Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘But we are leaving first. They’ll never catch up.’

‘I wager they’ve already gone,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Do you remember how that trackway snakes and curves — they’ll be waiting there.’

They left the tavern. Chanson looked longingly over his shoulder at its warmth and light. The day was dying. Mist curled out from the trees. The trackway stretched before them like some haunted path.

‘Couldn’t we gallop?’ Chanson whispered.

‘And risk an accident? Haven’t you heard of tricks such as a rope tied across the path? Say your prayers, Chanson.’

Ranulf loosed the sword in its scabbard and, for the first time that day, Ranulf-atte-Newgate truly prayed.

‘Oh Lord, look after Ranulf-atte-Newgate, as Ranulf-atte-Newgate would look after you, if he was God and you were Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’

He urged his horse slightly forward of Chanson’s. The groom was now truly frightened. The trees on either side of the trackway stood like ghostly sentinels wrapped in a mist which shifted to show the darkness beyond. Now and again faint rustling echoed from the undergrowth or the lonely call of a bird shattered the silence. Chanson drew a throwing dagger from his belt and pushed it into the leather strap round his right wrist. They turned a bend. Ranulf almost sighed with relief. Five shadows stood across the path, arrows notched to their bows. He’d expected some sudden rush but the attackers were waiting.

‘Don’t rein in!’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Keep the same pace.’

Chanson obeyed. They continued, the silence broken by the clopping of the horses’ hooves. The line of men across the path wavered. Ranulf smiled grimly, the oldest trick in the book. Their attackers had expected them to stop within bowshot, even to dismount. Ranulf urged his horse on.

‘Stop where you are!’ a voice rang out.

‘Continue!’ Ranulf whispered.

Chanson obeyed, only reining in when an arrow whipped over his head.

‘What is it you want?’

Ranulf stood up in the stirrups and looked from left to right. Good, he couldn’t see anyone in the trees on either side.

‘Your horses, your weapons, your money and then you can go back to the abbey in your shifts!’

Ranulf’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, head down as if he was considering the request.

‘Now, Chanson!’

Ranulf dug his spurs in. The horse leapt forward and Ranulf’s sword came slithering out of its scabbard. Chanson grasped his throwing dagger. Their attackers had relaxed, and lowered their bows. By the time they realised their mistake it was too late. The two horsemen hit them. Chanson threw his dagger. One of the attackers took it full in the mouth. Ranulf, with a scything cut, hit another on the shoulder and turned just in time to deliver a second blow to the attacker on his right. Chanson was eager to continue the gallop but Ranulf turned his horse and went charging back. Only one bowman remained, the other had fled into the forest. Ranulf used his horse and the man went down under its pounding hooves. Ranulf turned, patting his horse, whispering reassuringly to it. Four bodies lay on the trackway. He dismounted and drew his dagger. Two were already dead. He cut the throats of the wounded men, ignoring Chanson’s horrified gasps.

‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ Ranulf crouched down and wiped the blood off his dagger on the jerkin of one of the attackers. ‘Their wounds are grievous, it’s freezing cold and, if we took them back to the abbey, what’s the use of tending them? They attacked the King’s men, that’s treason! They died quickly.’

He ordered Chanson to collect the weapons but, when he inspected these, he kept only a dagger, throwing the rest into the darkness.

‘Let Master Talbot bury them,’ he murmured. ‘Now, let’s see what these men have?’

Ranulf opened their wallets and emptied the contents into his hand. He put the coins in his purse but gave a cry of surprise and held up what he had found against the poor light.

‘What is it?’ Chanson demanded.

‘It’s a seal,’ Ranulf declared, peering at it. ‘The seal of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. Now, why should an outlaw, a wolf’s-head, have a seal like this? It’s not valuable. So, it’s either a keepsake or. .’

‘Or what?’ Chanson demanded.

‘Something like a licence or a warrant. You show it to someone, they recognise it and allow you to pass. Or it could be a sign?’

‘Are you saying the outlaws do business with the abbey?’

‘Possibly,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Perhaps for a payment they left the brothers alone? Allowed them to come and go unhindered.’

Ranulf got to his feet. He stared down at the stiffening corpses. Deep in the trees an owl hooted. Chanson tried not to shiver: the owl was a harbinger of death.

‘It’s time we returned,’ he said.

They remounted leaving their bloody handiwork behind them. Ranulf felt exhausted after the attack. He had no compunction about the men he had slain. They would have taken his life as quickly, and without thought, like someone snuffing a candle. Moreover, such outlaws did not kill swiftly: they often tortured their victims. Ranulf pulled his cloak tighter around him as the snowflakes began to fall. He reflected on what he had seen at the Lantern-in-the-Woods: Talbot’s daughter Blanche, her gold cross on its silver chain, the costly-looking bracelet, the rings. Who in these parts could afford such expensive items? Blanche certainly smelt sweetly. Ranulf recalled the story about a scented woman, disguised in the robe and cowl of a monk, being glimpsed in the abbey grounds at night.

‘Come on, Chanson!’ he urged.

Ranulf dug in his spurs, urging his horse into a gallop. Chanson was only too eager to follow. Darkness had fallen and the snow was already beginning to lie.

‘I wonder if it will continue all night?’ Chanson shouted.

‘I wonder what old Master Long Face is doing?’ Ranulf retorted.

At last the abbey came into sight. Dark massed buildings, with sconce torches flickering on either side of the entrance. A lantern gleamed in the window of the small chamber above the gatehouse. Ranulf reined in. A small postern door opened and a brother hurried out carrying a lantern.

‘Who are you?’ he called.

‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson.’

‘Very well! Very well!’

The monk disappeared inside. The bar was removed and the door swung open. Ranulf was about to dig his spurs in when the first fire arrow shot out of the darkness and fell, leaving a trail of fiery light, into the abbey grounds.

Corbett sat on a stool before the brazier warming his fingers. Archdeacon Adrian had left his room abruptly. Corbett, once again, had ordered him not to leave the abbey until his investigations were completed. Corbett heard the cries from the courtyard below, and hastily put on boots and cloak and hurried down as a second fire arrow smacked into the cobbles, its flame spluttering out in the icy slush.

‘What is it?’ Corbett demanded of a lay brother who came hurtling round the corner.

‘Oh, thanks be to God, Sir Hugh!’ He peered through the darkness. ‘It is you?’

‘Is the abbey under attack?’ Corbett demanded.

‘We don’t know.’

Corbett stared up at the sky. Two more fire arrows were falling in a blazing arc.

‘Tell Prior Cuthbert to take comfort,’ Corbett declared. ‘They can do little harm. By the time they fall they are spent.’

Corbett watched another score through the night sky: the mysterious archer must be just beyond the walls, moving quickly to give the impression that more than one bowman was loosing these fiery shafts. The lay brother scurried off. There was little Corbett could do and it was now freezing cold, so he went back into the guesthouse. He had hardly reached his chamber when he heard voices downstairs. Ranulf and Chanson came clattering up, spurs jingling noisily.