Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

Ranulf shrugged and blew on his fingers. 'About two hours. Maltote, what's the matter?'

The young messenger was staring back the way they had come.

'Maltote!' Ranulf snapped. 'For God's sake, you are as skittish as a maid!'

Maltote turned back, his face white, eyes anxious.

'I don't know,' he muttered. 'After we left the crossroads I fell back. I am sure we are being followed.'

'Nonsense!' Ranulf scoffed.

'I am certain we were,' Maltote insisted. 'I heard the jingle of harness.'

'Hell's teeth, Master!' Ranulf snapped. 'We are lost and we'll freeze if we stay here.'

Corbett patted his horse's neck. 'There's only one thing for it. Let's return to the crossroads.'

'Look!' Ranulf cried. 'Perhaps all is well!'

He pointed into the mist, which shifted like steam above a cauldron. Corbett glimpsed the flare of light that Ranulf had seen. A farm, perhaps one of the villages. He moved his horse, leaving the path, crossing the rain-soaked moor in the direction of the light. His horse protested but Corbett urged it on. Again the horse whinnied. Corbett tugged at the reins but the horse was stuck fast. Corbett stared down in horror – his horse was really floundering, hoof and fetlock deep in the green mire around them. Corbett cursed and turned round.

'Get back!' he yelled to Ranulf and Maltote.

'Keep still, Master!' Ranulf urged. 'The more you struggle, the faster you'll sink!'

Corbett obeyed, stroking his horse's neck and talking softly. The horse threw its head back, the whites of its eyes rounded in terror. Ranulf dismounted and approached, bringing the rope he always carried to tether his horse or to use as a makeshift bridle. Maltote led the way, leading his own horse, feeling every step carefully before him.

'There's a sort of path,' he said, 'where the earth is firm.':

Corbett fought to control his panic as his mount began to flounder. The mud reached its belly. Ranulf and Maltote made their way gingerly along the firm strip of earth. When they were only feet away from Corbett, Ranulf threw the rope. Corbett managed to tie it around his horse's neck. Maltote tied the other end to the saddle horn of his own mount. Talking softly to it, he urged it back. The rope tautened. At first Corbett's horse did not move. The rope, growing tighter round its neck, only increased its panic. Corbett enlarged the noose, moving part of it over his saddle horn. Ranulf and Maltote tugged and pulled. Suddenly Corbett's horse broke free and scrambled on to the path. Corbett carefully dismounted and, following Maltote's advice, spoke gently to the horse until all of them, soaked in mud, were firmly back on the trackway.

For a while Corbett could do nothing except squat by the side of his horse, trying to calm his own terror. He was covered in mud and his horse was caked to its withers in marsh slime. Ranulf pushed some bread and a wineskin into his master's hand.

'You'd best drink!'

Corbett chewed the bread, but found it difficult to swallow so he spat it out. He then poured some wine into his hand. He sniffed and licked it carefully.

'What's the matter, Master?'

'What in hell's name do you think's the matter?' Corbett snarled. 'I am checking for poison!' He smiled in apology. 'However, it seems untainted.' Corbett took a generous swig and handed the wineskin back to Ranulf. 'Thank you,' he muttered. He stared at Maltote. 'If it hadn't been for you, we could have all died.' He got to his feet and gripped Maltote's hand. 'I'll not forget that. You or Ranulf.'

'And neither will the horses!' Ranulf joked, embarrassed by his usually taciturn master's thanks.

Corbett stretched. His legs were freezing cold and yet he felt strangely sleepy after being trapped in the mire. He stared through the swirling mist.

'We've got to go back to the crossroads,' he muttered.

'But that light?' Maltote asked.

'We were tricked,' Ranulf snapped. 'I have seen smugglers play the same trick on the marshes along the Thames estuary. They show lights and travellers make the mistake of thinking they mean safety. Some cruel bastards even make a living out of wrecking ships that way.'

'But how did they know we were here?' Maltote asked.

'I think the crossroads will tell us,' Corbett breathed. 'Come on!'

They led their horses along the trackway, back to the crossroads, but the gaudily painted wooden post was nowhere to be seen. Ranulf scrabbled around in the dark.

'It's fallen over!' he cried, his fingers feeling the wood.

Corbett threw the reins of his horse at Maltote and walked across.

'I doubt that,' he replied. 'I think it was loosened, turned round and pointed in the wrong direction. It then either fell or was pushed over by the heartless bastard who shone that lantern.'

'So, we were being followed?' Maltote asked.

'Probably,' Corbett said. 'But there was someone ahead of us, too. God knows there are enough who knew about our journey. It's a well-known outlaw trick – single out strangers in the area, lure them in the wrong direction and see what happens. Someone from Hunstanton got to the crossroads before us, changed the sign, waited for us to take the wrong path and tried to entice us into that marsh with a lantern. Don't forget, we delayed longer at Mortlake Manor and the villagers, or who ever it was, know every path and trackway in this area well.'

'But who?' Ranulf demanded. 'Who is the bastard? So we can go back and cut his throat!'

'It could be anyone,' Maltote replied, full of confidence after his master's praise. 'Sir Hugh is right. They went ahead of us and laid their trap.' He preened himself. 'We messengers are used to such stratagems. What do we do now, Master? Go back to Mortlake?'

'No. Maltote, you know which route we followed and the wrong path we took. So, up on your horse and ride like the wind. If you see lights, and it's a hamlet or village, come back!'

Maltote obeyed, the hoof beats of his horse receding into the distance. Corbett and Ranulf stood at the crossroads, and despite their efforts to keep warm, began to freeze.

At last Maltote returned.

'There's a small hamlet. I asked one of the peasants.' The messenger pointed. 'This is the road to Bishop's Lynn. Shall we continue, Master?'

Corbett agreed. Surprisingly, he did not stop at the hamlet but, ignoring the protests of his companions, pressed on to Bishop's Lynn. The mist became denser, colder, more cloying and Corbett wondered if he had made the right decision. For a while Ranulf moaned loudly but eventually the darkness and the freezing cold silenced him. He slumped on his horse, pulling his cloak and hood about him in sullen resignation.

At last they reached Bishop's Lynn. Corbett's legs were numb. He was in no mood to argue with the city watch, who had already declared the curfew and closed the gates, and a display of warrants and Ranulf's angry shouts quickly had a postern gate opened for them. One of the wardsmen led them down St Nicholas Street to the town's most spacious tavern, the Lattice House on the corner of Chapel Street. Once again Corbett used his authority, this time to obtain stables for his horse and a chamber for himself and his companions. They all stripped and washed in bowls of steaming hot water, brought up by sleepy-eyed servants. Once dressed in clean clothes, they went down to the taproom for something to eat. All three were too exhausted to talk and the steaming bowls of meat and thick local ale soon made them heavy-eyed and drowsy. They returned to their chambers and flung themselves down on their beds.

All of them slept late. When Corbett awoke, he felt refreshed, suffering little, apart from a stiffness in his legs, from the previous day's misery. They broke their fast. Maltote went out to make sure the horses were clean and properly stabled and, at Corbett's instructions, took their muddy clothes down to the tavern's wash-house. The landlord, eager to make a profit from such important visitors, had promised that his servants would wash them.