Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘No, no, I’ll leave it,’ he whispered. If anything happened he might wish to get out quickly. He didn’t want to die trapped like Brother Francis. The almoner walked round. He still felt uncomfortable as if he was intruding. He glimpsed a shiny brass vase high on the shelf. He smiled. In summer Gildas always took this out and filled it with flowers. The almoner went across and took it down, holding it up, turning it to catch the light. As he did so, he glimpsed a shadow in the reflection. He turned quickly and gaped in terror. Murder had slunk in like a poacher; the awesome figure before him was dressed in the grey robe of a Benedictine but his face was covered by a red leather mask. Black gauntleted hands held a dagger in one and a club in the other. The assassin lurched forward, knife snaking out. Brother Richard, grasping the brass vase, struck out wildly and parried the blow. The assailant stepped back. Brother Richard realised he was wearing soft leather boots. The almoner tried to control his panic, recalling his days as a soldier. He couldn’t really see the man’s eyes but the vase he grasped had saved his life. If he hadn’t turned in that second of time. . Again the assailant came at him but Brother Richard composed himself. He used the vase as a war club: steel and brass clanged together shattering the silence. The red-masked attacker tried once more — a parry, a feint. Brother Richard, torn between fear and courage, lashed back. The attacker drew off. He came dancing forward. Brother Richard gave a loud shout, stepped away and stumbled. He expected his assailant to take full advantage. He twisted round, only to see his red-masked attacker flee towards the door.

‘Guard us as thou wouldst the apple of thine eye. Under the shadow of thy wings keep us safe.’

Corbett mouthed the verse from the psalms as they made their way along the trackway. It was now almost noon. The ground underfoot was slushy and wet, and the horses kept slipping. On either side stretched snow-filled fields, white empty expanses, their eerie silence, which so unnerved Ranulf, broken only by the sharp cawing of circling crows and rooks. Chanson rode slightly behind Corbett, with Ranulf a little distance ahead. Corbett tried to hide his unease. They were in open countryside, with hedges on either side broken now and again by wide gaps, cut through for drovers and shepherds. The warning about Scaribrick and his outlaws had slightly unnerved Corbett. He’d thought of returning and asking Lady Margaret for an escort but that would be unfair. Manor tenants and officials were not soldiers. They would be reluctant to take up arms against men with whom they were compelled to live. He could tell by the way Ranulf sat rigid in his saddle that his henchman was also highly wary. Ahead of them rose a dark mass of trees on either side of the path. Corbett made sure his sword slipped easily in and out of its scabbard. Without warning Ranulf broke into a trot, only to rein in and jump down; he raised his horse’s left hind leg to check on the hoof.

‘Don’t be startled,’ he hissed, not looking up. ‘Get down and join me.’

Corbett and Chanson obeyed. Ranulf’s green eyes gleamed at the prospect of a fight.

‘They are waiting up ahead,’ he said, ‘within the trees.’

‘How do you know?’ Corbett demanded. ‘There was no flurry of birds?’

‘It’s not the birds,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘There’s a tree, covered in snow, across the trackway. No, Chanson, don’t look. Pretend something’s wrong with my horse.’

The groom obeyed.

‘You saw it?’ Corbett asked.

‘I glimpsed it. The trackway dips then rises. It’s on top of the rise.’

‘It could be the work of the assassin from St Martin’s.’ Chanson murmured.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf let his horse’s leg fall and patted its neck. ‘It wasn’t there when we came by and it takes more than one man to fell a tree and drag it out. There’s been no fresh snowfall, so where did the snow on top come from? I didn’t actually see the trunk, just the branches to one side. Well, Master, what do you recommend?’

‘We could go back and seek help but I am not sure what assistance could be given. We could try and find another route but we might become lost and the outlaws would certainly pursue us.’ Corbett steadied his voice. ‘What I recommend, Ranulf, is that we mount and pretend there is something wrong with your horse. We will ride either side of you as if in deep conversation and then, at my word, charge. However, we must break up. Ranulf, you go first, Chanson second, I’ll go last. If the obstacle is too high or too dangerous we’ll try and go round it: that’s up to you to decide.’

Ranulf kept his back turned to the trees.

‘We’ll probably have to go round it,’ he declared. ‘Watch your horses’ footing. Either way, we are going to have to fight our way through.’

Ranulf eased his own sword and dagger out.

‘Chanson, don’t show any weapon until you are round the obstacle. If necessary, lash out with your boot. They will be armed with bows and arrows.’ Ranulf grasped Chanson’s wrist. ‘It doesn’t make them skilled bowmen, my master of the horse. They are probably used to loosing at a standing target. They will also be cold, their fingers numb. There’s no other way — prayer might help.’

They mounted their horses, Ranulf in the centre. Corbett acted as if he was concerned, paying attention to his henchman’s horse whilst, at the same time, trying to control the fear and panic which curled his stomach and set his heart beating faster. He glanced up. The shadowy avenue of trees was drawing closer. He could make out the tree trunk which had been cut down, dragged across the path and covered with a powdering of snow. Images, memories of the war in Wales, rose up to haunt him. Dark valleys, hillsides covered in snow, wild tribesmen breaking out of the brooding line of trees. This would be similar. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. They were drawing closer. The silence was ominous, broken not even by a bird call. He glanced up again, his heart sank. The tree had been pulled across at an angle: on the right it was too high to jump.

‘Ranulf, go for the left,’ he murmured, ‘but take care of any ditch.’

Ranulf abruptly spurred forward, his horse breaking into a canter, then into a gallop. Chanson followed. Corbett came next. His world narrowed to an awareness only of the trees on either side and the pounding hooves of their horses. They drew closer. Ranulf abruptly moved to the left. In one leap he cleared the obstacle. Chanson did likewise. Even as he did so, arrows whipped through the air. Corbett followed suit. His horse cleared the fallen tree but landed clumsily: it skittered, iron hooves scrambling on the forest path. Corbett’s right foot broke loose from its stirrup. He was thrown sideways and had to fight to regain his balance. His horse reared up, and Corbett was aware of shouts, and cries. He managed to control his mount but it turned abruptly as if it wanted to go back. Men came rushing out of the trees. An arrow flew by Corbett’s face. He was aware of a whirl of faces. Someone came from behind but his war horse, now angry, lashed out with its back legs. The man’s scream rent the air even as Corbett drew his sword. A hooded face came round his horse’s head. Corbett swiped with his sword, slicing the man from eye to chin. Ranulf and Chanson joined the fray. It was a bloody, bitter struggle, with the three horsemen fighting off assailants desperate to claw them out of the saddle. Corbett felt a slight pain in his right thigh and drove the pommel of his sword into a masked outlaw’s face. They were moving forward. The horses settled down. Men garbed in brown and green, their faces covered by hideous masks, clustered about. Chanson was hacking clumsily with his sword but, in the thick of the press, he wreaked as much damage as the skilful, silent swordplay of Ranulf, his bloodlust fully roused.