Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

horses?’
    ‘I sleep with them, sir.’
    Corbett glanced warningly at Ranulf. He didn’t want his manservant making any quip or joke. Baldock had an innocent face; the cast in one eye gave him a vulnerable, rather innocent look. It was obvious how much the young man wished to join them.
    ‘Have you ever been in trouble, Baldock?’
    ‘Never, sir.’
    ‘Never been taken by an officer of the law?’
    ‘Ah.’ Baldock shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I’ve done a bit of poaching, sir. Been chased by verderers, more times than I’d like to count. But I’m a good, loyal servant. I’ve never stolen from my master.’
    Corbett held his hand out. ‘Go on man, clasp it.’
    Baldock did. His grip was warm and strong.
    ‘Master Baldock, that handshake means everything to me. You are my man in peace and war. You will look after me. I will look after you. You are now an officer of the law, a clerk of the stables. Where I go, you follow. My home is yours. You will answer to Master Ranulf, who will draw up an indenture this evening. You will be paid well. Share our food, carry sword, dagger and a crossbow. You will be given robes, three times a year, payment once a week with special gifts at Easter, Christmas and midsummer. You will never tell anyone what you hear me say. Do you understand?’
    Baldock nodded.
    ‘Good man! Now go to the stables. I want the horses ready for Rye tomorrow morning. We’ll leave before first light.’
    Baldock fairly skipped from the room.
    ‘Oh!’ Corbett shouted after him. ‘And tell the taverner I wish to see him now.’
    ‘There goes a happy man,’ Ranulf said as Baldock clattered along the passageway and down the stairs. ‘But when you have time, master, you must hear him sing. He’d fair frighten Lady Maeve. I’m pleased he’s joined us,’ he added wistfully. ‘I miss old Maltote. I’m glad I killed his assassins.’
    Corbett mopped his face again with a rag. He put it back in the bowl at the knock on the door.
    ‘Come in!’
    The taverner sidled in wiping blood-streaked hands. He stood in the doorway, fearful of this sharp-eyed clerk and what the gossips in the taproom were saying about him.
    ‘I was in the fleshing-house, sir. You wanted to see me?’
    Corbett took a silver piece from his purse and held it out.
    ‘Go on, take it!’
    The taverner wiped his fingers then snatched the coin from Corbett.
    ‘Do you know,’ Corbett continued, ‘the old proverb: "Always ask the taverner "? Tavern masters have sharp eyes and good memories.’ Corbett gestured at a stool. ‘Sit down, Master Taybois. Do you remember me asking you about a young woman coming here by herself?’
    The taverner nodded.
    ‘I think she did stop here. But she was disguised as a man.’
    At this the taverner narrowed his eyes.
    ‘She must have come here,’ Corbett shuddered inwardly as he recalled the corpse, ‘within the last month, travelling by herself.’
    The taverner was now decidedly nervous, rubbing his hands on his apron, swallowing hard.
    ‘Of course,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘You know full well what I am talking about! Ranulf, we should have this man arrested!’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ the taverner protested.
    ‘You are a horse thief,’ Corbett declared. ‘This woman wasn’t from Ashdown or the local villages. She must have ridden here. Where’s her horse?’
    ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.’
    ‘I think you do! You know full well what happened. Let me guess. A young man came here. He probably arrived, how far is it from Rye , a few hours? He stabled his horse, had something to eat, stayed overnight, then left the tavern but he never returned. Days turn into weeks and you, master taverner, are left with a horse and harness. Now, do you remember?’
    ‘What makes you think she came from Rye ?’
    ‘A good question, taverner: it’s a guess on my part. I believe this mysterious woman had business with Ashdown Manor. There is a strong link between the Fitzalans and the town of Rye so I suspect she came from there.’
    The taverner coughed nervously.
    ‘I wouldn’t lie,’ Ranulf advised him. ‘My master gets into a fair rage with liars. Especially those who waste the time of royal clerks!’
    ‘It’s true what you say,’ the taverner stammered. ‘A stranger came here. He talked, well, as if he was foreign but he said he was from Rye . He arrived late in the afternoon. He ate and drank in the taproom, hired a chamber and then he left early the