Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

paintings on the wall depicting the birth of Christ were rather shabby and hastily executed, the gold stars on the blue ceiling faded and peeling. Master Smallbone was a nondescript balding man, with a perpetually running nose which he constantly wiped on the sleeve of his grubby jerkin. Corbett greeted him warmly enough and they sat round the small trestle table exchanging gossip and banter while the landlord served blackjacks of ale and strips of venison. Once he had gone, Corbett bolted the door. Smallbone was eating as if his life depended on it, but when Corbett produced a gold coin, he snatched it and dropped it into his purse.
    ‘Very well, Master Smallbone, the fee is paid. Let me hear your song.’
    ‘The King wants to break the treaty.’
    ‘I know that.’
    Smallbone sniffed. ‘He believes Gaveston is back in England.’
    ‘What! But he was exiled on pain of forfeit of life and limb!’
    ‘Some life, some limb!’ Smallbone scoffed. ‘He’s been seen in London and there’s similar gossip from the port reeves but whether he’s still here is not known.’
    ‘Continue.’
    ‘The King is deeply interested in the dead Fitzalan’s physician. You know Lord Henry had, for some time, patronised an Italian, Pancius Cantrone. He hired him during his travels.’
    ‘And why should the King be interested in him?’
    ‘Because he once worked with Gilles Malvoisin.’
    Corbett lowered his blackjack of ale.
    ‘Malvoisin? He was formerly physician to the French court. In particular, Johanna of Navarre, Philip IV’s dead wife. I thought Malvoisin died in a boating accident on the Seine?’
    ‘He did,’ Smallbone replied, gulping the venison, allowing the juices to dribble down his chin.
    ‘And what else, Master Smallbone?’
    ‘Well, the King is so interested, Simon Roulles has been despatched to Paris.’
    ‘Roulles!’ Corbett exclaimed.
    ‘Who is he?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘I trained with him,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s a merry rogue, Ranulf, a nimble dancer, a chanteur, a troubadour, a man who loves the ladies. I thought he had been killed in a street brawl in Rome.’
    Smallbone shook his head. ‘He’s alive and kicking in Paris and, if the truth be known, paying assiduous court to Mistress Malvoisin. That’s all I have to sell.’
    ‘The dead physician’s wife?’
    ‘The same.’
    ‘My, my, my,’ Ranulf remarked.
    ‘Do you know why, Master Smallbone?’ Corbett asked.
    The little clerk shook his head.
    Corbett pushed away his trauncher of venison, gave his thanks and, followed by Ranulf, left the chamber. At the top of the stairs Corbett paused.
    ‘Mark my words, Ranulf. When we reach Ashdown, you be on your guard: that place will prove to be a pit of treason and murder!’ He paused. ‘There’s something very nasty, very secretive about all we’ve been told.’

Chapter 3
    Robert Verlian, chief verderer of the deceased Lord Henry Fitzalan, would have agreed with Corbett. He had not bathed or changed, and his face and hands were stung by the nettles and brambles he had crawled through.
    He had returned to Savernake Dell and seen Lord Henry’s corpse, the yard-long arrow embedded deep in his chest. Verlian had crept back to the manor only to realise he was the prime suspect; tongues were soon wagging, fingers pointing. Verlian had killed his master! He was to be captured and tried! Verlian had fled, like the wolfs-head he had become, back into the forest. What justice could he expect at Sir William’s hands? The manor lord had the power of axe and tumbril. Verlian could be hauled before the manor court and hanged before the day was out, his possessions confiscated, and what would happen to Alicia then?
    Verlian crouched beside an oak, an ancient tree which, forest lore maintained, had once been used by the pagan priests for their sacrifices. Verlian hadn’t eaten, apart from some bread and rotten meat he had filched from a charcoal-burner’s cottage. Now he listened, like the many animals