by Paul Doherty
Alusia stayed in bed, warm and secure, until called down for the evening meal. Later she went out to join the other girls as they grouped round a large bonfire lit in the castle yard. A time to share the warmth and chatter and sip from a jug of ale made hot and spicy with burnt embers and powdered nutmeg. Martin had been watching her and she had stared boldly back. The fright she’d experienced the previous morning had made her braver, as if aware of how fleeting life had become. She had agreed to meet him at the usual place, in the far distant corner of the inner castle bailey, and Alusia always kept her promise.
She’d brought a tinder from her father’s pouch and, though it was bitterly cold, stood now in the empty crumbling passageway leading down to the old store-rooms, disused because of fallen masonry. Since the weather had turned cold, Martin and she would often meet here. It was dark, safe and quiet, and her parents would think she was with the other girls. She only hoped Martin would bring that bronze chafing dish, a gift from his elder brother, who had won it at a game of hazard from a passing tinker. The dish was capped and had a handle, and once full of charcoal or burning embers was so good to keep the fingers warm on a dark, cold night such as this.
Alusia heard a sound and, blowing out the candle, went deeper into the cellar. Someone was coming down the steps, a soft footfall, ‘Alusia, Alusia!’ The voice was soft. The young woman, eager to meet her lover, was already stepping out of the shadows before she realised her mistake. It was too late. She was aware of a dark shape blocking out the light. She heard a ‘crick’ and a ‘click’, and the crossbow bolt hit her high in the chest, sending her crashing back deep into the shadows.
One finds it in every town, every village, every camp . . . Corruption and debasement of character which renders all efforts futile.
Roger Bacon, Opus Minus
Chapter 5
Foxglove the outlaw was dying. Horehound, crouching beside him in the fire-lit cave, recognised the symptoms. Foxglove had been ill for days; now the old man’s unshaven face was gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, his forehead sweat-soaked, his eyeballs rolling back in his head. A strange rattling echoed in his throat. Angelica had done her best, feeding him juice of the moss, but the fever remained unabated and Foxglove was seeing visions. He was calling on brothers, comrades who had died at the great battle of Evesham almost forty years before, when the old King’s father had trapped Earl Simon de Montfort, killed him, hacked up his body and fed it to the dogs. Foxglove, as Milkwort reported, was now preparing for judgement, going back into the past, and yet he had one last wish.
‘I need to be shriven,’ the old man begged. ‘I must have a priest to listen to my sins.’ He gripped Horehound’s hand. ‘I’m going, but I want a priest to anoint me. I don’t want my soul to go stinking into death.’
The rest of the outlaw band had agreed with him. Foxglove might be old, but in his time he had been precious, a skilled hunter, a loyal companion. Horehound moved to the mouth of the cave and crouched by the second fire, staring across the snow-covered glade. The storm had passed but the skies threatened more. Horehound chewed the corner of his chapped lip as he considered Foxglove’s request. This had happened before, when old Parsley had died. Father Matthew had come, but that had been in the full flush of summer when the trackways were clear and firm and the priest welcomed a walk through the green dappled coolness of the forest. Now it was the heart of winter; even the outlaws had to be careful not to become lost, and they would have to stay off the beaten trackway. Horehound was fearful of that ancient oak and the corpse hanging there, the horror of the forest! Early in the evening there had been fierce debate about that very thing. Angelica and Milkwort, supported by Peasecod and Henbane, had argued that the corpse should be cut down and secretly buried. Horehound had been insistent in his refusal. He would go and fetch Father Matthew but bring him into the camp by more secret routes. The priest must not see that corpse; that was the kernel of Horehound’s argument. If they touched the corpse they would be held responsible, and wasn’t it ill luck to take such a body down? He smiled grimly. He had won the argument when he had posed the question, who would cut the rope? Nobody wanted to do that; indeed, no one had even approached it. They couldn’t tell if it was male or female.
Horehound stretched out his hands towards the fire. He was deeply worried: their larder of salted meat was depleted; game was becoming increasingly rare and difficult to hunt, the prospect of plunder even rarer. Horehound’s band was growing older, weaker; sometimes the temptation to leave them and go deeper into the forest was almost irresistible.
‘What shall we do?’
Milkwort and Angelica joined him at the fire.
‘We’ll fetch the priest.’
‘No, I don’t mean that!’
Horehound could feel his companion’s anger, whilst Angelica’s broad, smooth face was deeply troubled.
‘You know what I mean.’ Milkwort gathered up his hair, tying it more securely behind his head with a piece of string. ‘Here we are, in the heart of the forest, in the depths of winter, three of our companions ill, and we have very little food.’ He threw a stick on the fire. ‘We’ve even forgotten our names, hiding behind those of wild herbs. We are outlaws, wolfsheads!’ He hawked and spat. ‘But the law doesn’t afear me, the sheriff doesn’t give a damn about us; what frightens me is winter. It’s not yet Yuletide but we’re so short of food we’re going to starve. I don’t think,’ Milkwort added bitterly, ‘we should have threatened the King’s man.’
‘We didn’t threaten,’ Horehound snapped. ‘If we are going to hang, let’s hang for venison, for stealing some clothes from a merchant, but not the slaughter of young maids.’
‘There was another killed,’ Angelica intoned mournfully, shifting the hair from her face. She gazed back into the cave where Foxglove was gasping, fighting for his life. ‘I understand that.’ She jabbed her thumb back at the dying man. ‘But not the brutal slaying of young maids?’
‘You saw her?’ Horehound was eager to change the subject and distract Milkwort.
‘Yes, I told you, I was out near the pathway gathering nuts and whatever else I could find for the pot. I saw the girl in the cemetery. She was standing by the grave, she’d taken some holly, red with berries.’
‘Yes, but did you see the one who was killed?’
‘I saw no one else.’
‘Have you seen any strangers?’ Horehound asked.
‘I think I have, mere glimpses.’
‘There’s none of them about,’ Milkwort scoffed. ‘No peddlers or chapmen, only the foreigners at the tavern. Cas . . . tel . . .’
‘Castilians,’ Horehound corrected him, proud of remembering what Master Reginald had told him. ‘They are from Castile; it’s in Spain.’
‘Where is that?’
‘It’s part of France,’ Horehound blustered. ‘I think it’s part of France, somewhere near the Middle Sea. They’ve come here to buy wool. They travelled from Dover.’
‘Did you see them?’ Milkwort asked. ‘We could have stopped them.’
Horehound wagged a finger. ‘Don’t be stupid. There are five of them, all armed. Above all, they are foreigners. You know what happens if foreigners are robbed? They complain to the sheriff, or to their own prince, and as fast as Jack jumps on Jill, the sheriff’s men will be in the forest, hunting us like deer. You heard what happened to Pigskin and his group? Moved further east they did, attacked some foreigners coming out of Dover.’
The group fell silent. They all knew what had happened to Pigskin and his companions: hanged at the crossroads as a warning to others.
‘If we don’t get the priest soon,’ Milkwort broke the silence, ‘old Foxglove will be joining Pigskin.’
‘Nah,’ Horehound disagreed. ‘Pigskin’s in Hell, a killer he was, not like Foxglove; the worst thing he did was knock a man on the back of the head. But you’re right,’ he sighed, ‘let’s go.’
They left the camp, stumbling through the snow, cursing and muttering as they were cu
t by gorse whilst the snow resting on branches above sprinkled down to soak their clothes. Horehound drew his cowl closer about his head. They went in single file, Angelica bringing up the rear so that she could follow in their footsteps.
Horehound was truly frightened. The forest was silent, a bad sign at night, as if the freezing cold and snow had smothered all life and sound. Everything had changed: no longer the familiar trees and bushes; no longer the telltale stones placed where the trackway turned; no different colours; nothing but blackness broken only by the blind brightness of the snow. Horehound felt as if he was in a dream. He paused to see where he was. Concerned at becoming lost, he ignored Milkwort’s protest and led them out of the forest on to the trackway which snaked through the trees. Eventually they left this, going back into the protection of the trees, following a secure route which would lead them to the Tavern in the Forest.
Horehound, summoning up his courage, knew they would have to cross that glade. When they reached it they all paused; even in the poor light they could see that macabre shape hanging from an outstretched branch, moving slightly as if it had a life of its own. Horehound crossed himself and moved on. He felt hungry, slightly weak, and even as he approached the pathway leading to the tavern, his sharp sense of smell caught the drifting odours of cooked meats and freshly baked bread. His mouth watered and his belly grumbled, and he decided that he could not let such an opportunity slip. He gestured to his companions to keep silent, and they slipped behind the trees at the rear of the tavern. Summoning up their strength they scaled the curtain wall, dropping quietly into the yard below and scrambling down the manure heap piled high between the two stretches of stables. The dogs on their leashes across the cobbled yard were immediately roused and, despite the cold, strained on their ropes, lips curled, barking raucously. This was as far as Horehound would go. He watched the rear door of the tavern open, the welcome sliver of light, smelled the odours of cooking, nigh irresistible, drifting across.
‘Who’s there?’ Master Reginald, a crossbow in one hand, stood in the light. Behind him two tap boys grasped stout cudgels.
‘Only Horehound, Master Reginald,’ the outlaw called across. ‘Foxglove is dying, we need food and drink.’
‘And what do you have to trade?’ Master Reginald came forward, shouting at the dogs to stay silent.
Horehound gripped the club he carried. ‘We’ve nothing,’ he grated. ‘Even our salted meat is putrid. Master Reginald,’ he whined, ‘we need meat and bread. I can pay you back in the spring.’ He edged forward, so hungry he was becoming angry. Master Reginald’s buttery and kitchen were full of good meats, golden-crusted pies, soft pork, goose, chicken and other delicacies. His hunger made him bold. He walked across the cobbled yard swinging his cudgel; the taverner lifted his crossbow. ‘Give us some food,’ the outlaw repeated, ‘and we will leave you in peace.’
From the tavern came a shout, a foreign voice. ‘You have visitors?’ Horehound asked. The taverner understood the threat in his voice. ‘They will have to travel, so we will agree to give them safe passage.’
Master Reginald didn’t realise how weak and impoverished the outlaw band had become. Again the voice shouted, and this time he reluctantly beckoned them forward into the sweet warmth and light of his kitchen. Horehound groaned in pleasure. Milkwort and Angelica just stood gaping at the meats spread out on the fleshing tables, the basket of rye bread and the small white loaves freshly taken from the ovens either side of the great hearth. Horehound stared around. Lamplight glinted in the polished bowls and skillets, and it was then that Horehound made his decision. He was tired of the forest; this was his last winter skulking amongst the trees. Emboldened by the prospects of a change, he walked across and stared through the half-open door of the tap room. The five foreigners were seated round a table. Master Reginald, his bitter face even more angry, ushered him away. A leather bag was brought, quickly filled with scraps of meat and hard rye bread and pushed into Horehound’s hand. The taverner allowed them to take one of the fresh loaves and a morsel of cheese before opening the rear door and gesturing at them to leave. As Horehound passed, the taverner gripped the outlaw’s shoulder.
‘You remember this,’ he warned. ‘I want no trouble for my guests on the forest paths, and when spring comes I want to be repaid.’
Horehound and his two companions were only too delighted to agree. They crossed the yard, scaled the wall and crouched for a while in the icy darkness, congratulating themselves on their good fortune.
‘I wonder why?’ Milkwort’s face, red and chapped, was twisted in disbelief. He crouched so close to Horehound the outlaw leader could smell his foul breath, the rancid sweat from his dirty rags.
‘Master Reginald wanted us out,’ Angelica whispered. ‘He didn’t want us there! He didn’t want us troubling those merchants who must be paying him well.’
Now that he was out in the freezing night Horehound was even more suspicious. The taverner was not noted for his kindness; the tap boys had told them about how he liked to beat the slatterns. The foreigners must be paying well and Master Reginald didn’t want any trouble. Horehound stared up at the black sky, and even as he did, fresh flakes wetted his face.
‘What hour must it be?’
‘Not long before midnight,’ Milkwort guessed. ‘We should hurry. They say a dying man always goes before dawn.’
They continued their journey through the trees, Horehound clutching his precious bag. Now and then they lost their way, cursing and grumbling as they were pricked by icy brambles. Horehound hissed at them to be careful. Near the church lay hidden marshes and he didn’t want to become trapped. At last they reached the cemetery wall, and climbed this wearily, moving quickly around the tombstones and crosses towards the priest’s house. Horehound now felt more comfortable. The priest kept no dogs and, being a kindly man, might have some food to spare. The outlaw carefully circled the grey-brick building, leaping up to catch a glimpse of light from the shutters, but the house lay in silence. The priest had his chamber at the back, on the second floor, yet the shutters here were closed too and betrayed no gleam of light.
Horehound searched amongst the snow and, gripping some dirt, flung it up, but no reply. He sent up a second hail of dirt and pebbles, shouting hoarsely, ‘Father Matthew? Master Priest?’ He started as an owl hooted in the far trees of the cemetery.
‘Perhaps he is not here,’ Milkwort suggested. ‘Perhaps he stayed at the castle.’
Horehound was about to turn away when he glimpsed a gleam of light coming from a window in the church, a small oriel overlooking the entrance to the nave. ‘He’s in the church,’ he whispered. He hurried across, thrust his cudgel at Milkwort and climbed the crumbling wall. The hard stone dug into his chapped, sore flesh but Horehound persisted.
The small oriel was full of thick stained glass, the gift of some wealthy parishioner. The image of a saint, hands extended, blocked any clear view, but the thickened strip of glass beneath allowed Horehound to peer through. He gasped and blinked. The porch of the church was bright with light from a ring of candles. Father Matthew, wrapped in a thick, heavy cloak, was squatting in the centre. On his left was a pot of fire, the flames leaping up from the charcoal, and before him a large deep bowl of gleaming brass. Horehound couldn’t understand what was happening. Now and again the priest would stare down at a small book, the size of a psalter, kept open by weights on each corner. Horehound couldn’t decide if he was chanting or talking to himself; his lips were moving, as if reciting some incantation. Just near the book was a small open coffer, the sort a leech would use to contain his powders. Father Matthew was taking grains of powder from this and sprinkling them into the bowl, cleaning his hands very carefully above it.
Horehound, fascinated, forgot the reason why he was there. He watched the priest sprinkle more powder before lighting a taper from the fire pot and throwing it into the bowl. Horehound stifled a scream at the flash of fire which leapt up, so surprised he lost his grip and almost fell on to h
is waiting companions below.
‘What is it?’ Milkwort gasped.
Horehound, terrified, didn’t even bother to reply but, grasping his cudgel, raced across to the cemetery wall, flinging himself up it and dropping down on the other side. Ignoring the shouts of his companions, he ran until he had reached the shelter of the trees. Milkwort and Angelica came panting up, the woman holding the precious sack of food.
‘What did you see?’ Milkwort asked.
‘The devil,’ Horehound hissed back, ‘appearing in a tongue of flame!’
‘Nonsense!’ Milkwort protested.
‘I know what I saw,’ Horehound rasped, ‘and when we go back to the cave, keep your mouths shut. Old Foxglove will be all a-tremble. I’ll pretend to be the priest.’ He gestured back towards the church. ‘I’ll do him more good than that one.’
Sir Hugh rose early the next morning. He loosened the shutter and gasped at the blast of freezing air. It was snowing again, though not as heavily as the day before. He placed the shutter back, went across to the lavarium, cracked the ice and splashed water over his face. Dressing quickly, he built up the fire, blowing at the embers and using the powerful bellows on the weak flames in the braziers. For a while he crouched, basking in the warmth. The chamber was bitterly cold and he hitched his cloak tighter against the icy draughts seeping under the door and through the shutters. He was glad he was clear-headed, pleased he had not drunk or eaten too much the night before, and he smiled as he remembered how he and Ranulf had helped Chanson to bed. The groom had sat with the other henchmen below the dais and drunk everything placed before him.
Corbett had lain awake in bed before summoning up enough courage to face the cold. He’d heard the tolling of the chapel bell and decided to go to Mass before doing what he planned. He finished dressing, pushing his feet into fur-lined boots, wrapping his military cloak securely about him and putting on a pair of thick mittens which Lady Maeve had bought from a chapman who traded between Leighton and Colchester. Leaving his chamber unlocked he went down the steps, standing aside for servants bringing up buckets of scalding water as well as sacks of logs and charcoal for his chamber. He assured them they were not too late, saying he would return after he had attended Mass.