Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

Owlman is.’
    ‘I wonder?’ Corbett mused. ‘This is a murky pool, Ranulf. The Fitzalans had their secrets and they won’t be dragged to the top of the mire without a great deal of struggle and hard work.’
    They arrived back at the tavern just after midday. Labourers, peasants from the fields, verderers and charcoal-burners had all flocked in. They sat around the cobbled yard, backs to the wall, sunning themselves . A group were laying wagers on a dog baiting a badger. A huckster selling pilgrims’ badges, gewgaws, ribbons and laces, wandered about the yard, trundling his little cart before him. A pickpocket who had been expelled from the town of Rye was sitting by the well bathing the tips of his ears where the town bailiffs had clipped them. Grooms and ostlers brought horses and pack ponies in and out of the stables. At the far end, the small dovecote was being cleaned and the pungent smell of dung filled the yard, raising protests from those eating their midday bread and cheese.
    Corbett and Ranulf handed their horses over to a groom and walked into the spacious taproom. The ceiling was of timbered rafters, the stone floor covered in thick green rushes. At the far end shutters and doors had been opened allowing in the fragrance from the tavern’s herb gardens. Flitches of ham, hunks of bacon, and even cheeses in white linen cloths hung from the rafters to be cured. Despite the fair day, a roaring fire burned in the hearth and a sweating tapboy slowly turned the spit on which a huge side of pork had been fixed. Beside him a little girl, braving the heat, ladled a thick herb sauce over the crackling meat. The sweet smell filled the taproom and even Corbett found his mouth watering at the delicious aroma. The taverner, a fat-bellied, balding, deep-eyed man, came striding across. He recognised good custom when he saw it and was eager to please these envoys from the court.
    ‘The pork will be done in a trice,’ he told them. ‘I ^commend it, sirs! A jug of our ale, some port and the best bread you’ll find this side of Rye .’
    Corbett agreed and the taverner ushered them over to a more private table, as he put it, near the window. Corbett and Ranulf took off their sword belts and sat on the benches. Corbett ordered the taverner to bring three ales, one for himself . Then he gestured at a stool beside him.
    ‘Do you have any important visitors here? I mean, of good quality?’
    ‘They come and go,’ the taverner replied cautiously.
    ‘Anyone mysterious?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Well, sir, this is Ashdown Forest . The roads are often used by those travelling between the coast and London , if they decide not to travel by Canterbury . We have scholars, sailors, the usual beggars, pilgrims and merchants.’
    ‘You know what I am asking!’ Corbett demanded. ‘Anyone of note? Cloaking themselves in mystery, paying good gold and silver to be left alone.’
    ‘We have outlaws,’ the taverner said. ‘Wolfs-heads.’
    Corbett sighed in exasperation. ‘Anyone else?’
    The taverner glanced away.
    ‘And the Prince of Wales has been here?’
    ‘Yes, he took the best chamber on the first gallery, the one which has a four-poster bed and woollen rugs on the floor.’
    ‘I’m not interested in your furnishings!’ Corbett said. ‘Was there anyone else here when the Prince arrived?’
    ‘There was one,’ the fellow replied quickly. ‘Tall, blondish hair, soft hands. He walked with a swagger. A knight, I think. He spoke in a cultured way but rarely showed his face down here.’
    ‘I wager he didn’t,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘He would also take a chamber on the first gallery and pay you well for food to be brought to his room.’
    The taverner gaped in astonishment at this dark-eyed clerk.
    ‘How did you know?’
    ‘Did this knight show any insignia?’ Corbett asked. He tapped the man on his bulbous nose. ‘I wager a silver coin to a gold one that he did. A red eagle with two heads?’ He pressed the toe of his boot on Ranulf’s foot as he stirred in surprise.
    ‘Yes, yes, he did.’ The taverner was now frightened. ‘He kept himself well hidden, dressed like a monk in dark cloak and cowl. But, on his chamber table, I saw a ring which bore the escutcheon you describe.’
    Corbett slipped a silver coin across the table.
    ‘You’ve nothing to fear,’ he told the nervous man. ‘I assure you, you’ve done no wrong. This stranger was here while the Prince of Wales visited the tavern?’ Mine host