Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

stoats scurry across the path into the undergrowth on the other side. Now and again he’d pause, looking around to ensure all was well. He felt uncomfortable and, once again, realised he had made a mistake.
    ‘You never think, Hugh!’ Maeve had scolded. ‘You’re that busy, lost in your own thoughts, you wander into danger and don’t realise it! Please!’ She had grasped his face between her hands. ‘Promise me you’ll never be alone!’
    Corbett drew a deep breath.
    ‘God forgive me, Maeve!’
    The birdsong had fallen silent, or was that his imagination? He undid his war belt, as the jars were weighing heavy, and re-hitched it tighter. Holding the leather bag in one hand, his dagger in the other, Corbett walked on quickly. The forest reminded him of the heavy wooded valleys of Wales . He recalled the advice of a master bowman, a scout responsible for leading the King’s troops.
    ‘Remember,’ he had warned. ‘Look to your left and your right. Ignore your imaginings. Listen to the sounds of the forest. If you hear anything strange, move faster, never stand still. A running man is much harder to hit.’
    Corbett walked quickly. He felt a pang of pain high in his chest from the wound he had received in Oxford . Memories flooded back. He controlled his panic, listening carefully, watching the trees on either side. A bird broke free from the branches crying in alarm. Corbett again quickened his pace. A twig snapped to his right. Something hit the trackway as if a stone had been thrown. Corbett didn’t wait any longer but, body hunched, head down, he broke into a run; moving from side to side, he felt the arrow whistle by his face. He was tempted to stop, throw himself down. The assassin must be somewhere to his right so, leaving the trackway, he plunged into the undergrowth, using the trees as a barrier. He thought he was free but then an arrow thudded into a tree; it quivered with such force, the assassin must be close. Corbett ran on. He tried not to move in a straight line. Branches caught his face, nettles and briars stung his legs. He stumbled and this probably saved his life as another shaft went whirring above his head. Corbett glanced to his right. He must keep the trackway in sight, he must not become lost.
    He dropped the leather sack and ran, the pain in his neck intense. He found it hard to breathe. At last he was forced to stop; leaning against a tree, coughing and retching, Corbett scanned the woods and behind him. He could see no sign of the assassin. He looked at his scarred hands, took the gloves from a small pouch in his cloak and put them on. Then he pushed through the undergrowth, back on to the trackway, sure he had left the assassin behind. Whoever it was must have realised pursuit was too dangerous. Ahead of him Corbett heard the creak of a cart. He unhitched his cloak, ignoring the stabs of pain in his belly and the soreness where the branches had caught his skin, and stumbled on, round a corner to the crossroads. The carter, a peasant with his family in the back, gaped in surprise as Corbett grabbed the side of his cart.
    ‘Don’t worry!’ Corbett gasped. ‘I am Sir William Fitzalan’s guest, a royal clerk.’
    The man continued to register amazement.
    ‘The Devil-in-the-Woods tavern?’
    The man nodded his head. Corbett took a coin out of his purse and pushed it into the man’s callused hand.
    ‘Take me there!’
    Without waiting for an answer, Corbett climbed up beside the driver. He smiled reassuringly at the family, a mother and four children, staring owl-like at him. The farmer snapped the reins.
    ‘The Devil-in-the-Woods you want, sir, then the Devil-in-the-Woods it will be. But, by the looks of you, it seems you’ve already met the devil!’
    Corbett relaxed as the farmer, loudly chuckling over his own joke, urged his horse on. Corbett glanced over his shoulder into the green darkness. He quietly vowed that he would use all his power and skill to bring his demon to justice.



Chapter 13

    ‘So, you found nothing?’ Corbett asked , dabbing his face with the salted water the taverner had given him.
    Ranulf, seated on his bed, shook his head.
    ‘Nothing untoward, no sign of any hidden weapons.’
    ‘But could Sir William have gone round the other side of Savernake Dell?’ Corbett persisted. ‘Taken a hidden bow and a quiver of arrows then killed his brother?’
    ‘It’s possible.’ Ranulf was secretly wondering how he could explain the sudden brutal attack