Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘You have a fine horse. We could take that, the saddle and harness and sell them in the nearest town. Your weapons too. You also have silver coins.’

‘Aye, you could do that,’ Ranulf warned, ‘and the King’s men will see you hang. Are you Horehound? I’m Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk of the Green Wax, a King’s man. I have come to offer you a pardon.’

‘I told you, I told you.’ The tap boy appeared swift as a rabbit from behind a bush. ‘I told you who he was.’

The crossbows were lowered, and the outlaw leader came forward, pushing back his cowl and the ragged cloth covering his mouth and nose. A dirty narrow face, the nose slightly twisted, a scar coursing down his left cheek. He had cropped grey hair, his moustache and beard were dirty and clogged with grease, his eyes were sharp and quick. Horehound stretched out his rag-covered hand. Ranulf grasped this and pulled the man closer, gripping him tightly.

‘No, don’t worry.’ He saw the fear flare in the outlaw’s eyes. ‘I’m not here to trap you. The day you met us,’ Ranulf half smiled, ‘in the cemetery at St Peter’s, you spoke of a “horror in the forest.” What did you mean? You know something, don’t you, about the maids who have been killed?’

‘I know a lot of things.’ The outlaw leader turned to the men on his right. ‘Don’t I, Hemlock? Isn’t that right, Milkwort?’ The two grunted in agreement. ‘A full pardon,’ he turned back to Ranulf, ‘you promise that?’

‘For every one of you,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Full pardon and amnesty, as well as silver to help you on your way.’

The outlaw fished beneath his rags and took off the crude-looking cross dangling round his neck; he thrust this into Ranulf’s hand.

‘That’s been in holy water and blessed by a priest. Swear your oath and come!’

Ranulf never forgot the subsequent breathless wandering through that frozen forest. The outlaws left the boy with one of their gang to guard the horse, and in single file, Ranulf behind the leader, entered the trees; an ancient place, the outlaws confided, full of elves, sprites and demons. Ranulf hid his fear, for the forest was a truly terrifying place. The trees clustered in as if they wished to surround and trap him, icy branches stretched down to pluck at his hood or catch his cloak. Snow-covered briars and brambles tugged at his ankles. He could make no sense of where they were going; to all intents and purposes he was lost, yet Horehound trotted on like a lurcher dog, every so often stopping to warn Ranulf to follow him more closely as they avoided an icy morass or marsh. Occasionally an animal was startled or a bird burst out of the branches, making Ranulf’s heart leap and the sweat start. They crossed a gloomy clearing where the sky was only slivers of light between the trees, then ducked back under the dark canopy, following paths as treacherous and dangerous as any alleyway in London. At last they stopped at the edge of a glade, and the outlaws fanned out behind Ranulf, reluctant to go any further.

‘They be afeared,’ Horehound taunted, ‘but I’m not.’ And off he went.

Suddenly, in a clearing, they came upon the ‘horror in the woods’. Ranulf could tell that, despite the fresh fall of snow, someone had been here recently. Horehound pointed to the grisly find and, taking him back through the trees, brought him to the edge of the swamp and the second corpse. By the time they reached the morass, Ranulf’s stomach was queasy at what he’d just seen: a girl, flesh decomposing, eyes hollowed, cheeks pinched. He agreed with Horehound, before they covered up the remains, that it was a young woman who’d been hanged from the oak branch above them. The second corpse was different. This time the outlaws helped scrape away the snow and ice and drag the body from the oozing mud. Ranulf used the snow and the edge of his own cloak to clean the face, trying to avoid those staring eyes. His hand moved across the corpse and brushed the quarrel embedded deep in her chest. Using his dagger, he cleared away the mud to reveal the purple wound, the feathered flight and the encrusted blood.

‘Nothing to do with us,’ Horehound announced. ‘Neither of these deaths, that’s what we tried to tell you in the cemetery. We will not be blamed and hanged for the murder of these poor wenches.’

‘That’s why I came,’ Ranulf said. ‘My master, Sir Hugh Corbett, wishes to have words with you.’

‘I had heard that,’ the outlaw leader replied. ‘The taverner, Master Reginald, he told the boys to pass the message on, as if it was beneath him. I did not know what to believe. It may have been a trap but you’ve sworn your oath, haven’t you?’

‘I have.’ Ranulf stared at the man squatting before him, the rest of his companions standing in a semicircle around them. He glanced at the corpse sprawled in the snow, hair, flesh, clothing and blood-encrusted mud.

‘The end of life.’ Horehound followed his gaze. ‘No better than a rabbit.’

Ranulf got to his feet, and in a loud voice repeated his oath. Then he told the outlaws to bring the corpses back to the castle; he would ride with them. Later they must bring the whole band. They would be given fresh clothing, hot food, money and a pardon written out by the King’s own man and sealed in the Crown’s name, so no one could lift a hand against them. Ranulf would have liked to examine the corpses more carefully, but he was aware of the passing of time, how cold and hungry he had become. He had done what he had come for and was determined to be free of this dreadful forest as quickly as possible.

Corbett stared down at the two corpses. They had been stripped and washed, and Father Andrew had blessed both with incense and holy water, anointing the five senses with sacred oil. He had sighed, muttered prayers, then left the corpses to Simon the leech, who was now examining both carefully. Chanson and Bolingbroke had also withdrawn, driven out by the smell of decomposing flesh. Father Andrew had left the thurible open, and Corbett heaped incense on top of the glowing charcoal, welcoming the gusts of fragrance. Lady Constance, who proved not as squeamish as others, had also done her best, scattering rosewater and providing Corbett and Ranulf with pomanders saturated in perfume.

Ranulf’s return with the corpses so soon after the funeral Mass for the other victims had created chaos and consternation which gave way to shock and grief. The remains were immediately recognised. Mistress Feyner had stared down at the sled and grieved, made all the more piteous by her soul-wrenching silence, her face contorted by the mute agony of loss. She opened her mouth to speak but could find no words, simply covering her eyes with her fingers whilst friends led her away. The parents of Alusia had sat for a while just staring down at the corpse until her mother began to scream, becoming so fretful Lady Constance and her maid, clasping her arms, took her into the Hall of Angels.

Corbett’s anger at Ranulf’s disappearance soon calmed when he realised what the man had done and the manner in which he had confronted his fears. Ranulf had ridden across the drawbridge like the figure of Death, hooves drumming on the wood. The garrison had already been alerted by sentries on the gatehouse who had reported a line of men emerging from the trees. Ranulf had tried to persuade Horehound and his gang to bring the corpses into the castle yard, but the outlaw chief had shaken his head.

‘Only this far,’ he declared. ‘When the pardons are given, I shall come into the castle to receive the King’s peace.’ He and his companions had melted away.