The young ostler blinked. ‘Must I?’
Again another coin exchanged hands. Ranulf watched in fascination; he’d used these dice so many times to fleece an opponent. Baldock rolled the die along the ground until it turned over on the three.
‘It must be the forest floor,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘That’s never happened!’
‘If you think that’s bad,’ Baldock said, ‘have you ever heard me sing?’ His pale face had become flushed, his eyes gleaming with anger. ‘If you really want to make fun of me, I know you’ll go back to the manor and tell people what you saw, then they’ll all jeer and say, “Didn’t you hear him sing?”
Before Ranulf could answer, Baldock opened his mouth.
‘A nut brown maid. .’
The horses reared and whinnied. Ranulf cursed and dug his heels in, at the same time grasping more firmly the reins of Corbett’s horse. But the more Baldock sang, the greater the horses’ agitation grew. Ranulf had never heard such a terrible sound, whether in tavern brawls, street fights, or from men suffering from the most hideous wounds. Baldock’s voice was indescribable, a harsh grating noise, like a man slowly choking.
‘Stop it!’ Ranulf bellowed. ‘For the love of God, stop it!’
Baldock closed his mouth. Ranulf quietened the horses and the young ostler came over and whispered to both of them. The horses whinnied and relaxed. Baldock fished into his purse and brought out an apple which he cut and fed half to each.
‘There! There!’ he crooned. ‘Unlucky Baldock is sorry. So, sir.’ He held the bridle of Ranulf’s horse, the cast in his right eye more pronounced. ‘Now you know why they call me Unlucky Baldock. Cross-eyed, crossed in luck and crossed in love!’
‘Ranulf!’ Corbett was standing at the edge of the glade looking impatiently across at him.
His manservant threw Baldock another penny before he dismounted and led both horses across the dell.
‘What is the matter?’ Corbett demanded. ‘What was that terrible noise?’
Ranulf hid a smirk. ‘Master, I’ll tell you later. We were discussing poor Maltote and I may have found a replacement.’
Corbett looked askance at him as he grasped the reins of his horse and walked into the trees.
‘If I remember rightly, the priory must be this way. So, if we get lost, Ranulf, it will be my fault.’
Ranulf quietly cursed and hung back. He hated the forest, the noises he couldn’t identify, the shapes and shadowy forms which seemed to move between the trees. Corbett walked ahead of him, lost in his own thoughts. The previous evening, the tavern master of the Devil-in-the-Woods had drawn a crude map. Corbett believed he was going in the right direction, towards a path that would widen into a trackway which would take him up to the priory.
Ranulf, behind him, thought about Maltote and Baldock. Every so often he would stop and peer between the trees, recalling the warnings about the creatures who lurked here: the cutthroats who would take a man’s life simply for the boots he wore. Ranulf’s hand went to his dagger. As he was about to protest the treeline suddenly broke, the ground dipped and he saw the trackway winding through the forest. Corbett led his horse down and mounted. Ranulf followed suit and drew alongside his master.
‘We are not wandering around, are we?’ he demanded. ‘Going from one place to another?’
Corbett glanced up at the fleecy white clouds. The sky was light blue and the sun strengthening. He breathed in the sweet smell of the forest, the damp ferns, that warm humid smell from trees soaked with rain.
‘At first this will be easy,’ he predicted. ‘We will be allowed to go where we wish. However, this is a pretty mess of pottage and the deeper we dig our spoons, the more dangerous it will become. Lord Henry was murdered and, somehow or other, I think that unmarked corpse has something to do with this business. That young woman was killed, stripped and, if the reports are true, secretly buried before someone dug her up and placed her corpse outside the priory gates. Outlaws don’t do that.’ He paused, gathering the reins in his hands. ‘We have the Fitzalans, two brothers and a half-sister. A great deal of antipathy, even hatred, swirled between them. We have this strange outlaw the Owlman with his secret threats. We also have, standing in the shadows, Jocasta and her daughter, Verlian, Brother Cosmas, even Odo the hermit: that’s one game. Then we have the King and what he intends. Nor must we forget the Prince of Wales, God knows what mischief he’s plotting! And last, but not least, our beloved brother in Christ, Seigneur Amaury de Craon. Now each group could be separate but, I suspect, the more we stir the pot, Ranulf, the more they’ll mix together. So.’ He smiled. ‘In a while it might be very dangerous to ride around Ashdown Forest. I won’t go to them. I’m the King’s commissioner, I’ll make them come to me.’
Ranulf was about to ask how when an arrow whirred in front of him and struck the ground, embedding itself deep in the trackway. Ranulf immediately dismounted, unhitching the small arbalest he carried on his saddle horn. Again came a whir and an arrow dug into the trackway behind him. Corbett, too, dismounted, using his horse as a shield.
‘To the right!’ Ranulf shouted.
And, as if in answer, two more shafts whistled above their heads, striking the trees behind them.
Chapter 5
Corbett and Ranulf hid behind their horses which whinnied and shook their heads as they caught their agitation.
‘How many archers, Ranulf?’
‘Just the one, master. I don’t think he intends to kill us. He’s loosed at least four shafts, one would have found its target.’
Corbett peered over the saddle, scrutinising the trees, but it was futile. The forest edge could have concealed an army and he would have been none the wiser. At last the horses became more placid.
‘Do you know, master, I think he’s gone.’
Ranulf tentatively stepped from behind his horse, one hand on its muzzle, talking quietly to it. He watched for any movement among the trees.
‘You are safe!’ a man’s grating voice shouted. ‘I mean you no harm! Look at the arrow!’
Ranulf turned to the shaft, still embedded in the trackway before him, and noticed the piece of parchment tied with red twine just above the quill. He ran forward to pluck the arrow out. Sheltering behind his horse, he undid the red cord; the piece of parchment was yellow and greasy but its message was clear enough.
The Owlman sends greetings to the King’s emissary! Justice has already been done. The Owlman sees what he wishes and hears what he wishes! He goes where he wants. Farewell.
Corbett plucked the scrap of paper from Ranulf’s fingers and read it.
‘He’s well named,’ he commented. ‘The Owlman, a bird of the night which swoops silently on its prey. I wonder if he’s our assassin?’
‘Why the message?’
‘He’s simply making his mark!’ Corbett grinned. ‘Or telling us, in his own way, he’s not Lord Henry’s murderer.’
He thrust the scrap of parchment into his wallet and remounted.
‘He means us no harm.’
They moved on cautiously, studying the forest on either side, fearful of another attack, until they reached the crossroads where a decaying gibbet post hung lopsidedly, the piece of hemp in the rusty iron hook dancing in the morning breeze.
‘We follow the path straight on,’ Corbett said.
The trackway dipped, turned and then broadened. In a large clearing before them rose the honey-coloured stone walls of St Hawisia’s priory. Despite the early hour, the place hummed with activity; lay brothers were going out into the fields, traders and chapmen were making their way up to the main gates. Peasants, their carts piled high with produce for the priory kitchens, were also assembled, waiting for the gates to be opened.
‘The priory must own its own lands,’ Corbett decided. ‘From what I gather, it’s a little kingdom in itself, so let’s see its ruler.’