Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

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