Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

stretched out a hand. Ranulf seized it and kissed the back of the leather glove. He glanced up. Alicia glimpsed the passion in his eyes and withdrew her hand.
    ‘They said your master was a strange one. But he keeps even stranger company.’ She raised a hand. ‘I bid you adieu, Master Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’
    And, turning her horse, she cantered out of the yard. Ranulf watched her go. He felt like running after her, explaining exactly how he felt. Had he done the right thing? Shouldn’t he have offered to escort her? He heard a snigger and looked across. Two stable boys were watching him. Ranulf’s hand brushed the hilt of the dagger and both boys suddenly remembered they had tasks to do. He walked tack into the taproom, where Corbett had finished his meal.
    ‘Ranulf, are you well?’ He gestured at the half-full hauncher. ‘Won’t you finish your meal?’
    ‘I don’t feel hungry.’
    Corbett got to his feet. ‘Ranulf, in God’s name, what is the matter? Do you know that young woman?’
    ‘I wish to God I did!’
    ‘Ah, that’s it!’ Corbett put a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate, the terror of the ladies, the man who even thought of becoming a priest!’
    ‘Don’t taunt me!’
    ‘I’m not taunting you.’ Corbett’s hand fell away.
    ‘It happens, Ranulf, it always happens as a terrible shock, and like death, we never know when.’
    He studied Ranulf’s face, which looked paler than usual. Two red spots burned high in his cheeks, a rare sign when Ranulf was disturbed or agitated; his green cat-eyes gleamed as if he had been drinking.
    ‘There’s a time and a place,’ Corbett said. He took Ranulf by the arm and led him out through the taproom into the garden. ‘Always remember, Ranulf, the garden is the best place to plot.’ He grinned. ‘As well as to pay court. No listening ears, no watching eyes.’
    They sat on a turfed seat. Corbett took his chancery ring and moved it so the sun glinted in the reflection.
    ‘What do we have here, Ranulf? Sunbeams or substance? Shadows or something more tangible?
    It’s the old dance, isn’t it? Whenever a murder takes place, people tell you what they want you to hear, make you see what they want you to see.’ He nudged his companion sharply. ‘Less of the lovelorn squire. Where is the keen-witted clerk of the Green Wax? Item.’ Corbett used his fingers to emphasise the points he made. ‘Lord Henry Fitzalan is very rich, powerful, disliked by all and sundry and he is killed during a hunt.’ He glanced at Ranulf but his manservant’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Item,’ Corbett continued. ‘Lord Henry was disliked by his younger brother over whose purse strings he kept strict control. Sir William was not present when Lord Henry was killed. Item — we have Robert Verlian, chief verderer. He hated Lord Henry for his lecherous intentions to his daughter. He, too, was not present when his lord was killed and inexplicably flees. Item — Sir William seems intent on placing the blame fairly on Verlian’s shoulders. Item — St Hawisia is now standing in that carp pond over there. Don’t you agree, Ranulf?’
    ‘Yes, yes, of course!’
    ‘Ranulf!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘You are not listening to a word I am saying.’
    The woebegone clerk mumbled an apology. Corbett secretly wondered if this was the first time the notorious Ranulf-atte-Newgate had been so smitten.
    ‘Item — we know that Sir William has been assisting his lord, the Prince of Wales. He probably brought Gaveston into Ashdown. He was helped in this by his sister, the indomitable Lady Madeleine. I suspect the man Sister Fidelis observed slipping into Lady Madeleine’s house was no less a person than the Gascon favourite. He probably sheltered in the priory waiting for the Prince of Wales to arrive. And?’
    ‘Item — ‘ Ranulf spoke up. ‘We have an outlaw, a wolfs-head. He seems to do little damage but he has waged a vexatious war against Lord Henry, despatching cryptic messages, making reference to the "Rose of Rye". We now know the owners of that tavern killed themselves, the result of Lord Henry’s lechery.’
    ‘Good,’ Corbett mused. ‘Item — we have the corpse of the young woman killed by an arrow to the throat. Her naked body is buried in the forest; it is later dug up and placed outside the priory gates. Item — we have a number of local notables whom we would like to interrogate more closely. The Franciscan, Brother Cosmas, had no love for his