The Abbey of Death

by Steven A McKay

  It was possible some monk was in there looking for something to steal. Someone like de Flexburgh or one of his friends who had no scruples, for example. But it was far more likely to be one of the outlaws. Probably one of them had been ordered to stand guard at the door while his fellows went on, deeper into the abbey complex, and he’d become bored. Now he was in the sacristy idly hunting for whatever valuables he could carry away.

  Will knew the altar goods in that room were worth a great deal, but they were fairly securely locked away and, from the shouted oath he heard now, it seemed the robber had collected little so far. An empty-handed outlaw would be more of a threat than one laden with chalices and crucifixes, so as Will approached the sacristy he moved silently, ready for an attack at any moment.

  Just as well.

  The robber wore soft boots of leather with soles worn almost completely through, allowing him to move almost as quietly as Will did; oblivious to the threat that was coming for him, he stepped out of the sacristy and spotted Scaflock in the gloom.

  Instinctively, the outlaw, a small, wiry man with heavy bags under his eyes and a sweating bald head, flicked his dagger from its place on his belt and threw it.

  By the grace of God the missile smashed against Will’s hastily drawn sword and clattered uselessly to the floor.

  The outlaw knew his business though, and rather than panicking or becoming flustered, he charged directly at Scaflock, intending to crush him against the wall where he could then pummel the winded monk with his bare hands.

  Will was ready though, and dodged out of the way so the outlaw barrelled past him at full pelt, slamming against the great stone brickwork and bouncing backwards, directly onto the point of Will’s sword. Momentum carried him along the blade, almost to its hilt, and the man stared, wide-eyed, at the mortal wound in his belly, before Will dragged the weapon free in a spray of crimson.

  The man swayed for just a moment and then he slumped to his knees, hands clutching desperately at the air as if he might hang onto his ebbing life-force. His fist closed around the wooden rosary Will wore looped into his belt, and the dying man glared accusingly up at him before collapsing to the ground, rosary snapping in a pattering hail of beads.

  ‘One down,’ Will growled, sheathing his sword, which he now realised was too big to fight with effectively inside the narrow corridors of the abbey. ‘Only another eight or nine to go.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t have the rest of the ransom?’ Brother de Flexburgh’s voice was tight with fear and anxiety. He’d branded himself a criminal of the worst kind by being part of this mad scheme and now it seemed it hadn’t even been worth it.

  ‘Exactly that,’ the abbot replied. ‘We never did, as you know. It was Brother Scaflock’s idea to gather our treasures here in the abbey and send them to the outlaws, to buy the cantor some time.’

  ‘You didn’t send all your treasures to us though, did you?’ Stephen le Page asked, his naturally friendly eyes completely at odds with the hard tone of his words. ‘That’s why we’re here. Where’s the rest?’

  ‘Gone,’ the prior retorted, rubbing his jaw. He’d refused to open the door to the abbot’s lodging, but the outlaw leader had punched him and simply taken the key from his pocket before leading the way into the building. ‘You thought you were so bloody clever didn’t you, de Flexburgh?’ Ousthorp spat. ‘Cooking up this plan with your criminal friends. But you didn’t realise that the de Loup family are not the wealthy lot they were two or three years ago. And’ – he shrugged – ‘we sent the rest of the abbey’s valuables away on a cart to York, to make sure they’d be safe if anything went wrong with Scaflock’s plan.’

  Abbot de Wystow shook his head, watching his wayward monk sorrowfully. ‘You’ve gone to all this trouble for very little return I’m afraid. Was it worth it, seeing one of your brothers killed by the mob for half a ransom shared out between . . . what?’ He looked at the outlaws squeezed into the stifling chamber. ‘Seven? Eight men?’

  ‘You’re a marked man now,’ the prior agreed, but where the abbot wore the expression of a kicked puppy, Ousthorp’s eyes blazed with a righteous fury. ‘The law, when they finally get here, will be after you, and you can forget about seeking sanctuary anywhere in England. You’ll hang for your part in this, as will all your men.’

  De Flexburgh’s fear was transformed into anger and he lashed out, punching the prior in the cheek, rocking the older man back. To his credit, Ousthorp didn’t lose his footing, but simply glared at his attacker from eyes that filled with tears of pain and humiliation at being struck twice by these hateful men.

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ the abbot cried, finally roused to an emotion stronger than disappointment.

  ‘You’re right, it is enough,’ the outlaw leader broke in, glaring from the prior to de Flexburgh and then back to the rest of his men. ‘The other monks will be back here sooner or later and there’s always the possibility someone saw us coming and went to Selby to raise the hue and cry. We need to leave.’

  ‘Empty-handed?’ one of the other wolf’s heads moaned, and le Page shrugged.

  ‘Go through every room in this whole complex and take whatever gold and silver you can find. I doubt these two’ – he jerked his head at the abbot and prior – ‘really sent all their treasures to York. They’re lying. There’s bound to be some choice pieces still dotted about the place. Find them. Go!’

  The gang hurried out of the room, jostling one another in their haste to get through the doorway and begin looting.

  ‘Where do they normally keep the valuables, de Flexburgh?’ le Page asked, turning back to his traitorous companion, but the tall monk simply shrugged.

  The prior shouted an imprecation at le Page, vowing never to tell the man anything, but his eyes grew wide when the outlaw leader drew a wicked-looking dagger and started towards him menacingly.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Abbot de Wystow sighed, shaking his head irritably at the prior. ‘They’ll find it eventually, John. Telling them now will just get them out of here sooner and leave you with all your fingers intact.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Le Page grinned. ‘It’s easier – and safer – to be helpful. Now, I was told you have a nice staff of office amongst other fine treasures. There’s no way you’d have sent something as personal as that away on a wagon.’ He turned and gestured grandly towards the door. ‘Lead me to it, Father Abbot.’

  Will heard the men coming and only just had time to throw himself through the doorway into the eastern cloister before he was spotted. He slipped into the first room he came to – the parlour – and pressed himself into an alcove, listening to the outlaws’ movements.

  Some of them must have gone off in the opposite direction, which was just as well as Scaflock would never have been able to take them all on at once.

  The main babble of voices faded but – from the sounds of footsteps and loud, excited chatter – two other wolf’s heads were heading straight for him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Will waited until the first of the approaching men came through into the cloister from the south transept before he burst out, the tip of his dagger aimed at the shocked robber’s heart.

  The outlaws reacted to his attack instinctively, halting their advance and throwing weapons up with small exclamations of alarm. Will felt a thrill of panic course through him as his short blade was deflected by the leather bracer on his target’s wrist, but his momentum carried the point forward inexorably, up and into the outlaw’s neck.

  The man’s alarmed squeal turned to a gurgle of agonised despair as his windpipe was torn through, but Will was too experienced to allow himself to slow. He left the dagger where it had lodged and turned, grasping the second man’s wrist and twisting it with brutal strength. The outlaw roared in pain but couldn’t stop his natural, instinctual response, which was to fold under the pressure, seeking to release the bone-breaking force.

  When he went down Will smashed his knee into the outlaw’s face, watching it bounce like a chil
d’s ball against the heavy parlour door, then he repeated the move while continuing to twist the arm.

  There was a crack of bone and the arm went limp. So did the man, knocked unconscious, although whether from the head trauma or the terrible pain in his arm Will didn’t know, or care.

  He retrieved his dagger from the dead outlaw’s throat and crouched breathlessly, watching and listening for the sound of the downed men’s companions running to see what the commotion was all about.

  The thick stone walls and massive old wooden doors must have muffled the sounds of the fight and Will let out a long sigh of relief, eyes falling to his defeated opponents. Grabbing the dead outlaw, he hauled the man into the parlour by the feet.

  He dropped the corpse and went back out, peering warily along the cloister, then dragged the other outlaw in and shut the door. The man was still alive but Will – a monk now, after all – couldn’t bring himself to kill him. Instead, he found a dusty old tablecloth and tore it into strips which he used to bind the man’s arms and mouth.

  Coughing, and feeling somewhat guilty at the agony he knew the unconscious outlaw would suffer upon waking, Will slipped back out into the corridor and made his way around to the western side of the covered walkway, eyes and ears straining for signs of the other remaining invaders.

  He stopped at the gatehouse and, to its left, the abbot’s two-storey lodging house came into view through the unglazed cloister windows. He crouched, pressing himself against the wall and peering out across the grass.

  Suddenly, through a narrow tower window of the abbot’s building, Will spotted movement. At first he couldn’t see who it was as they moved up the stairs but, across the silent, open grounds, he could hear their voices. The outlaw captain, le Page, spoke in a hard tone, and his promise to kill the abbot and prior if they didn’t find valuables soon chilled Scaflock to the marrow.

  The small party passed the window, then the red, anxious face of Brother de Flexburgh looked out momentarily before the tall monk continued upstairs behind his leader and their prisoners.

  The warrior monk knew he could take le Page and he’d already bested de Flexburgh without much trouble, so he began to sneak along the airy walkway, intending to head out through the nave where he might use the main walls as cover to allow him to reach the abbot’s lodgings without being seen. Then he would simply take out the two ringleaders and hopefully put an end to this entire nightmare.

  ‘Stephen! Stephen!’

  Someone was running towards him from the direction of the priory, and Will had to sprint out into the nave, where he threw himself behind the supporting column known as Abbot Hugh’s pillar, with its carved diamond pattern.

  ‘Patrick’s dead! I found him in a room near the door where we left him standing guard. Someone’s in the abbey with us!’

  The alarmed man’s voice dropped in pitch as he ran past and headed outside across the grounds, but Will could still hear the conversation clearly enough as le Page went back to the tower window he’d just passed and shouted out, demanding to know what his companion was babbling about.

  ‘Where’s Gareth and Malcolm the Mouth? Didn’t you pass them on your way here?’ The outlaw leader sounded confused and tense, almost shouting now. ‘They headed into the cloister at the far end, I saw them go myself. Oh, in the name of . . . Wait there, I’m coming down.’

  Will knew it was time to move again before he was discovered, and he ran towards the north porch and out through the door, blinking in the sunlight as he made his way swiftly around to the gardens outside the choir, where he lost himself amongst some bushes.

  He couldn’t hear much now but he could imagine what was happening inside the abbey. Le Page and his companion would have discovered their dead and injured friends and must now be alerting the rest of the outlaws to his murderous presence.

  The element of surprise had gone.

  They knew he was coming for them, but he couldn’t stay out here in the bushes – it wasn’t in his nature to hide for long.

  He had to rest for a time, however, and regain his breath, so he leaned back against the thick foliage and stared straight ahead, feeling a sense of calm settle over him, his heart returning to its usual, steady beat. A soft murmur escaped his lips as he sent a prayer heavenwards, begging the Lord’s assistance and protection for the abbot.

  The outlaws wouldn’t leave just because they knew someone was stalking them – they’d continue their search for gold and loot but they’d move in pairs or packs now, and they’d be expecting him to appear at any moment. He’d need to use everything, every skill in his personal armoury, to come out of this in one piece, never mind save Abbot de Wystow.

  Grinning savagely, feeling more alive than he’d done in years, he crept slowly back towards the north door, absently noting the strange carving of a monk in a ship on the wall high above. It was Selby Abbey’s founder, the French monk Benedict who had come to England with the dried finger of St Germain almost three hundred years earlier.

  Will didn’t have the miraculous finger of a revered saint to help him that day, but his knife would do just as well.

  He could hear the sounds of things being thrown – drawers and other storage no doubt – as he moved back through the nave, bloody dagger still held tightly in his hand. He guessed that meant a couple of the gang were searching one of the rooms for booty while another stood guard. The problem was, it sounded like it was coming from the priory, which only had one entrance and was reached via the cloister with nowhere to hide.

  They would see him coming.

  He wondered what to do. Should he leave those outlaws to whatever they were up to and search for a different target? Was it a trap they’d laid for him, so when he appeared, more of the gang would attack him from behind?

  If only he had someone to watch his back.

  Will had never been one to turn away from a challenge though. Quite the opposite in fact, he’d often got himself into danger by acting rashly, through bravado or anger.

  ‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?’ he murmured, walking purposefully towards the priory.

  Anxious shouts came to him before he re-entered the cloister leading towards his destination, and he guessed the searchers had found little or nothing of value. He looked along the corridor and saw one lookout at the far end.

  The fool had his back to Will, presumably watching his enraged fellows, so the vengeful monk took his chance, running along the cloister as fast as he could without his sandals making too much noise.

  He wasn’t fast enough though, and the outlaw turned, spotting Scaflock before he could launch an attack.

  ‘He’s here!’ the lookout cried, bringing up his sword and using it to jab at Will. The narrow, enclosing walls left no room for a swing, and the clumsy lunge was easily sidestepped by Will, who barrelled into the wolf’s head, ramming him against the solid door surround with his shoulder and plunging his dagger into the man’s belly.

  Once, twice, then again, and this time he used his great strength to drag the blade up, creating the biggest wound he could. Knowing it was a mortal blow, he leaned back, raised his leg and kicked the dying outlaw in through the doorway, just in time to hit one of his oncoming comrades.

  Will had guessed right – there had been two other wolf’s heads in the priory. One was momentarily stunned by the body of his friend, but the other roared a curse and threw himself at Will.

  This one didn’t make the same mistake as his companion, didn’t lunge with his sword – instead he brought it round for a powerful swing, but the blade was too long and it bounced back from the wall with a clang and a small shower of sparks. The attacker screamed as pain lanced like fire along his arm and into his shoulder, which Will thought might have dislocated.

  The final outlaw had shoved his now-dead friend aside and came forward, eyeing his surviving companion who was gasping in agony and holding his injured shoulder with a look on his pale face that suggested he might pass out at any moment.

  �
�You know who I am,’ Will stated in a low, strong voice. ‘And you can see why the minstrels sing songs about me now, eh?’ The outlaw blanched but gritted his teeth and held his sword up, setting his legs in a defensive stance. ‘That’s five of your mates I’ve dealt with now. Six, if you count that big arsehole you left at the campsite to guard me.’

  The wolf’s head with the dislocated shoulder slumped to the floor just then, and Will grinned wickedly.

  ‘Come on, boy. Be a part of the minstrels’ next song about me.’

  The outlaw was young, clearly inexperienced and quite terrified. He turned and ran back inside the priory towards the small adjoining chapel, stopping only for a moment to try to slam the door shut before realising his deceased friend was blocking the entrance.

  Will knew the priory was a dead end, so the beardless lad had nowhere to run to.

  He glanced down at the corpse in the doorway and noticed the key still in the lock. That was handy – almost a miracle in fact, as he knew the monks didn’t usually leave the key there. Maybe the outlaws had taken it from someone? Whatever the explanation, Will silently offered a prayer of thanks to God and kicked the dead outlaw out of the way. He’d rather not fight the boy unless he had to, and he also had no desire to kill the injured fellow on the floor. Instead, he dragged that one inside the chamber as the frightened youngster watched him from behind the altar of the chapel. Then he closed the door.

  With a satisfying click he turned the key in the lock and put it into a pocket inside his robe.

  The door was thick and the lock a good one. It would hold the prisoners for a time – long enough at least for Will to finish off the last of their bastard companions.

  He hoped . . .

  ‘What are we going to do?’ de Flexburgh demanded, a taut spring of nervous, frightened energy, and his outlaw companion glared in disgust at him.

  ‘Shut your mouth for a start,’ le Page growled. ‘Panicking will do us no favours. Even if this crazy monk manages to evade our men, we still have these two as hostages.’