Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (26 page)

By the time he’d reached the workshop, Brother Richard’s mouth was watering. He took a bundle of keys, opened the door and went in. He looked round and felt a lump in his throat. This had been Gildas’s kingdom. A cheery, hard-working monk, Gildas had loved to talk about stone and building. Now he was gone, his head brutally smashed in. Brother Richard went slowly round the chamber, touching mallets, hammers, chisels, caressing the piece of stone Gildas had been working on. He went into the office at the far end of the workshop. Gildas’s manuscripts lay open on the table, all covered in intricate drawings, and calculations. There was even a tankard on the table, half full of stale ale. Brother Richard sighed and sat down. He put his writing bag on the floor and began to pull the manuscripts towards him. He tried to make sense of them but he felt uneasy. He went back into the workshop. He felt a draught of cold air and realised he had left the door unlocked.

‘No, no, I’ll leave it,’ he whispered. If anything happened he might wish to get out quickly. He didn’t want to die trapped like Brother Francis. The almoner walked round. He still felt uncomfortable as if he was intruding. He glimpsed a shiny brass vase high on the shelf. He smiled. In summer Gildas always took this out and filled it with flowers. The almoner went across and took it down, holding it up, turning it to catch the light. As he did so, he glimpsed a shadow in the reflection. He turned quickly and gaped in terror. Murder had slunk in like a poacher; the awesome figure before him was dressed in the grey robe of a Benedictine but his face was covered by a red leather mask. Black gauntleted hands held a dagger in one and a club in the other. The assassin lurched forward, knife snaking out. Brother Richard, grasping the brass vase, struck out wildly and parried the blow. The assailant stepped back. Brother Richard realised he was wearing soft leather boots. The almoner tried to control his panic, recalling his days as a soldier. He couldn’t really see the man’s eyes but the vase he grasped had saved his life. If he hadn’t turned in that second of time . . . Again the assailant came at him but Brother Richard composed himself. He used the vase as a war club: steel and brass clanged together shattering the silence. The red-masked attacker tried once more – a parry, a feint. Brother Richard, torn between fear and courage, lashed back. The attacker drew off. He came dancing forward. Brother Richard gave a loud shout, stepped away and stumbled. He expected his assailant to take full advantage. He twisted round, only to see his red-masked attacker flee towards the door.

PRIMA EST HAEC ULTIO, QUOD SE
IUDICE NEMO NOCENS ABSOLVITUR
 
THE GREATEST PUNISHMENT FOR THE GUILTY
IS THAT THEY ARE NEVER ACQUITTED IN
THEIR OWN EYES

 
JUVENAL

Corbett mouthed the verse from the psalms as they made their way along the trackway. It was now almost noon. The ground underfoot was slushy and wet, and the horses kept slipping. On either side stretched snow-filled fields, white empty expanses, their eerie silence, which so unnerved Ranulf, broken only by the sharp cawing of circling crows and rooks. Chanson rode slightly behind Corbett, with Ranulf a little distance ahead. Corbett tried to hide his unease. They were in open countryside, with hedges on either side broken now and again by wide gaps, cut through for drovers and shepherds. The warning about Scaribrick and his outlaws had slightly unnerved Corbett. He’d thought of returning and asking Lady Margaret for an escort but that would be unfair. Manor tenants and officials were not soldiers. They would be reluctant to take up arms against men with whom they were compelled to live. He could tell by the way Ranulf sat rigid in his saddle that his henchman was also highly wary. Ahead of them rose a dark mass of trees on either side of the path. Corbett made sure his sword slipped easily in and out of its scabbard. Without warning Ranulf broke into a trot, only to rein in and jump down; he raised his horse’s left hind leg to check on the hoof.

‘Don’t be startled,’ he hissed, not looking up. ‘Get down and join me.’

Corbett and Chanson obeyed. Ranulf’s green eyes gleamed at the prospect of a fight.

‘They are waiting up ahead,’ he said, ‘within the trees.’

‘How do you know?’ Corbett demanded. ‘There was no flurry of birds?’

‘It’s not the birds,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘There’s a tree, covered in snow, across the trackway. No, Chanson, don’t look. Pretend something’s wrong with my horse.’

The groom obeyed.

‘You saw it?’ Corbett asked.

‘I glimpsed it. The trackway dips then rises. It’s on top of the rise.’

‘It could be the work of the assassin from St Martin’s.’ Chanson murmured.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf let his horse’s leg fall and patted its neck. ‘It wasn’t there when we came by and it takes more than one man to fell a tree and drag it out. There’s been no fresh snowfall, so where did the snow on top come from? I didn’t actually see the trunk, just the branches to one side. Well, Master, what do you recommend?’

‘We could go back and seek help but I am not sure what assistance could be given. We could try and find another route but we might become lost and the outlaws would certainly pursue us.’ Corbett steadied his voice. ‘What I recommend, Ranulf, is that we mount and pretend there is something wrong with your horse. We will ride either side of you as if in deep conversation and then, at my word, charge. However, we must break up. Ranulf, you go first, Chanson second, I’ll go last. If the obstacle is too high or too dangerous we’ll try and go round it: that’s up to you to decide.’

Ranulf kept his back turned to the trees.

‘We’ll probably have to go round it,’ he declared. ‘Watch your horses’ footing. Either way, we are going to have to fight our way through.’

Ranulf eased his own sword and dagger out.

‘Chanson, don’t show any weapon until you are round the obstacle. If necessary, lash out with your boot. They will be armed with bows and arrows.’ Ranulf grasped Chanson’s wrist. ‘It doesn’t make them skilled bowmen, my master of the horse. They are probably used to loosing at a standing target. They will also be cold, their fingers numb. There’s no other way – prayer might help.’

They mounted their horses, Ranulf in the centre. Corbett acted as if he was concerned, paying attention to his henchman’s horse whilst, at the same time, trying to control the fear and panic which curled his stomach and set his heart beating faster. He glanced up. The shadowy avenue of trees was drawing closer. He could make out the tree trunk which had been cut down, dragged across the path and covered with a powdering of snow. Images, memories of the war in Wales, rose up to haunt him. Dark valleys, hillsides covered in snow, wild tribesmen breaking out of the brooding line of trees. This would be similar. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. They were drawing closer. The silence was ominous, broken not even by a bird call. He glanced up again, his heart sank. The tree had been pulled across at an angle: on the right it was too high to jump.

‘Ranulf, go for the left,’ he murmured, ‘but take care of any ditch.’

Ranulf abruptly spurred forward, his horse breaking into a canter, then into a gallop. Chanson followed. Corbett came next. His world narrowed to an awareness only of the trees on either side and the pounding hooves of their horses. They drew closer. Ranulf abruptly moved to the left. In one leap he cleared the obstacle. Chanson did likewise. Even as he did so, arrows whipped through the air. Corbett followed suit. His horse cleared the fallen tree but landed clumsily: it skittered, iron hooves scrambling on the forest path. Corbett’s right foot broke loose from its stirrup. He was thrown sideways and had to fight to regain his balance. His horse reared up, and Corbett was aware of shouts, and cries. He managed to control his mount but it turned abruptly as if it wanted to go back. Men came rushing out of the trees. An arrow flew by Corbett’s face. He was aware of a whirl of faces. Someone came from behind but his war horse, now angry, lashed out with its back legs. The man’s scream rent the air even as Corbett drew his sword. A hooded face came round his horse’s head. Corbett swiped with his sword, slicing the man from eye to chin. Ranulf and Chanson joined the fray. It was a bloody, bitter struggle, with the three horsemen fighting off assailants desperate to claw them out of the saddle. Corbett felt a slight pain in his right thigh and drove the pommel of his sword into a masked outlaw’s face. They were moving forward. The horses settled down. Men garbed in brown and green, their faces covered by hideous masks, clustered about. Chanson was hacking clumsily with his sword but, in the thick of the press, he wreaked as much damage as the skilful, silent swordplay of Ranulf, his bloodlust fully roused.

‘Ride!’ Corbett shouted.

He dug his spurs in. He was aware of Chanson following; Ranulf left last. He followed a man staggering away and, bringing his sword down, cleft him clear through the skull. Then he, like Corbett, galloped low in the saddle up the forest path, arrows whipping above them. They rode until they were safe. Corbett reined in. He was sweat-soaked, his stomach lurching so badly he felt he was going to be sick. Chanson, head bowed, was coughing and retching. If it hadn’t been for Ranulf he would have fallen from the saddle. Corbett began to tremble. It took three attempts before he could sheath his sword, which seemed to have become part of his hand. He checked his horse and looked at his leg. He could see no blood or cut and realised he must have been struck by a club or the pommel of a sword. The Clerk of the Green Wax was composed and impassive. He betrayed no sign of the conflict except the occasional gasp. However, his face was white, his lips a thin bloodless line, his green, cat-like eyes full of fury. Once he made sure Chanson was well, Ranulf dismounted. He cleaned his sword in the snow, picking up handfuls to wash spots of blood and gore from his saddle and harness.

‘You did well, Chanson!’ he called out.

‘Shouldn’t we move on?’ the groom mumbled. ‘They may pursue us.’

Corbett turned his horse and looked down the forest path.

‘I doubt it,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘How many do you think there were, Sir Hugh? About a baker’s dozen, eh? Five at least dropped. They’ll be dead by nightfall. Two or three others suffered wounds. They have had enough for one day. We took them by surprise.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Thought we’d dismount, eh? They’ll be scuttling like rabbits into the trees. They’ll tend their wounds and slink back to the Lantern-in-the-Woods to describe what brave warriors they are.’

Corbett half listened. He felt cold and tired, a sleepy exhaustion which he recognised as the aftermath of battle.

‘Although it’s a place of terror,’ Chanson spoke up, ‘I think we should go back to the abbey. I want some wine, and hot broth, then to lie on my bed and wrap the coverlet round me.’

Ranulf sheathed his sword and leapt into the saddle.

‘You seem as fresh as a spring flower,’ Corbett teased.

His henchman stared coolly back.

‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ Corbett murmured. He leaned down and patted his horse’s sweat-soaked neck.

‘I enjoyed dispensing well-deserved justice to those wolf’s-heads,’ Ranulf declared. ‘I glimpsed Scaribrick the leader. He didn’t take part in the fight. He was under the trees watching it all.’ He gathered up his reins. ‘Well, Master, where to now?’

‘We’ll go back to the abbey but, first, we’ll visit the Watcher by the Gates.’ Corbett ignored Chanson’s groan. ‘We have to see him; he could be our assassin, as much as any monk!’

Ranulf turned his horse. ‘Then, as the priests say,
Procedamus in Pace
– let us go forward in peace.’

Corbett followed Ranulf. He pulled his cowl back up, tugging his cloak tighter about him. He tried to think of Maeve, his children, the manor of Leighton on a warm summer’s day, of feasts and banquets as he tried to control the terrors which still shook him. He had been in many fights. It was always the same, especially with these sinister ambushes: the sudden lunge of knife and sword; the assassin’s arrow whipping through the air. He let his body relax. All he was conscious of was the thinning trees giving way to snow-filled fields, the occasional bird call or sudden flurry in the ditches on either side.

‘And there it is!’ Ranulf shouted.

They had now entered the abbey demesne: the spire of its church soared up against the grey clouds. Corbett could make out the tiled roofs, the broad gables and fretted stonework of the abbey buildings above the grey curtain wall. They passed Bloody Meadow. Corbett reined in and peered through the oak trees at the burial mound in the centre.

‘If the living can’t help me,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps the dead will?’

They went on, past the main gateway, following the wall. Ranulf abruptly reined in and pointed to the small wooden straw-thatched bothy, more like a cow byre, built against the wall near one of the postern gates. A black column of smoke rose from the hole in the roof. The ground outside was littered with broken pots, bits of bones and rags.