Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

. We Want to return.’
    ‘The King will send someone else,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir William here or my lord of Surrey .’
    ‘Would you not come to Paris ?’ de Craon asked, taking his seat. He smirked at his grey-faced clerk. ‘We have so much to show you, Hugh, especially my master’s gardens behind the Louvre.’
    Sir William came between them and sat down in his great throne-like chair. Corbett decided not to reply. The steward standing nervously behind Sir William raised his hands. Trumpeters in the gallery at the far end of the hall blew a fanfare and the meal began. Brawn soup; fish in cream sauce; beef; venison; a whole roast swan. One dish followed another, the wine jugs circulating. Sir William strove to be a genial host. The conversation ebbed and flowed like water, ignoring the deeper undercurrents. Most of the chatter was about different courts and chanceries, the funeral arrangements for Lord Henry and the prospects of a lasting peace between England and France once the marriage of Princess Isabella and Prince Edward was consummated.
    Ranulf sat picking at his food, his silver-chased goblets of red and white wine already emptied. De Craon noticed this and narrowed his eyes. He asked about the attack in Oxford . This was followed by a general discussion on maintaining the King’s peace. Only once did the tensions surface.
    ‘Where is the Italian doctor Cantrone?’ de Craon asked. ‘I would, so much, like to have words with him.’
    Sir William, who had drunk deeply and rather quickly, shrugged. He belched and, picking up scraps of meat, flung them down the hall at the waiting mastiffs.
    ‘If I knew,’ he slurred, ‘I’d tell you.’
    De Craon was about to press him further when the festivities were ended by an arrow which shattered one of the hall windows and buried itself deep in the wooden panelling. Dogs barked and yelped. Retainers hurried in. Sir William sat, mouth open, cup half-raised to his lips.
    ‘We are under attack!’ the old steward shouted. ‘Man the battlements!’
    Corbett wondered if the fellow had drunk too deeply of the wine he had been serving.
    ‘Nonsense!’ De Craon leaned back in his chair, laughing with his clerk.
    Corbett hurried down the hall. He noticed the scroll of parchment tied with a piece of twine to the arrow shaft.

    The Owlman goes wherever he wishes!
    He does whatever he chooses!
    Remember the Rose of Rye !

    Corbett studied the arrow, which was like any other, without distinguishing marks. Sir William had now joined him, slightly unsteady on his feet.
    ‘I need to have words with you, sir,’ Corbett said in a low voice. ‘About this.’ He held the manor lord’s gaze. ‘About the Owlman and, more importantly, this Italian physician and Piers Gaveston.’
    The colour drained from Sir William’s face.
    ‘I, I don’t know what you mean!’ Sir William gasped.
    ‘I want the truth!’ Corbett urged. ‘My lord, we could play cat and mouse all night.’
    He glanced back at the dais where de Craon touched in his chair. Of Ranulf there was no sign.
    ‘Sir William,’ Corbett went on, face close to the manor lord’s. ‘De Craon is one of the King’s greatest enemies and a man who plots my destruction. Forget all the flowery language, the kiss of peace. If de Craon had me alone in an alleyway, it would be a rope round my neck or a dagger in my belly.’
    Sir William’s face was now damp with perspiration.
    ‘Now, sir, what’s it going to be; I cannot blunder round here, in the presence of my enemies, chasing will-o-the-wisps! Will I hear the truth or shall I go out and hire one of your minstrels and listen to his stories?’
    Sir William turned round. ‘Seigneur de Craon,’ he called out. ‘This is a petty nuisance.’
    De Craon waved a hand and shrugged.
    ‘I must have urgent words with Sir Hugh,’ Sir William continued.
    ‘As we all shall, sometime or other!’ the Frenchman sang out.
    But Sir William, followed by Corbett, was already walking down the hall. They went out along a cloistered walk, then through a door into a clean, paved porchway and up black oaken stairs.
    ‘Your brother’s chamber?’ Corbett enquired.
    Sir William looked as if he was about to refuse. Corbett glanced over his shoulder and quietly cursed Ranulf. He suspected where he had gone, in pursuit of the lovely Alicia Verlian. Sir William went further along the gallery until he stopped at one door, fumbled with some keys and opened it to reveal a lavishly