Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

to herself and, although she studied her Book of Hours, listening to the chant and watching her good sisters in Christ, she was also distracted by the words of the Psalm. How Satan roamed like an enemy! Even here, Lady Madeleine reflected. Her priory of St Hawisia might be a brilliant jewel in the green calm of Ashdown Forest , yet beyond the walls lurked outlaws like the Owlman, that fiery preacher Brother Cosmas, the forest people and, above all, her mocking half-brother, Lord Henry.
    Lady Madeleine closed her eyes, then remembered herself and glanced at the illuminated Book of Hours on the lectern before her. The painter had drawn, to mark the beginning of the Psalm, a small picture of the devil as a knight dressed in red armour, in his clawed hand a banner displaying three black frogs. How apposite, Lady Madeleine thought. Satan was a fallen seraph, a knight in eternal revolt against le bon Seigneur, Jesus, just like her half-brother. Just like many a knight! Madeleine was proud that her beautiful priory was a sanctuary for women against the cruel, iron world of men.
    The prioress glanced to her right through the marble pillars which divided the sanctuary from the great side chapel which bore the blessed remains of the virgin martyr St Hawisia. The saint lay there beneath her polished oaken sarcophagus. On top rested a pure glass case, strengthened with silver beading, the work of a craftsman specially hired from Chartres in France . Madeleine narrowed her eyes. From where she stood she could see the golden hair which lay coiled on the embroidered silk pillow beneath the glass case. The priory’s most precious relic, a source of veneration, pilgrimage and, of course, the income it attracted. Now, thanks to her half-brother’s recent refurbishment, the shrine was more beautiful. Come spring, the word would spread and more pilgrims flock to pay their devotions. Lady Madeleine prided herself on how famous the priory was becoming, not only as a centre of learning and piety for ladies of good breeding, but a hallowed place of pilgrimage. She glimpsed a figure out of the corner of her eye and turned in annoyance. Sister Veronica, the cellarer, was gazing anxiously up, her thin sour face wreathed in concern.
    ‘What is it?’ Lady Madeleine leaned down.
    ‘Oh, my lady,’ the cellarer stammered. ‘The corpse of a young woman has been found outside the postern gate.’
    Lady Madeleine closed her eyes: this truly must be a day of tribulation.



Chapter 1

    A few hours later, just before noon, Lord Henry Fitzalan and his hunting party gathered behind the palisade built around Savernake Dell, a natural clearing in the great forest, the most suitable location for the slaughter to take place. In the distance they could hear the braying horn of a huntsman, the shouts and halloos of the beaters and the deep bell-like baying of the dogs. Lord Henry stretched, cracking his muscles, and surveyed the dell. Everything was ready; the makeshift palisade stretched like a horseshoe screening off the trees. If the huntsmen did their job, particularly that varlet Robert Verlian the chief verderer, the deer would stream into here and his hunting party would have good sport. He snapped his fingers and a young squire hurried up with a gold-chased goblet, which Lord Henry snatched from his hand and sipped. The claret was strong, the best of Bordeaux . The great manor lord handed it back and gripped his stomach; the pains he’d suffered the night before had disappeared. They would spend the afternoon hunting and, this evening, feast on the most succulent venison in his great hall at Ashdown Manor. He looked over his shoulder to where his brother William stood glowering at him, his face full of grievance.
    ‘Come, come, brother!’ Lord Henry felt a spurt of good humour.
    His brother walked across, his high-heeled riding boots squelching on the soft earth. He threw his cloak back over his shoulder and Henry studied him quickly from head to toe. The tunic was wine-stained, the leggings already covered in mud. His brother was a good soldier but a poor courtier and, above all, a bad loser. Henry’s smile widened as he grasped William by the shoulder and pulled him closer.
    ‘Today, sweet brother,’ he hissed, smile fixed, ‘I enjoy a day’s hunting. I entertain the King’s guests.’ He gestured with his head to where Seigneur Amaury de Craon, the pale, red-haired, foxy-faced envoy from the French court stood quietly gossiping with