Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

by Paul Doherty

  After the taverner had left Corbett lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘This is a tangled mess, Ranulf. The day is drawing on but I think we should visit Sir William again.’ He felt his body jerk as he relaxed. ‘Do what you want,’ he murmured. ‘But don’t travel far from the tavern.’ He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘I mean that, Ranulf, the assassin can hunt you as well as he can me.’

  Corbett lay back down on the bed, his mind drifting back to that murderous assault in the forest. Who could it be? But, there again, as the taverner had said: everyone now knew of him, who he was and where he went. Ruefully, he reflected that the forest trackways of Ashdown were more dangerous than any alleyway or runnel in London. Yet again he tried to separate the threads one from another. Lord Henry was definitely going to betray Cantrone, hand him back to the French, make a settlement once and for all over the secret he held. But what was that secret? And this mysterious stranger? Why did she travel in disguise? Who was she going out to meet? What was she carrying? And those small hair bands? Why should a woman, whose hair was cropped closer than his own, carry them? Or did they belong to the murderer? Or were they just two items totally unrelated to the matter under investigation?

  Corbett sighed and rolled over on his side. Tomorrow he would travel to Rye. He would ask the town council if any whore or brothel-keeper had disappeared. But what would that prove?

  Corbett’s gaze drifted to the small grille built into the wall to allow air to circulate into the room. Through the grille he could see parts of a tree trunk and, as he moved his head, what he saw was changed, disjointed by the grille. It reminded him of that picture . . . Corbett swung himself off the bed so quickly, Ranulf, penning another poem to Alicia, started and cursed.

  ‘For the love of God, master! I thought you were asleep.’

  He watched curiously. Corbett went over to his writing bag, muttering to himself. He took out the Book of Hours given to him by Sir William and opened it at the small parchment picture of Susannah facing her accusers where the eyes of each figure had been cut out. Corbett placed this on the pages at the back of the Book of Hours where Lord Henry had written his own personal memoranda.

  ‘What are you doing, master?’

  ‘I knew I had seen this before, Ranulf! What you do is write out something innocent like a letter with vague sentiments or items of gossip. However, if you impose a picture like this, on top of the writing, it picks out a secret message. The problem is, which way up do you place it? And which of these entries contains the cipher?’

  Ranulf leaned over Corbett’s shoulder and watched as the clerk applied the picture to each page.

  ‘No, no, that means nothing.’

  Corbett tried again.

  ‘And the same that way. All we have is a jumble of words which mean nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure, master?’

  Corbett pointed over his shoulder at the grille in the wall.

  ‘I was lying there, looking through that grille. I was half-dozing when I noticed how the small iron bars twist what you see.’

  ‘But are you sure Lord Henry would use such a cipher?’

  ‘It’s possible. It certainly explains why we have a small picture, a scene from the Old Testament, where Lord Henry has carefully removed the eyes of each figure.’

  Corbett continued to leaf over the pages, Ranulf went back to his poem. The poetry of the French troubadours had greatly impressed him and now he tried to recall certain lines so he could use them to describe Alicia’s beautiful blue eyes, the line of her face. Across the room Corbett was still muttering to himself.

  The afternoon wore on. Corbett asked for candles and rush-lights to be lit. Now and again he would get up and stretch to ease the cramp. Ranulf thought of Alicia. If only Old Master Long Face would go to sleep, Ranulf could slip out. He wasn’t frightened of the forest while a meeting with his loved one removed any fear of attack.

  Corbett, however, was now deeply immersed in his studies. When Ranulf had finished his poem he hid it in a small pocket of his doublet. He went down to the stables but Baldock was fast asleep on a bale of straw and Ranulf didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead he walked into the yard and scanned the sky. The sun was now setting, the tavern was quiet and the forest across the pathway seemed more dangerous, more threatening as the shadows lengthened. He heard his master call his name and went back, running up the stairs. Corbett was sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘I’ve found the secret!’ He held up the Book of Hours. ‘You remember that story about a saint Johanna Capillana?’

  ‘Yes, the one Lord Henry described in the back of his Book of Hours.’

  ‘I wager, Ranulf, a firkin of ale against a tun of wine, that there is no saint called Johanna Capillana.’ He opened the Book of Hours and placed the picture against the text.

  ‘Let me explain, Ranulf. Capillana is vulgar Latin for the head, it also stands for Capet.’

  ‘The name of the French royal family!’

  Corbett tapped a page excitedly. ‘Two years ago Philip’s wife, Johanna of Navarre, died rather suddenly. People thought it was a fever but, if you use Lord Henry’s cipher, the story of Johanna Capillana becomes the story of Johanna Capet, Queen of France.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘A piece of parchment and a pen!’

  Corbett opened the Book of Hours. ‘Now, write down the following: “Johanna Capillana, regina occisa, mari, rex interfecit eam, non per gladum, sed vitrio secreto infuso, teste medico suo.”

  ‘You have that?’

  Ranulf nodded.

  ‘It’s doggerel Latin,’ Corbett explained. ‘Each of these words are framed by a gap in the picture of Susannah and translated . . .’

  Ranulf whistled under his breath.

  ‘Johanna Capet,’ he said slowly. ‘The Queen was slain by her husband. The King killed her, not by the sword but by a secret infusion of poison. This was witnessed or known by her doctor.’ Ranulf shook his head. ‘Master, it can’t be?’

  ‘Clerk of the Green Wax, it can be! If I remember rightly, Gilles Malvoisin was physician to Queen Johanna. I met him on two occasions, a pompous man but a skilled practitioner.’

  ‘But why should Philip kill his own wife?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he has a lawyer, a member of his secret council called Pierre Dubois, who has written a confidential memorandum in which he urges Philip to extend his power in Europe, not through war but by marriage.’

  ‘Such as his own daughter Isabella to the Prince of Wales?’

  ‘Precisely. Philip has three sons betrothed to different princesses whose marriage portions and dowries will strengthen the power of the Capets and extend the borders of France.’

  ‘Flanders!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘The Count of Flanders has a daughter.’

  Corbett tossed the Book of Hours back on the bed.

  ‘Ranulf, your wits are not as lovelorn as I think. Two years ago Philip invaded Flanders only to be disastrously defeated at Coutrai. It’s possible that our Spider King has designs on a Flemish princess though Edward of England would never allow such a marriage.’

  ‘So what else?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Philip also has designs on the Templar Order. He has, ever since he came to the throne. You’ve met the Templars, Ranulf: a powerful order of fighting monks. More importantly, the Templars are bankers with houses throughout Europe. Their wealth in France alone totals more than all the receipts of the royal exchequer. Now, a few months ago, there were rumours that Philip himself had applied, as a bachelor, to join the Templar Order.’ He glimpsed the puzzlement in Ranulf’s eyes. ‘Can’t you see the path he’s treading? Philip becomes a Templar, a fighting monk, dedicated to chastity. It harks back to his saintly ancestor Louis. How Europe would marvel at Philip Capet, king, Christian, warrior and monk. Yet that would only be the beginning of it. If the Templars accepted Philip, I would wager a gold crown that, within two years, he would be Grand Master of the Order.’
<
br />   Corbett sat back on the bed.

  ‘Can’t you imagine it, Ranulf? Philip would not only be King of France but master of an order which spans Europe, from the cold wastes of Norway to the oases of North Africa. From Spain across the Middle Sea to Greece and Syria. He’d have access to their wealth, their power, their knowledge. Philip had everything to gain and nothing to lose by the removal of a wife who had served her days and purpose.’

  ‘And her murder is the secret Lord Henry knew?’

  ‘Yes, Ranulf. Pancius Cantrone was once an associate of Malvoisin the royal physician. Malvoisin died in a boating accident. He was probably murdered because of what he knew. Cantrone fled. Lord Henry provided protection, Cantrone revealed his secret and our sly lord hinted to Philip of France what he knew.’

  ‘In other words Lord Henry was blackmailing him?’

  ‘Yes he was: a few gifts, trinkets, but eventually Lord Henry demanded payment in full.’

  ‘That’s why Philip of France asked for him to lead the English embassy to France?’

  ‘Of course. Lord Henry would go there for the betrothal negotiations. He would receive some lavish reward in return for which he would give up his secret.’

  ‘And poor Pancius Cantrone?’

  ‘Cantrone was to be drugged, bundled aboard a ship and handed over to French officials. Our King could not object. Cantrone was not one of his subjects. Lord Henry would have some suitable story prepared to account for his actions. Amaury de Craon was sent to England, not only to conclude these marriage negotiations but to bring Lord Henry back and ensure he fulfilled his bargain.’

  ‘And what sort of reward would Lord Henry be looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘Possibly bullion. Whatever, Lord Henry would become one of the richest men in the kingdom. Philip would have silenced Cantrone and the murder of his wife would remain his secret, allowing him to pursue his nefarious designs.’

  Ranulf pulled his stool closer. ‘But that’s dangerous, master.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you are saying,’ Corbett mused. ‘But let’s keep to the main line of our argument. I think Lord Henry knew that Sir William had helped Gaveston, that’s why they quarrelled. Lord Henry did not want anything to occur which might prevent him travelling to France with de Craon. Now, let’s address the problem you’ve raised, Ranulf.’ He tapped the Book of Hours. ‘This is only a story, a rumour, a scurrilous allegation. Philip could reject it out of hand. Secondly, Lord Henry must have realised that travelling into the spider’s web was highly dangerous. Which means what, Ranulf? How would Lord Henry protect himself in France?’

  Chapter 14

  Corbett stood outside the two-storied house in the narrow, cobbled lane which ran from Rye marketplace. The houses on either side were of stone and half-timber; glass glinted in the windows. The woodwork was painted a gleaming black and russet brown, its plaster limewashed in white or pink. The sewer down the middle of the street was clean and filled with saltpetre, which made his nose wrinkle. Baldock, holding their horses at the far end of the street, was sneezing at the acrid smell. Ranulf had his hand across his nose. Corbett glanced over his shoulder at the sheriff’s man.

  ‘You are sure this is the place? It looks more like a rich merchant’s house than a brothel.’

  The man pulled back his hood and scratched his balding pate. His lined, wrinkled face broke into a smile, showing the one tooth his mouth boasted.

  ‘When the rich take their pleasures, Sir Hugh, they like to do so discreetly. Clean chambers, crisp linen and the softest flesh, be it from the fields of England or France.’

  Corbett looked up at the house. On either side of the door hung shiny brass hooks carrying lantern horns. Above these black iron rods protruded from which flower baskets hung, exuding the sweetest fragrance. The clapper on the door was shaped in the form of a jovial friar, bagpipes in hand, the usual sign for lechery.

  ‘The street’s quiet,’ he observed.

  ‘It’s only noon,’ the sheriff’s man replied. ‘And on Thursdays there’s no market.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Master, why not just knock?’

  ‘You can’t enter, until the mayor’s commission arrives.’

  ‘We carry the King’s warrant!’ Ranulf snapped.

  ‘The law is,’ the sheriff’s man repeated ponderously, ‘in a royal borough the King’s writ must be shown to the mayor before it is executed.’

  Corbett winked at Ranulf.

  ‘It will come and I am awaiting it.’

  Corbett walked back up the street towards Baldock, gesturing at the other two to follow.

  ‘I don’t want the ladies within to be warned.’

  Corbett had arrived in Rye just as the bells were sounding for morning Mass. He’d gone to the town hall where the mayor and leading aldermen had been hastily summoned. Corbett had wasted no time. He demanded if they knew a whore, hair cropped short, a lily branded on her shoulder, who had disappeared recently from the town. Of course, there were the usual head-shakings, murmurings and lowered glances. However, Corbett knew that these venerable city fathers could help, despite their assurances that they knew nothing of such women. Corbett loudly wondered whether the royal justices should be summoned to assist. Memories were stirred and a name had been given. Françoise Sourtillon, a courtesan and joint keeper of a discreet house of pleasure in Friar Lane.

  ‘We know nothing of this woman,’ the mayor insisted. Except that, how can I put it, her “sister” who lives in the same house, one Roheisia Blancard, has petitioned the city council regarding Françoise’s disappearance.’

  ‘And what did you do?’ Ranulf demanded.

  ‘We organised a search.’ The mayor spread podgy hands. ‘But where such women go is not our concern.’

  Corbett had thanked them but the mayor had insisted that they wait for his writ before demanding entrance. Corbett replied he would tarry no more than half an hour and he sincerely hoped that, when he entered the house, he would find no disturbance.

  ‘You are not saying we would warn them?’

  ‘Of course not. But I tell you this, sirs, if anyone did, a visit to the Marshalsea prison in London is an experience they’d never forget.’

  ‘Here he comes,’ Ranulf said.

  A tipstaff was hurrying along the lane, white wand of office in one hand, in the other a scroll tied with a red ribbon. Ranulf didn’t wait for Corbett to take it but went to the door and brought the clapper down with a resounding crash. Corbett looked up at the windows. He suspected the ladies inside hadn’t even risen for the day. As Ranulf had caustically pointed out, they worked so late at night. Ranulf was now enjoying himself, bringing the clapper up and down until a voice shrieked: ‘We have heard! We have heard!’

  There was a sound of locks being turned, bolts being drawn. The door swung open. A tall, grey-haired woman, a fur-lined gown over her shoulders, peered out heavy-eyed at them.

  ‘The Dulcis Domus,’ she told them, ‘is closed until dusk.’

  ‘Oh, is that what you call it?’ Corbett pushed the door aside. ‘The House of Sweetness! And you must be Roheisia Blancard?’

  ‘If you are sheriff’s men,’ Roheisia answered, glaring at the little official behind Corbett, ‘we have paid our dues, as members of the corporation who visit here could attest!’

  Corbett surveyed the passageway, quietly marvelling at the comfortable opulence. The air was fragrant with beeswax candles, pots of herbs and the savoury smells of cooking. The paved floor was covered with woollen rugs; the wooden linen-panelling gleamed like bronze.

  ‘Roheisia Blancard?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, and you?’

  ‘I am the King’s clerk, Sir Hugh Corbett. This is Ranulf. I think you know the gentleman who accompanied us.’ Corbett tapped the sheriff’s man gently on the shoulder. ‘Now you may leave.’

  Ranulf almost pushed the protesting official out of the door back into the street. He closed it and pulled
across the bolts.

  ‘Now, madam.’ Corbett walked closer. ‘I carry the King’s warrant. I want the truth from you. Or I’ll send to Arundel Castle, have you all placed in carts and transported to London for questioning.’

  ‘There’s no need to threaten.’

  ‘I am not threatening, madam. I’m promising. Françoise is dead, murdered in Ashdown Forest.’

  ‘I see. I see,’ Roheisia said. ‘Then you’d best come with me.’

  She led them off the passageway into a small parlour, a well-furnished room. The fire in the grate had already been lit. On the walls hung gaudy paintings, garish, not well done but purporting to show scenes from the Old Testament and the classics. They all had one motif in common: plump young wenches in various stages of undress. Roheisia pushed two chairs up in front of the fire while she sat on a bench alongside the wall.

  ‘Do you want something to eat or drink?’ she mumbled, clawing her grey hair away from her face.

  ‘No, madam, just the truth and the quicker the better.’

  ‘Françoise came from Abbeville,’ she began. She fought back the tears and lifted her face. ‘She had been mistress to a nobleman who turned her out so Françoise stole a considerable part of his treasure and fled to Rye.’ She shrugged. ‘Like is drawn to like. I met her and we decided to share our resources. We bought this house and keep it well stocked with plump, fair flesh.’

  ‘And why did Françoise leave?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She saw the warning look in Corbett’s face. ‘Truly, sir, I don’t. A month ago, she took a horse from the stables, filled some saddlebags and said she would be away for two or three days but she’d come back a wealthy woman. Now, you can take me to London, you can burn and tear my flesh but that’s all I know.’ She leaned back against the panelling and looked up at the ceiling. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘An arrow to the throat. Her corpse was stripped and buried in a shallow grave. We suspect she was disguised as a man.’

  Roheisia laughed deep in her throat. ‘That’s the way Françoise always dressed when she travelled.’ Her eyes became wary. ‘Françoise, how can I put it, she did not like men though she liked to act the part herself. She could swagger and curse with the best of them. If she was in Ashdown then she must have been travelling to see Lord Henry Fitzalan.’