Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

Owlman, the outlaw, his quarrel was with the Fitzalans, not some Italian physician, while as for the French, Cantrone doubted if they’d strike now. Not here, where they could be detected and cause great scandal.
    Cantrone took the small arbalest which hung over the horn of his saddle. Fumbling beneath his cloak, he took out a cruel barbed bolt and placed it in the groove, slowly winching back the cord. He laughed to himself, he was becoming as nervous as a maid!
    The afternoon sun streamed through the trees. Birdsong broke the silence. Again a sound came as a rabbit raced across the trackway. Cantrone relaxed. He pulled the bolt out but still gripped the arbalest as he rode on. On the branches above him the leaves were turning a golden brown, a sure sign of autumn, but when the mists came he’d be gone with all this behind him. He pulled down the collar of his white cambric shirt, undoing the clasp at the neck. Little did he know that by this action he presented a clearer target for the archer hidden in the trees. The yew bow bent, the cord pulled back; there was a twang, soft, musical, and the grey-feathered shaft took Cantrone full in the throat. The physician dropped the reins and toppled gently on to the trackway. His horse, a little startled, moved on but then stopped and began to crop at the grass. The archer, garbed in a black cloak, hood and cowl, slipped out of the trees. For a while the figure just crouched, looking carefully up and down the trackway, and then it hurried across to the corpse. Pockets and pouches were emptied. Cantrone’s horse was brought back. The corpse was lifted over it and both killer and victim disappeared into the trees.

    Sir William’s dinner at Ashdown Manor proved to be a magnificent occasion. Corbett and Ranulf had been met by grooms bearing torches on the great broad pathway which wound from the manor gates up to the main door of the beautiful stone and timbered manor house. Retainers wearing the Fitzalan livery had taken their cloaks and war belts then ushered them into the great hall. The walls of this magnificent chamber were halfcovered in wooden panelling, the whitewashed Plaster above decorated with flags, pennants, shields, pieces of shining armour and costly gold-tasselled drapes. Banners bearing the arms of France and England , as well as those of Flanders , hung from the rafters. The wooden floor had been swept, polished and covered with the freshest herbs. Silver pots of flowers stood in window embrasures and corners. Whippers-in and grooms kept the dogs well away from the great dais where a large table had been set out covered in green and white samite cloth bearing the costliest cups, goblets, traunchers, plates and ewers all stamped with the Fitzalan crest. Torches and beeswax candles provided light and a pleasing fragrance.
    Sir William, seeming decidedly nervous, had met them there, loudly declaring that they should have come sooner while explaining that, though his brother’s body had not yet been buried, he would follow the Fitzalan tradition of magnificent generosity. Sir William’s hair, moustache and beard had been neatly clipped and oiled. He was dressed in a gold linen gown with a jewel-encrusted belt and wore soft red buskins on his feet. He told them that he was worried that Signor Cantrone had not returned and kept looking over his shoulder to where de Craon and his principal clerk already sat in their places on the dais.
    ‘I understand you know the French envoy,’ Sir William said.
    ‘Like my own cousin,’ Corbett replied with a smile.
    Followed by Ranulf, he swept up on to the dais. De Craon, face wreathed in smiles, rose and came forward to meet him. They clasped hands, embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace.
    ‘Hugh, God save you, we thought you had been killed!’
    ‘God only knows, Amaury, how you must have mourned at such news!’
    De Craon stood back.
    ‘You have not aged at all, Sir Hugh. Lady Maeve must take great care of you.’
    Corbett studied de Craon’s red, thinning hair, yellowing face, straggly beard and moustache. De Craon would have been ugly if it hadn’t been for those eyes full of life and cunning. A charming courtier or a cold, ruthless killer? Corbett sometimes felt a slight affection for this most deadly of adversaries; he wondered if de Craon ever felt the same. The Frenchman’s face became a mask of concern.
    ‘And yet these are sad times! Lord Henry is dead! Most of my retinue are still lodged outside Rye