Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

into his wallet and remounted.
    ‘He means us no harm.’
    They moved on cautiously, studying the forest on either side, fearful of another attack, until they reached the crossroads where a decaying gibbet post hung lopsidedly, the piece of hemp in the rusty iron hook dancing in the morning breeze.
    ‘We follow the path straight on,’ Corbett said.
    The trackway dipped, turned and then broadened. In a large clearing before them rose the honey-coloured stone walls of St Hawisia’s priory. Despite the early hour, the place hummed with activity; lay brothers were going out into the fields, traders and chapmen were making their way up to the main gates. Peasants, their carts piled high with produce for the priory kitchens, were also assembled, waiting for the gates to be opened.
    ‘The priory must own its own lands,’ Corbett decided. ‘From what I gather, it’s a little kingdom in itself, so let’s see its ruler.’
    He gazed appreciatively at the buildings rising above the curtain wall: black and red slate roofs, a soaring church tower. Somewhere deep in the priory a bell tolled and the morning air wafted rich, savoury odours from the kitchens.
    They asked directions from a peasant.
    ‘Well, you can wait like us,’ the pock-marked fellow replied, his nose and cheeks chapped by wind and sun. ‘Wait, as we always do, in the snow, rain or sun for their ladyships to open the gates.’ He Pointed further down the wall. ‘Or you can try the Postern door. But God help you if it’s not urgent business!’
    Corbett thanked him and dismounted. He led Ranulf across and they rapped on the small, metal-studded gate. A grille high up the door was pushed back. Small, black, inquisitive eyes peered out.
    ‘What do you want? Who are you?’
    ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s emissary, and this is my clerk Ranulf. We demand entrance. We wish to see Lady Madeleine.’
    ‘You are a liar!’ the querulous voice objected. ‘You are not dressed like a royal clerk!’
    Corbett drew out his letter of commission and thrust the red wax seal up against the grille.
    ‘Open up!’ he ordered. ‘Or I’ll kick this door until it flies off its hinges!’
    ‘You should have shown me the seal first,’ came the aggrieved reply.
    The bolts were pulled back, the gate swung open. The nun standing on the other side was small. She was dressed in a white woollen veil, a cream-coloured coif, and a white gown almost covered by a black apron.
    ‘I am Sister Veronica!’ she informed them. ‘Cellarer, porter, you name it, I do it.’ She peered up at Corbett, her thin lips tight, her white, wizened face full of hostility. ‘You look like a clerk.’ She glanced at Ranulf. ‘But you don’t. More like a gibbet bird!’
    ‘Would you say this priory is noted for its charity and Christian welcome?’ Ranulf asked.
    The cellarer shook her head. ‘Don’t be impudent, Green Eyes! In my former life I had seven children-Two husbands long dead. Now I am a nun consecrated to God.’
    ‘And he’s welcome to you!’ Ranulf murmured.
    ‘What was that?’ Sister Veronica’s hand went to her ear. ‘My hearing’s not what it should be, but did you say something impertinent?’
    ‘My clerk was simply exclaiming in amazement.’ Corbett took the old woman’s hand. ‘We wish you well, Sister Veronica. However, we are on urgent business. We must see Lady Madeleine as well as the famous shrine.’
    Sister Veronica’s face softened. ‘Well, you can see how busy we are going to be. I’d best take you across to the church. You can wait there while I tell the prioress.’
    She led them along a pebble-dashed path, through gardens carefully laid out in the French fashion: raised flower beds, herb banks and turfed seats. The air was fragrant with a variety of perfumes. Corbett particularly appreciated the rose bushes planted on either side of the path, which gave off their own special scent. The garden occupied one side of the Priory but, in the distance, he could see small orchards of apple, pear and plum trees. Sister Veronica pointed to another wall, its great wooden gates being opened.
    ‘Beyond that are the stables, outhouses, storerooms and bakery. On the far side are meadows. We raise good sheep and we even have our own windmill.’
    Corbett nodded. St Hawisia’s looked a wealthy establishment. The church before him was built of dressed stone, with a roof of iron-grey slate. The morning sun glistened in the stained glass windows and on either