Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

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?’
    Ranulf peered up at the sky.
    ‘Not yet nine.’
    ‘Pack our belongings. Our two horses, the sumpter pony and make sure you bring my saddlebags.’
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘I’ll walk round the palace,’ Corbett said. ‘When you’re finished, join me at the main gate. We are going to cross the moat and walk down towards the village, to a tavern, the Tree of Jesse. Its landlord rents out a chamber called the Star of Bethlehem, supposedly painted by some pilgrim who visited the Holy Land .’
    ‘For the love of God, master, what are you chattering about?’
    ‘Me?’ Corbett smiled. ‘With my nun’s face and holier-than-thou looks?’
    Ranulf sighed. He stared across at a page dragging a heavy war saddle from one of the destriers.
    ‘I miss Maltote, master, not just because he looked after the horses.’
    Corbett followed Ranulf’s gaze, watching the page stumble away, the heavy harness over his shoulder. Maltote had been their horse squire, a clumsy young man with a gift for horses. He had been murdered in a filthy alleyway in Oxford and his body now lay under the flagstones of the manor chapel at Leighton.
    ‘I really miss him,’ Ranulf said again. ‘I am glad I killed his murderer. I hope his soul rots in hell!’
    He strode away, as he always did, to hide the tears.
    Corbett wandered round the palace greeting acquaintances, being stopped now and again by other clerks who shook his hand to welcome him back. He went into the buttery and persuaded a cook to provide bread, cheese and a small pot of ale. He sat quietly and ate, watching the hour candle fixed on its iron spigot near the door; when it was about to reach the tenth red circle, Corbett went down to the main gateway where Ranulf was already waiting.
    ‘I was going to ask you, master, why the Tree of Jesse and this chamber the Star of Bethlehem?’
    ‘I told you.’
    Corbett slipped his arm through Ranulf’s. They walked under the gatehouse across the bridge and on to the trackway which wound down through the trees towards the village. Corbett loosened his white collar. The day was autumnally warm, the trees shedding their leaves to lay a crisp , golden matting beneath their feet. They stood aside to allow a pack train by, horses whinnying at the scent of blood from the deer carcasses, throats cut and bellies gutted, which had been slung across their backs. The blood-daubed verderers and foresters were in good humour. It was not yet noon and they had only been hunting since dawn to provide fresh meat for the royal kitchens.
    ‘You were going to say, master?’ Ranulf wished Corbett would not lapse into reflective silences.
    ‘Well, now we are free of the palace, I’ll tell you. Everybody’s lying, Ranulf. Now, when I lay in my great four-poster bed at Leighton, being fussed and spoilt by Lady Maeve, I still received reports from spies, merchants, pedlars, tinkers and scholars.’
    ‘You said they provided nothing but chatter! Gossip from the village well.’
    Corbett shook his head. ‘Most of