Ranulf sat picking at his food, his silver-chased goblets of red and white wine already emptied. De Craon noticed this and narrowed his eyes. He asked about the attack in Oxford. This was followed by a general discussion on maintaining the King’s peace. Only once did the tensions surface.
‘Where is the Italian doctor Cantrone?’ de Craon asked. ‘I would, so much, like to have words with him.’
Sir William, who had drunk deeply and rather quickly, shrugged. He belched and, picking up scraps of meat, flung them down the hall at the waiting mastiffs.
‘If I knew,’ he slurred, ‘I’d tell you.’
De Craon was about to press him further when the festivities were ended by an arrow which shattered one of the hall windows and buried itself deep in the wooden panelling. Dogs barked and yelped. Retainers hurried in. Sir William sat, mouth open, cup half-raised to his lips.
‘We are under attack!’ the old steward shouted. ‘Man the battlements!’
Corbett wondered if the fellow had drunk too deeply of the wine he had been serving.
‘Nonsense!’ De Craon leaned back in his chair, laughing with his clerk.
Corbett hurried down the hall. He noticed the scroll of parchment tied with a piece of twine to the arrow shaft.
The Owlman goes wherever he wishes!
He does whatever he chooses!
Remember the Rose of Rye!
Corbett studied the arrow, which was like any other, without distinguishing marks. Sir William had now joined him, slightly unsteady on his feet.
‘I need to have words with you, sir,’ Corbett said in a low voice. ‘About this.’ He held the manor lord’s gaze. ‘About the Owlman and, more importantly, this Italian physician and Piers Gaveston.’
The colour drained from Sir William’s face.
‘I, I don’t know what you mean!’ Sir William gasped.
‘I want the truth!’ Corbett urged. ‘My lord, we could play cat and mouse all night.’
He glanced back at the dais where de Craon slouched in his chair. Of Ranulf there was no sign.
‘Sir William,’ Corbett went on, face close to the manor lord’s. ‘De Craon is one of the King’s greatest enemies and a man who plots my destruction. Forget all the flowery language, the kiss of peace. If de Craon had me alone in an alleyway, it would be a rope round my neck or a dagger in my belly.’
Sir William’s face was now damp with perspiration. ‘Now, sir, what’s it going to be? I cannot blunder round here, in the presence of my enemies, chasing will-o-the-wisps! Will I hear the truth or shall I go out and hire one of your minstrels and listen to his stories?’
Sir William turned round. ‘Seigneur de Craon,’ he called out. ‘This is a petty nuisance.’
De Craon waved a hand and shrugged.
‘I must have urgent words with Sir Hugh,’ Sir William continued.
‘As we all shall, sometime or other!’ the Frenchman sang out.
But Sir William, followed by Corbett, was already walking down the hall. They went out along a cloistered walk, then through a door into a clean, paved porchway and up black oaken stairs.
‘Your brother’s chamber?’ Corbett enquired.
Sir William looked as if he was about to refuse. Corbett glanced over his shoulder and quietly cursed Ranulf. He suspected where he had gone, in pursuit of the lovely Alicia Verlian. Sir William went further along the gallery until he stopped at one door, fumbled with some keys and opened it to reveal a lavishly furnished but untidy chamber. Corbett was aware of a large four-poster bed with curtains of dark murrey fringed with gold and silver tassels. Two large aumbries stood on either side of the windowseat, and there were chests and coffers, their lids thrown back. Armour lay piled on a stool. A sword rested in the centre of the broad oaken table. Sir William waved at Corbett to sit on a chair at the far side of this table. He brought across a tray bearing a wine jug and goblets. Corbett refused.
‘I have drunk enough, Sir William.’
‘But I haven’t and, as the scholars say, “In vino veritas”.’ He splashed a cup full to the brim, sat down opposite Corbett and toasted him silently.
‘Did you kill your brother?’ Corbett began.
‘I was emptying my bowels,’ Sir William replied. ‘I had no hand in his death. My name’s William, not Cain!’
‘And this woman’s corpse found in the forest?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why would the woman have a lily stamped on her shoulder?’
Sir William’s head went down.
‘Come on!’ Corbett snapped. ‘You’ve visited the fleshpots like your brother. I half suspect what it is. It’s a brand sign for a whore.’
‘But not a common bawd. It’s usually a brothel keeper or a high-class courtesan.’
‘But why the lily?’
Sir William snorted with laughter. ‘Sir Hugh, ride down to Rye and then cross the Narrow Seas to France. The woman must have been French. If what you say is correct, she must have come from Abbeville or Boulogne. The French are more tender with their whores than we English. If a woman is convicted of keeping a disorderly house that’s the brand they use. She is king’s property, liable to be fined.’
‘So, what was she doing in England?’ Corbett asked.
‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh, but, naked, we are all the same, aren’t we? The English like whores, the French like whores, the Germans like whores. Even the priests like whores. It’s a currency common in every country.’ Sir William slammed his wine cup down. ‘For God’s sake, man! English whores work in France and the French come across to England. Oh, they pose as ladies in distress. For a farmer visiting Rye, Dover or Winchelsea, a French whore is regarded as a delicacy. However, I didn’t know this one! I don’t know why she was in Ashdown or why someone should loose an arrow at her throat!’
‘Did you discover her corpse and leave it outside Hawisia’s priory?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Or your brother?’
‘Henry would never have soiled his hands.’
Corbett leaned back in the chair. He noticed, for the first time, shelves full of calfskin tomes. Some of the bindings, threaded with silver and gold, glowed in the candlelight.
‘These were alight when we came in here.’ Corbett gestured to one of the candles. ‘Aren’t you frightened of fire?’
‘Sniff the air,’ Sir William replied. ‘They are pure beeswax. They do not splutter. The holder is bronze, the cap is of copper. A fanciful notion of my brother’s.’ Sir William gestured around. ‘Ashdown is made of stone, the best the Fitzalans could purchase. Fire is not one of our fears.’
‘But mysterious bowmen are,’ Corbett observed. ‘And I know about the “Rose of Rye”.’
‘I had nothing to do with that.’
‘I didn’t say you did, but you lied to me. You do know what it means.’
‘Henry was a mad fool,’ Sir William explained, half-turning in his chair. ‘He whored and he lechered to his heart’s content. The wife of the taverner at the Red Rose was much taken by him. Henry deserted her so she hanged herself; her husband did likewise. The tavern was sold and changed its name. Father did his best to keep the scandal secret.’
‘So, who is this Owlman?’
‘Henry made careful search. The taverner and his wife died but they did have a boy, a son, five years old.’
‘Ah!’ Corbett breathed.
‘Lord save us,’ William continued. ‘I was only ten years old at the time.’