Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

shafts, a gift from Lord Henry. Yes, clerk, I can use them with good effect. I have hunted when Lord Henry permitted it. Moreover, not everyone who passes through Ashdown is a courtly clerk or charming courtier.’
    ‘Do you have a horse?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘No, I do not.’
    ‘And you know most people in the forest?’ Corbett insisted.
    ‘I know them and they know me. Verlian the verderer who now shelters here. He fled to my house. I told him to come here. Brother Cosmas, however, is the only man in the forest who would stand up to the power of the Fitzalans.’
    ‘Have you ever seen the Owlman?’ Corbett asked. ‘ This outlaw who wages such a strange war upon the Fitzalans?’
    ‘I think so, once.’
    ‘You’ve actually seen him?’
    ‘I think so.’ Her gaze shifted to Brother Cosmas. ‘His face was masked, a sheet of leather with gaps cut for the eyes and mouth.’
    ‘Was he on horseback?’ Corbett asked.
    Jocasta shook her head. ‘He wore a grey cloak, fastened at the back. I remember the texture was stained and dirty, but it looked of good quality. I was near Ferndown Brook. It’s a small rivulet, deep in the forest. I was collecting herbs. Blanche was sitting on a tree trunk some yards behind. I was by the brook, washing the plants I’d dug up, when suddenly this figure came out of the undergrowth and crouched by the brook. He was singing to himself, filling the waterskin he carried. I froze. He didn’t know I was there and then Blanche called out. He glanced up and left as quietly as he came.’
    ‘And he never saw you?’
    Jocasta shook her head and demonstrated with her hand.
    ‘He was here on one side of the brook, I was crouching down on the other side beside some bushes. He wouldn’t have seen me.’ She plucked at her own threadbare green cloak. ‘In a way I was like some animal in the forest: I wore no bright clothes.’
    ‘What makes you think he was the Owlman?’
    She laughed. ‘I’ve told you, clerk. Everyone in Ashdown knows everybody else. The other outlaws? Well, they blunder about dressed in rags. He was different. He moved with a purpose.’
    ‘Describe him,’ Corbett demanded.
    ‘I’ve told you. A deerskin mask, a hood, a grey cloak. I glimpsed a quiver of arrows and a long yew bow slung across his back.’
    ‘Was he old or young?’
    ‘Sir, I’m no witch.’
    Corbett smiled. ‘But if you were on oath?’
    ‘I would say he was about your age. He moved with ease, quietly.’
    ‘What was he humming?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Sir, I’m no witch nor am I skilled in music but it was no tavern tune. More a hymn you’d sing in church. I wouldn’t swear to it but some of the words were Latin.’
    ‘A dangerous thing to do,’ Ranulf said.
    ‘He thought he was alone,’ Jocasta reminded him. ‘Ferndown Brook is well off the beaten track. It was late in the afternoon. I wager he thought he was safe.’
    ‘And the morning Lord Henry died?’ Corbett asked. ‘Did you see anything in the forest? Anything untoward?’
    Jocasta shook her head. ‘I knew, when I was brought here by Sir William’s soldiers, that I would have to answer questions. I am not on oath, clerk, but you can put me on it. I have told you what I know. There is nothing else to say but I tell you this.’ She rose to her feet. ‘You are sharp-eyed, keen-witted men. You’ll dig deep in Ashdown’s dirt. Remember this: whoever killed Lord Henry knew these forests well. Someone who knows its secret ways and hidden paths.’
    ‘And have you any suspicions?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘I am unlettered, clerk, but, at the end of the day, who profited most from Lord Henry’s death? Are you finished?’
    Corbett opened his purse and brought out two silver coins. Jocasta looked as if she was about to refuse.
    ‘I take no favours, clerk.’
    Corbett got to his feet. He took off his tunic, and undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing the dark purple scar high on his chest where the crossbow bolt had struck. Jocasta came and peered closely; her fingers pressing the healed scar.
    ‘The skin is clean,’ she said. ‘But does it hurt?’
    ‘Sometimes.’
    ‘An arrow wound.’
    Corbett looked into her beautiful eyes, dark with a quiet sense of humour. She smelt fragrantly of lavender and something sharper but not unpleasant. She pressed the scar with her fingers again. Corbett winced.
    ‘You will feel sore,’ Jocasta declared. ‘This part of your body,’ she tapped his chest, ‘is protected by muscle and