Corbett shook his head. ‘Sir William, on my oath, I may forget many things but I can never forget, will never forget, Seigneur de Craon! He is constantly in my thoughts.’
‘Why should de Craon want Lord Henry dead?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I don’t know. You are the royal emissary. De Craon is a mystery, an enigma, eager for my brother to lead the English envoys to Paris. But, Sir Hugh, why not ask him yourself? You may not stay under my roof but, tonight, I insist that you be my guest at Ashdown Manor. So, if you have no more questions, I’ll rejoin my men.’
Corbett got to his feet.
‘Why the hurry, Sir William? The day is good and it will be long.’ He stopped and listened as a blackbird began to sing, so clearly, so sweetly, Corbett marvelled at its beauty. ‘They say these forests are ancient, Sir William. And house all forms of creatures?’
‘Good and bad, Corbett. There are outlaws, we even have a hermit who lives in Dragon Rocks beyond the priory.’
‘Why Dragon?’ Ranulf asked.
‘If you visit there you’ll see a cave-mouth shaped like the mouth of a snarling dragon. The hermit’s harmless enough, slightly lame, his hands are mutilated. He lives off the goodwill of the forest people.’
‘A young man?’
‘Of mature years,’ Sir William replied. ‘I know little of him. He calls himself Odo Rievaulx.’
‘And the Owlman?’ Corbett asked. ‘The tavern keeper talked of him.’
‘A wolfs-head, an outlaw. He waged his own petty feud against my brother and, before you ask, Sir Hugh, I don’t know why.’
‘Yes, the taproom of the Devil-in-the-Woods is full of such gossip.’
‘The Owlman,’ Sir William said, ‘is a vexatious flea my brother wanted to scratch.’
‘In what way?’
‘Cryptic, secret messages tied to the end of an arrow 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 made 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 walk the earth as if they own it and don’t notice the worms they’ve trod on.’
‘You are a philosopher,’ Ranulf taunted, leaning down.
‘I’m an ostler,’ Baldock replied. ‘And a good one! Nothing better for your belly than riding the back of a horse. God’s gift to man they are. Horses love you. Never ask for anything except a bit of care.’
Ranulf recalled Maltote.
‘And what else can you do, Baldock? Are you good in a fight? Or when you draw that dagger, do you cut yourself?’
Baldock pointed to a pole still left from where the palisade had stood.
‘You see that, master?’
‘As sure as I do the nose on your face.’
Baldock turned away and Ranulf glimpsed a quick movement of his arm. The ostler’s hand came up in an arc; the knife, a thin-bladed stabbing dirk, flew through the air and hit the pole dead centre.
‘I learned that,’ Baldock boasted. ‘A wandering mountebank taught me. I’ve won many a coin in the taverns.’
‘And what else can you do?’ Ranulf had now forgotten Corbett. ‘Do you play dice, Baldock?’ He fished in his pouch and took out two of his genuine dice.
The change in the ostler’s face was wonderful to behold. Such a woebegone expression, anyone would have thought he had been threatened with a hanging.
‘What’s the matter?’ Ranulf purred. He pointed down to the piece of level ground. ‘Throw the dice!’
Baldock was about to refuse.
‘I am a royal clerk,’ Ranulf told him softly.
Baldock’s lower lip jutted out stubbornly.
‘Go on!’ Ranulf urged. ‘Look!’ He fished out a penny and threw it at Baldock, who deftly caught it. ‘For the love of God, man, throw the dice. I am paying you to!’
Baldock finally took the dice and crouched down.
‘You’ll see why,’ he grumbled. ‘You’ll see why and leave me alone.’
He let the two white polished dice fall. Ranulf blinked.
‘Two ones!’ he exclaimed. ‘Throw them again, Baldock!’
The young ostler heaved a sigh but obeyed.
‘Two ones! I don’t believe this! Again!’
This time it was a one and a two. Baldock picked up the dice and thrust them back into Ranulf’s hands.
‘I didn’t tell you my full name,’ he confessed. ‘Unlucky Baldock!’
‘No, no.’ Ranulf, intrigued, dug into his purse and took out another die heavily weighted to fall on six. ‘Go on, Unlucky Baldock, I’ll prove you wrong!’