Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

along the cobbled streets of Paris and out into the countryside.
    ‘You drank with him, didn’t you?’ Philip continued. ‘At an auberge on the Fontainebleau road. Two of you there in the corner, whispering away like children. Malsherdes left.’ Philip paused. ‘You can have some more wine. Take as much as you wish.’ He waited until the prisoner’s mouth was full. ‘Malsherdes is dead. My men caught him out in the countryside, a quiet place.’
    Roulles coughed and spluttered the wine he had drunk. Philip, as gentle as a mother, patted his lips with the blood-soaked napkin.
    ‘However, Malsherdes was faster than we thought. He’d lit a fire for himself. Before we could stop him, your letters were burned, so my men burned him!’
    Roulles forced a grin. ‘Then you know as much as I do, Philip of France.’
    The king leaned back in his throne-like chair and, cocking his head, he half-listened to the songbird on prisoned in a silver cage hanging from the branches of a cherry tree. From another part of the Palace he heard the bray of trumpets and realised it Dust be time for the midday prayer. He was wast-Dg his time here. He nodded to the torturers.
    ‘Take him out! Hang him!’
    Roulles was dragged to his feet and bundled out. Philip fastidiously wiped the blood from the goblet’s brim and sipped at it. He was glad Fitzalan was dead. There would be no more letters, no hints of blackmail. But Cantrone? Would de Craon kill him? Philip couldn’t care less. What was one man’s death in the great design? However, he must not give offence to Edward of England! Would Cantrone, whom he would have loved to hang alongside Roulles, bargain with his secret? Or flee? If he bargained, how much trouble would he cause? What scandal would Edward’s agents here in Paris or in Avignon fan with their tongues? Philip looked towards the door. Did de Craon have a hand in Fitzalan’s death? Had he taken his orders too literally? Philip rubbed the side of his face. He must go and pray, must petition his sainted ancestor Louis that Cantrone’s path, and that of the meddlesome clerk Corbett, never crossed.



Chapter 8

    Philip would have been pleased at the agitation which now troubled Pancius Cantrone. Indeed, the French king would have prostrated himself in thanksgiving for, on that sunlit autumn afternoon, Pancius Cantrone had only a very short time to live. The Italian, of course, did not know his death was so close. He was just determined to flee England , to escape the French and not to allow the English Crown to use him as a pawn, a bargaining counter with Philip of France.
    The Italian physician had visited St Hawisia’s Priory. He had ostentatiously attended the young novice Sister Fidelis, whose knuckles had swollen Up so her fingers looked as if they had been stung by bees. Cantrone had acted the role of professional Physician. He’d examined the skin, felt the bone and, even though the young novice was embarrassed, carefully scrutinised her urine lest the swelling had been caused by a malignant disturbance in her body humours. Of course, Lady Madeleine had welcomed him and they had chatted quietly in her chamber, both before and after he had attended the young novice. Pancius Cantrone had then taken a little wine and some sweetmeats in the refectory before collecting his horse. Now he was riding back through the forest paths to Ashdown Manor.
    The Italian physician kept his thick woollen cloak tightly around him. He even wore wool-lined gauntlets because, although the English said it was not yet winter, Cantrone felt cold. He hated these gloomy, wet forests and yearned for the lush valleys of Tuscany . Cantrone was determined to flee. He had come to England because Lord Henry had offered him protection. In return Cantrone had whispered the secrets he had learned from Monsieur Malvoisin. Now those secrets came back to haunt him as his horse found its way along the lonely forest paths. Sombre images plagued his mind: black-cowled monks, tapers in their hands, winding their way up a cathedral church; behind them a velvet-draped coffin resting on the shoulders of pall-bearers. The solemn chorus rising and falling like a distant wave with a sequence from the funeral mass. Outside the cathedral mailed horsemen milled about, controlling the crowds. Cantrone had been in that procession. He’d stood next to Malvoisin. They had watched the royal mourners bend over the wax effigy placed on top of the coffin. Roses had