Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

nodded, fingers now covering the silver piece.
    ‘And he left shortly after the Prince did?’
    ‘Yes, he was on pilgrimage to St Hawisia’s.’
    Corbett picked up the tankard and sipped from it, Peking the white foam from his lips. He recalled the cadaver he’d studied so carefully earlier that day.
    ‘And you’ve heard about the corpse?’ he asked. ‘The young woman?’
    ‘Ah yes, the one left outside St Hawisia’s priory. I wager it fair gave those nuns a shock!’
    ‘She was a stranger round here, wasn’t she?’
    ‘Oh yes. If any young wench from the forest villages had gone missing, the hue and cry would be raised. It would be " Harrow ! Harrow!" throughout the forest.’
    ‘So, if she was a traveller or a pilgrim,’ Corbett continued, ‘she must have stopped here?’
    ‘Not necessarily.’
    ‘Oh, come, come, master taverner. Young women just don’t walk along forest trackways, naked as the day they were born. I have seen this woman’s flesh, it’s soft, that of a lady of quality.’
    ‘She may well have been,’ the taverner replied. ‘But, sir, she didn’t stop here. Describe her to me!’
    Corbett gave the best description he could; the taverner shook his head and held up his right hand.
    ‘You can put me on oath before the local coroner, sir. I’ve never seen or heard of such a person.’
    Another silver piece appeared between Corbett’s fingers. He played with it, moving it along the back of his hand, a trick much envied by Ranulf.
    ‘You are very generous, sir. But, give me all the silver in the kingdom’s exchequer, I still can’t say I met someone I didn’t.’
    ‘No, Master...?’
    ‘Taybois. Edmund Taybois.’
    ‘It’s something else I want to ask you. Well, a number of things to be exact. The Owlman?’
    The taverner laughed, a deep growl in his throat, his eyes never leaving the silver coin on the back of Corbett’s hand.
    ‘He’s like the flies in summer, sir. He’s a nuisance but he doesn’t trouble us.’
    ‘Does he come here for sustenance?’
    ‘Never. I mean, sir, he’d be a fool to come into this taproom, say, I’m the Owlman and can I have some venison to eat?’
    Corbett flicked the coin and caught it.
    ‘No, sir, I was thinking more of the dead of night, when prying eyes and ears are closed.’
    ‘We are named the Devil-in-the-Woods tavern, sir, but we don’t give sustenance to outlaws.’ The taverner scraped back his stool and made to rise.
    Ranulf leaned over and squeezed him gently on the shoulder.
    ‘You rise when my master tells you.’
    The taverner sighed. ‘I meant no offence.’
    ‘None taken,’ Corbett replied. ‘Now, sir, the Fitzalans, your taproom last night was fair full of gossip about them.’
    ‘The Fitzalans come from the devil and, as far as I am concerned, they can return to him.’ The taverner sipped from his blackjack of ale.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Lords of the soil, sir, they don’t bother the likes of us.’
    ‘Are you a free man, Master Edmund?’
    ‘I am a yeoman, sir. I own this tavern and the fields beyond. I pay my taxes. I’m an upright man. I’m an honest taverner and I show charity to those who need it.’
    Corbett studied the taverner’s fat, thickset features.
    ‘But you were an archer once. I can tell from the calluses on your fingers. You’ve pulled back a bow many a time?’
    ‘Aye, sir, and I buy my venison from those who sell it. I don’t go hunting in the greenwood.’
    Corbett tapped his blackjack against the taverner’s.
    ‘Then God bless you, sir. How long have you been a taverner?’
    ‘Like my father before me.’
    ‘You are a member of a guild?’
    ‘Aye. We meet at Christmas and Easter, usually at one of the ports, Winchelsea or Rye .’
    ‘Have you ever heard of the Red Rose?’ Corbett asked. ‘A tavern which stood on the outskirts of Rye ?’
    ‘No, sir, but I think I know someone who has.’ The taverner finished off his blackjack and got to his feet. ‘And that silver coin will be mine?’
    Corbett tossed it over. ‘It’s yours already.’
    The taverner led them out through the back door and across the garden. In the far corner was an orchard of apple and pear trees. One of the pot boys was there, picking up the fallen fruit and placing it gently into baskets. Beyond the orchard, surrounded by a small garden, stood a thatched cottage. An old man sat sunning himself on the stool outside ist door, carefully munching on one of the pears.
    ‘My father,’ the