Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer

unrelated to the matter under investigation?
    Corbett sighed and rolled over on his side. Tomorrow he would travel to Rye . He would ask the town council if any whore or brothel-keeper had disappeared. But what would that prove?
    Corbett’s gaze drifted to the small grille built into the wall to allow air to circulate into the room. Through the grille he could see parts of a tree trunk and, as he moved his head, what he saw was changed, disjointed by the grille. It reminded him of that picture... Corbett swung himself off the bed so quickly, Ranulf, penning another poem to Alicia, started and cursed.
    ‘For the love of God, master! I thought you were asleep.’
    He watched curiously. Corbett went over to his writing bag, muttering to himself. He took out the Book of Hours given to him by Sir William and opened it at the small parchment picture of Susannah facing her accusers where the eyes of each figure had been cut out. Corbett placed this on the pages at the back of the Book of Hours where Lord Henry had written his own personal memoranda.
    ‘What are you doing, master?’
    ‘I knew I had seen this before, Ranulf! What you do is write out something innocent like a letter with vague sentiments or items of gossip. However, if you impose a picture like this, on top of the writing, it picks out a secret message. The problem is , which way up do you place it? And which of these entries contains the cipher?’
    Ranulf leaned over Corbett’s shoulder and watched as the clerk applied the picture to each page.
    ‘No, no, that means nothing.’
    Corbett tried again.
    ‘And the same that way. All we have is a jumble of words which mean nothing.’
    ‘Are you sure, master?’
    Corbett pointed over his shoulder at the grille in the wall.
    ‘I was lying there, looking through that grille. I was half-dozing when I noticed how the small iron bars twist what you see.’
    ‘But are you sure Lord Henry would use such a cipher?’
    ‘It’s possible. It certainly explains why we have a small picture, a scene from the Old Testament, where Lord Henry has carefully removed the eyes of each figure.’
    Corbett continued to leaf over the pages, Ranulf went back to his poem. The poetry of the French troubadours had greatly impressed him and now he tried to recall certain lines so he could use them to describe Alicia’s beautiful blue eyes, the line of her face. Across the room Corbett was still muttering to himself.
    The afternoon wore on. Corbett asked for candles and rush-lights to be lit. Now and again he would get up and stretch to ease the cramp. Ranulf thought of Alicia. If only Old Master Long Face would go to sleep, Ranulf could slip out. He wasn’t frightened of the forest while a meeting with his loved one removed any fear of attack.
    Corbett, however, was now deeply immersed in his studies. When Ranulf had finished his poem he hid it in a small pocket of his doublet. He went down to the stables but Baldock was fast asleep on a bale of straw and Ranulf didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead he walked into the yard and scanned the sky. The sun was now setting, the tavern was quiet and the forest across the pathway seemed more dangerous, more threatening as the shadows lengthened. He heard his master call his name and went back, running up the stairs. Corbett was sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear.
    ‘I’ve found the secret!’ He held up the Book of Hours. ‘You remember that story about a saint Johanna Capillana?’
    ‘Yes, the one Lord Henry described in the back of his Book of Hours.’
    ‘I wager, Ranulf, a firkin of ale against a tun of wine, that there is no saint called Johanna Capillana.’ He opened the Book of Hours and placed the picture against the text.
    ‘Let me explain, Ranulf. Capillana is vulgar Latin for the head, it also stands for Capet.’
    ‘The name of the French royal family!’
    Corbett tapped a page excitedly. ‘Two years ago Philip’s wife, Johanna of Navarre, died rather suddenly. People thought it was a fever but, if you use Lord Henry’s cipher, the story of Johanna Capillana becomes the story of Johanna Capet, Queen of France.’ Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘A piece of parchment and a pen!’
    Corbett opened the Book of Hours. ‘Now, write down the following: " Johanna Capillana, regina occisa, mari , rex interfecit earn, non per gladum, sed vitrio secreto infuso, teste medico suo."
    ‘You have that?’
    Ranulf nodded.
    ‘It’s doggerel