The Demon Archer by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 0747260745
Google: w55nZNI6vNIC
Amazon: B00GU35TOI
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2012-10-29T18:30:00+00:00

Ranulf-atte-Newgate, who’d drunk a little more than he’d wished, slipped out of the hallway, as planned, to meet Master Baldock. He found this new friend and ally sitting on the steps outside the main hall.

‘You are ready, Master Ranulf? You will mention my name to Sir Hugh?’

Ranulf clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll take you in to the King himself, Baldock. But the house of Mistress Alicia?’

Baldock beckoned him on. The ostler led him along a warren of passageways, through the kitchens, still thick with the odours of the cooking and baking which had preceded Sir William’s feast. The scullions, kitchen boys and slatterns were now feasting on the remains, picking at the bones, dipping their hands into the blancmange, oblivious to the two silent figures who slipped out by a postern door across the yard.

It was a warm, soft night with a full harvest moon. Baldock found the cresset torch he had hidden, lit it and led Ranulf over a small footbridge past the stables, across the orchards to where the chief verderer’s house stood. A two-storied building, its base was built of red brick, while the rest was plaster and black beams. Its thatched roof had long been replaced with tiles and a chimney had been neatly built on one end. At the back was an outside staircase. Ranulf would have stopped there but Baldock urged him on. They climbed a fence into a herb garden. Eventually Baldock stopped beneath a pear tree.

‘I leave you here,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll not hurt the girl?’

‘Oh shut up!’ Ranulf hissed. ‘Go back and wait for me by the bridge. Keep the torch hidden. When you hear me come, lift it.’

Baldock scurried off. Ranulf pulled down the collar of his stiff white cambric shirt and looked up at the window where a night-light glowed. He prided himself on his reading and self-education and knew all about the troubadours of France: the chanteurs, the minstrel men who recited poetry beneath their lady’s window and then left their poem pinned to the door. Ranulf had spent all afternoon preparing for this. A night of mystery! Of outpoured passion! He would not disturb this young woman who had smitten his heart so deeply, but would be the perfect, gentil knight, the chevalier of love. Alicia was no tavern wench but his lady in the tower to be courted, praised, flattered. Ranulf closed his eyes. The sweet smell of blossom on a cool breeze wafted across his hot face. He was alone under the stars. All thoughts of priesthood, of preferment at court or in the Chancery had now disappeared.

He loosened his pouch and took out the love poem. It was too dark to read but he knew the lines by heart. He moved one foot forward like he had seen the minstrel men do.

Eyes on the window, one hand on his heart, Ranulf began his poem:

‘Alicia my love,

The love of my heart,

My morning star!

My tower of ivory!

My castle of delight,

Light of my life,

Flame of my heart,

All beauteous .

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