by Paul Doherty
‘The Black Chesters,’ Corbett murmured, ‘I am sure it’s them. The witches’ coven patronised by Sir Edmund Darel. He houses, feeds and protects them. Believe me, Ranulf, Darel is a man who loves counterfeit, mummery. He sees his own life as one long mystery play.’
‘You know him well, Sir Hugh?’
‘Not bosom comrades. Edmund Darel was a mailed clerk at the old king’s court. His father and elder brother died, so Edmund became the sole heir to Blanchlands and all its estates. I have met him on a few occasions since he left London, as I have Lord Henry and others we might encounter here along the Scottish march. Darel is a mummer, a murderous one; he is responsible for this bloody masque.’
‘It’s not Richolda, surely?’ Ranulf’s question was tinged with fear.
‘Ranulf, only Christ the Lord rose from the dead. Darel takes to trickery as a fish to water. Let’s just wait and see.’
The eerie silence deepened. The cart with its gruesome cargo stood stark and sinister on the edge of the moat. The three dark-dwellers continued to stare up. The woman in the centre, her hood now fully pulled back, stood arms extended as if summoning up all the powers of hell. Corbett gazed quickly to left and right; he sensed that the long line of watchers either side of him were becoming increasingly frightened.
‘Wench!’ he shouted. ‘For that’s what you are. I am cold, I am hungry and I would love a goblet of wine. You are proving tedious and wearisome. In God’s name say what you have to and be gone, or Master Ap Ythel here will show you greater wonders than you have shown us.’
He was pleased with the ripple of laughter this provoked. Others, including Lord Henry, also caught his mood and began to shout how it was time for bed and would she like to join them?
‘I shall return at the end of the fourth watch.’ The woman’s voice was powerful and carrying. ‘Do you understand me? At the end of the fourth watch I shall demand your surrender before my lord comes against you, banners unfurled.’ She pulled her hood dramatically back over her face, turned on her heel and walked back to join the rest of her coven grouped around the handcart. She took a torch from one of these and threw it onto the corpse, which, soaked in oil, erupted in sudden sheets of flame, tongues of fire leaping up into the darkness to shroud the swift departure of the Black Chesters.
Corbett stood watching the fire rage. The reek of corruption was now replaced by the stench of burning flesh. Eyes straining into the darkness, he wondered about the possibilities. A hand touched his arm; he turned to find Kathryn Thurston staring at him. Ranulf had turned away to discuss the question of witchcraft with Brother Adrian, who, still armed with the aspergillum, seemed to want to bless the entire wall. The monk broke off from talking to Ranulf and went to lean against the battlements, shouting that whatever hour of darkness the demons returned, he would be waiting for them. Thurston now joined his sister.
‘Kathryn, you’ve told him?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Brother Adrian distracted me.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ the constable declared, ‘Lord Henry wishes to meet with us. Brother Adrian,’ he called out, ‘you are to join us.’
They gathered around the yawning hearth with its carved wodewoses, satyr heads and grinning monkey faces of babewyns and gargoyles. Lady Eleanor almost snapped her fingers at the royal clerk. ‘What is this all about, Sir Hugh? You saw those grotesques taunting us. Have you met their like before?’
Corbett stared into the flames without speaking.
‘And the murders?’ Kathryn Thurston demanded.
‘Those poor, poor men,’ Brother Adrian murmured. ‘Could the witch queen who has just cursed us be responsible?’
Corbett continued to stare into the fire. Ranulf glanced at Ap Ythel and winked. Old Master Long Face, as Ranulf often called Sir Hugh, was lost in one of his deep reveries, his mind teeming with what he had just seen, heard and felt.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Lord Henry rubbed his hands together, ‘what do you think? What shall we do? My wife mentioned those grotesques, and they certainly are, but there must be a purpose behind such malicious mummery. They were sent by Darel for a reason, not just to frighten.’
‘Has Seton been found?’ Ranulf asked to distract attention from his master. ‘Do you think he’s escaped? Is he in hiding? How can a Scotsman with no weapons survive concealed in a castle like this, or worse, out there on the heathland?’
‘You haven’t found him, have you?’ Corbett lifted his head. ‘You cannot discover Seton’s whereabouts; he has disappeared completely, yes?’
‘Very true,’ Lord Henry agreed.
‘I suspect he is dead,’ Corbett declared slowly. He shook his head at the protests of disbelief. ‘No man,’ he continued, ‘can hide so successfully or escape from this castle unobserved. I repeat, Seton has been murdered. God knows where his corpse lies. That is the only logical conclusion I can draw. His fate is shrouded in mystery, as are the murders of his two comrades, Sterling and Mallet. It’s obvious they were poisoned with some noxious powder. I am not an apothecary, but from the little I know, I suspect it was some deadly plant such as nightshade.’
He paused as a thought occurred, something nebulous, an occurrence outside the ordinary logic of life around him.
‘Sterling and Mallet,’ he continued, ‘bolted and barred themselves in that chamber. Nothing poisonous was discovered there. They did not leave the room except to use the garderobe. Nobody visited them. No one entered or left that tower except labourers, masons or carpenters working on the repairs.’
He paused again. He couldn’t forget that witch on the edge of the moat cursing them, threatening to return at the end of the fourth watch. That was the thought, a possibility that intrigued him. He did not wish to share it, though, not here with the shadows closing in, sitting with people some of whom he did not trust.
He patted Ranulf on the arm. ‘I agree with my learned colleague here. The charade outside was intended to frighten us. Now, what do we know about Richolda; I mean, when she was alive?’
‘She had the reputation of being a powerful witch,’ Brother Adrian replied, ‘the leader of a coven called the Black Chesters, who used to meet for their midnight rites out on the heathland until they won the protection of Lord Darel. Richolda boasted that she possessed powers given to her by the ancient spirits who haunt these parts. But as you know, Sir Hugh, claims to such nonsense can be easily dismissed.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Except perhaps for what we saw tonight, though I’ve heard rumours of Darel’s lust for two sisters . . .’
‘I assure you, Brother,’ Corbett crossed himself, ‘you’re correct: it’s all nonsense. Witches do not rise from the dead. Richolda’s corpse lies sheeted in the castle death house. I suspect the woman who acted as Darel’s herald is simply someone who looks like her – a sister, possibly a twin.’ His words created a pool of silence. ‘She was sent to frighten us, to cower our souls, chill our hearts and sap our courage, but something else too. Lord Henry, if I could have a word with you alone?’ He ignored the sharp intake of breath and gasps from Lady Eleanor and the rest. ‘King’s business,’ he added soothingly, ‘and now would be as good a time as any.’
Lord Henry reluctantly agreed. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered, ‘everyone.’
The company broke up and, led by a petulant Lady Eleanor, swept out of the great hall. Ranulf was the last to leave, closing the door quietly behind him. Lord Henry rose, filled his goblet and offered the jug to Corbett, who shook his head.
‘Is this truly necessary, Sir Hugh?’
‘Lord Henry, on my journey here I was attacked. I have been assailed twice here in Alnwick since I arrived. There is a traitor, a spy, a murderer trying to inflict hideous damage. I have little doubt that Alnwick will be attacked again, just before dawn – that’s when the fourth watch ends, isn’t it?’ Lord Henry’s expression grew sharper. ‘The macabre masque outside,’ Corbett continued, ‘was an attempt to terrify us but also to prepare for that assault. That witch was telling her confederates here in Aln
wick that the onslaught will begin at that greying time that separates night and day, the murky gap between sleep and watchfulness. Now,’ he pulled his stool closer, ‘Lord Henry, you cannot afford for such an attempt to be successful; it would be a serious blow to your family name and to your ambitions in the north. Darel would make a mockery of you.’
‘What are you saying, Corbett?’
‘Think, Lord Henry: how many castles has Bruce taken by stealth?’
‘Bruce!’ Lord Henry exclaimed. ‘But this is Darel.’
‘No, Lord Henry, I suspect this is Darel with help from Bruce and his coven. Oh, I am sure there will be an assault, but if this castle falls it will be through treachery. Alnwick is a fortress mighty and strong. Darel could lay siege to it, but he’s no fool. That would take time; much easier to seize it through stealth. Now there definitely lurks a traitor within the walls of Alnwick, but there are also labourers, masons working on the repair of this castle. Where are they now?’
‘Some have left, others shelter in our outhouses.’ Lord Henry shrugged. ‘Storerooms, dungeons, empty chambers. In the main they are local men, many from my estates.’
‘But some are strangers, landless men who move from one place to another selling their skills. You cannot vouch for all of them.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You have been here for, what, two years?’ Corbett declared. ‘And you know of no secret entrance into Alnwick?’
‘Sir Hugh, you’ve seen my castle. I cannot say I know every nook and cranny. There are postern gates here, sally-ports, small openings onto the moat. You talk of treachery within; one of these might be opened. What do you advise, that I sound the tocsin and summon all to arms?’
‘No, no,’ Corbett murmured. He rose and walked towards the high table on the dais, where candles glowed on spigots, their light shimmering in the great silver salt cellar, the nef at the centre of the table. He peered closely at this, admiring how the craftsman had carved it so accurately in the shape of a war cog. He wondered idly if he would get Gaveston safely on board The Golden Dove, as well as how he and Ranulf would fare once the royal favourite was gone. What route south should they take?
‘Sir Hugh, what do you think Darel will do?’
‘I tell you this,’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder, ‘I know Darel of old, a mailed clerk with bounding ambition who now sees himself as one of the great barons of the north. He would like nothing better than to seize and hold this fortress. I also believe he is probably in negotiation with Bruce, like many northern lords are.’
He paused, letting Lord Henry reflect on his words. He had voiced such suspicions to the king. If the likes of Edmund Darel wondered about the future, other noble families such as the Percys would be more than tempted to negotiate an accommodation with the redoubtable Scottish war leader. He walked back and sat down, hands extended towards the fire.
‘Lord Henry, some of the labourers here are undoubtedly Scots. They may be innocent workers, but I suspect a few could be Bruce’s men; they could open a postern gate.’
‘And so what—’
‘I urge you to have a cohort of men-at-arms, all buckled for war, armed with kite shield and spear. They should gather here as quietly as possible along with Ap Ythel’s archers. They are to remain hidden under my command.’
‘For a sortie?’
‘We shall see.’ Corbett was not going to share everything with this northern lord. He got to his feet. ‘Lord Henry, the hours are passing. It’s time to prepare.’
The knight agreed. Corbett went out and found Ranulf and Ap Ythel, bringing the two men into his confidence. Within the hour, the cohort of Welsh archers slipped like ghosts into the great hall, buckled and armoured for battle with war bows strung and their deep quivers crammed with feathered shafts, each barbed and ready to be loosed. Two of Lord Henry’s household knights together with twenty shield men eventually joined them. Corbett made it very clear that they were not to leave the great hall except to use the garderobe in the passageway outside. He then had the dais cleared and, using various objects left on the high table to illustrate his plan, instructed the company on what they must do once the attack began.
Afterwards, they broke up to eat, drink and sleep as best they could until the booming alarm bell and the strident wailing of battle horns roused them. Corbett ordered the entire company to stay and wait whilst he hurried out. The cold darkness was beginning to thin, the stars receding as the very first streaks of light appeared against the eastern skies. The castle was now awake. The clatter of weapons, shouts and cries, the wailing of children and the howling of dogs shattered the silence. Trumpets blared, horns brayed and the pealing of bells carried shrill and sharp.
Corbett hurried through the inner barbican to the main gatehouse, where Lord Henry, Constable Thurston and the castle’s master of arms were standing on the fighting platform staring at the threat slowly emerging out of the morning mist. The crackle and rattle of huge wheels heralded the ominous approach of a belfry, a soaring siege tower, undoubtedly seized from some English-held castle along the Scottish march. This monster of war moved slowly forward, pulled by a team of oxen. Once it was in range, the animals would be unhitched and the belfry pushed from behind towards the edge of the moat. The attackers would swiftly fill part of this ditch with bundles of wood over which they would lay down a makeshift bridge so the belfry could be thrust up against the main gateway. Torches, flames leaping against the darkness, were fixed along its top storey. On either side of the siege tower trundled two trebuchets or catapults. The attackers themselves stayed hidden behind their engines of war, wraith-like shapes only betrayed by the light glinting on blade and armour. The entire line moved towards the barbican. Corbett reckoned the attackers would try and force the drawbridge, even though he was deeply suspicious that this was only a feint.
‘Well,’ Lord Henry snarled, beating his fists against the wall, ‘what will shield men and archers do against that?’
Corbett raised a hand for silence, ears straining. The clatter and clash of attack increased. A few fire arrows blazed against the darkness. One of the trebuchets stopped, its crew hastening around, winching back the throwing arm. Horns and trumpets brayed. Archers left the protection of these machines of battle to race forward and loose arrows, but these fell short.
‘Well?’ Lord Henry shouted. Corbett was about to reply when he heard screams and a clatter of arms from the bailey below.
‘It’s happened!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lord Henry, forget what you see! Ignore the enemy without; it’s the enemy within.’
He hastened down the steps into the outer bailey, where that part of the Alnwick garrison not manning the ramparts had become savagely involved in a life-and-death struggle against a horde of assailants who had abruptly appeared as if out of nowhere and were fighting to reach the gatehouse. The attackers were garbed in rough, homespun clothing, though many wore helmets and seemed well armed with sword, axe, club and rounded shield. Fierce-faced, long-haired and wild-eyed, in the strengthening light they looked truly ferocious as they pressed the defenders back, desperate to reach the gateway. More were joining them; some of these looked like the labourers who had been working in the castle, now using their mallets, hammers, chisels and poles to deadly effect.
Corbett broke free of the press of defenders, running to outflank the conflict. He realised that the stream of attackers were pouring out of the Abbot’s Tower, killing those they encountered and only stopped in their violent rush to the main gateway by the vigilance and courage of the garrison. The crash and scrape of weapons, the stench of death and the horrid cries of men in their final agonies had turned the outer bailey into a living hell. He hastened across to the inner barbican. A dark shape moved to his right; he turned, sword out against the attacker, who came swirling in, axe swinging, shield jutting out. Corbett darted swiftly to one side, but his assailant staggered, axe and shield dropping, eyes rolling back in his head as if he was trying to see the yard-long shaft that
had pierced his skull.
Ranulf and the household knights were stationed outside the inner barbican, spearmen in the front row, a gap between each of them for an archer, war bow taut, arrow notched.
‘Loose!’ Ap Ythel roared.
Bow strings twanged their ominous song. Volley after volley rained down on the column of attackers streaming from the Abbot’s Tower, an overwhelming assault on the enemy’s exposed flank. The spearmen shuffled forward, shields raised, yet it was the cohort of archers who were causing the most dreadful devastation. Corbett hastened to join them, standing with Ranulf, Ap Ythel and a group of household knights who formed the third line of the phalanx. He had seen before the effect of massed master bowmen who could loose shaft after shaft, and it was truly destructive. The constant hail of yard-long arrows, goose-quilled and cruelly barbed, could not be avoided.
The attackers now realised the real danger, but it was too late. They turned to confront the advancing phalanx, only to be cut down, whilst those who survived the arrow storm were impaled on the massed spear points. A few tried to outflank the cohort, but the bowmen simply turned and loosed with deadly accuracy to counter this threat. Horns brayed and the attackers broke, no longer striving to force their way through to the main gate but desperate to retreat to the tower and the secret entrance they had undoubtedly used. Constable Thurston and Brother Adrian, breathless with excitement, hurried up with the news that the attackers outside were swiftly withdrawing. The trebuchets together with the fearsome belfry were all retreating in a clatter of wheels and whining cordage.
The phalanx was now pushing more swiftly towards the Abbot’s Tower. The defeat had turned into a rout and was descending into a massacre. The attackers, frantic to escape, fled back to the tower and its narrow stairwell, but the press was too great. They had to turn to confront the constant rain of arrow shafts and the pressing blades of the spearmen.