by Paul Doherty
‘A mistake, a dreadful mistake.’ Lady Hilda raised her eyes heavenwards as if openly conceding that her reply was the best she could make in the circumstances. Corbett warmed towards her. After all, this old lady was trying to help, and he would need some form of protection if they left Alnwick.
He glanced swiftly at Lord Henry and then looked away as if fascinated by the fire. Darel was one thing, Lord Henry was another. The Percys were a bustling, ambitious and aggressive family. They claimed that their line went back into the mists of antiquity; that Percy’s ancestors had fought with the Conqueror at Hastings. A Yorkshire landowner, Lord Henry had moved to Alnwick determined to create his own fief. If Darel could be placated, why not Lord Henry as well? Yet there was the rub. If Corbett went on oath, he would have to admit that he did not trust either of these lords, whatever promises they made. He, Ranulf and the others were only a small fighting group riding out across bleak, savage countryside. It would be so easy for a comitatus like theirs to be attacked, butchered and their corpses hidden. He recalled the stories he’d heard. Wasn’t there a legend how, in ancient times, an entire Roman legion had mysteriously disappeared in this northern wilderness?
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett turned back to the anchorite. ‘Lady Hilda, tell us more about yourself. Why do you live at Clairbaux, and, above all, what do you hope for from this meeting?’
‘I am, as I said, the elder sister of Edmund’s mother, now thankfully gone to God from this vale of tears.’ Lady Hilda folded back the cuffs of her grey robe. ‘I also married, but my husband died during the old king’s wars in Gascony. They say he was killed by an archer near the bastide of Saint-Sardos. I heard that he may have been knifed by a pimp during a quarrel over the services of a couple of whores.’ She laughed drily. ‘Be that as it may, I had had enough of the world of men; marriage was definitely no longer my calling. I entered the convent at Whitby.
‘About five years ago, I came to the conclusion that God wanted me to follow a more ascetic life. I negotiated with Edmund and he granted me Clairbaux, a sprawl of monastic buildings once owned by Celtic monks. The hermitage there, as I now call it, is based on the Carthusian rule, which in turn is closely linked to the Celtic tradition. Every one of our members has a small brick-built cottage holding a hearth, kitchen, buttery and chancery chamber, which also serves,’ she smiled at her own mockery, ‘as the solar, great hall and banqueting chamber. We sleep in a bedloft, which is comfortable enough. Outside we tend our own gardens, divided into herb and kitchen plots. There’s a rose garden in the cloister garth, which is nothing more than a square grassy bed around which the cottages and the church are built. We observe the hours of the day in the ancient church of St Cuthbert. Brother Adrian often celebrates Mass for us as well as providing other sacramental occasions.’
‘And how many are the community there?’
‘Including some servants, possibly no more than fifty souls both male and female.’ Lady Hilda raised a hand. ‘Gentlemen, please do not speculate about the propriety and rectitude of our house. We are not interested in matters of the flesh but in the life of the spirit. We consider ourselves a house of prayer set in a wilderness of violence.’ She paused and gratefully accepted the cup of wine Kathryn Thurston proffered, sipping quietly as she waited for the others to have their goblets refilled with the hot spiced posset. ‘I have watched my nephew Edmund build his new world,’ she continued. ‘Time and again, as Lord Henry will attest, I have intervened to give Edmund good counsel. On a number of occasions I have arbitrated between him and Lord Henry. I am doing the same today, trying to mediate with the king’s own envoy to these parts whom my nephew had the temerity and stupidity to attack.’
‘Where?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Where will this meeting take place?’
‘Darel will certainly not approach Alnwick.’ Lord Henry laughed sharply. ‘Whilst Sir Hugh must not enter Blanchlands.’
‘Edmund suggests the hermitage at Clairbaux,’ Lady Hilda murmured. ‘He will come accompanied by one person. He respectfully asks that Sir Hugh do the same. At the same time, he insists that Lord Henry keep all his men confined to Alnwick. My nephew will ensure that his retinue stays at Blanchlands. As you know, Edmund’s wife died some years ago, but she left him two children, a boy and a girl. As tokens of his goodwill, he will send both these children as hostages to Alnwick until his meeting with Sir Hugh is completed.’ She sniffed. ‘For what it is worth, he will also take an oath over a crucifix and this will be done in my presence. He will swear that he will offer Sir Hugh and his companion no hurt or injury, be it of the body or the spirit.’ The anchorite sighed noisily. ‘My nephew wishes to make amends, to sue for peace.’ Her voice turned more pleading. ‘He desperately wishes to escape the dire consequences of his recent foolish actions. He freely admits he can do little to appease Lord Henry, but he has no desire to obstruct you, Sir Hugh, any further.’
‘And Holy Mother Church?’ Brother Adrian’s voice echoed around the hall. The Benedictine’s face was severe. ‘Lady Hilda,’ he continued, ‘I recognise you as a pious anchorite, a woman dedicated to God, but your kinsman Darel has more on his conscience than opposition to a royal envoy or his most recent, unprovoked attack on this castle. He favours and fosters a Satanic coven dedicated to hellish practices, the Black Chesters. They plague this countryside, a thick mist of malice that moves with a will of its own . . .’
Brother Adrian broke off as if he realised the intensity of his outburst, a passionate cry of protest that silenced all noise in the great hall so it seemed even the shifting shadows stood stock still to eavesdrop. Corbett felt an icy tingle of fear claw his back and stomach. He stared around at the others, wondering if an adherent of the Black Chesters, a member of that Satanic coven, was here in the great hall. Lady Hilda certainly looked startled, even frightened. She swiftly drew a set of Ave beads from a purse on a cord about her waist, while her other hand continued to finger the Tau cross around her neck.
‘The Black Chesters,’ the anchorite crossed herself, ‘what can I say? Sir Hugh, you know Edmund of old. He was always singular, with a nose for mischief and an aptitude to match. He has a penchant for the occult, for that secret world of warlocks and witches. God knows where the Black Chesters originate. Some people whisper that they have been in Scotland for decades, even centuries. How they arrived from southern France and over the years have extended their malign influence.’
‘They are many?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Oh yes,’ the anchorite replied. ‘According to rumour, there is more than one coven. Sometimes they all gather for important feasts of the dark; festivals such as the Night of the Deep Harrowing. Coventicles from all over Scotland and beyond assemble in some wild, desolate place. Ancient stones are used as their altar and sacrifices are made—’
‘Sacrifices? Night of the Deep Harrowing?’ Ranulf intervened. ‘Do these things really happen?’
‘I have learnt of such things from Edmund, scraps of conversation, as well as the whispers and rumours that people bring to the hermitage. I fear for Edmund’s soul because of these gruesome ceremonies. I understand the Night of the Deep Harrowing is when the earth is cut with a furrow, which is then filled with blood; whether this be human or not, I shudder to think. Of course,’ she added with a shrug, as if dismissing what she had just said as mere fable, ‘all kinds of tittle-tattle surrounds my nephew. Some portray him as a robber baron; others go much further and depict him as a devil incarnate.’
She paused, rocking herself backwards and forwards. Corbett tried to shrug off a real sense of fear, as if something was gathering in the darkness of this hall.
‘Edmund’s wife died three years ago. A year later, the Black Chesters swept into Blanchlands. Anyway,’ Lady Hilda’s voice turned brisk, ‘Sir Hugh, will you meet with my nephew? It may take a few days to arrange . . .’
Corbett sat at his chancery desk and stared through the unshuttered window. He’d spent the previous day resting and reflecting, t
hough he’d conceded to Ranulf that he had made very little progress in resolving the vexing problems facing them. The meeting with Lady Hilda, however, had ended most amicably: Corbett had agreed to meet Darel in the ancient church of St Cuthbert at Clairbaux. Each would swear an oath in the presence of a witness – Lady Hilda in Darel’s case; Brother Adrian in Corbett’s – that they would ‘treat honourably and peaceably’ and attend the meeting escorted by one person only. It was also agreed that Darel’s men would be recalled to Blanchlands and Lord Henry’s retainers confined to Alnwick. Darel’s son and daughter, together with their nurse Ursula, would be handed over as hostages for their father’s promises. Corbett had already taken his oath and made other arrangements so he could leave when the time was ready. He felt very restless.
Once Lady Hilda had left, Ranulf had also become busy. The Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax had absented himself for long periods of time. Ap Ythel had informed Corbett that he’d glimpsed Ranulf around the castle; ‘Lurking,’ the Welshman had declared, ‘that’s how I would describe it.’ Corbett was mystified but decided to leave the matter for the time being. He also wondered about Lady Hilda. He couldn’t decide who she truly was or how successful she would be in arranging a truce.
A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts. He opened it and Ranulf slipped into the chamber. He turned and spoke to Chanson outside, warning him to be vigilant, before locking and bolting the door behind him.
‘Ranulf?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Sir Hugh, I have watched and I have waited. Brother Adrian, the Benedictine, is, when put under scrutiny, a strange man. He meets with many people in this castle.’
‘He is their priest.’
‘It’s more the way he does it. So swiftly, a word here, a word there, then he moves on. He wanders this castle like a will-o’-the-wisp over a marsh, head down, cowl pulled over. I have spoken to the men-at-arms who guard the sally ports, postern doors and other narrow entrances to this fortress. Brother Adrian regularly passes in and out with little fuss: “a true shadow”, as one guard described him. Sir Hugh, could Brother Adrian be the assassin, the spy and traitor?’
Corbett sat forward in his chair. ‘Fetch Ap Ythel.’
Ranulf did so. Once he’d arrived, Corbett plucked at the captain of archers’ sleeve and took him across to the window that overlooked the inner bailey. ‘My friend,’ he declared, aware of Ranulf standing behind him, ‘if we have blundered into a trap at Alnwick, we must prepare to flee, to ride south with all speed.’
‘Sir Hugh, we have our precious cargo for the The Golden Dove, whilst we are expected at Tynemouth, where more business awaits us.’ Ap Ythel blew his cheeks out. ‘But you are correct. I suspect we are going to have to fight our way out of what looks increasingly like a trap. We cannot trust Lord Henry – God knows where his allegiance lies – while Darel is totally unpredictable, and what other force is there apart from my lovely boys and our own sword arms? This is a place I’d like to leave.’ He gestured at the castle folk busy in the bailey below. ‘A constant chatter, Sir Hugh. They talk about Darel, but beneath that swirls a deep fear, even terror, of the Black Chesters. I have heard whispers about horrid killings and sinister disappearances. Nobody can produce evidence or proof of anything dire or heinous. There’s just this atmosphere of dread, a deep, cloying fear that swirls like a mist over the wild countryside outside.’
‘Then let’s try and plot a way through the murk,’ Corbett declared. ‘Sherwin Ap Vynar? One of your kinsmen?’
‘Ah, you mean the Houndsman?’ Ap Ythel’s face broke into a grin. ‘The archer who can sniff and track, as skilful as any lurcher?’
Corbett pointed down to where Brother Adrian was deep in conversation with a group of itinerant tinkers who had visited the castle to do business and were now preparing to leave. ‘I want Sherwin to keep Brother Adrian under close watch. If he leaves the castle, as I suspect he will, Sherwin must follow him.’
Bavasour the mercenary, the captain of hobelars, had left Alnwick in high spirits. He was determined to take Corbett’s message to Carlisle and, perhaps, attach himself to Harclay’s levy when they swept towards Alnwick and hopefully on to Tynemouth. He had travelled for a day, spending the previous night in an ancient spinney of withered trees sheltering beneath its dead or decaying branches, and had woken not so merry of soul or glad of heart. He wondered if that bleak, blighted place had darkened his mood. Aware of the grey sky lightening, he had attempted to build a small fire, but this had failed and his unease became tinged with a slight dread. In searching for kindling he had come across the mauled and mangled remnants of a pheasant, and had glimpsed the cause of such violence: a heavy-bellied, sluggish dog fox. Old Reynard, flushed from his feasting, had been startled from his deep sleep and sloped off, a dark red shadow in the early-morning light.
Bavasour decided to leave the fire. Instead he crouched down and wolfed the dried meat, soft cheese and now hardening bread he had been given at Alnwick, softening the food with mouthfuls of wine, which he hoped would soothe the pain in his rotting yellow teeth. He decided to ride as hard and swift as he could that day. The garron Corbett had provided might look ungainly, but it had more than proved its worth. Bavasour wanted to be away. The ragged remnants of the pheasant and the sloping, sly-eyed fox slinking off provoked memories of that demon hall at Blanchlands, ‘the place of sacrifice’ as it was known; rumour had it that it was where those sinister twin sisters performed their filthy rites.
He closed his eyes and recalled that cavernous, gloomy chamber lit by a row of cresset torches, the constantly dancing flames bringing to life the macabre scenes that decorated the walls. A long line of baleful depictions. Spoonbills cowled like monks; lizards with human heads and walking fish harnessed as if they were knights on the road to war. Goblins rode satyrs, armed with crossbows to bring down monkey demons nestling amongst the gaunt branches of dead trees. He had been allowed into the hall on one occasion only – though he had not confessed this to Corbett – and glimpsed the stuff of nightmares. He’d also heard macabre stories that he hardly admitted to himself let alone to a royal envoy. Chilling tales about the abominations that stalked the moorlands around Alnwick once the sun had set and darkness closed in. Now the nightmare memories returned to haunt him here in this truly desolate spot. Yes, it was time to go!
He hurriedly finished his preparations, ensuring that straps, girths and stirrups were secure. He then swung himself up into the saddle and urged his garron back down the hill to the ancient trackway, cursing the thick morning mist that swirled to greet him. He rode as swiftly as the nimble-footed garron would allow, doing his best to shake off the unease, his usual wariness sharpening as he also pondered the possibility that his escape from Alnwick might not have gone unnoticed.
At last the mist began to thin. Bavasour breasted a hill and sighed with relief at the small hamlet nestling below; nothing more than a few cottages with pens, stockades and outhouses either side of the beaten trackway. Yet as he rode down, his hot sweat prickled cold, his senses telling him that something was very wrong. No smoke billowed from the makeshift stacks built on the sides of the cottages. No chickens pecked at the dust; the stockades and pens were empty. He recognised the signs. The inhabitants had collected family, possessions and livestock and fled – but why? Scottish raiders? Wolfsheads? Or a comitatus sent out by some northern lord to discover what was happening along the wastelands of the Scottish march?
Bavasour rode on, leaving the narrow valley, following the trackway as it dipped and snaked between the small copses that bordered the path. As he cleared the trees, he reined in abruptly, staring at the long line of black-garbed horsemen who now blocked his path, cloaks flapping in the breeze, which also tugged at the deep hoods pulled up over their heads, the broad bands across their mouths acting as visors to conceal their faces. Bavasour’s garron caught its rider’s apprehension and skittered on the pebble-strewn ground, sharpened hooves clattering on the gravel. He quietened the beast, t
hen swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His suspicions had proved correct. He had been seen leaving Alnwick and he had been followed. They had waited, they had distanced themselves from Alnwick; only here and now would he be killed. He steeled himself. These were not Darel’s moss-troopers or a band of outlaws; they were the acolytes of the Black Chesters. He glanced over his shoulder to see that a similar line of horsemen had quietly debuched behind him.
‘I wonder,’ he murmured, turning back, ‘I truly do wonder who watched me leave. Sir Hugh, God bless you. No help is at hand for you or for me.’
Bavasour made his decision. He had no intention of being taken prisoner. He’d fought the length and breadth of this kingdom and beyond. He knew what surrender would mean. Torture, long and drawn out. Fierce and brutal interrogation followed by a lingering cruel death. He whispered the words of contrition and crossed himself. One of the riders broke free and moved slowly towards him. Bavasour drew his sword.
‘Friend?’ the man called out. ‘Bavasour, our former comrade, won’t you sit down with us and break bread?’
Bavasour lifted his sword and recalled the battle cry of the old king. ‘God and St George!’ he roared. Better this way and go to God like a soldier. He dug his spurs in and the garron broke into a charge. The sinister line of riders moved in a ripple of cloaks. Bavasour saw them lift their arbalests, and over the clatter and noise of his horse he heard the ominous twang as bolts were released. He was still screaming his battle cry when the barbed quarrels smashed into his face and chest, flinging him from the saddle to crash to the ground.
His attackers waited until the body lay still in a fast-spreading pool of blood. The dust began to settle. The garron, skittering backwards and forwards, eventually stood still, shaking its head and blowing noisily. The leader of the black-garbed riders dismounted, drawing his sword, and approached the fallen mercenary. He turned the corpse over with the toe of his boot and stared down at the shattered face.