Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

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 j 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