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

come?” and bellowed with laughter. No, to be honest, Sir Hugh, my brother probably went there for another reason. If the truth be known, I have seen no evidence that Jocasta or her daughter are witches.’
    ‘And your half-sister?’
    Sir William snorted with laughter. ‘The Lady Madeleine, prioress of St Hawisia’s? Madeleine has always been, and always will be, Lord Henry in petticoats. She is stubborn, arrogant and bows to no one.’
    ‘Was she on good terms with your brother?’
    ‘Like two cats, Sir Hugh. They would be welcoming but wary. They’d circle each other, hackles up, teeth bared, but they rarely fought.’
    ‘A clash of wills, eh?’
    ‘Sir Hugh, St Hawisia’s is deep in the forest. You are welcome to ask my half-sister whenever you want. I am sure she will give you the benefit of her wit and wisdom.’ He pulled a face. ‘Lord Henry did recently refurbish the shrine, for Madeleine nagged him until he did.’
    Corbett looked across to where Ranulf had now fashioned a sharpened stake, his knife slicing into the white wood.
    ‘We do have one other person.’
    ‘Myself?’
    ‘Yes, Sir William, yourself. You are hardly the grieving brother. You were not present when Lord Henry was killed. You mentioned gossip. It’s possible that you disappeared into the forest, followed a trackway round the palisade, took the concealed bow, loosed the killing shaft, hid the weapon and hurried back.’
    ‘In which case, Sir Hugh, I wouldn’t have needed a horse, would I?’
    Corbett threw his head back and laughed.
    ‘There’s another possibility,’ Ranulf intervened. He threw down the piece of wood and re-sheathed his dagger. ‘Whoever killed Lord Henry was a master bowman. How do we know it was someone he knew? There are enough landless soldiers, archers from the King’s wars, who could be hired, given a horse, a bow and arrow, and instructed whom to kill.’
    ‘Are you saying that I did that?’
    ‘No, Sir William, all I said was that it could be done.’
    ‘Did you love your brother?’ Corbett asked sharply.
    Sir William put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
    ‘When I was a child, when Henry, Madeleine and I ran in these woods like imps from hell, there was no rancour, no jealousy, no bitterness.’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘Indeed, Madeleine and I, we worshipped the ground Henry trod on. We used to play in Savernake Dell. Henry was Arthur, Madeleine Guinevere and I was Sir Galahad. Summers which never seemed to end. Days which stretched like eternity. You see, Father married twice. Our mother, Henry’s and mine, she died fairly young. Father married again; his second wife died in childbirth but Madeleine survived. Father became morose and withdrawn, more concerned about his estates and his revenue than he was about his three children who, in his opinion, had cost the lives of the two women he loved. We were allowed to run wild.’
    ‘When did it change?’
    ‘Henry was sent up to the Halls of Cambridge. When he came back it was as a stranger: tall and arrogant, quoting Greek and French. He mocked me for my childhood games and Madeleine for her piety. More and more he became closeted with Father, immersing himself in the running of the estate. He went to court. He became the King’s friend, serving, as you know, with distinction on the Welsh and Scottish marches. Madeleine went into the priory. She would have nothing to do with the world of men. Father died. Everything was left to Henry.’ His voice grew bitter. ‘I am a knight, Sir Hugh. I have the right to carry a sword but I became a reeve, a steward. “Run here, William! Run there, William! Do this, William! Do that!”’ He stopped, breathing heavily. ‘I asked my brother for a portion of the estate, the honour of Manningtree. He gave his word, promised solemnly that he would . . .’
    ‘But then he reneged?’
    ‘He told me I would have to wait.’
    ‘But you could have left?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Many a