Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

pointing across to the glade. ‘He’s probably over there ensuring all is well.’
    ‘The fool! He’ll be in the line of fire. He won’t be the first to be killed while hunting.’ Lord Henry shrugged. ‘But he knows the hunt is close, this will be upon his head.’
    All around him his companions were preparing their bows, heads craned back towards the forest, waiting for the deer to appear. Lord Henry, however, was still distracted. If only Alicia would give way to him. Was that why her father was so sullen and withdrawn? Lord Henry notched the arrow and waited. In time he brought everything down and in his heart he couldn’t care what damage he caused. Glancing quickly around, he noticed William was gone. Where, sulking in the trees? Again came the braying of horns. A crashing in the undergrowth could be heard and a roe deer appeared head up, moving so fast its hooves hardly seemed to touch the ground. The speed of the animal caught the hunters unawares. Bows were strung and brought up, arrows loosed but the deer seemed to have a charmed life. It swept across the glade, glimpsed the palisade and, in one curving jump, cleared it.
    The deer’s disappearance was greeted with cries of derision. Lord Henry flushed with anger. His arrow, like that of his companions, had missed its mark and he heard de Craon’s whinnying laugh. Again the hunting horn sounded, loud and clear. Another deer sped through the trees. Lord Henry raised his bow; he loosed but the deer slipped and this action saved its life as all the hunters’ arrows either whistled over or smacked into the ground around it. Lord Henry, beside himself with rage, grabbed another arrow, lifting up the bow. This time he would be ready. He glimpsed a blur just before an arrow took him deep in the chest. Lord Henry staggered back, dropping his bow. He stared in shocked horror, almost oblivious to the pain, then turned, glimpsing his squire’s look of fear. Finally he slumped to his knees and fell quietly on his side, eyes fluttering, the blood already spurting out of his mouth.

    ‘Hugh! They thought you were dead!’
    Edward of England sat in the great hall of Eltham Palace on the south side of the Thames . Above the hall door hung a great pair of antlers, and on the walls the shields showing the principal knights of his kingdom. In the far corner one of his chaplains had lit a rose-tinted candle and placed it in front of the statue of the Madonna and Child. Edward clawed at his iron-grey hair which fell down on either side of his harsh, seamed face. He refilled his goblet and that of his companion, John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey. He then sighed and smiled at his Keeper of the Secret Seal who sat at the far end of the table, slouched in a high-backed chair.
    ‘Did you hear me, Hugh? They thought you were dead!’ The King grinned.
    Corbett’s black hair, dusted with a dash of grey, framed a clean-shaven, olive-skinned face. His unwavering dark eyes gave little away: a gentle but secretive face. You are a closed book, Corbett, Edward thought. The clerk had thrown his cloak on the back of his chair against which his manservant Ranulf-atte-Newgate now leaned. Edward’s gaze moved to him. Ranulf looked the picture of health with his white, lean face, his red hair, cleaned and oiled, gathered in a queue behind him. Like his master he was dressed in a dark tunic over a white shirt.
    ‘Are you deaf?’ De Warrenne took a quaff from his wine cup and glared down the table, his popping, blue eyes even more protuberant than normal. He could never understand Edward’s tolerance of this secretive clerk. ‘Or,’ de Warrenne jibed, ‘perhaps you are dead?’
    Corbett stretched out a hand. Ranulf sighed, opened his wallet and shook two silver pieces into his master’s palm.
    ‘Sire, my apologies.’ Corbett smiled. ‘But I had a wager with Ranulf that I’d be asked that question ten times before I knew the reason for my summons here.’ He bowed towards de Warrenne. ‘Apologies, my lord, hut you were the tenth.’
    Edward drummed his fists on the table and bellowed with laughter. He nudged de Warrenne, who glowered back.
    ‘It’s good to see you, Hugh.’ The King smiled. His right eye, which drooped constantly, remained almost closed. He chewed on his lip and removed morsels of food from the hunting tunic he had hastily thrown on after Mass. ‘Do you know something?’ he remarked. ‘When I go to Mass and pray to le bon Seigneur why don’t the