Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

impassive, his corn-coloured hair falling down to his shoulders, smoothed his moustache and well-trimmed beard and scrutinised the English spy.
    ‘You are in deep pain?’
    Philip’s eyes moved to the black-clad torturers standing behind their victim.
    ‘Monsieur Roulles has been on the wheel?’
    The red-masked executioner nodded.
    Philip wetted his lips. Roulles was barely conscious. He was lashed by cords to the chair. Philip picked up a napkin and gently dabbed at the streak of blood trickling out of the corner of the Englishman’s mouth.
    ‘Do you know, Simon?’ he murmured. ‘I always wanted to meet you.’
    Roulles’ lips moved but no sound came out.
    ‘No, no, it’s useless.’ Philip scratched his head in annoyance. ‘It is futile. You do understand my English?’ Philip didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It is futile,’ he repeated, ‘to claim that you are an English scholar, to demand to be expelled from France on some ship leaving Calais or Boulogne . You carry letters claiming to be a Frenchman. You have a fictitious cousin in the countryside. But it’s all lies, it’s all shadows. Your master, Sir Hugh Corbett…’
    ‘He is not my master!’ The words were spat out.
    ‘Of course, he isn’t. I do apologise. Edward of England never lets his left hand know what his right hand is doing. Still, you are an English spy. You ferret out secrets and send them back to your Prince.’ Philip leaned across and again gently wiped the Englishman’s mouth. ‘Would you like some wine?’
    One of the torturers picked up a jewel-encrusted cup and held it to his victim’s lips. Roulles lapped like a dog, allowing the wine to swill round his mouth. He knew it would be the last he ever tasted. His whole body was a sheet of flame. He’d been placed on the wheel and spun round and round while the torturer had struck at his arms and legs, pinching his flesh with burning tongs. The same questions, time and time again. What had he learned? What had Mistress Malvoisin told him? Simon had not broken, confident that the messenger he had despatched to England would already have handed the secret to his royal master.
    ‘I ask you again,’ Philip said. ‘Or it’s back to the wheel. I do not wish that, Monsieur Roulles, I want you to tell us the secret.’
    ‘But, if you know what it is,’ Roulles gasped as his lips bubbled blood, ‘it is no longer a secret. You do know it, Philip of France.’
    The king leaned across the table and smacked him with the back of his hand. The amethyst ring he wore gouged the prisoner’s cheek.
    ‘The secret?’ he repeated. ‘And, if you tell me it, I’ll tell you one.’
    Roulles attempted to smile. Like a dreamer he kept going in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he was back in Oxford . At others he was in a tavern singing a carol with friends and the snow was falling outside. Or King Edward was walking arm-in-arm with him through the rose gardens of Westminster .
    ‘Do you know Pancius Cantrone?’ Philip asked.
    Roulles jerked.
    ‘You must know him,’ Philip insisted. ‘And the scandalous tittle-tattle he depicts as the truth.’
    ‘I know of no such man.’
    ‘Come, come, Master Roulles. Let me refresh your memory. Monsieur Malvoisin, before he died in a most unfortunate boating accident, believed he had learned certain secrets.’
    ‘It’s the truth!’ the prisoner blurted, fighting a wave of nausea. He must not collapse; if he could only ignore the pain!
    ‘No, no, Monsieur Malvoisin shared this gossip with Signor Cantrone. Somehow or other you discovered it.’
    Roulles kept his head down.
    ‘You are going to die,’ Philip continued remorselessly. ‘Either quickly or at the end of a rope in my orchard.’
    Roulles refused to reply.
    ‘What was the secret?’ Philip insisted. ‘Is that why your master sent you to Paris ?’ Philip nodded to one of the torturers, who yanked back Roulles’ head. ‘Lord Henry Fitzalan is dead,’ he declared. ‘Killed by an arrow to the heart. And as for Signor Cantrone. Well, Seigneur Amaury de Craon is now within breathing distance of him. Or perhaps you’ll take comfort that the secrets you discovered have been despatched to England . That pedlar, the chapman, the tinker, the trader, what’s his name? Ah yes, Malsherdes. You think Malsherdes reached Boulogne and took ship to England ?’
    Roulles tried to concentrate. Despite the agony in mind and body, he thought of little Malsherdes and his pack pony going