by Paul Doherty
Dorcas, full of wine, simply snored. Katherine rose to her feet.
‘Leave him,’ Eleanor warned. ‘Do not pursue him, even here in this armed camp.’
‘Did you suspect?’ Katherine asked, sitting down again.
‘Yes, I did. But suspicion is one thing, belief another. Our curate always had an eye for the ladies. I heard the tale he just told. How he returned to Colchester for his mother’s funeral only to be told that she, like her own son, had a secret life. She acted the courtesan, pandering to the greedy needs of certain burgesses.’
Eleanor blew out her cheeks and paused at the ominous cry of some night bird carrying through the brooding darkness. ‘A harbinger,’ she murmured. ‘It will be cold tonight.’ She pointed to the makeshift bothy LeCorbeil had built out of branches, heavy blankets and armfuls of bracken and gorse. ‘At least we will have some comfort. Anyway, let me finish before our priest returns. Father Roger’s wits were never the strongest. I have watched him and reflected. I believe he used to seek out whores for solace, then turned on them in unresolved fury against his mother. You have heard similar tales from streetwalkers, surely? Men who like to be violent in their swiving, to beat a girl, to mock her body; this gives them great pleasure. A few do not stop at that; murder is in their heart.’
Katherine nodded in agreement.
‘Never mind him,’ Eleanor continued in a hushed whisper. ‘Do not be fooled. LeCorbeil knows you have been watching them, and for that reason alone, they will never let us live.’
Katherine’s heart missed a beat, and she flinched as if an ice-cold wind had brushed her back and neck. She made to protest, but conceded to the steely look in her aunt’s eyes.
‘Katherine.’ Eleanor stroked her hand; Katherine noticed how fine and long her aunt’s fingers had become. ‘Katherine, believe me. Bertrand and his company of devils have no intention of letting us live. Somehow they will use us to entice your father into a trap, as they did me and Edmund some five years ago. Listen well. Edmund’s murder was LeCorbeil’s doing. I do not know the full story, or exactly what was going on in my husband’s mind after he came home from France. The emergence of the maid, Joan of Arc, was the beginning of England’s defeat; however, Edmund, and certainly your father, had profited from the wars.’
She paused as Dorcas pitched dangerously forward, head towards the fire. She and Katherine made the maid comfortable on the ground, covering her with a cloak and a shabby blanket.
‘Your father came home as he always did, a roaring boy, but Edmund had greatly changed. Secretly he told me how he had witnessed bloody slaughter in France, the climax being a savage massacre in the Norman town of LeCorbeil. No, they were not involved or responsible, but your father and Edmund certainly viewed the aftermath. Edmund was full of contrition at his part in the war. We married, planned to raise our own family, but his soul was still deeply stricken by what he had experienced. He took to visiting the Good Brothers, the Franciscans at Greyfriars. He would take your brother Gabriel.’ She blinked away her tears.
‘They became very close, more like father and son than kinsmen. Simon deeply resented all this, as he did my marriage to Edmund. He accepted it, but he has a will of steel. He knew something was wrong, but was frustrated at being unable to help. He and Edmund became estranged, especially when Edmund tried to keep clear of all the nefarious goings-on at the Roseblood. In truth, he dreamt of becoming a merchant, of breaking free of the past. He often wished he could make reparation.
‘Then, about six years ago, Edmund confided in me how he had met young men from LeCorbeil. How he had explained to these emissaries that he was not to blame. He was most secretive about this. He told me how the survivors of the massacre were building a chantry in their parish church to honour the memory of the victims of the massacre; about how the local bishop wished to obtain the names of all those responsible.’
Eleanor paused as one of their captors passed the campfire, leading a sumpter pony.
‘And he believed this nonsense?’ Katherine asked.
‘He was full of guilt, gullible, desperate to make amends. We had no knowledge of the truth, not even a shred. Edmund believed the fairy tale being spun around him because he desperately wanted to. He never discussed it with Simon, only me. And I encouraged him wholeheartedly. I truly loved Edmund. I could see how he wanted to escape the pain, and so did I. God forgive us, we came to fiercely resent your father. We kept LeCorbeil hidden from him. We even ignored his warnings, allusions to LeCorbeil being the arrow point of French attacks on our southern coast.
‘Five years ago, Cade proclaimed himself Captain of Kent and marched to London.’ She paused, hands going out to the flames. ‘It happened so quickly, Katherine. Edmund received an invitation to meet an emissary of LeCorbeil. He and I were so eager to escape the Roseblood. Cade’s rebellion and the riots in London amply demonstrated the violence we had both grown to hate. Edmund went, and he was murdered.’ Eleanor’s voice broke. ‘Decapitated, abused, a dead crow left beside his poled head. Of course we had been tricked. So sudden,’ she murmured, ‘so swift, like a summer swallow skimming over the grass. I could not believe it. We had been seduced, betrayed and shattered.’ She grasped her niece’s hand. Her fingers were as cold as ice. ‘I urged Edmund along that path. My guilt, my sorrow, my mistake: that is why I am an anchorite. More importantly, now you will realise that LeCorbeil will never let us live!’
Eleanor paused as Dorcas struggled awake, moaning quietly and rubbing her stomach. ‘I must go to the latrines.’ The maid staggered to her feet and disappeared into the darkness.
‘How do we escape?’ Katherine urged. ‘And even if we do, I have heard the chatter amongst LeCorbeil. We are journeying south to Cottesloe, a deserted woodland village. They talk about meeting their seigneur. They also gossip about how the armies are on the move. The King has issued his writs, his commissioners of array are moving through the shires trying to raise troops. They are even offering pardons to outlaws.’ She closed her eyes, trying to recall the conversations she had overheard whilst they had been setting up camp. Indeed, that now frightened her, for it proved that Eleanor was correct: their captors had talked freely, confident that their prisoners would never—
Katherine opened her eyes and sprang to her feet at the heart-piercing scream echoing across the camp. ‘Dorcas!’ She grasped a brand from the flames and hurried through the darkness, the night air reeking of leather, burnt meat, horseflesh and human sweat. Others, also alarmed, were hastening towards the screaming; already two of LeCorbeil were flanking her. Katherine stumbled and slithered, her cloak catching briar and gorse. They reached the latrines, an ancient ditch behind a hedge of wild bramble; the stench was offensive. Dorcas stood on the lip of the ditch, gesturing wildly towards a clump of trees close to the picket lines. Peering through the gloom, Katherine could see that LeCorbeil were already there. She gingerly crossed the ditch. Dorcas stood still, pointing into the darkness.
‘I went over there. I did not want the men to see. The priest…’
Katherine ignored her and hurried across the heathland. She threw the firebrand away as she joined the ring of torches. LeCorbeil were staring at Father Roger, hanging from the outstretched branch of an ancient oak. He had apparently ripped his cloak, fashioned a noose, clambered up the gnarled trunk, tied the other end securely and let himself drop. He hung feet down, hands by his sides, head strangely twisted; in the dancing torchlight, his liverish face looked truly grotesque, eyes popping, swollen tongue thrust out.
‘The Judas priest.’ Bertrand was now beside her. ‘He spared the hangman.’
‘Cut him down!’ Katherine begged. ‘Please.’
Bertrand agreed, but despite the tearful pleas of both women, he ordered the corpse to be thrown into the latrine pit. They had to watch it sink beneath the filthy mud before being escorted back to their bothy.
Eleanor had not moved. When Katherine told her what had happened, she just sat staring into the fire. ‘I wondered,’
she whispered, ‘I truly did. I mean, how it would end. Oh God rest his miserable soul.’ She helped Katherine to calm Dorcas, then all three women crawled into the bothy to sleep.
They were aroused at first light, given some bread and ale and mounted on horses. They left the camp and entered the dense woodland, threading their way along dark paths, the trees pressing in from either side. The company were well armed, each carrying an arbalest looped over their saddle horn. They moved purposefully, aware of the sounds of the forest: the flutter of birds, the various calls and all the other eerie noises. Simply by sharp observation, Katherine realised that their passage was being noticed by the forest people: charcoal burners, poachers, outlaws; all those who lived their hidden lives in the green darkness. No one dared approach them. LeCorbeil were professional soldiers journeying to join other men at war, and so were left well alone.
Katherine grew increasingly concerned about her two companions. Eleanor was in constant pain, clutching her stomach; Dorcas slumped in the saddle bemoaning her filthy clothes and the numerous pains and aches that vexed her. The maid’s mind began to wander. She would call Katherine’s name and ask how long it would be before they reached the Roseblood. This provoked jeers from those close to them. Katherine could only gaze pityingly back and pray quietly for help. Yet how could they escape from this green fastness, the sun and the wispy white sky blocked by the tangled canopy of branches? The bracken and closely packed trees thronging on every side were like the bars of a prison cage, and only God knew what other dangers lurked deeper in the forest.
They reached a clearing and paused to break their fast. Katherine helped Eleanor down from the saddle and offered her a wineskin. She heard cries and turned quickly. Dorcas had slipped from her mount and was running as fast as she could across the clearing, desperate to reach the far line of trees. Katherine screamed at her to stop, but Dorcas, head back, hair tossing in the breeze, ran on. Some of their escort mounted in pursuit but then paused. Dorcas had reached a stretch of greenness lighter than the rest and was floundering helplessly. Katherine stared in shock as her maid, stricken with terror, sank deeper into the treacherous forest marsh.
‘Help her!’ she shouted at the mounted men.
They reined in, quietening their horses, as Bertrand, one hand raised, rode slowly across the clearing, checking the ground around him. Dorcas, realising that she was trapped, tried to turn back, only to sink more deeply into the green morass. Katherine, lifting the hem of her dress, sped towards her. One of her escort shouted and Bertrand skilfully turned his horse, blocking her path.
‘Don’t follow.’ He leaned down. ‘There is nothing…’
Katherine was powerless to move; she could only watch in horror as Dorcas, head back, mouth open in a silent scream, disappeared beneath the shifting, moss-strewn marsh. She crumpled to the ground, sobbing bitterly. She could hear Eleanor crying as if from a long distance away, and was aware of Bertrand moving his horse, his strong hand grasping her by the hair. She was dragged to her feet and roughly pushed back to join the rest.
For a while, she could only crouch with Eleanor’s arms around her. Eventually they were separated, pulled apart. A small manchet loaf was thrust into her hand. She was ordered to drink from the wineskin and then lifted back on to a horse.
‘She was warned!’
Katherine gazed at Bertrand’s cold, handsome face. ‘One day,’ she breathed, ‘I hope to kill you.’
‘One day,’ Bertrand retorted, ‘is here and now.’ He walked away.
They continued on their journey. Darkness had fallen before they entered the derelict and deserted village of Cottesloe. Katherine felt she was entering the realm of ghosts. Houses stood either side of the weed-choked main trackway, gaping windows and open doors staring blindly out. The tavern’s battered sign swung on a rusty chain, creaking as if it called the dead; the horse trough in front of it brimmed with water. The village well still had its red-brick wall beneath a well-maintained coping. Katherine glimpsed ovens beside what must have been the bakery. Stalls and benches stood in front of derelict shops and houses. Doors creaked open in the wind as if in ghastly welcome. Before them rose the ancient parish church with its great front door, narrow windows and soaring bell tower. A dismal silence brooded, as if just beyond the veil, the restless spirits of the dead, those cut down by the Great Plague, watched and seethed at this intrusion by the living.
Katherine glimpsed torch- and candlelight in some of the houses they passed. A small group of LeCorbeil were waiting for them just on the edge of the church enclosure, six in all, grouped around a grey-haired man who welcomed Bertrand and his companions warmly. He glanced at Katherine and Eleanor, then shrugged and turned away.
They were ordered to dismount and taken to a cottage close to the cemetery. Its windows were boarded up, but the walls of dried mud and wood were in good repair, as was the thatched roof, whilst the heavy door could be padlocked and secured both from within and without. Inside they had a small brazier to warm themselves, sacking for beds and a few sticks of furniture. Katherine, still shocked after Dorcas’s death, simply threw herself down on the makeshift palliasse and promptly fell asleep.
She awoke cold and aching the following morning. Eleanor lay moaning in her sleep, but when Katherine turned her over, she simply shrugged her off. Katherine lay down again until the door was unlocked and guards brought in some charcoal and bracken, followed by bowls of oatmeal. Eleanor, looking pale and wan, rose and ate some of the porridge. She offered the rest to Katherine, assuring her she had taken enough. Katherine ate greedily with her fingers whilst her aunt hobbled outside. A short while later Eleanor returned, closed the door and squatted down on her bed.
‘Don’t worry,’ she murmured. ‘God will provide.’ Katherine could only wonder how.
She felt exhausted, but as the morning wore on, she became more determined. She accepted that she had been given a rough awakening to the harsh realities of life. She had enjoyed the good things of her father’s wealth, lost in girlish dreams about Camelot, but, she conceded ruefully, Camelot had been invaded and the golden glow had died. She recalled one of her father’s favourite quotations from the Bible: ‘There is a time and season for everything under Heaven. A time for reaping and a time for planting… a time for peace and a time for war.’ This was war. The day of reckoning had arrived, but how was she to confront it? She recalled Dorcas sinking into that marsh. Father Roger swinging by his neck from a branch. She huddled deeper into her cloak, listening to the sounds from outside.
Abruptly the door was flung open, and one of LeCorbeil entered and threw a small oilskin at Eleanor’s feet.
‘You asked for it,’ he declared. ‘Said you needed it for cleaning.’
Once the man had left, Eleanor roused herself. She went to the door, opened it, stared out, then closed it and came to crouch close to Katherine.
‘There is a faint mist,’ she declared. ‘Listen.’ Katherine heard shouts and calls. ‘They are practising at the butts with their arbalests; they are preparing for the coming war.’
‘On whose side?’
‘Oh, undoubtedly York’s, but I suspect their real purpose is simply to deepen the darkness and spread the chaos. Now I understand that we will be allowed to wander, but we will be watched. Once twilight falls, we will be locked in here again and that’s when you will escape. I have planned it. You will go but I will stay.’
‘Eleanor!’
‘Katherine, listen well,’ Eleanor pleaded. ‘I am dying. For months I have had bleeding, a constantly cutting pain here.’ She clutched her stomach. ‘I also have a bubo, a swelling on my right breast.’ She touched her throat. ‘Sometimes I cannot swallow. Our abduction, I am sure, has hastened matters.’
Katherine gazed stricken at Eleanor’s pale face, her sharp cheekbones, her eyes dark pools ringed by shadows. She clutched Eleanor’s hands, holding them between hers. ‘Surely it is just exhaustion,’ she pleaded.
‘No.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘
It’s more than that. Please don’t say I must come with you. I cannot. This is my last act of atonement for Edmund, God bless him, for Simon, but most importantly, for you. LeCorbeil have no souls, no compassion, no mercy. They fully intend to murder us. No,’ she held up a hand, ‘I will not come with you, but I can save you.’ She pointed to the far side of the cottage, which faced the cemetery wall. ‘Today we will dig through that, clear away the plaster and wood, create a gap big enough for you to crawl through. Once you have done that, you must hide in the cemetery and await the sign.’
‘What sign?’
Eleanor smiled. ‘You will recognise it when you see it. Now come, you must eat what they bring, then go out and wander around. Memorise the distance between this wretched cottage and the cemetery wall. Learn what you can. How to scale it in the dark and where to hide in God’s Acre. When you see the sign, follow the path leading through the village; it will take you back to the trackway we turned off. Turn to the right, hide in the fringe of trees. That trackway must lead on to the ancient road, where you will find merchants and pilgrims making their way into London.’ Eleanor spread her hands. ‘It is the best I can do. I am too weak to go with you. If we stay as we are, we are no better than hogs in the slaughter pen.’
Katherine reluctantly conceded to her aunt’s importunate pleas. Food and drink were brought. They broke their fast. Afterwards, using their fingers and shards of pottery, they began to clear the bottom of the cottage wall facing the cemetery. They worked furiously but quietly, digging and hacking. Eleanor warned Katherine to keep her bruised and bloodied fingers hidden beneath her cloak. Now and again they were visited. Bertrand wandered in, stared at them, smiled to himself and left. Scraps of food and watered ale were served as the morning wore on. Katherine, at Eleanor’s whispered urgings, left the cottage. The mist had lifted, though the strengthening sun did little to dissipate the gloom of that deserted village, a place caught between life and death. LeCorbeil were busy practising with their weapons or tending to their horses. The smoky tang of the smithy and the ringing of hammer on anvil wafted through the air. They were apparently preparing to leave. Would they travel south, Katherine wondered, to meet her father, set their lure and spring the trap?