Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

drawn a crude map. Corbett believed he was going in the right direction, towards a path that would widen into a trackway which would take him up to the priory.
    Ranulf, behind him, thought about Maltote and Baldock. Every so often he would stop and peer between the trees, recalling the warnings about the creatures who lurked here: the cutthroats who would take a man’s life simply for the boots he wore. Ranulf’s hand went to his dagger. As he was about to protest the treeline suddenly broke, the ground dipped and he saw the trackway winding through the forest. Corbett led his horse down and mounted. Ranulf followed suit and drew alongside his master.
    ‘We are not wandering around, are we?’ he demanded. ‘Going from one place to another?’
    Corbett glanced up at the fleecy white clouds. The sky was light blue and the sun strengthening. He breathed in the sweet smell of the forest, the damp ferns, that warm humid smell from trees soaked with rain.
    ‘At first this will be easy,’ he predicted. ‘We will be allowed to go where we wish. However, this is a pretty mess of pottage and the deeper we dig our spoons, the more dangerous it will become. Lord Henry was murdered and, somehow or other, I think that unmarked corpse has something to do with this business. That young woman was killed, stripped and, if the reports are true, secretly buried before someone dug her up and placed her corpse outside the priory gates. Outlaws don’t do that.’ He paused, gathering the reins in his hands. ‘We have the Fitzalans, two brothers and a half-sister. A great deal of antipathy, even hatred, swirled between them. We have this strange outlaw the Owlman with his secret threats. We also have, standing in the shadows, Jocasta and her daughter, Verlian, Brother Cosmas, even Odo the hermit: that’s one game. Then we have the King and what he intends. Nor must we forget the Prince of Wales, God knows what mischief he’s plotting! And last, but not least, our beloved brother in Christ, Seigneur Amaury de Craon. Now each group could be separate but, I suspect, the more we stir the pot, Ranulf, the more they’ll mix together. So.’ He smiled. ‘In a while it might be very dangerous to ride around Ashdown Forest . I won’t go to them. I’m the King’s commissioner, I’ll make them come to me.’
    Ranulf was about to ask how when an arrow whirred in front of him and struck the ground, embedding itself deep in the trackway. Ranulf immediately dismounted, unhitching the small arbalest he carried on his saddle horn. Again came a whir and an arrow dug into the trackway behind him. Corbett, too, dismounted, using his horse as a shield.
    ‘To the right!’ Ranulf shouted.
    And, as if in answer, two more shafts whistled above their heads, striking the trees behind them.



Chapter 5

    Corbett and Ranulf hid behind their horses which whinnied and shook their heads as they caught their agitation.
    ‘How many archers, Ranulf?’
    ‘Just the one, master. I don’t think he intends to kill us. He’s loosed at least four shafts, one would have found its target.’
    Corbett peered over the saddle, scrutinising the Rees, but it was futile. The forest edge could have concealed an army and he would have been none the wiser. At last the horses became more placid.
    ‘Do you know, master, I think he’s gone.’
    Ranulf tentatively stepped from behind his horse, one hand on its muzzle, talking quietly to it. He hatched for any movement among the trees.
    ‘You are safe!’ a man’s grating voice shouted. ‘I mean you no harm! Look at the arrow!’
    Ranulf turned to the shaft, still embedded in the trackway before him, and noticed the piece of parchment tied with red twine just above the quill. He ran forward to pluck the arrow out. Sheltering behind his horse, he undid the red cord; the piece of parchment was yellow and greasy but its message was clear enough.

    The Owlman sends greetings to the King’s emissary! Justice has already been done. The Owlman sees what he wishes and hears what he wishes! He goes where he wants. Farewell.

    Corbett plucked the scrap of paper from Ranulf’s fingers and read it.
    ‘He’s well named,’ he commented. ‘The Owlman, a bird of the night which swoops silently on its prey. I wonder if he’s our assassin? ’
    ‘Why the message?’
    ‘He’s simply making his mark!’ Corbett grinned. ‘Or telling us, in his own way, he’s not Lord Henry’s murderer.’
    He thrust the scrap of parchment