Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

it was. However, I say this, Ranulf, if I had to stay in that bed for another day, my wits would have wandered. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I love Lady Maeve more than life itself. And, as for Eleanor, well, you know how it is?’
    ‘And Lady Maeve is expecting again?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘As full as a rose at midday.’
    ‘A boy this time?’
    ‘A living child is all I pray for. Now, my mind is like any other, you have to keep sharpening it. I know de Craon would have found out about my injuries and probably prayed for my death. We are approaching an exciting time, Ranulf. An English heir is going to marry a French princess. Philip of France is going to see his dream realised, that a descendant of his great ancestor St Louis will sit on the throne at Westminster . Edward wishes to break free. If he does, there will be bloody war. So,
    I listen to my spies, one in particular: Aidan Smallbone, a lonely clerk from the King’s own secret chancery.’
    ‘But I thought...’ Ranulf interrupted.
    ‘Yes, I know! I hold the Secret Seals. Such messages should come to me, but there’s one verse of Scripture our King truly believes in: he does not like his left hand to know what his right hand’s doing. Accordingly, certain messages, certain documents, go directly to him. All Master Smallbone does, when they are finished with, is place them in a secret muniment room. Edward is always present when he does that. Anyway, Master Smallbone is a friend of mine. He sent me a letter asking about my health, expressing a desire to see me, and that means he has something to sell.’
    They entered the Tree of Jesse, where the taproom was sweet with the smell of hams and haunches of venison all being dried smoked and cured against the approaching winter. The landlord greeted Corbett, bobbing and bowing, and led them up the wooden stairs. Ranulf found the Star of Bethlehem a disappointment. It was a large room, well furnished, but the paintings on the wall depicting the birth of Christ were rather shabby and hastily executed, the gold stars on the blue ceiling faded and peeling. Master Smallbone was a nondescript balding man, with a perpetually running nose which he constantly wiped on the sleeve of his grubby jerkin. Corbett greeted him warmly enough and they sat round the small trestle table exchanging gossip and banter while the landlord served blackjacks of ale and strips of venison. Once he had gone, Corbett bolted the door. Smallbone was eating as if his life depended on it, but when Corbett produced a gold coin, he snatched it and dropped it into his purse.
    ‘Very well, Master Smallbone, the fee is paid. Let me hear your song.’
    ‘The King wants to break the treaty.’
    ‘I know that.’
    Smallbone sniffed. ‘He believes Gaveston is back in England .’
    ‘What! But he was exiled on pain of forfeit of life and limb!’
    ‘Some life, some limb!’ Smallbone scoffed. ‘He’s been seen in London and there’s similar gossip from the port reeves but whether he’s still here is not known.’
    ‘Continue.’
    ‘The King is deeply interested in the dead Fitzalan’s physician. You know Lord Henry had, for some time, patronised an Italian, Pancius Cantrone. He hired him during his travels.’
    ‘And why should the King be interested in him?’
    ‘Because he once worked with Gilles Malvoisin.’
    Corbett lowered his blackjack of ale.
    ‘Malvoisin? He was formerly physician to the French court. In particular, Johanna of Navarre, Philip IV’s dead wife. I thought Malvoisin died in a boating accident on the Seine ?’
    ‘He did,’ Smallbone replied, gulping the venison, allowing the juices to dribble down his chin.
    ‘And what else, Master Smallbone?’
    ‘Well, the King is so interested, Simon Roulles has been despatched to Paris .’
    ‘Roulles!’ Corbett exclaimed.
    ‘Who is he?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘I trained with him,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s a merry rogue, Ranulf, a nimble dancer, a chanteur, a troubadour, a man who loves the ladies. I thought he had been killed in a street brawl in Rome .’
    Smallbone shook his head. ‘He’s alive and kicking in Paris and, if the truth be known, paying assiduous court to Mistress Malvoisin. That’s all I have to sell.’
    ‘The dead physician’s wife?’
    ‘The same.’
    ‘My, my, my,’ Ranulf remarked.
    ‘Do you know why, Master Smallbone?’ Corbett asked.
    The little clerk shook his head.
    Corbett pushed away his trauncher of venison, gave his thanks and,