by Paul Doherty
‘Very well.’ Ap Ythel sighed. He gathered a mound of dry straw as close as possible to the end of the quiver. He then picked up the cage, the rat battering the bars with its snout. As he raised the small door, one of his men used his dagger to prick the rat to even greater fury. The rodent now had no choice but to edge forward into the tube. Once inside, Ap Ythel’s henchman fired the mound of dry straw. The cage was withdrawn and the fiery bundle used to seal off the entrance the rat had darted through. By now Olwen was jerking, but the tube was held fast by the cords as well as by Ap Ythel’s firm grip. It rattled and shifted as the rat, terrified by the flames, heat and smoke, tried to find a way out.
‘Olwen, Olwen,’ Ap Ythel said softly. ‘The rat is hungry; it is frightened of the fire. It can only get out one way, and that is through your belly. You know that. I am sure you have seen this happen before.’
‘I will immolate!’ Olwen screamed desperately. ‘I will speak, but not here. I will immolate,’ he repeated, ‘but not here. Untie me, please. It’s biting, it’s biting!’
Ap Ythel glanced at Corbett, who, intrigued by the prisoner’s reply, nodded. The captain of archers cut away the tube and the rat darted out, scrabbling across the straw-covered floor and out through the open door. Olwen was dragged to his feet and pushed out of the donjon, following the narrow path dug across the bailey.
They walked slowly, wary of the sheeted ice underfoot. Corbett glanced up and murmured a prayer of thanks. The clouds were breaking up. He could even catch glimpses of blue sky. He was still distracted by the weather when he heard the first shaft whirring in, followed by a second. He spun round. Olwen now stood at a half-crouch, blood already frothing through his gaping mouth, tied hands trying desperately to pull out the yard-long shaft protruding from his chest. The archer on the prisoner’s right had fallen to his knees, mouth open in a silent scream at the pain from the arrow wound to his right shoulder. Another whirring sound cut the air, like birds’ wing flapping furiously. Corbett could only stare in surprise as a third shaft pierced one of the lay brothers accompanying them, in the throat.
‘Run, run!’ Ranulf was the first to recover. ‘Sir Hugh, run!’
They needed no second bidding. Slipping and slithering, with arrows whipping above their heads, they hurried into one of the towers along the great wall that circled the inner bailey and threw themselves into the cold, musty stairwell. Before he pushed the door shut, Corbett glanced back. Olwen lay where his guards had left him, the lay brother’s corpse a few yards away, the blood of both victims spreading an ugly red blotch across the snow.
Ap Ythel shouted at his archers to deploy further up the tower. Corbett leant against the door and peered through its narrow grille. The attack had already alerted the abbey. He glimpsed sentries moving along the far wall. Others gathered in the doorway of the donjon. A deep, sinister stillness had descended. No one dared expose himself to the mysterious assassins; Corbett agreed with Ap Ythel that there must be at least two to have loosed so many arrows in such a short time. Eventually, order was restored. A phalanx of shield men began to edge across the bailey, whilst above, Ap Ythel’s archers shouted that they could see no enemy.
‘Whoever it is, whoever they are,’ Ap Ythel declared, coming down the steps, ‘they have gone. In the beginning, it was easy. Our silent bowman could loose through an arrow slit, a lancet or a window with its shutters pulled back. But now every opening is being closely watched. If . . .’ He fell quiet as the abbey bells began toll.
Corbett opened the door and almost collided with Devizes, who had hastened across the bailey with a shield above his head.
‘Sir Hugh,’ he gasped, before turning to shout at one of the lay brothers who had accompanied him. ‘You’d best come.’ He pointed back at the great donjon. ‘Father Abbot needs you.’
Corbett and Ranulf left, protected by the shield men, and hurried across the bailey, where servants, under the direction of Brother Crispin, were collecting the corpses. ‘I heard what happened,’ the infirmarian shouted. ‘I will join you shortly.’
Corbett was tempted to stop and ask what he meant, but they were hastening fast, the shield men very close, whilst Ranulf whispered heatedly that the danger might not be over.
They reached Abbot Henry’s chamber guarded by a throng of lay brothers harnessed for battle. Devizes dismissed these, ushering Corbett and Ranulf into the sweet-smelling room. Corbett stared around. Stools and small tables had been tipped over, scattered and strewn across the thick Turkey rugs. Abbot Henry crouched like a frightened old man in his chair before the fire. Corbett and Ranulf drew up stools beside him. The abbot, with Devizes’ help, turned his heavy chair to face them. Corbett found it difficult to accept that this was Henry Maltravers, in former times one of the old king’s fiercest and most cunning warriors. A sly yet redoubtable veteran who had survived the heat of battle as well as the cold malice of court intrigue. Now he cowered beneath his cloak, face slack and pale, hands shaking slightly.
‘My Lord Abbot?’
‘I was sleeping.’ Maltravers pointed towards the great four-poster bed, its bolsters and drapes all disturbed. ‘I felt tired, I thought Devizes . . .’ He waved at his master-at-arms standing close by. ‘I thought he was outside. Anyway, I lay down on the bed. I was drifting into sleep. I felt someone squeeze my shoulder. I woke up. A figure, cowled and visored, was bending over me. A dreadful shape from the bleakest nightmare. He held a thin spike in one hand and what looked like a mallet in the other. He rested the spike here in the centre of my forehead; look, you can see the mark.’ Corbett peered closer and noticed the small yet angry scar where the skin had been puckered as if by some needle point. ‘I resisted. I struck out. I pushed him back.’
‘I came up the steps.’ Devizes took up the story. ‘I heard the commotion, Father Abbot crying for help.’
‘You were alone?’
‘No, one of the lay brothers was with me. I realised something was wrong, I was about to draw my dagger when the door to Father Abbot’s chamber crashed open.’ Devizes turned and shouted a name, and a lay brother shuffled into the room. The master-at-arms asked him if he could describe the attack. The lay brother just shook his head.
‘Like a demon sparked from the flames,’ he muttered, pointing back at the door. ‘That flew open and the malignant collided with Master Devizes, shoving him aside. I tried to resist, but it was so . . .’
‘You did well, Brother Peter.’ Devizes walked over and patted the old man on the shoulder. ‘If we had not returned, Father Abbot would have been another victim, a heavy nail loosed into his forehead, so thank you once again.’
Once the lay brother had left, Maltravers straightened in his chair and pointed an accusatory finger at Corbett. ‘Sir Hugh, as you know, I wrote to our king for help, for protection against these attacks.’
‘And he sent me, Ranulf and a cohort of master archers,’ Corbett retorted.
‘And yet we remain so vulnerable.’
‘But why?’ Corbett demanded, leaning forward. ‘Why these attacks, and why now? Who is responsible? How can they move around the abbey with impunity, loosing death and destruction at every turn? I need some help in answering these questions if we are to resolve the murderous mayhem engulfing Holyrood. The origin of all these troubles, I am sure, lies deep in the Valley of Shadows, yet we cannot enter. It’s too—’
Corbett turned at a thunderous knocking on the door; this was shoved open and Crispin walked in.
‘My Lord Abbot, Devizes, you had best come.’
They followed him out and down the steps, where a phalanx of shield men had already assembled. Crispin urged Corbett, Ranulf and Devizes to shelter deep, and the phalanx then advanced through the snow towards the abbey church and its adjoining buildings. They entered the cloisters by the southern portal, a great canopied square with broad paved paths. These led round the garth, a grassy expanse, its hedges and rose bushes all covered with dripping snow. Brother Crispin shouted an order and the shield wall par
ted. Corbett walked out.
The cloisters were gloomy, fitfully lit by torches and lanternhorns. These gleamed, reflecting in the polished elm-wood carrels that lined all four pathways. In summer, these chancery desks were used for study, writing and illuminating. Now, in the depth of winter, with the snow being whipped up by a bitter breeze, they were deserted, giving the cloisters a haunted look: a place where ghosts might muster before they moved to mingle amongst the living.
‘Over there.’ Crispin joined Corbett, pointing across the garth. ‘Sir Hugh, can you see the bench?’
Corbett peered through the murk. He could make out two slumped shapes. He heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. Ap Ythel had joined them, his yew bow strung, a feathered shaft ready to be loosed. Corbett raised a hand in thanks, then drew his sword and walked slowly around the cloisters. A bench stood along the far pathway; sprawled across it were the corpses of two lay brothers, who must have died instantly from the feathered shafts embedded so deep in chest and belly. A sad, pathetic sight. Both men were old, their shaven pates covered with sharp white bristle, their lined, furrowed faces contorted in agony at the pain and shock of sudden death.
‘Sir Hugh, they were just sitting there.’ Corbett turned. Crispin had followed, swift and silent as any shadow. The infirmarian’s bony, angular face was twisted in a grimace, his eyes sharp and watchful. Corbett abruptly recalled that this man, garbed in simple monkish clothes, was still a warrior, a veteran of bloody conflict and sudden death. A ruthless killer who had slaughtered the king’s enemies without mercy or a second thought. Could he be responsible for all these brutal slayings?
‘I am sorry.’ Corbett crossed himself. ‘Brother Crispin, what did you say?’ He glanced across the garth. Abbot Henry and others had now gathered there. ‘Tell me.’ He turned back to the infirmarian. ‘What happened here?’
‘So swift, Hugh. The devil’s own bowman . . .’
‘Brother Crispin, the devil does not have bowmen. Tell me what happened.’
The infirmarian sighed noisily as he pointed at the two dead men. ‘Brothers Stephen and Isadore were sitting on that bench. They were sharing the warmth of a wheeled brazier; this has now been removed.’ Crispin shook his head. ‘They were drinking their daily ales. A servitor heard a sound. He glanced across the cloisters. A bowman, masked and cowled, appeared where Father Abbot is now standing. Four shafts, Corbett, all in the twinkling of an eye, and then he was gone.’
Corbett crouched down and stared hard at the two murdered men. ‘I’ll seek justice for you,’ he whispered. ‘God’s justice will be done, and so will the king’s. I swear to that.’ He closed his eyes and murmured a requiem. He realised what was happening here. These two unfortunates had done no wrong. They were just the victims of terror, blind terror. Ruthless assassins now prowled this abbey. They were here to kill, to create a deep fear that would seep through the community and sap its strength.
He rose, blessed himself and walked back around the cloisters to join the rest. He pointed to the entrance behind them, the low wall, the pillars either side adorned at the top with carved acanthus leaves, through which the twisted faces of gargoyles peered and leered.
‘Brother Crispin,’ he demanded. ‘The assassin came through here, yes?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Ap Ythel, how swift would he be?’
The captain of archers pushed himself through the throng around Abbot Henry.
‘Clear this place, Sir Hugh, and I will show you.’
Corbett asked the abbot and his entourage to withdraw, which they reluctantly did. Ap Ythel went out through the portal of the cloisters, shouting at Ranulf to start counting. The clerk had not reached three when the master bowman returned, walking fast, an arrow notched, another held between his teeth. He loosed one shaft, then a second into the darkness with a speed that surprised both clerks.
‘Death in a matter of heartbeats,’ Corbett declared.
‘And that’s how it was.’ Ap Ythel held up his war bow. ‘Our killers must have these; God help us all.’
PART THREE
John stated firmly that he was the rightful heir to the Crown of England.
Life of Edward II
Ap Ythel’s warning was soon proved correct. All the horrors of hell seemed to descend on Holyrood Abbey. No longer was it a house of prayer and community devotion, but a place of devastation, destruction and despair. A killer, perhaps even a cohort of them, now stalked the abbey precincts. Abbot Henry could hold council meetings, Devizes and Mortimer could deploy their hobelars, but Holyrood was a warren, a veritable maze of galleries, passageways, paths, tunnels and corridors, with enclaves, jakes rooms, window embrasures and stairwells. Most of these were shrouded in the deepest darkness in spite of sconces, torches and lanternhorns. The fitful, flickering light these provided only sent the darkness dancing, so it was difficult for people, already panic-stricken, to distinguish between substance and shadow.
The arrow storms continued, confining the community, its servants and guests to their chambers. It became increasingly difficult to cross the bailey to the stables or the various outhouses containing all the essentials of life, be it candles or flour. The attacks were sudden and abrupt. Yard-long shafts with bristling feathered flights and barbed heads would whistle through the air; sometimes just a solitary arrow, at other times five or six, so swift that as one struck another would follow.
Corbett, Ranulf, Mortimer and the Knights of the Swan held meeting after meeting. Devizes’ men-at-arms, assisted by Mortimer’s retainers, combed the abbey fortress. They would rush to where they thought the arrows had come from, only to find nothing but a broken arrow shaft or a door or window that had been forced. On one occasion, a lay brother had apparently startled someone in a stable; his corpse was found just before dusk, a thin Welsh dagger pushed deep into his heart. Nobody could explain how the assassins could move around and attack with such impunity.
The anxiety deepened. You could not be sure who you were approaching down a corridor or up a flight of stairs. Everybody donned war belts or carried a weapon, be it sword or club. Some of the community argued that they should form a battle column and leave the abbey, perhaps march south to Tewksbury or Shrewsbury. Corbett warned that this would be too dangerous. The snow had not yet melted, whilst they also had no knowledge about the enemy lurking in the Valley of Shadows. Mortimer agreed, declaring that to be caught out in open countryside would be disastrous.
The anxiety turned into hysteria. People began to talk of ghost-walkers, demons from hell, who could move through stone and timber without hindrance. Corbett was desperate that one of the killers be caught, so Ranulf joined some of the searches, but to no avail. On his return, he confessed that it was like threading a maze. Corbett kept to his own chamber, reflecting on the mounting chaos, trying to sift through what he had seen and heard. He would sit at his chancery desk, writing in a cipher only he and Ranulf understood, as he tried to make sense and impose order on the information he had gathered.
By now the common consensus was that there were at least three killers prowling the abbey, and that these must receive sustenance and support from someone within. Nevertheless, this was difficult to determine. As Ranulf declared, where did the assassins lurk? Where did they sleep? What did they eat? They could find no answer to these or other questions.
Days passed. Corbett reached one firm conclusion: the terror in the abbey was somehow linked to the Valley of Shadows, and although he could not go there, he could at least question someone who had. Using all his authority, he insisted that he and Ranulf meet with the mysterious prisoner Edmund Fitzroy. Abbot Henry made to protest, but Corbett was insistent, saying that if necessary, Ap Ythel and his archers would force a way in. The abbot grudgingly agreed: he, Jude and Crispin took the two clerks down to the prisoner’s cell, handing the keys to Corbett, who promised that after he left, the doors would be properly secured. He also demanded that he and Ranulf meet the prisoner by themselves: they wante
d no one present. The abbot and his henchmen left, the doors were unlocked and Corbett and Ranulf walked in.
Edmund Fitzroy seemed pleased to see the two clerks. Corbett removed the prisoner’s mask, and Fitzroy served them sweet white wine in silver-edged goblets. Corbett and Ranulf sipped at the delicious drink whilst exchanging pleasantries with their host.
‘Sir Hugh, I have heard there is grievous trouble in the abbey.’
‘Yes, there is.’ Corbett toasted Fitzroy with his cup. ‘Perhaps friends of yours, valley dwellers?’
‘I have no friends there.’
‘Yes, but you lived there. You mingled with those mercenaries. You ate and drank with them. You listened to their talk. I believe our present troubles,’ Corbett again sipped from the goblet, ‘are part of a chain that links this abbey to the Valley of Shadows.’
He got to his feet as if he needed to stretch, and walked over to the four-poster bed. As he glanced at the bolsters and coverlets, so neatly placed, so tidy, a memory was sparked: something he had seen but, for the moment, couldn’t recall. Something that was untoward, not logical.
‘Sir Hugh, are you tired?’ Fitzroy joked. ‘Are you admiring my bed?’
‘No.’ Corbett turned and walked back to his chair. ‘Paracelsus and the Black Chesters. What do you know of them?’
‘Straws in the wind, names and titles I heard mentioned, but nothing else.’ Fitzroy’s voice took on a pleading tone. ‘Nor do I understand the present troubles. Sir Hugh, I cannot help you.’