Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘Ride!’ Corbett shouted.

He dug his spurs in. He was aware of Chanson following; Ranulf left last. He followed a man staggering away and, bringing his sword down, cleft him clear through the skull. Then he, like Corbett, galloped low in the saddle up the forest path, arrows whipping above them. They rode until they were safe. Corbett reined in. He was sweat-soaked, his stomach lurching so badly he felt he was going to be sick. Chanson, head bowed, was coughing and retching. If it hadn’t been for Ranulf he would have fallen from the saddle. Corbett began to tremble. It took three attempts before he could sheath his sword, which seemed to have become part of his hand. He checked his horse and looked at his leg. He could see no blood or cut and realised he must have been struck by a club or the pommel of a sword. The Clerk of the Green Wax was composed and impassive. He betrayed no sign of the conflict except the occasional gasp. However, his face was white, his lips a thin bloodless line, his green, cat-like eyes full of fury. Once he made sure Chanson was well, Ranulf dismounted. He cleaned his sword in the snow, picking up handfuls to wash spots of blood and gore from his saddle and harness.

‘You did well, Chanson!’ he called out.

‘Shouldn’t we move on?’ the groom mumbled. ‘They may pursue us.’

Corbett turned his horse and looked down the forest path.

‘I doubt it,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘How many do you think there were, Sir Hugh? About a baker’s dozen, eh? Five at least dropped. They’ll be dead by nightfall. Two or three others suffered wounds. They have had enough for one day. We took them by surprise.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Thought we’d dismount, eh? They’ll be scuttling like rabbits into the trees. They’ll tend their wounds and slink back to the Lantern-in-the-Woods to describe what brave warriors they are.’

Corbett half listened. He felt cold and tired, a sleepy exhaustion which he recognised as the aftermath of battle.

‘Although it’s a place of terror,’ Chanson spoke up, ‘I think we should go back to the abbey. I want some wine, and hot broth, then to lie on my bed and wrap the coverlet round me.’

Ranulf sheathed his sword and leapt into the saddle.

‘You seem as fresh as a spring flower,’ Corbett teased.

His henchman stared coolly back.

‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ Corbett murmured. He leaned down and patted his horse’s sweat-soaked neck.

‘I enjoyed dispensing well-deserved justice to those wolf’s-heads,’ Ranulf declared. ‘I glimpsed Scaribrick the leader. He didn’t take part in the fight. He was under the trees watching it all.’ He gathered up his reins. ‘Well, Master, where to now?’

‘We’ll go back to the abbey but, first, we’ll visit the Watcher by the Gates.’ Corbett ignored Chanson’s groan. ‘We have to see him; he could be our assassin, as much as any monk!’

Ranulf turned his horse. ‘Then, as the priests say, Procedamus in Pace — let us go forward in peace.’

Corbett followed Ranulf. He pulled his cowl back up, tugging his cloak tighter about him. He tried to think of Maeve, his children, the manor of Leighton on a warm summer’s day, of feasts and banquets as he tried to control the terrors which still shook him. He had been in many fights. It was always the same, especially with these sinister ambushes: the sudden lunge of knife and sword; the assassin’s arrow whipping through the air. He let his body relax. All he was conscious of was the thinning trees giving way to snow-filled fields, the occasional bird call or sudden flurry in the ditches on either side.

‘And there it is!’ Ranulf shouted.

They had now entered the abbey demesne: the spire of its church soared up against the grey clouds. Corbett could make out the tiled roofs, the broad gables and fretted stonework of the abbey buildings above the grey curtain wall. They passed Bloody Meadow. Corbett reined in and peered through the oak trees at the burial mound in the centre.

‘If the living can’t help me,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps the dead will?’

They went on, past the main gateway, following the wall. Ranulf abruptly reined in and pointed to the small wooden straw-thatched bothy, more like a cow byre, built against the wall near one of the postern gates. A black column of smoke rose from the hole in the roof. The ground outside was littered with broken pots, bits of bones and rags.

‘Not the cleanest or tidiest of men,’ Ranulf laughed. ‘But there’s our hermit. Sir Hugh, I wish you well.’ He turned his horse.

‘Where are you going?’ Corbett asked sharply.

‘I have business of my own,’ Ranulf replied.

And, before Corbett could object, he’d spurred his horse along the trackway.

‘Where is he going?’ Chanson wailed.

Corbett had his suspicions but he kept them to himself. He dismounted and led his horse along the wall. The Watcher came shambling out of his bothy. He stood, legs apart, hands on his hips.

‘You are just in time for some food!’ he bawled. ‘I wondered when you’d come. Bread and meat?’

He darted back in. Corbett glanced at Chanson: some colour had returned to the groom’s face.

‘Look after the horses!’ the clerk ordered.

He followed the Watcher inside. The bothy was cleaner and tidier than he had expected. It was very similar to a poor peasant’s cottage: earth-beaten floor, two makeshift windows on either wall, no door but instead a thick leather covering. The vent in the straw roof allowed smoke to escape from the fire built in a circle of stones. Above it was a bubbling iron pot on a makeshift tripod. The place smelt sweet, rather fragrant. In the far corner stood a trestle bed; in the other a large, battered chest, which bore pewter bowls, cups and jugs, all cracked and weathered.

‘Aren’t you afraid of fire?’ Corbett murmured.

‘Well, if there was one,’ the Watcher was now crouching by the pot stirring it with a wooden ladle, ‘I’d flee like a greyhound and come back and build another. The monks are very kind and so is Lady Margaret, as you probably discovered.’

He brought across a rather unsteady three-legged stool, pressing it down against the floor as if he wanted to make it more secure.

‘Sit there!’

He took a bowl and filled it, thrusting it into Corbett’s hands. There was a similar one for Chanson waiting outside with the horses. Corbett took his hornspoon out and dipped it in. The broth was very good: thick and dark with pieces of succulent meat, vegetables and bread. He even tasted a little salt. He sipped it carefully. The Watcher by the Gates came back, pulling down the leather awning, turning the hut gloomy.

‘I have an oil lamp,’ he offered.

‘Sit down,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were expecting me, weren’t you?’

The Watcher filled a bowl for himself and crouched cross-legged before Corbett, his face almost masked by the tangle of hair, as he slurped noisily on the broth.

‘Of course I expected you. You’re a clerk, aren’t you? You have questions to ask?’

‘You were baptised,’ Corbett began, ‘Salyiem. I understand from the Lady Margaret that you were born in this area and spent your youth on the Harcourt estates.’

The Watcher smacked his lips.

‘If Lady Margaret says that, then she’s right.’

‘Were you there when Sir Stephen and Sir Reginald were friends?’

‘Of course, they were comrades-in-arms.’

‘And Lady Margaret’s marriage was a happy one?’

The Watcher lowered his face and licked the broth from the battered spoon.

‘Of course.’

‘Were you there the day Sir Reginald disappeared?’

‘Of course.’ The Watcher lifted his head, his moustache and beard stained with the broth.