attacked by an assassin whom his manservant Ranulf-atte-Newgate killed. The crossbow bolt was a hunting one, not an arbalest. It cracked bone but, I hear, Corbett now thanks God for the thick leather jerkin he wore as well as for the royal doctors and physicians. He has recovered.’ Lord Henry’s grin widened. ‘Indeed, he may well come to pay his compliments.’
Dr Craon hawked and spat.
‘Is it true?’ Lord Henry continued his taunting. He plucked at de Craon’s sleeve. ‘Is it true that your master has put up a reward on Corbett’s head?’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ de Craon snapped. ‘If Philip of France did that, Edward of England would retaliate.’
‘Yes, yes, he would.’
Lord Henry turned away; the rest of the hunting party were becoming excited. The horns now sounded closer and the bellowing of the dogs filled the dell.
‘We should take up our positions, my lord.’
Lord Henry walked across to the palisade, where a squire came running up and thrust a long yew bow in his hand. Next he chose a grey-goose-quilled arrow. A man who lived for each moment, he had now forgotten de Craon, Corbett, his sulky brother and the vexatious messages of the Owlman. He recalled the lovely, olive-skinned face of Alicia, his chief verderer’s daughter, and looked around.
‘Where is Verlian? Where’s my chief verderer?’
‘He has not yet returned, sir,’ one of his squires shouted, poi
nting across to the glade. ‘He’s probably over there ensuring all is well.’
‘The fool! He’ll be in the line of fire. He won’t be the first to be killed while hunting.’ Lord Henry shrugged. ‘But he knows the hunt is close, this will be upon his head.’
All around him his companions were preparing their bows, heads craned back towards the forest, waiting for the deer to appear. Lord Henry, however, was still distracted. If only Alicia would give way to him. Was that why her father was so sullen and withdrawn? Lord Henry notched the arrow and waited. In time he brought everything down and in his heart he couldn’t care what damage he caused. Glancing quickly around, he noticed William was gone. Where, sulking in the trees? Again came the braying of horns. A crashing in the undergrowth could be heard and a roe deer appeared head up, moving so fast its hooves hardly seemed to touch the ground. The speed of the animal caught the hunters unawares. Bows were strung and brought up, arrows loosed but the deer seemed to have a charmed life. It swept across the glade, glimpsed the palisade and, in one curving jump, cleared it.
The deer’s disappearance was greeted with cries of derision. Lord Henry flushed with anger. His arrow, like that of his companions, had missed its mark and he heard de Craon’s whinnying laugh. Again the hunting horn sounded, loud and clear. Another deer sped through the trees. Lord Henry raised his bow; he loosed but the deer slipped and this action saved its life as all the hunters’ arrows either whistled over or smacked into the ground around it. Lord Henry, beside himself with rage, grabbed another arrow, lifting up the bow. This time he would be ready. He glimpsed a blur just before an arrow took him deep in the chest. Lord Henry staggered back, dropping his bow. He stared in shocked horror, almost oblivious to the pain, then turned, glimpsing his squire’s look of fear. Finally he slumped to his knees and fell quietly on his side, eyes fluttering, the blood already spurting out of his mouth.