Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Who’s there?’ Master Reginald, a crossbow in one hand, stood in the light. Behind him two tap boys grasped stout cudgels.

‘Only Horehound, Master Reginald,’ the outlaw called across. ‘Foxglove is dying, we need food and drink.’

‘And what do you have to trade?’ Master Reginald came forward, shouting at the dogs to stay silent.

Horehound gripped the club he carried. ‘We’ve nothing,’ he grated. ‘Even our salted meat is putrid. Master Reginald,’ he whined, ‘we need meat and bread. I can pay you back in the spring.’ He edged forward, so hungry he was becoming angry. Master Reginald’s buttery and kitchen were full of good meats, golden-crusted pies, soft pork, goose, chicken and other delicacies. His hunger made him bold. He walked across the cobbled yard swinging his cudgel; the taverner lifted his crossbow. ‘Give us some food,’ the outlaw repeated, ‘and we will leave you in peace.’

From the tavern came a shout, a foreign voice. ‘You have visitors?’ Horehound asked. The taverner understood the threat in his voice. ‘They will have to travel, so we will agree to give them safe passage.’

Master Reginald didn’t realise how weak and impoverished the outlaw band had become. Again the voice shouted, and this time he reluctantly beckoned them forward into the sweet warmth and light of his kitchen. Horehound groaned in pleasure. Milkwort and Angelica just stood gaping at the meats spread out on the fleshing tables, the basket of rye bread and the small white loaves freshly taken from the ovens either side of the great hearth. Horehound stared around. Lamplight glinted in the polished bowls and skillets, and it was then that Horehound made his decision. He was tired of the forest; this was his last winter skulking amongst the trees. Emboldened by the prospects of a change, he walked across and stared through the half-open door of the tap room. The five foreigners were seated round a table. Master Reginald, his bitter face even more angry, ushered him away. A leather bag was brought, quickly filled with scraps of meat and hard rye bread and pushed into Horehound’s hand. The taverner allowed them to take one of the fresh loaves and a morsel of cheese before opening the rear door and gesturing at them to leave. As Horehound passed, the taverner gripped the outlaw’s shoulder.

‘You remember this,’ he warned. ‘I want no trouble for my guests on the forest paths, and when spring comes I want to be repaid.’

Horehound and his two companions were only too delighted to agree. They crossed the yard, scaled the wall and crouched for a while in the icy darkness, congratulating themselves on their good fortune.

‘I wonder why?’ Milkwort’s face, red and chapped, was twisted in disbelief. He crouched so close to Horehound the outlaw leader could smell his foul breath, the rancid sweat from his dirty rags.

‘Master Reginald wanted us out,’ Angelica whispered. ‘He didn’t want us there! He didn’t want us troubling those merchants who must be paying him well.’

Now that he was out in the freezing night Horehound was even more suspicious. The taverner was not noted for his kindness; the tap boys had told them about how he liked to beat the slatterns. The foreigners must be paying well and Master Reginald didn’t want any trouble. Horehound stared up at the black sky, and even as he did, fresh flakes wetted his face.

‘What hour must it be?’

‘Not long before midnight,’ Milkwort guessed. ‘We should hurry. They say a dying man always goes before dawn.’

They continued their journey through the trees, Horehound clutching his precious bag. Now and then they lost their way, cursing and grumbling as they were pricked by icy brambles. Horehound hissed at them to be careful. Near the church lay hidden marshes and he didn’t want to become trapped. At last they reached the cemetery wall, and climbed this wearily, moving quickly around the tombstones and crosses towards the priest’s house. Horehound now felt more comfortable. The priest kept no dogs and, being a kindly man, might have some food to spare. The outlaw carefully circled the grey-brick building, leaping up to catch a glimpse of light from the shutters, but the house lay in silence. The priest had his chamber at the back, on the second floor, yet the shutters here were closed too and betrayed no gleam of light.

Horehound searched amongst the snow and, gripping some dirt, flung it up, but no reply. He sent up a second hail of dirt and pebbles, shouting hoarsely, ‘Father Matthew? Master Priest?’ He started as an owl hooted in the far trees of the cemetery.

‘Perhaps he is not here,’ Milkwort suggested. ‘Perhaps he stayed at the castle.’

Horehound was about to turn away when he glimpsed a gleam of light coming from a window in the church, a small oriel overlooking the entrance to the nave. ‘He’s in the church,’ he whispered. He hurried across, thrust his cudgel at Milkwort and climbed the crumbling wall. The hard stone dug into his chapped, sore flesh but Horehound persisted.

The small oriel was full of thick stained glass, the gift of some wealthy parishioner. The image of a saint, hands extended, blocked any clear view, but the thickened strip of glass beneath allowed Horehound to peer through. He gasped and blinked. The porch of the church was bright with light from a ring of candles. Father Matthew, wrapped in a thick, heavy cloak, was squatting in the centre. On his left was a pot of fire, the flames leaping up from the charcoal, and before him a large deep bowl of gleaming brass. Horehound couldn’t understand what was happening. Now and again the priest would stare down at a small book, the size of a psalter, kept open by weights on each corner. Horehound couldn’t decide if he was chanting or talking to himself; his lips were moving, as if reciting some incantation. Just near the book was a small open coffer, the sort a leech would use to contain his powders. Father Matthew was taking grains of powder from this and sprinkling them into the bowl, cleaning his hands very carefully above it.

Horehound, fascinated, forgot the reason why he was there. He watched the priest sprinkle more powder before lighting a taper from the fire pot and throwing it into the bowl. Horehound stifled a scream at the flash of fire which leapt up, so surprised he lost his grip and almost fell on to his waiting companions below.

‘What is it?’ Milkwort gasped.

Horehound, terrified, didn’t even bother to reply but, grasping his cudgel, raced across to the cemetery wall, flinging himself up it and dropping down on the other side. Ignoring the shouts of his companions, he ran until he had reached the shelter of the trees. Milkwort and Angelica came panting up, the woman holding the precious sack of food.

‘What did you see?’ Milkwort asked.

‘The devil,’ Horehound hissed back, ‘appearing in a tongue of flame!’

‘Nonsense!’ Milkwort protested.

‘I know what I saw,’ Horehound rasped, ‘and when we go back to the cave, keep your mouths shut. Old Foxglove will be all a-tremble. I’ll pretend to be the priest.’ He gestured back towards the church. ‘I’ll do him more good than that one.’

Sir Hugh rose early the next morning. He loosened the shutter and gasped at the blast of freezing air. It was snowing again, though not as heavily as the day before. He placed the shutter back, went across to the lavarium, cracked the ice and splashed water over his face. Dressing quickly, he built up the fire, blowing at the embers and using the powerful bellows on the weak flames in the braziers. For a while he crouched, basking in the warmth. The chamber was bitterly cold and he hitched his cloak tighter against the icy draughts seeping under the door and through the shutters. He was glad he was clear-headed, pleased he had not drunk or eaten too much the night before, and he smiled as he remembered how he and Ranulf had helped Chanson to bed. The groom had sat with the other henchmen below the dais and drunk everything placed before him.