Free Sir Hugh Corbett 11 - The Demon Archer by Paul C. Doherty Page B

shaft and shot into a door, or a tree, or the path Lord Henry used. The messages were often one word, badly written, "Remember".’
    ‘Remember what?’
    ‘I don’t really know. My brother would curse and then destroy them.’ Sir William’s hand went to his lips. ‘One time I did see the message, because I found it.’ He closed his eyes and then opened them. ‘Yes, "Remember the Rose of Rye "!’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘At first I thought it was a tavern so I made enquiries, but there’s no such place. Look, Sir Hugh, this forest divides the south coast from London . It is rich in game, has secretive, dark places. Pilgrims travel to St Hawisia’s. Wolfs-heads and outlaws hide well away from the sheriff’s men.’
    ‘And murder?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘It happens.’
    ‘Including that young woman whose corpse was found?’
    Sir William shrugged. ‘Sir Hugh, I know nothing of that. However, if a young wench was stupid enough to travel on the forest paths by herself, well, she’s like a chicken which runs into a fox’s lair.’
    ‘And you know nothing of her death?’
    ‘Sir Hugh, if I did, I would tell you. The corpse was left outside St Hawisia’s priory. My good half-sister gave it Christian burial, more than that I cannot say.’ Sir William picked up the bow and quiver of arrows and slung them over his shoulder. ‘You have reminded me that you are the King’s envoy, so, please, be my guests tonight just after Vespers.’
    And, not waiting for an answer, the manor lord turned and walked back across Savernake Dell.
    ‘Now there goes a worried man,’ Ranulf observed. ‘Master, I’ll collect the horses. Is it back to the tavern?’
    ‘No, I think a visit to St Hawisia’s would be opportune.’ Corbett smiled. ‘The more I know about Lord Henry’s family, the more intrigued I become. Sir William’s a worried man. Yet I don’t think he’s a murderer, though I could be wrong.’
    Corbett studied his mud-stained boots. Blood-red, of high quality Moroccan leather, they had been Dade in Spain . Maeve had bought them at a fair held just outside the Tower. He looked at the silver spur attached to the heel and absent-mindedly brushed some moss from his leather leggings.
    ‘The forest is a quiet place,’ he mused. ‘But a man intent on murder. Wouldn’t he be noticed, Ranulf? The clinking of spurs, horse neighing, the crack and snap of twigs and fallen branches?’
    ‘Not if there’s a hunt going on,’ Ranulf said.
    He stared up at the tree, searching for the blackbird which was singing so lustily.
    ‘Remember, Sir Hugh, Lord Henry was excited, as were his companions. The morning he was killed, the forest was full of noise, the shouts of huntsmen, the barking of dogs, the chatter of his guests.’
    Corbett grinned. ‘I’ll make a countryman of you yet, Ranulf: fetch the horses!’
    Ranulf, muttering under his breath at how he hated the countryside and loathed these dark-green places, walked back across the dell. One of Sir William’s grooms was guarding the horses, a pasty-faced youth with corn-coloured hair and a cast in one eye. He was talking to Corbett’s horse, gently stroking the muzzle, whispering into the cocked ear like any young swain to his sweetheart. He was short and thickset, podgy-fingered; one of the heels had fallen off his riding boot which made him limp as he moved.
    ‘What’s your name, boy?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘Baldock. I used to be called Burdock but that didn’t sound well so I changed it.’
    ‘Strange name.’ Ranulf swung himself into the saddle and took the reins of Corbett’s horse. ‘Why did your mother give it to you?’
    The ostler looked up. Despite the cast in his eye, he had a merry, open face.
    ‘Don’t know my mother,’ he replied. ‘Don’t know my father. I was a foundling left at the manor some years ago.’
    ‘And Lord Henry took you in?’
    ‘He was a kind enough man, a good lord. Oh, he was arrogant but they all are, aren’t they? They