Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

furnished but untidy chamber. Corbett was aware of a large four-poster bed with curtains of dark murrey fringed with gold and silver tassels. Two large aumbries stood on either side of the windowseat, and there were chests and coffers, their lids thrown back. Armour lay piled on a stool. A sword rested in the centre of the broad oaken table. Sir William waved at Corbett to sit on a chair at the far side of this table. He brought across a tray bearing a wine jug and goblets. Corbett refused.
    ‘I have drunk enough, Sir William.’
    ‘But I haven’t and, as the scholars say, “In vino veritas“.’ He splashed a cup full to the brim, sat down opposite Corbett and toasted him silently.
    ‘Did you kill your brother?’ Corbett began.
    ‘I was emptying my bowels,’ Sir William replied. ‘I had no hand in his death. My name’s William, not Cain!’
    ‘And this woman’s corpse found in the forest?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Why would the woman have a lily stamped on her shoulder?’
    Sir William’s head went down.
    ‘Come on!’ Corbett snapped. ‘You’ve visited the fleshpots like your brother. I half suspect what it is. It’s a brand sign for a whore.’
    ‘But not a common bawd. It’s usually a brothel keeper or a high-class courtesan.’
    ‘But why the lily?’
    Sir William snorted with laughter. ‘Sir Hugh, ride down to Rye and then cross the Narrow Seas to France . The woman must have been French. If what you say is correct, she must have come from Abbeville or Boulogne . The French are more tender with their whores than we English. If a woman is convicted of keeping a disorderly house that’s the brand they use. She is king’s property, liable to be fined.’
    ‘So, what was she doing in England ?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh, but, naked, we are all the same, aren’t we? The English like whores, the French like whores, the Germans like whores. Even the priests like whores. It’s a currency common in every country.’ Sir William slammed his wine cup down. ‘For God’s sake, man! English whores work in France and the French come across to England . Oh, they pose as ladies in distress. For a farmer visiting Rye , Dover or Winchelsea, a French whore is regarded as a delicacy. However, I didn’t know this one! I don’t know why she was in Ashdown or why someone should loose an arrow at her throat!’
    ‘Did you discover her corpse and leave it outside Hawisia’s priory?’
    ‘No, I did not.’
    ‘Or your brother?’
    ‘Henry would never have soiled his hands.’
    Corbett leaned back in the chair. He noticed, for the first time, shelves full of calfskin tomes. Some of the bindings, threaded with silver and gold, glowed in the candlelight.
    ‘These were alight when we came in here.’ Corbett gestured to one of the candles. ‘Aren’t you frightened of fire?’
    ‘Sniff the air,’ Sir William replied. ‘They are pure beeswax. They do not splutter. The holder is bronze, the cap is of copper. A fanciful notion of my brother’s.’ Sir William gestured around. ‘Ashdown is made of stone, the best the Fitzalans could purchase. Fire is not one of our fears.’
    ‘But mysterious bowmen are,’ Corbett observed. ‘And I know about the "Rose of Rye".’
    ‘I had nothing to do with that.’
    ‘I didn’t say you did, but you lied to me. You do know what it means.’
    ‘Henry was a mad fool,’ Sir William explained, half-turning in his chair. ‘He whored and he lechered to his heart’s content. The wife of the taverner at the Red Rose was much taken by him. Henry deserted her so she hanged herself; her husband did likewise. The tavern was sold and changed its name. Father did his best to keep the scandal secret.’
    ‘So, who is this Owlman?’
    ‘Henry made careful search. The taverner and his Wife died but they did have a boy, a son, five years old.’
    ‘Ah!’ Corbett breathed.
    ‘Lord save us,’ William continued. ‘I was only ten years old at the time.’
    ‘And this son could now be the Owlman?’
    ‘It’s possible. But it’s strange, Sir Hugh, he’s a master bowman yet he never poaches the venison, attacks our retainers, or offered violence to me or my brother.’
    ‘Do you think it could be a priest;’ Corbett asked. ‘Someone like Brother Cosmas?’
    ‘God’s bully-boy?’ Sir William replied. ‘He really did hate my brother. We had the church watched, but it’s not him.’
    ‘And de Craon?’ Corbett asked.
    Sir William pulled a face, for