Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

say.’
    ‘You’ll come to France, Lord Henry?’
    ‘I will journey back with you.’
    ‘And Signor Pancius Cantrone?’
    ‘My physician doesn’t know it, but he will join us.’
    ‘And my master,’ Amaury de Craon continued in a whisper, ‘will be pleased to see Signor Cantrone and silence his lying mouth. But, how will it be done?’
    ‘We’ll journey down to Rye . My household will go with me, including my brother William whom I like to keep an eye on. What has to be done will be done then.’
    Amaury de Craon withdrew his arm.
    ‘And isn’t the King suspicious that we asked you to lead the English envoys?’
    ‘My dear Amaury, I have led similar embassies before. I own land in Gascony . I am the King’s most trusted councillor. Why shouldn’t I go to Paris ? The marriage negotiations between the Prince of Wales and the Lady Isabella have been ordained by his Holiness the Pope and, in time, will lead to peace between our two kingdoms.’
    Amaury de Craon studied this sly, secretive English lord, who was tall and thickset, his black hair swept back. In the florid face, those cunning light blue eyes reminded Amaury of his master Philip IV of France : ice cold, soulless, constantly plotting. Amaury knew why Philip wanted this nobleman in Paris and, above all, why that traitor Cantrone, who had fled the French court, should be brought back.
    ‘Won’t the English court object over Cantrone?’
    Amaury forced a smile, fearful lest others become suspicious of this hushed conversation.
    ‘Amaury, Amaury.’ Lord Henry mimicked the Frenchman’s accent. ‘You worry about so many things. It won’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, that someone dies or disappears in Paris . And why should the English court object? Cantrone is not a citizen of this kingdom. He is an Italian who wanders the face of the earth. It will all be forgotten in the betrothal celebrations.’
    Amaury stared up at the overhanging oak tree. He watched a squirrel skip across the branch. He became aware of the liquid song of some bird high in the trees, singing its own sweet carol, oblivious to the treachery plotted below and to the bloody carnage which would break out when the distant hunters panicked their quarry into the killing pen.
    ‘My Lord Henry.’ De Craon wiped some crumbs from his red woollen tunic, slipping a thumb into his belt. ‘I am not fearful of you, or of your king, or of what might happen.’
    ‘Corbett!’ Lord Henry taunted. ‘You are fearful of Sir Hugh Corbett. I have heard of the rivalry between you.’
    Lord Henry recalled the close, secretive face, framed by raven-black hair, of the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, Edward’s most trusted confidant. Sir Hugh Corbett who, time and again, had crossed swords with his French adversary.
    ‘We heard he was dead,’ de Craon declared testily.
    ‘I wager you did.’ Lord Henry laughed. ‘And the bells of Paris must have pealed to the heavens.’
    ‘We heard he had been killed in Oxford , an arrow to the heart.’
    ‘He was wounded. He was attacked by an assassin whom his manservant Ranulf-atte-Newgate killed. The crossbow bolt was a hunting one, not an arbalest. It cracked bone but, I hear, Corbett now thanks God for the thick leather jerkin he wore as well as for the royal doctors and physicians. He has recovered.’ Lord Henry’s grin widened. ‘Indeed, he may well come to pay his compliments.’
    Dr Craon hawked and spat.
    ‘Is it true?’ Lord Henry continued his taunting. He plucked at de Craon’s sleeve. ‘Is it true that your master has put up a reward on Corbett’s head?’
    ‘That’s ridiculous!’ de Craon snapped. ‘If Philip of France did that, Edward of England would retaliate.’
    ‘Yes, yes, he would.’
    Lord Henry turned away; the rest of the hunting party were becoming excited. The horns now sounded closer and the bellowing of the dogs filled the dell.
    ‘We should take up our positions, my lord.’
    Lord Henry walked across to the palisade, where a squire came running up and thrust a long yew bow in his hand. Next he chose a grey-goose-quilled arrow. A man who lived for each moment, he had now forgotten de Craon, Corbett, his sulky brother and the vexatious messages of the Owlman. He recalled the lovely, olive-skinned face of Alicia, his chief verderer’s daughter, and looked around.
    ‘Where is Verlian? Where’s my chief verderer?’
    ‘He has not yet returned, sir,’ one of his squires shouted,