Will’s hands were tied in front of him, and a long, heavy length of rope was looped tightly around his ankles so he’d have no chance of removing it without drawing the attention of their lumbering guard. He lay back as comfortably as he could manage, given his bindings, and watched a solitary cloud sail slowly across the sky, gathering his thoughts and pushing the pain in his aching body to the back of his mind as he’d learned to do when he was a young mercenary.
‘Where the hell are they all then?’
The cantor threw the remnants of his breakfast into the bushes behind him and took a drink from a cup of water that lay beside him.
‘Gone to the abbey.’
Again, Will lay in silence for a time, watching the sky, feeling the gentle breeze across his bruised body, letting de Loup’s words find a home in his brain.
‘The abbey?’
‘Aye. Don’t you remember?’
He pulled himself up onto his elbows, surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected.
‘Remember what?’
‘De Flexburgh seemed to think they hadn’t sent all the abbey’s treasures along in the ransom. He told the outlaws there was more to be had back at Selby and, well, he’s right, isn’t he? I didn’t see the abbot’s golden crook or silver ring in that sack so they must still be in the abbey somewhere, and God knows they are worth a small fortune. And where are the relics? You know we have one of St Damasus’s testicles?’
‘Only one?’ Will demanded, frowning. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘I don’t know.’ De Loup waved a hand irritably, as if it wasn’t important. ‘In Heaven probably.’
‘In Heaven? One bollock?’
The cantor ignored his incredulous laugh and continued to piously recite the list of relics held at Selby Abbey.
Will shook his head and tested the bindings around his wrists and ankles, but despair settled upon him like a heavy, sodden cloak. There was no way out – the monks were on their own.
God help them.
Will had been trying desperately to loosen the ropes around his wrists for what seemed like hours without any success. He now felt surprisingly good, physically, given his beating of the previous evening, but mentally he was suffering terribly.
He’d let everyone in Selby Abbey down, and not only that, he’d placed them all in great danger thanks to his foolish plan.
The outlaws would go through the place like a dose of the runs, killing any who got in their way in their search for the non-existent ransom. And, when they finally realised there was no great prize at the end of their search . . . well, angry outlaws weren’t likely to be very merciful.
Again, Will strained his muscles, teeth gritted and beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, but it was no use. The ropes had been bound expertly and so tightly that they were starting to become painful. He thought about asking their oafish guard to loosen them, but one look at the now dozing fellow chased the idea from his mind.
The outlaw would be more likely to smash his boot into Will’s face instead of relaxing his bonds. And it was a big boot.
His sword lay on the grass beside the guard, still in its sheath, and Will wished for nothing more than to hold that faithful blade in his hand again. Cold steel would soon set things to rights.
He groaned as a twinge of pain tugged at his neck and the futility of his situation almost overcame him, but the cantor grunted.
‘Don’t give up hope just yet, Brother Scaflock. Why don’t we try praying for God’s aid? We are monks after all.’
Will bit back an irritated, sacrilegious retort and shrugged. Why not? A miracle was the only thing that would help them now.
He bowed his head in grudging, beaten assent and closed his eyes, clasping his hands as devoutly as he could manage while the cantor began the Lord’s Prayer.
‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur nomen tuum,’ Scarlet intoned, surprisingly feeling a sense of calm wash over him. ‘Adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua.’
The unmistakeable sound of someone approaching broke him from the pious reverie and, tensing his body for the attack he knew must be coming, he opened his eyes.
A shocked grin spread across his face.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
A chipped eating knife began to saw at Will’s bonds as he continued to smile like some village idiot. ‘I told you to go back to the abbey!’
‘I was on my way there when I saw someone on the road ahead,’ Brother Nicholas said, returning Will’s smile. ‘Hid in some bushes until I saw it was de Flexburgh. I knew he must be coming to warn the wolf’s heads about you, so . . .’
He shrugged as, at last, his dull blade tore apart the last strand of rope on Will’s wrists, and Scaflock reached out to take the blade from him, using it with some ferocity to make short work of the bindings around his ankles.
‘I followed him. My limp held me up but their campfire was easy to see.’
‘Aye.’ Will nodded. ‘The idiots should have hid themselves better. Don’t suppose they expected some hero from Selby to turn up though!’
Brother Nicholas blushed at the praise and took the knife back from Will’s outstretched hand, moving over to remove Brother de Loup’s bindings as Scarlet strode across to check on the unmoving guard.
‘Good job, lad. This one won’t be giving us any trouble for a while.’
Nicholas glanced across, face a mask of concern.
‘He’ll be all right though, won’t he? I hit him with that cudgel you gave me and it worked fine.’ He moved back to his task of sawing apart the smiling cantor’s bindings while Will examined the fallen outlaw.
The man was quite clearly dead.
‘Aye,’ Will grunted. ‘He’ll be fine. You just knocked him out.’
The look of sheer relief on the young monk’s face brought a lump to Will’s throat, and he was glad he’d lied about the wolf’s head’s condition.
‘We prayed for a miracle,’ Brother de Loup suddenly cried out, his hemp shackles now cut free. ‘And here he is! Well done, Brother Nicholas. You’ve saved us.’
Will retrieved his longsword from the grass by the dead outlaw, drawing it from the scabbard to slash the air experimentally.
It felt good, so good, to have it back in his hand again.
‘Aye, you saved us,’ he agreed. ‘But who’s going to save the rest of the lads back at the abbey?’
‘You,’ the cantor said. ‘Obviously.’
Will snorted in disbelief.
‘Me?’
‘Of course.’ De Loup nodded, his arms and legs now free of their bindings. He stood up with Nicholas’s help, groaning at the tightness in his muscles. ‘God sent Brother de Houghton here to send you on your way. That much is clear. You have a sword and can probably take some armour from the downed outlaw. What more do you need?’
‘A damn horse would be good,’ Will retorted. ‘The outlaws have a big head start on me.’
Brother Robert de Flexburgh was irritated, and not only from the sun which beat down on him as he led the outlaws towards Selby.
He had woken early that morning, nervous excitement making a heavy ball in his stomach. He had exhorted the outlaws to get up and make ready for their visit to the abbey, where they would take the rest of the cantor’s ransom money from Abbot de Wystow by force, but the lazy bastards had been too hung over to care for his shouts.
Some had even threatened to cut out his tongue if he didn’t shut up.
So he’d held his peace and waited as patiently as he could until the men had forced some food down their gullets and yet more ale to take the edge off their hangovers. Now they plodded along the main road, making no attempt to conceal themselves – why would they? – and their leader, Stephen le Page, grinned at him.
‘We’ll be wealthy men by the end of this day.’
De Flexburgh nodded, the mention of money raising his spirits. He truly had some horrendous debts that needed to be paid off and, God willing
, so they would be after their visit to the abbey.
‘What will you do after it?’ the wolf’s head asked, falling into step beside the tall monk. ‘You’ll be an outcast. And if things get violent—’
‘They will,’ someone shouted to gusts of laughter, and le Page grinned back at his friends.
‘When things get violent,’ he corrected himself, ‘you’ll be declared an outlaw, just like us. A rich outlaw, granted, but still an outlaw.’
De Flexburgh lowered his eyebrows, not really wanting to think about more violence towards the monks he’d lived with for so long.
‘I can speak French,’ he replied. ‘I’ll pay off my gambling debts and sail for Normandy.’ He stared ahead at the horizon as they walked, thoughts of the future filling his head. ‘An educated man like myself will be able to find a home as a teacher or clerk in some small village by the coast.’
‘Wife too, eh?’ the outlaw leader leered.
‘Nah, he prefers sheep,’ one of the others grunted, and the monk found his cheeks burning in anger and embarrassment at the insulting laughter directed his way.
He wasn’t used to being laughed at – usually if one of the brothers at the abbey slighted him he’d threaten them or even physically assault them, but he knew he’d have no chance with these men. They were like a pack of wolves – if he attacked one of them, the rest would fall upon him and tear him to pieces.
So he kept silent and contented himself with imagining lightning striking the most abusive ones dead.
Their childish mocking would soon be forgotten once he had his share of the abbot’s treasures.
‘There it is,’ one of the younger outlaws cried, nodding towards the horizon. ‘The abbey.’
The men continued walking as the towers of Selby Abbey came closer, and le Page, mouth a grim line now rather than his earlier smile, asked de Flexburgh how he wanted to proceed.
‘You’re the monk,’ the outlaw said. ‘You know the place better than us. We can just walk in and start hacking the brothers apart but that seems like a waste of effort.’
‘No, no!’ De Flexburgh shook his head in alarm. ‘We can’t do that, for God’s sake. I might not think of them all as friends but you can’t just go in and murder them all in hopes of finding the ransom.’
‘I know,’ le Page replied irritably. ‘That’s why I’m asking you what we should do. Do you know where the valuables will be hidden? Can you lead us to it without too much bloodshed? The last time we were there, some of your brothers fought the mob pretty violently. I’d rather avoid too much direct confrontation if possible. There’s only nine of us, after all.’
The wayward monk nodded thoughtfully. He had comrades in the abbey who’d follow his orders, to an extent, and most of the younger monks might not like him but they’d do as they were told too, he was sure. They might not stand by and watch the outlaws ransack the place – again – but they might be persuaded to leave the abbey for a while if de Flexburgh could think of a good enough reason for them to do so . . .
‘Right,’ he said, a sly smile creeping across his face as he watched a blue tit searching the underside of a branch for tasty insects. ‘I’ve got an idea. Give me some time to see what I can do. If all goes to plan, most – if not all – of the fit and able brothers will soon be out of the way. Conceal yourselves, and come in once they’ve gone.’
Will was glad he’d tried to keep fit during his time as a monk. The muscles he’d developed over years as a mercenary and outlaw were still hard beneath his spreading middle-aged bulk, and that had saved him from real, incapacitating damage when the wolf’s heads had beaten him the previous night.
He had aches, particularly in his ribs, but he’d drained their dead guard’s ale skin, and it had given him a warm glow inside which spurred him on as he jogged towards Selby, wondering what he’d find when he got there.
Would the monks all be dead? Would the grand old building that he now called home be a smoking ruin?
Brother de Houghton and the cantor were following at a much slower pace and Will knew there would be no rescue from his young friend no matter what happened when he reached Selby. Not this time. He was on his own.
Well, not quite, he thought with a savage lupine grin.
He had his sword.
The dominating spire of Selby Abbey appeared on the horizon and he quickened his pace, the sight of his goal sending a fresh burst of strength through his limbs.
The abbot and the prior had spent a sleepless night, worrying that neither Will nor Nicholas had returned and wondering where the hell Brother de Flexburgh had disappeared to once his empty cell was discovered. Now de Wystow rubbed his tired eyes and peered out of the small glazed window in his lodging house, which was set a small distance away from the main church, half-convinced he was seeing things.
‘What’s happening? Where’s everyone going? Is there a fire?’
Prior Ousthorp looked up from the ledger he was working on, a bemused expression on his face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Look,’ the abbot said, pointing a thin, wrinkled old digit outside. ‘The men are all heading out of the gates.’
Ousthorp rose from his desk and joined his superior at the window. ‘There’s no fire anyway,’ he said with some relief. ‘Some of them are laughing. You wait here, I’ll go and see what’s going on.’
Leaving the abbot, he went outside, locking the door at his back, and walked across the gardens to the south-east, heading for the kitchen where he knew he’d find the bottler. The man was too old to go off wandering around the countryside with the younger monks – Brother Simon Walfort never left the abbey, no matter what. A visit from Satan himself wouldn’t be enough to dislodge the bottler from his duties, even if he didn’t carry them out quite as mindfully as he was supposed to these days.
No one was on the grounds and the silence seemed eerie as he made his way to his destination, which lay to the south of the cloisters.
‘Brother Walfort.’ Ousthorp walked into the kitchen and the sight of the elderly bottler washing vegetables reassured him that the last blast of the trumpet wasn’t quite as imminent as he’d feared. In saying that, the very Walls of Jericho could be collapsing around him and Brother Walfort would still be preparing dinner.
‘What in God’s name is happening? Where is everyone going? And why wasn’t I informed?’
The old man gave the prior only a cursory, bored glance before he returned to cleaning his carrots.
‘Thorp Wyleby. Apparently one of the statues in the church there is crying tears of blood.’ The bottler tossed a freshly scrubbed vegetable into a bucket and selected another, which he rubbed a small brush up and down with steady vigour. ‘Some of the men have gone to see it.’
‘Really?’ the prior said, not convinced by the tale. ‘Thorp Wyleby is nearly three miles away. I can’t see some of our less pious brothers making such a journey on the off-chance they’ll see a miracle.’
‘You’re right,’ the bottler grunted. ‘Apparently there’s a brothel offering cheap rates in the village for pilgrims.’
That made sense to the prior, disgusted as he was. Some of the monks would crawl over Hell’s lakes of fire just to spill their filthy seed.
‘Who brought news of the miracle?’ he demanded.
A new voice broke in then, from the doorway behind the prior.
‘I did, Brother.’
Ousthorp turned. It was de Flexburgh.
‘And I think it’s time we went to see the abbot. Don’t you?’
Will had paced himself well, and by the time he reached the abbey he’d caught his breath and felt quite good, given his bruises and morning’s run. He crouched and hurried towards the gates, eyes scanning the roads and area surrounding the entrance for signs of the outlaws.
There were none.
He listened and was pleased not to hear the sounds of men fighting. Had de Flexburgh and his accomplices stopped somewhere on their way here? Or given up on the idea of attacking the abbey a
gain?
Relief gave way to alarm though, as he realised fighting wasn’t the only sound he couldn’t hear. The grounds outside the building seemed to be utterly devoid of life.
Maybe the monks were all dead!
He restrained himself from charging into the place, sword in hand, and tried to calm his thoughts, to look logically at the situation.
De Flexburgh and his men didn’t have that much of a head start on him. They couldn’t have wiped out every monk in the abbey by now, surely. Not with such a small force. They’d have met some resistance – many of the monks would have barricaded themselves in rooms with stout doors, and a few of them would even have offered the outlaws some violence of their own.
So what was happening inside the imposing old edifice?
There was only one way to find out.
He leaned out and peered around the side of the gate, eyes searching for signs of anything out of the ordinary. No one was in the gardens so, looking skyward and offering a prayer to God, he held his body low against the ground and sprinted as fast as possible towards the front door of the church, which stood ajar.
When he reached it he stopped, trying to breathe as silently as possible, and listened again, straining to catch any sound at all that might offer a clue as to what was going on inside.
Still nothing but that heavy, oppressive silence.
He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and slipped in through the open doorway, senses straining, alert for any minute sign of danger as he moved through the nave, his eyes jarred as they always were by the sight of the crooked Norman arches which had slipped due to subsidence.
There was a sound then, of wood grinding against wood, and Will recognised it as a drawer being opened. A grunt, then the sound of another drawer being pulled open followed by a disappointed, muttered curse.
Someone was in the chamber to the right – the sacristy. And from the sounds of it, whoever it was had decided to idly search the place for whatever they might find.
The Abbey of Death Page 7