Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

Sorbonne. She had lost her maid and the bale of cloth she was carrying was heavy. Simon had helped. When they returned to the comfortable mansion with its wooden panelled chambers, Simon had agreed to a goblet of sweet wine and a plate of marchpane. Of course, he had been invited back and, of course, he accepted. He had taken Madame Malvoisin around the Latin Quarter, to those taverns full of devil-may-care, merry students, who drank, carolled and danced so expertly; then in the fields or a boat along the Seine , Simon had proved himself to be an assiduous suitor.
    Madame Malvoisin had thrown discretion to the winds. This young student was the master of both her heart and her bedchamber. She really couldn’t care about the whispers and giggles of her maids or the gossip of her sharp-eyed neighbours. After all, what were they but jealous? Envious of her good fortune? Didn’t she deserve all this? She, the wife of a royal physician, until poor Gilles, too full of wine, had suffered that boating accident. He had been returning from a meeting of fellow physicians: according to the boatman, Gilles had insisted on standing up; the wherry had capsized, and only days later had poor Gilles’ fish-pecked body been dragged from the Seine.
    Madame Malvoisin contemplated the golden tester over the four-poster bed. She often wondered about her husband’s death. Was it an accident or was it murder? Hadn’t Gilles hinted at certain dark secrets about the court, things no man should ever know? In turn she had poured out her heart to this handsome young clerk whose hands, once again, were caressing her breasts, running down her stomach to her secret place. She rolled over on her side, knocking his hand away.
    ‘You say you are going away?’
    He kissed her on the lips. ‘Soon, my dear, but I will be back. A little business. My cousin owns a farm on the Calais road. I’ve been promising him a visit since midsummer.’
    ‘And when will you go?’
    ‘Around Michaelmas. But I’ll be back before October is halfway through.’
    Simon tensed as he heard a creak in the gallery outside.
    ‘I thought you told your maids not to come up here, at least not until you had risen.’
    Madame Malvoisin giggled like the young girl she felt. Simon was such a lusty lover and she could not help her cries and moans. She’d banished the servants from this gallery, strictly forbidding them to come anywhere near her chamber until she had risen and dressed for the day.
    ‘Why are you so nervous?’ she accused playfully. ‘That only intrigues the servants.’
    ‘Which servants?’ Simon’s voice was sharp.
    ‘My maid Isabeau. She’s always asking questions.’
    Simon sat up. He heard another creak. He always Prided himself on his prudence and cunning. Hadn’t he seen Isabeau talking to a stranger the afternoon before? He was sure he’d glimpsed coins being dropped into her hand. Again a sound. Ignoring the Protests of Madame Malvoisin, Simon jumped from the bed. He hastily pulled on his woollen leggings and white cambric shirt. Madame Malvoisin was now sitting up, round-eyed. Simon looked at the door. The latch handle went down, and he was drawing both sword and dagger when the black-garbed assassins slipped into the chamber. Madame Malvoisin screamed, pulling the sheets up under her face. She gazed appalled at these horrors, hoods over their heads, masks across their faces. This could not be happening! This was some nightmare! Five, six figures she counted. They ignored her, intent on the young clerk. They could not be house-breakers. Where were her servants? She opened her mouth to scream but found the sound would not come. One of the black-garbed figures edged forward.
    ‘Monsieur, you are to come with us.’
    Simon darted forward, sword and dagger snaking out. His opponent met him in a clash of steel, f Simon withdrew. He looked back towards the window but the casement was too narrow and he knew the drop was too far. He cursed his own stupidity. He had made a mistake, one he’d vowed he never would: to be in a room where there was no escape, no other door or window which he could jump through, as he had so many a time. Again he closed but this time his opponent moved faster, twisting and turning as his sword dug into Simon’s shoulder. The English spy dropped his sword, doubling up at the fiery shaft of pain which raced across his chest. His opponents closed in, forcing him to the floor, twisting his arms behind him, before dragging