Death's Dark Valley

by Paul Doherty

‘When you were in the valley,’ Corbett placed the goblet down on the floor beside him, ‘you sheltered in those caves. Didn’t you ask why the mercenaries were so determined to resist the king and his forces?’

  ‘The villagers I lived with hated Edward of England; they needed little urging to take up arms.’

  ‘And the mercenaries, who I suspect were members of the Black Chesters?’

  ‘They too were implacably opposed to the king and all his power. They were determined to fight to the death, and can you blame them? They had no choice. If they had surrendered, they’d all have been hanged.’

  Corbett could only stare back and silently agree. The old king had showed no mercy. Once he caught rebels in arms, there could only be one outcome. Death in the most gruesome manner, or a swift hanging from the nearest gallows or tree.

  ‘I am a prisoner in all of this,’ Fitzroy pleaded.

  ‘And do you realise what could happen to you?’ Ranulf barked. ‘If this abbey fortress was stormed and taken?’

  ‘Of course I am fearful. Sometimes I think of that and I worry. I wish Brothers Anselm and Richard were still alive; they would help.’

  ‘Anselm and Richard?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Why them?’

  ‘They used to visit me here. We would talk about the future, the dangers to be confronted, the threats that might emerge. They were good men. I think they felt sorry for me, pushed from here to there. They were also present when the caves were stormed.’

  ‘They knew the old king’s moods?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Fitzroy waved a hand. ‘I became fearful, frightened. I still am, trapped here, held fast in the vastness of Holyrood. Outside there is nothing but the gloomy Valley of Shadows and whatever monsters and demons lurk there. Brothers Anselm and Richard would comfort me, especially Richard.’

  ‘Tell us how,’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘Very well. I will tell you something I have never shared with the others; Brother Richard made me swear to that. He claimed it was best if what he knew was kept secret.’

  ‘So why are you telling us?’ Ranulf demanded.

  ‘Oh, because Brother Richard often talked about you, Sir Hugh. He said you were a man of integrity, one of a very few who attended the king. I think he had a hand in asking you to come here.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘It was last summer, around the feast of the birth of John the Baptist. Brother Richard came down here to celebrate with a jug of the richest Bordeaux.’ Fitzroy scratched his head. ‘He certainly drank deep.’

  ‘One thing,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Brothers Anselm and Richard were party to the full truth about you; they knew who you were and where you came from?’

  ‘Of course, both were former Knights of the Swan. They devised this gilded cage as well as the others I have been placed in. They insisted that I be kept honourably and comfortably. They knew about this tunnel; it already existed.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose it is the most comfortable dungeon in the kingdom.’

  ‘Continue,’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘As I have said, it was a feast day. Brother Richard came here. He drank deeply and began to boast about this and that. I remained quiet because,’ Fitzroy rubbed the side of his head, ‘I still have dreams, nightmares about that ferocious battle of the caves.’ He paused at the mournful howling of the war dogs chained in their kennels. ‘They also frighten me,’ he murmured. ‘They always have.’

  ‘Brother Richard?’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘He told me not to worry, that if I was in real danger, he and Brother Anselm would come for me and take me to safety.’ Fitzroy stumbled over the words. ‘Per portam . . . per portam Naiaboli.’

  ‘Naiaboli,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Through the door of Naiaboli, what does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Fitzroy seemed distracted. He glanced at Corbett, a vacuous expression on his face, then blinked and began to hum softly beneath his breath. Corbett studied him closely and once again wondered if the prisoner was weak-witted, feeble in mind. He glanced at Ranulf, who just pulled a face and indicated with his head that they should go.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ Corbett asked. ‘My friend, is there anything else?’ Fitzroy did not answer, now lost in his own thoughts, eyes closed, still humming.

  Corbett and Ranulf left the cell. They locked the door and handed the keys to Abbot Henry, waiting at the end of the passageway. The abbot snatched them from Corbett’s hand, saying he would see to the prisoner’s mask. The clerk made a mocking bow and left the donjon, whispering to Ranulf that Father Abbot would certainly ensure that the prisoner was safely locked away.

  They returned to Corbett’s chamber. Ranulf busied himself with the contents of a chancery coffer, wondering aloud how Chanson was faring and whether the snow storm had crossed the Welsh March. He fell silent as the abbey hogs began to squeal, stridently protesting at the mournful, bell-like howling of the war dogs. Corbett felt restless. He bowed his head and prayed three Aves for help. He opened his eyes, glanced up and stared at the small triptych fastened to the far wall beneath a crucifix. The painting depicted an angel going into a church whilst the devil left through the opposite door. He studied this carefully.

  ‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘Not Naiaboli, but diaboli; through the devil’s door.’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘The door in the north wall of many churches is called the devil’s door,’ Corbett explained, ‘through which Satan flees after a baptism or exorcism, to be away from Christ and all that is sacred. I just wonder . . .’

  ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘No, Ranulf, let us wander rather than wonder. Bring a kite shield and be armed.’

  They slipped out of the chamber, down the steps and into the bailey. A killing had taken place earlier in the day. Some hapless scullion had wandered out and paid for his carelessness with his life. The corpse had been removed, but blood still smudged the snow, an ugly spreading stain, eloquent testimony to the horror that had caused it. Corbett and Ranulf walked prudently. Once inside the main abbey buildings, they met Jude. Corbett asked to be shown to Anselm and Richard’s chambers.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ the sharp-faced prior murmured. ‘But what do you seek?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘What is the truth?’

  ‘Pilate asked the same question of Christ, Father Prior. At the moment, all I want is to search those rooms.’

  ‘Yet they have been emptied; I myself supervised it. There’s nothing there now.’

  ‘I still want to search both chambers.’

  Corbett had his way, though Jude was proved to be correct. The two clerks inspected both rooms but discovered nothing of note. Once they had finished, Corbett returned to the cloisters and entered the scriptorium and library, two chambers adjoining each other, only a short walk from the carrels in the cloisters. He openly revelled in such places of study, breathing in what he called ‘the fragrance of the chancery’; the sweet smell of scrubbed parchment, leather, ink, vellum and sealing wax. Both chambers were fairly busy. Members of the community were sheltering from the cold as well as from the ‘ravenous wolf’, as one lay brother called the assassin prowling the abbey. Corbett introduced himself to the Master of the Books, Brother Roger, and said he wished to study any manuscript connected with the construction and development of Holyrood. He was tempted to pose other questions, but as he had whispered to Ranulf in their walk through the cloisters, he did not wish to alert anyone to a suspicion forming in his mind. A possible solution to the attacks by the silent assassin and any coven he might be leading.

  Brother Roger showed Corbett and Ranulf to a chancery desk, then brought two tomes bound in calfskin and closed with leather thongs, as well as tubes crammed with documents. Corbett first sifted through the latter, admiring the skilled calligraphy of the clerks who had devised the plans and maps. These described in great detail how Holyrood had been constructed over ancient dwellings, as well as how the abbey could be developed both as a monastic fo
undation and a fortress to house former warriors. The manuscripts listed the necessary buildings: stables, granges, outhouses, barns and forges. Corbett noticed how well the latter were furnished, bearing in mind that the abbot was a skilled smith and armourer who had personally worked for the king. There were plans for gardens, a mill pond, herb plots, flower beds, stew ponds and a warren close to where the cow byres, hog pens and kennels stood on the far side of the abbey. Other folios described towers, walls, fortifications and gateways. Corbett took careful note of these, tracing with his finger the narrow postern doors and recalling the rantings and ravings of Brother Norbert.

  ‘I wonder,’ he whispered.

  ‘I wonder what?’ Ranulf, leafing through the drawings of the abbey church, glanced up.

  ‘I wonder,’ Corbett leant closer, ‘if our perhaps not so mad lay brother Norbert had a glimpse of our secret assassin. Remember he talked about seeing a demon enter Holyrood, how he was armed with this and that. Now Norbert might have drunk until his wits, mind and eyes were truly addled. However, did he see one of the assassins being allowed in, all hooded and cowled? Is that what he meant by the demon having a hunched back? Was he in fact describing a bowman with all kinds of weaponry concealed beneath his cloak? A jutting war bow, a bulky quiver crammed with arrows?’

  ‘All possible,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But if an assassin was allowed in, who is responsible, and more importantly, where in God’s name is he hiding?’

  ‘About that, I have my suspicions.’ Corbett tapped the manuscript on the table before him. ‘But let us keep searching.’

  He pushed the chancery tubes away and turned to the tomes. The first simply listed all the movables the abbey would need: desks, chairs, benches, stools, kitchenware, Turkey rugs, crucifixes, paintings, curtains, as well as the detailed furnishings for both the church and the sanctuary. Corbett quickly leafed through these before turning to the second volume. At first this proved disappointing because it simply contained the Regula, the rule of the Benedictine order, especially adapted ‘for the common life of the former Knights of the Swan at Holyrood’. As he read the introduction, however, one item caught his eye and he gasped in surprise. He pulled the book closer and read the introduction more carefully before asking Brother Roger if the library held a copy of the Benedictine rule in general. The Master of the Books smiled, took the manuscript Corbett was studying and leafed through the pages to the centre, pointing to the title ‘Regula Sancti Benedicti – The Rule of St Benedict’. Corbett read this and his curiosity deepened. When he glanced up. Ranulf was staring fixedly at him.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘For the moment, nothing, my friend. Let us return to my chamber.’

  They did so safely and without incident. Corbett locked the door and sat in his chair, staring at the triptych, before turning to his henchman. ‘Be as careful as you can, Ranulf, but go and find Ap Ythel and bring him to me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the devil’s door in the abbey church. I will meet you there.’

  Ranulf strapped on his war belt and, armed with a kite shield, left the chamber.

  Corbett waited for a while, and then, similarly harnessed for combat, followed, slipping out across the inner bailey, keeping to the shadow of the wall. At one point he paused and stared up. The sky was clearing and there were blotches of blue, whilst the weather was not so cold. ‘If it rains,’ he prayed, ‘O Lord, let it rain hard and warm.’ He reached the abbey church and, still gripping the kite shield, made his way through a side door. The nave stretched before him, empty but glorious, with its vaulted ceiling and majestic pillars along each side. The transepts beyond were filled with the light from a host of candles. The air had that special rich smell of burning charcoal and smoking incense, whilst the beeswax candles provided their own pleasing perfume.

  Corbett stood, ears strained for any sound, but there was nothing except a restful silence. He crossed into the south transept and paused to examine the magnificent wall paintings, all celebrating the exploits of the former Knights of the Swan. The frescoes were a glorious array of gorgeous colour depicting chevaliers, lances couched, horses richly caparisoned and harnessed for war, charging across the greenest of fields: above these, wings extended, floated alabaster-white swans, their beaks picked out in gold, their yellow eyes ringed with black kohl. Banners, standards and pennants boasting the royal colours of blue, scarlet and gold as well as the personal insignia of the king rippled and curled around the royal host. The knights were charging an army of demons, grotesque, ugly figures garbed in chain mail, gargoyle faces twisted and contorted in rage. Corbett smiled at the way the artist had subtly integrated into the painting the arms and insignia of Edward’s enemies: the de Montforts and others of their coven.

  He stiffened as he heard a sound behind him. He was sure of it. The soft shuffle of a boot, the scrape of leather against stone. He moved slowly back till he stood close to a pillar, then stepped behind this as he tried to place the noise he’d heard. If there was an intruder in the church, an assassin lurking here, he reasoned that he too would also use the pillars as concealment, creeping up along the transept, waiting for the best moment to strike.

  Corbett drew his sword and gripped the leather clasp of the kite shield, sliding his arm through it so he could move the shield as he wanted. He whispered an Ave as he recalled his training, and all the times he had confronted silent, deadly ambuscades. If he stayed still, he would become an even easier target. The safest way was to abruptly confront the enemy. Drawing a deep breath, he lifted the shield and, with his sword blade resting on the top, charged down the transept.

  He felt a twinge of foolishness at screaming a war cry while running through an empty church. Then he saw a shape, shadowy and indistinct, move from behind one of the pillars. The intruder stepped into a pool of light thrown by one of the cressets and knelt, arrow notched, bow up. Corbett did not flinch, but continued his charge even as he felt the arrow thud into the shield. He peered above the shield rim to see that the kneeling figure had risen and was fleeing back down the transept.

  Corbett stopped. Gasping for breath, he moved to the protection of a pillar and waited there. He was about to go forward, wary of any further trap, when he heard voices. A door opened and closed; his name was called. He heaved a sigh of relief and stepped out of the shadows as Ranulf and Ap Ythel came striding up the nave. They soon realised that he had been attacked, but he assured them that he was unscathed, whilst it was futile to pursue or make any search.

  ‘Leave it.’ He handed his shield to Ap Ythel and re-sheathed his sword. ‘Come.’ He gestured at a wall bench in the north transept. ‘Let us sit down whilst I share my suspicions with you. First, whilst I catch my breath, make sure all is in order.’

  Ranulf and Ap Ythel quickly patrolled the church, ensuring all doors were closed and bolted from within. Once finished, they joined Corbett, sitting either side of him on the wall bench.

  ‘Very well.’ Corbett patted each on the shoulder. ‘The only two men I trust in Holyrood. Let us begin. We must concentrate not so much on the murderous tapestry before us but on one motif on that tapestry, the enemy within. The assassin, or should I say assassins, how do they move? Where do they hide?’ He paused. ‘In a word, I suspect Holyrood is built over a maze of secret passageways. Some ancient building preceded this abbey. Brothers Anselm and Richard were royal engineers and master masons. They recognised the unique position of Holyrood and acted accordingly. I believe they were men who loved secret tunnels, hidden passages, disguised doorways and enclaves. I have now been through their records, the manuscripts describing the building and development of Holyrood. Strangely enough, there is no mention of hidden tunnels or secret passageways.’

  ‘Why?’ Ranulf interjected.

  ‘Perhaps they wanted to hog such secrets to themselves.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, I agree,’ Ap Ythel declared. ‘I follow the logic of what you say. Here we have an ancient site, men who love to build and are given fre
e rein to do so. They act as they please and delight in having a secret plan.’ The captain of archers grinned. ‘This has the making of a Welsh poem. But Sir Hugh, what proof do you have for your theory?’

  Corbett rose. ‘Come,’ he murmured. ‘Ap Ythel, you are correct. The truth lies in fact, not just fable. Let me show you.’ They walked along the north transept to the devil’s door, narrow and small. ‘Brother Richard told our prisoner that if he wanted to escape Holyrood, he could do so through the devil’s door. Now we all know where that leads to.’ He drew the bolts and pushed the door open to reveal a waste of snow-covered grass and gorse, which formed part of God’s Acre.

  ‘Is it out there?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Could the secret entrance to a hidden tunnel lie somewhere beneath those bushes and yew trees?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ranulf. It must be concealed yet easy to open in a way that cannot be seen.’ Corbett closed the door. ‘So where would you build a secret entrance close to the devil’s door? Ap Ythel?’

  The captain of archers pointed to the wall. ‘You won’t find it there – the walls are thick, yet not broad enough to conceal a secret place – so it must be in the floor. Look at the paving stones, Sir Hugh. Fairly new, but which one is the most likely?’ He squatted down, dagger out. ‘Right! When you open the door, it covers this paving stone.’ He turned his dagger and beat its pommel against one paving stone, then another, and finally the one he had selected. Lifting his hand to hold their attention, he beat again on all three and Corbett felt a surge of excitement. The third blow had a slight echo. Ap Ythel now inserted the blade of his dagger along all four sides of the paving stone and prised it up. Helped by Ranulf, he slid the slab to one side, then took the sconce torch Corbett handed over and thrust the flaming end down into the darkness. The blazing light danced and fluttered to reveal a narrow staircase, its roughly hewn sandstone steps leading down into total blackness.

  ‘We’ll go down,’ Corbett declared. ‘But be careful.’

  Ap Ythel went first, holding the spluttering torch, followed by Ranulf, then Corbett, who, when he turned, found that there was a grip carved into the underside of the paving stone so it could be easily lifted and pulled back into place. He positioned it carefully, then continued down. The steps led directly into a tunnel. The rock ceiling hung just above their heads; the walls on either side, also hewn rock, were about two yards apart. Corbett, holding his hand up for silence, stared into the inky darkness.