Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

flesh had been nibbled by forest creatures. When the waves of nausea passed he examined the face. The words carved above the door of St Oswald’s church, ‘As we are, so shall ye be’, came to mind. The face had once been comely, even beautiful, with high cheekbones, full red lips and eyes, when open, full of life. Her hair was a darkish brown cut close and the neck was used to wearing some gilded necklace or gorget, not that terrible blue-black wound tinged with a reddish-brown. An arrow wound, he reasoned. The shaft had taken her full in the throat, a quick death! But who was she? And how did she come here?
    The Owlman sat back on his heels. He knew the forest gossip. Outlaws and wolfs-heads attacked but they very rarely killed their victims, just took what was valuable and fled like shadows. A woman such as this with a soft skin, carefully tended hands? If such a person disappeared there would be hunting parties, questions asked, rewards posted. The Owlman breathed in. Unless, of course, it was the work of Fitzalan? He liked soft, perfumed flesh, did the great lord. Had this young woman displeased him? Had she been hustled out in the dead of night? But why an arrow to her throat? And surely Lord Henry could find deeper pits and more secret places? And what had happened to her clothes? Her possessions? She had apparently been stripped of these. Where was her horse or palfrey?
    The Owlman looked up at the crows circling high above their nests. What could he do now? Leave her here? The corpse brought back memories of his own; rekindled his nightmares, the hatred he felt for Lord Henry. He couldn’t leave the body here, not for the scavengers. It would weigh on his conscience and arouse fears of himself being left to die in some lonely spot, his corpse untended. The Owlman recalled his true calling and, bending down, whispered a requiem followed by words of absolution.
    On the early morning air, he heard the distant chimes of the bells of St Hawisia’s priory summoning the young ladies to sing their devotions, and smiled. Weren’t nuns committed to doing good works? To tending the sick and burying the dead? The forest was safe. Lord Henry’s verderers and huntsmen would be down near the lodge, well away from any path he had to take. Yes, that was what he’d do. He dare not take it to St Oswald’s, that wouldn’t be fair. No, he’d give Lady Madeleine and her good nuns an opportunity to show some charity. He slung his bow over his back, took off the cloak his friend had given him and wrapped it round the corpse, then lifted it up and ran, at a half-crouch, back across the trackway and into the trees.

    ‘Exsurge Domine! Exsurge et vindica causam meam!’
    ‘Arise, O Lord! Arise and judge my cause!’
    The good nuns of St Hawisia’s priory chanted, as they had been taught to by the choir mistress the Lady Johanna, the opening verses of the office of Prime. They stood in polished, wooden stalls, row upon row of white-garbed ladies, their habits of pure wool offset only by the starched creamy wimples which framed their faces. Black velvet cords bound their slim waists and a silver medal, depicting their patron saint Hawisia, hung round each of their necks. They all held their Book of Hours as they had been instructed to, carefully mouthing the words, fearful of the eagle eye of their prioress Lady Madeleine, who sat in her great, throne-like stall.
    A woman of indeterminate age, the Lady Madeleine! Her hair, of course, was hidden but her oval face was unlined, not marked by any seam or wrinkle of age. She had ice-blue eyes, a sharp beaked nose and a mouth thin and tight when her temper flared. A woman of poise and good breeding, half-sister to the Lord Henry, Lady Madeleine ruled her lavish priory as strictly as any baron did his fief, or constable his castle. She could walk like a queen or as stealthily as a cat when she was on the prowl, as the good sisters put it, looking for any misdemeanour or anything out of place. She seemed to have the ability to be in all places at all times, to be all-knowing about their hidden faults and secret foibles. Above all, the Lady Madeleine appeared to have the gift of being able to read her Book of Hours, sing the divine chant and yet scrupulously study each and every one of them. They all confessed to be in fear of her, be it the sub-prioress, the Lady Agnes, or the novice mistress, the Lady Marcellina.
    If the truth be known, Lady Madeleine could also keep her thoughts