Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Do you suspect the priest?’ Bolingbroke asked.

‘Possibly, or that taverner. What I can’t understand is how the killer is able to place one corpse in a midden heap and another outside the castle, and a third on the trackway near the church.’

Ranulf kicked off his boots and, imitating Corbett, lay back against the bolsters. Chanson and Bolingbroke played a game of hazard, then retired. Ranulf sat listening to Chanson’s snores as he turned over what he planned for the following day. Lady Constance, her sweet face, was a constant distraction. Ranulf tried to ignore it; he had failed Corbett and must make amends. Eventually he fell asleep.

He woke in the early hours. Quietly he washed and changed, laying out his war belt, ensuring the sword and dagger slipped in and out of their sheaths, and took an arbalest from the chest near Chanson’s bed. Going down to the yard, he found the dirt and slush had been covered by a fresh layer of snow; only guards and cooks flitted like ghosts across to the bakehouses or kitchens. Men-at-arms were building bonfires, and few looked up as he crossed to the stable, shaking an ostler awake, urging him to prepare his horse.

‘No feed,’ he warned. ‘I want it quiet. Check the hooves, make sure it is well shod.’

He returned to his chamber and roused Chanson, almost pulling the sleepy groom up out of the thick coverlet, tapping his face.

‘Listen, Chanson, I’m leaving for the forest.’

‘But, but . . .’

‘Don’t start stammering,’ Ranulf warned. ‘Tell Sir Hugh that I’ve gone to meet Horehound. I hope to be back shortly after noon.’

‘But you’re frightened of the forest.’

‘Well it’s time I cured that. Now, while I’m gone, you follow old Master Longface like his shadow.’

Ranulf collected his cloak and left. His horse was saddled and ready in the yard. He mounted and rode through the outer bailey and across the drawbridge. The snow on the trackway outside the castle was well over ankle deep, but although the morning was grey, Ranulf took comfort that the clouds had broken, and perhaps the worst was past. He glanced at the line of trees and quelled his own fear, letting his mind go back. He had seen or heard something yesterday, but he couldn’t place it. He recalled the Frenchman’s corpse lying at the foot of the steps, the blood seeping out like spilt wine from a cup, then thought of Corbett sheltering in that ruin while the crossbowman took careful aim. He patted his horse’s neck. ‘Well, we will see who you are,’ he whispered.

He entered the line of trees, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully along the snow-packed trackway. Occasionally he passed other lonely travellers. A chapman, his bundle piled high on his back, hood up, face visored, plodded his way towards the castle. He hardly lifted his head as he passed. Ranulf reached the church, which lay silent under its snow coverlet, the black crosses and headstones of the cemetery thrusting up, a sombre reminder of the shortness of life. He urged his horse on. He didn’t want to tire it, but at the same time he wanted to be out of the forest before the day began to die or the snowfalls returned. He had a fear of getting lost.

When he reached the Tavern in the Forest he left his horse in the cobbled yard. The tap room was open and he was pleased to meet the boy Corbett had paid the previous day. He ushered Ranulf to sit in the inglenook. The fire had burnt down, and as the boy remarked, the tavern was as cold as the snow outside. He brought a pot of ale and some stale bread. Ranulf chewed on this, sipping on the ale to soften the bread in his mouth.

‘Would you like to earn a piece of silver?’ he whispered as the boy crouched like a dog in front of him.

The boy’s eyes widened.

‘Three pieces of silver.’

‘Three pieces of silver!’ The lad edged away. ‘You’re not one of those strange ones who thinks a boy’s bottom is better than a girl’s breasts?’

Ranulf laughed. ‘No, I want you to come with me. I’ll put you on the saddle in front of me. I want you to lead me into the forest where I can meet Horehound.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘Oh yes you do,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘I know about outlaws. They always come to the nearest tavern to buy or sell, to collect information. I would wager a silver coin you’ve sat with Horehound out beneath the trees, haven’t you, lad?’

‘Meet him yourself.’

‘Three pieces of silver,’ Ranulf repeated. He put down the pot of ale and took out his purse.

‘One now, one when I meet Horehound, and one when we return.’

The boy’s eyes widened with amazement.

‘Do you have parents?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Died five winters ago.’ The boy’s eyes never left the coins. ‘Work here for Master Reginald I do.’ He pointed to a table on the far side of the room ‘Sleep under there at night and eat whatever scraps I am given.’

‘Three silver coins,’ Ranulf repeated again, ‘and I’ll find you a post in the castle. You don’t have to come back here. How about that, lad, eh? Clerk of the kitchen, clean clothes.’ He pointed to the leather cloths wrapped around the boy’s feet. ‘And a proper pair of boots.’

The boy jumped to his feet. In the twinkling of an eye he snatched the coin, scampered across the tap room and returned with a tattered cloak and a small pathetic bundle.

‘Good.’ Ranulf got to his feet.

‘I’ve just got one more task. Master Reginald always tells me never to douse the fire in the morning,’ and lifting his tattered tunic and pulling down his hose, the boy urinated into the fireplace, then, dancing like an imp from Hell, followed Ranulf out to his horse.

The Clerk of the Green Wax helped him into the saddle and swung up behind him. The boy stank, his hair was thick with grease, and beneath his cloak Ranulf could feel his thin body and bony arms. For a brief moment he went back years to when, garbed in rags, he had fought along the alleyways and runnels near Whitefriars. He was glad he had brought the boy; it dulled his fear of the forest, of becoming lost. The boy chattered like a squirrel, divulging all the secrets of the tavern, telling how Master Reginald was a bully but fawned on the foreigners who came and went as they wished and ate like lords. Ranulf listened intently. He did not want to prompt the boy, who, for a silver coin, would have told any lie about the taverner. So engrossed was he, it was a shock to realise how deep the forest had become. Only the occasional cawing of a rook or the rustling in the undergrowth betrayed any sign of life. On one occasion he thought he was lost, but the boy pointed their way through the trees and said they were safe. They reached a small crossroads where a forest trackway cut across their path. Here, the boy slipped down from the saddle, and stared owl-eyed up at Ranulf.

‘You’ve got to stay there,’ he warned. ‘You mustn’t move. I’ll be back before you know it.’

Then he was gone, leaving the trackway, pushing through the undergrowth, disappearing into the darkness of the trees. Ranulf had no choice but to wait. He felt tempted to ride on. It wasn’t the gloom, the snow or the greying sky above him, but that ominous silence, as if people were watching from the trees, waiting for him to make a mistake. His horse stamped and whinnied, and the sound echoed like the crack of a whip. Ranulf dismounted and hobbled his horse, which was restless at its master’s unease. He stroked its neck, talking softly, reassuring it, trying to control the beating of his own heart. He thought of Lady Constance and wondered if she would give him a token, a light kiss perhaps, a brushing of the lips. His horse whinnied again and moved. Ranulf heard a click and turned slowly. Six men stood there, garbed in rags, tattered hoods pulled over their heads; three carried weapons, swords and axes, and the leader and the two standing either side of him brought their crossbows up, bolts in the grooves, the cords winched back.