Two soldiers lit the way with flaming torches in each hand. The light banished the shadows only slightly, but imparted fresh, disturbing life to the dead trees.
“Keep your eyes on the guides’ lights,” the captain of the guard said in a rough voice firmly gripping his lantern. “Do not look to the trees, lest you share the fate of your companions.”
It was not a threat, Palmer realised. It was sound advice, and the quavering tone told Palmer it was a fate the Royalist occupiers would share with them.
Yet they could have left us to the mercy of the woods. They were ordered to fetch us. Our fate may yet be sealed…He glanced at Shadrach. The stranger’s face was impassive, showing no concern for their capture; yet his eyes were narrowed and fixed on the sweeping torchbearers.
Palmer thought of speaking to him, but the overwrought, nervous faces of their guards – and the twitching trigger fingers – made him reconsider.
There would be a time for questions soon enough. He wondered how painful the interrogation would be, and swallowed noisily.
He saw Lewis shuffling meekly before him. All fight and arrogance had been wiped from the murderous sergeant; he had not protested when his arms were bound, his head sunk to his chest. Guilt at his stupidity in uttering the names of their commanders, or the terror of what he had seen in the dead wood? Palmer knew not, and cared less. At least Lewis could do no more harm.
Palmer saw how the sergeant winced when his hands were bound, noted the swelling in his fists. He frowned. An allergic reaction of some kind. But what to? Had he been bitten by something in the trees?
A jab of a pistol barrel pushed the thought from him. He resisted the impulse to strike back, knowing to do so would be folly, and continued behind his fellow prisoners.
The last of the dead trees was behind them, and Palmer had his first close up view of the monastery. He momentarily forgot about the horror of the woods.
This is no church building. The cruciform structure of what had once been a Norman nave and chancel were apparent, but that was where the familiarity ended. The octagonal tower was not in the central crossing of the building; it had been built within the junction of the nave and south transept.
Or rather, Palmer thought, the monastery was built around the tower – or grew around it. So this site held a lighthouse before a Christian building.
The slabs of stone were older, darkened and crumbling; yet the tower seemed to possess a hidden strength, a defiant refusal to succumb to the ravages of time the rest of the monastery was falling into. On closer inspection, the building’s buttresses and pinnacles had sagged, and in some places fallen away completely.
Around the ancient stonework, a ditch had been dug – filled with sea water that stank of rotten fish and seaweed, and something else. Only as they traversed the narrow wooden causeway, their feet slipping on the slimy, weed-encrusted planking and threatening to send them tumbling into the swamp-like barrier below, did Palmer see what else filled the moat.
Torchlight shone on the things half-protruding from the water level. Rotted corpses with elongated skulls, pieces of mottled brown and yellow flesh falling from bodies as they twisted and rolled in the moat, adding to the grim stew of death and corruption.
Palmer’s boot kicked a piece of broken slate into the water, where it clipped the snout of one of the beasts and turned its head towards him. Empty eye sockets glanced his way and the lower jaw slid open in a mocking welcome. He halted on the walkway, staring in horror at the creature’s broken teeth and the maggots feasting on its tongue, until a musket barrel nudged him forwards.
“Not much meat on them, soldier,” his captor said softly. “Those nags will never ride again.”
Neither will ours, Palmer thought. Their captors had made no attempt to recover the Parliamentarian horses; they had been left to the mercies of the dead wood.
Palmer allowed himself to be pushed to the end of the causeway, only slightly relieved to realise that the decomposed creatures were the dead horses of the Royalist occupiers, and not monsters. They have killed their mounts rather than stable them. Why?
Then he realised. There was more skeleton than horse; only the meat that was inedible had not been consumed. The occupiers of Fairlight had not killed their steeds idly; they had run out of food.
He glanced at the crumbling embankment, frowning at the sight of tree roots pushing their way through. He blinked, certain that some of them writhed like worms. Then the clouds shifted, allowed moonlight to shine fully, and the writhing ceased.
The walkway, situated on an incline, steepened as they got to the end. Another defence, Palmer thought: a hastily-attacking force would have to advance single file across the moat, and the slightest trip would have them plummeting to the soup of death and decay below. Yet it did the defenders no favours; they had to advance cautiously and keep their distance from the prisoners. If their hands were not bound, Palmer knew he would attempt to overpower the nearest man. But the thought of slipping on the planking, of falling into the stew of putrefaction below and being unable to swim free, sapped his resolution. He looked up, relieved when his feet made contact with hard-packed earth which signified the end of their treacherous crossing.
Before them stood the last obstacle to the monastery. The wall was surprisingly low, coming up to an average soldier’s chest, and would prevent no obstacle to a determined attacker. If they made it this far, Palmer reminded himself. The wall was curved, and doubtless formed a rough circle around the monastery buildings. It looked to be of the same masonry used in the main building, so had been built with little thought of defence. After all, who would besiege a house of God and a holy order?
It was weather-beaten, thick with what looked to be moss and lichen. Even this shifted and moved, given life by the captors’ torchlight. Cracks in the crumbling masonry were filled with shadows that writhed and pulsated, so that the stone barrier seemed to be an organic, living thing that beat with its own dark heart.
They passed through a ruined lych-gate, their heels crunching on shattered fragments of slate from the destroyed roof that had tumbled down onto the causeway. The wooden support posts were scorched and splintered, like broken arms raised to the heavens, pleading for mercy. Pieces of lead shot reflected dimly in the torchlight, and Palmer wondered which side they had come from.
Then he saw the angle of the shattered posts, the direction in which the pieces of slate lay on the ground, and concluded that the destruction had not been part of an assault on the monastery: the firepower had come from within the building itself.
A defence against something that emerged from the wood, he thought with a shudder. His throat was dry and he could not swallow as he recalled the tree roots in the embankment.
Past the lych-gate, and a few mouldering grave markers of indeterminate age, slanting backwards in the moist grass as though the deceased occupants sought shelter from the woods, even in death. The smell of sea marsh grew stronger, and he could hear the lapping of waves on the rocks behind the building. There was no cry of gulls.
The porch was dank and forbidding, and only when the leading soldier rapped on the double-doors and the summons was answered with a creak of warped oak and rusty hinges, did the captors relax.
A wide-eyed young soldier held the door to, his pistol slowly – almost reluctantly – lowered when he was visibly satisfied the callers were recognisable. Then he saw the captives and frowned.
“These are the men?” His voice was high-pitched, and Palmer saw now just how young the soldier was: fifteen or sixteen at the most. “All of them?” He sounded disappointed.
“Aye, lad,” Palmer’s guard said. “There were two more, but they fell prey to the wood. Now, let us in, and summon Sir George: he wishes to question the prisoners personally.”
A shudder swept over the young soldier. “You may have to see him yourself. He refuses to leave the crypt, and I will not go down there.” He lowered his voice, but Palmer heard the words well enough. “I fear his af
fliction grows worse. He renders more fat for those candles, mutters about the Goat’s Young. If we were not besieged by those…those things, I would depart.”
The captain growled. “Damn it, Easton! Scared o’ shadows and hobgoblins? If I hear one more mutinous word from you –”
Easton swallowed. “You know it yourself, sir. In truth, are we not all prisoners here? I saw the roots in the embankment as you left. The Goat’s Young are getting stronger. Advancing.”
Palmer and Shadrach glanced at each other, both remembering Overy’s cry in the woods: The Black Goat…dear God in heaven, she walks among us. The Black Goat!
The garrison captain growled once more. “Cut that talk, Easton! Sir George will have the answers soon, I am certain.”
Shadrach turned to the youngster. “You said the Goat’s Young. Do you realise what this means?”
Shadrach’s guard growled and shoved him forward. “None of yer business, stranger. Ye’ve other things to worry about.”
Shadrach turned his head slowly, and even Palmer wilted before the baleful, contemptuous glare. His words were ice. “The Black Goat of the Woods – if she has conceived, given life to the Young…you are just as much prisoners as we!”
* * *
They were allowed to walk freely into the vestibule, but their hands remained bound. The soldiers shouldered their muskets, sheathed their tucks, and the two leaders now parked their torches into holders on the doorway.
Their belongings and equipment were not returned. Shadrach stared at the captain who walked away with his snapsack and his leather holster. He had not seen the stranger’s hybrid-weapon, but was taking everything to his leader. Doubtless Sir George Kendall would make use of it. Palmer raised a quizzical eyebrow at Shadrach, who only shook his head slowly.
Shadrach’s words to their captors had been truthful. The signs were plain: the moat filled with the remnants of the horses; the shattered lych-gate and the fragments of lead shot buried in the supports; the tense, frightened expressions on the soldiers’ drawn and starved faces; the assault on Overy and the mental disintegration of Lewis in the dead woods.
These men are not an occupying force: they are besieged themselves! Their grim-faced captors ignored them as they made their way into the nave, and Palmer’s breath was taken away as forcefully as if he had been punched in the stomach by his captor’s musket barrel.
“God’s wounds,” Lewis whispered. The words echoed softly in the porch, but did not carry around the vestibule. It was as though the very stone swallowed them.
Just as it attempted to swallow the light. Cressets and torches had been lit and placed in every free section – most noticeably below the windows – yet still the illumination was poor, the light that should have blinded them nothing but a dim, feeble glow.
Shadows moved in the chancel, where the stalls and pews should have been. It was no surprise to see holy places stripped of their fittings in order to provide stabling and accommodation to cavalrymen and their horses, yet Palmer suspected the seating had been torn away long before the occupation, maybe even before the Dissolution itself.
The smell of old stone and straw mingled with the scent of blood and putrefaction. Shadows moved low to the ground, their writhing snake-like forms a grim reminder of the wounded in the hall of Haverton.
As the young soldier walked past them, his torch illuminating the agony-wracked visages of his comrades, Palmer almost wished he had remained in Haverton. The pain on these men’s faces was caused by more than the physical hardships and suffering of warfare. Musket ball and sword wound could not have created such nightmarish visages. These surely belonged to the hellish wood outside.
The torchbearing captain halted before the altar. Even this close to the end of the chancel, the light from the torch did little to illuminate the great east window. Lead tracery glimmered slightly, before being swallowed by the darkness once more.
The captain beckoned them nearer. After a curt nod from Shadrach, Palmer found his footing and moved forward. Each step was a walk in darkness, a step closer to death. The groans of the men turned to pleas – and even jubilation at the sight of unharmed soldiers. They think we are reinforcements. They do not see our sashes.
“I count sixteen,” Shadrach said quietly. “Twelve wounded men – several who will not see morning’s light – and the four who took us.”
“Hardly the menacing regroup yer guv’nors warned ye about,” Lewis said, less quietly. The sight of the weakened occupiers had bolstered his confidence, and it showed in his carefree manner of speech. “We coulda taken this lot easy. Hear that, young ‘un?”
The torchbearer turned, his face impassive. “Hear what?”
“We could take ye all out right now.” His face was a triumphant leer, his raised voice mocking. Yet the brooding black stone muffled his words, denied them the impact he desired.
“Yes. I daresay you could. But what then, soldier? I would listen to your commanding officer if I were you.” He inclined his head to Shadrach. “He speaks the truth.”
“He ain’t my commander!” Lewis spluttered. “He be –”
The torch was thrust into his face, at a point just below his beard. The soldier, filled with a weary calm that belied his youth and relative inexperience, startled both Palmer and Lewis. The sergeant took an involuntary step back, his wounded leg twisting. He gritted his teeth.
“ ‘You are just as much prisoners as we.’ Remember?” Easton gestured with the torch, and spoke in a lower voice. “Take a look around you. This is the sole force remaining, and not all their wounds came from human agents.”
Palmer stared at the afflicted men, saw the maggots in their untreated flesh. He tried to believe it was the darkness that made the creatures appear larger than they truly were. Thick, worm-like beings that had the appearance of dead tree branches, writhing in a winter gale.
Shadrach nudged him forward, and Palmer, with a warning glance to Lewis, turned and followed the torchbearer. The sight of Lewis’s astonished face pleased him somewhat, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the sergeant lost control.
“Black stone, Lewis,” Palmer said. “The legends never mentioned this, did they?”
“No,” Shadrach said. “It is known as the Black Church, on account of the history. But now we see it is a literal truth.” Shadrach gave a grim smile. “Ask yourself this: Why are the walls black? The exterior is made of naught but natural granite; grey, not black.”
“Paint, mebbe. Pitch.” Lewis’s feet shuffled on the straw as they came to a halt.
“Paint? Pitch? Nay, Lewis, this is no man-made blackness.” The torchbearing soldier raised a hand to stop the prisoners approach, and Shadrach fell silent. Palmer saw the torch reflecting on another black barrier, this one wood. He tried to forget what Shadrach had said.
This door…did it lead to a side chapel? Then he remembered the strange octagonal tower that had not been part of the abbey’s original structure.
Sounds of footsteps on worn stone, getting louder. The door opened and Palmer saw the captain who had taken their belongings. His face was pale and sheathed in sweat, despite the chill of the abbey. His eyes narrowed when they alit on Shadrach.
“You!” A pistol was withdrawn from its holster, a trembling hand aiming it at Shadrach’s face. The captain stepped from the doorway, and light spilled with him. Whatever strange material coated the interior of the abbey walls, the staircase leading up to the tower – and down to a subterranean section – was not coated with it.
Shadrach spoke, his tone resigned. “I assume Sir George will see me now that he has had a chance to inspect my belongings?”
The captain did not answer. His lips tightened, his visage a grimace, as he indicated the narrow stairway with his pistol.
Palmer watched his mysterious companion enter the stairway. Shadrach’s boot heels rang six times on the risers before the occupying captain followed him. Before he did so, he muttered to the young soldier: “Keep them here. Whatev
er you do, do not let them move.”
Lewis and Palmer glanced at each other, their faces asking the same question: What has changed?
The doorway to the staircase slammed shut. Easton frowned, as puzzled by the change in atmosphere as his captives. He unholstered his pistol.
“Palmer,” Lewis said in a lower, more cautious tone, “what be in Shadrach’s snapsack?”
Palmer swallowed, his eyes on the pistol. Unlike the Royalist captain, this soldier’s grip on his firearm was firm, steady and unwavering. The musket ball would pass through his forehead and shatter the rear of his skull if he made a single offensive movement.
He kept still. He looked around the unnaturally-darkened nave and chancel, the flickering cressets and torches, the dying men on the floor of a holy sanctuary, and asked himself the same question.
It was their young captor who answered. In a measured voice, he said, “It would appear your friend has brought his past with him. Maybe there is hope after all.”
PART TWO: The Fruits of Birnam Wood
“As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move.”
Macbeth, Act V, Scene 5
CHAPTER EIGHT
For the man known as Shadrach, the descent was a slow one. The soldier who followed kept looking over his shoulder, as though desiring to ascend the stairway rather than face what lay below.
The steps were slippery, coated with some strange moss that made the going treacherous. The scent of stale sea air was strong, and Shadrach assumed the stairway below had access to tunnels that led to the sea, tunnels that flooded on occasion.
Dreaming In Darkness Page 18