Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

no beauty in death.’
    Suddenly he was back in Oxford , that wild-eyed assassin running towards him, crossbow coming up, its quarrel speeding towards him. Corbett pushed the thought away.
    ‘Remember man, that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return.’
    ‘Sic transit gloria mundi... ’
    Corbett glanced round. A man stood, cowled and hooded. He seemed a Franciscan by his brown habit. In addition he wore simple sandals on his feet, and carried a thick ash cane clutched in his hand. Ranulf was walking towards them.
    ‘Tell your manservant, Sir Hugh, that I am no threat.’
    A vein-streaked hand pushed back the cowl. Corbett saw a black, bushy moustache and beard, a balding head, a harsh face but one with merry eyes crinkled in amusement. Corbett found the stench of putrefaction from the coffin unbearable. He got to his feet.
    ‘I am Brother Cosmas, parish priest of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Lady Madeleine told me who you were.’ The Franciscan’s smile widened,’ revealing yellow, jagged teeth. ‘Well, not her precisely, but the blessed Sister Veronica who, in a former life, must have been a town herald.’
    Corbett grinned. He had always liked Franciscans: their devotion to the poor, their rough and ready ways and their blunt, straightforward speech.
    ‘I come here for provisions,’ the friar continued. ‘Anything I can beg and Lady Madeleine loves acting the lady of the manor. In Paradise I am sure she will be given a position of rank, organising the angels!’ He nodded at the corpse. ‘The smell’s terrible.’
    Corbett pulled down the bandage round his nose and mouth and nodded in agreement.
    ‘You seem unperturbed, Brother.’
    ‘What’s the body but a bag of blood?’ the Franciscan replied. ‘The soul it housed has gone.’ His eyes softened. ‘Poor bairn. And, to answer your question bluntly, Sir Hugh, I have been a soldier, a barber surgeon in the King’s wars. I’ve seen more corpses than I’d like to count. We humans love killing, don’t We ?’ He crouched down beside the coffin, muttered Words from the Requiem and sketched a cross in the air. ‘An arrow wound.’ He pointed to the throat. ‘A good marksman.’
    ‘You know about archery, Brother?’
    ‘I was a master bowman in the King’s armies. Always aim for the neck I was told. The head, the chest, the belly, they are protected. But there’s no cure for a piece of steel in the windpipe. She must have died instantly. Do you want any help, King’s clerk?’
    Corbett pulled the bandage back up. He felt slightly nauseous and wished to be away from this paltry grave and its grisly cadaver. Assisted by the Franciscan, he turned the body over. From under the yew tree he heard Ranulf cough and curse as the smell wafted across but he grimly pressed on. He pulled the rope up to examine the back and front of the corpse.
    No marks except a brand on the shoulder, in the form of a lily. The mark was old and peeled. The corpse was placed back and the gauze veil pulled down. Corbett had to walk away to take the air while the Franciscan, grasping a piece of stone, hammered the lid back on.
    Corbett reached the yew tree, took off the cloth and watched a bird skim over the herbal plots. A thrush, he wondered? He tried to concentrate on something pleasant. Ranulf went to speak but Corbett just shook his head. The Franciscan finished and strode across.
    ‘It won’t be left there, will it?’
    ‘No, the lay brothers will put it back.’
    Corbett squinted up at him. ‘Do you know anything of her death, Brother?’
    The Franciscan shook his head. ‘Nothing! I don’t even recognise her and I know most faces in these parts. A strange death,’ he continued. ‘Rumour has it that her body was buried but then dug up and left at the priory gates.’ He studied Corbett carefully. ‘I saw you once, you know? Years ago on the Welsh march. They said you were a moody bugger but the King’s trusted clerk.’
    Ranulf stifled a laugh.
    ‘And this must be your manservant? The one who has got devil’s eyes and hair to match. Two of the King’s bully-boys, eh?’
    ‘I’m a royal clerk,’ Corbett replied. ‘And I am still a moody bugger. However, I dispense the King’s justice and that remains the same, constant.’
    ‘Does it now? Does it now? In which case I must introduce you to one of my parishioners: Robert Verlian, chief verderer to Lord Henry Fitzalan, now deceased. He’s taken sanctuary in my church. It was either that or Sir