Paul Doherty - Nightshade

‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf was kicking with his boot at a paving slab just beneath one of the narrow windows, ‘there’s an iron ring here.’

Corbett hurried across. The ring was embedded near the edge, rusting but still strong and secure. He tugged and the entire stone loosened. Assisted by Ranulf, he pulled it free, sliding it across the next stone as a gust of musty air made them cough.Corbett grasped the lantern and glimpsed the steep, narrow steps leading below.

‘Ranulf, there’re more lantern horns outside. Take one, get it lit and come back.’

A short while later, the lantern horns glowing, Ranulf shouting at the curious now congregating in the porch to busy themselves elsewhere, Corbett led the way down. At the bottom of the steps he lifted the lantern and quietly whistled.

‘A crypt,’ he murmured. ‘Look, Ranulf.’ He pointed to cresset torches, still thick with pitch, fastened in their sconces. Ranulf hurried across and lit some of these. The light flared, illuminating the long, sombre chamber with its curiously bricked walls and the remains of battered pillars that must once have reinforced a ceiling above. The floor was of shale, patched here and there with faded tiles; crouching down, Corbett studied the elaborately intricate designs, then the ledge that ran either side of the chamber. More torches were lit. The light glimmered. Ranulf shouted; Corbett glanced up. At the far end of the room, piled against the wall, rose a heap of shattered skeletons. Corbett hurried down to inspect the grisly pile of cracked dark brown bones, a hideous sight in the dim light. The stench was noisome. He drew his sword and sifted amongst the shards; sharp ribs, leg and arm bones and cup-like skulls.

‘God rest them. These have been dead a long time,’ he muttered.

‘And the stench?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett sifted the dust with the point of his sword.

‘Herbs thickly piled on but now decayed. Rosemary, withered hyacinths, cypress leaves and new shoots. This is an old charnel house, Ranulf, a place of gloomy midnight. All that is missing,’he glanced over his shoulder, ‘is a screeching owl, a cauldron of bubbling mandrake, and it could be a warlock’s cavern, but no.’ He sheathed his sword. ‘The truth is that the soil outside is hard to dig, hence the village’s eventual decay. Accordingly, every so often the inhabitants of Mordern would empty God’s Acre for fresh burials and bring the bones of their long-departed down here. I suspect the church above was built on something more ancient still, when Caesar’s people ruled this island.’ He walked round, pausing near the ledge, and, in the light of the lamps, studied the ground. ‘Food and wine?’ He picked up scraps of bone and hardened bread. ‘Why should anyone eat or drink in such macabre surroundings?’

‘Unless they were hiding.’

‘John Le Riche,’ Corbett replied. ‘And richer still? I wonder if that verse applies to him. Did the Free Brethren hide him here? Which,’ he got to his feet, ‘brings us to a more pressing problem, Ranulf. If you were a member of that Westminster gang, fleeing through the wilds of Essex with treasures stolen from the King’s own hoard, you would be very careful, surely?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you wouldn’t proclaim the fact. Yet Le Riche, cunning enough to break into the royal treasury, astute enough to escape the King’s searchers, finds sanctuary in Essex but then becomes a babbling infant. He actually turns up at Mistleham guildhall offering to sell a dagger belonging to the King. A dagger not of English origin but Saracen, which would certainly arouse suspicion. Master Claypole and Lord Scrope are not telling us the truth, but that will have to wait. What I do suspect is that this crypt was used to house Le Riche; he hid here, the Free Brethrenfed him. They probably also stored their weapons here against the curious. They made mistakes … No, no,’ he shook his head, ‘no they didn’t, at least not then.’

‘What do you mean, master?’

‘Scrope’s story – that a verderer was wandering in the woods and by chance came across some of the Free Brethren practising archery – that doesn’t ring true; it’s not logical, is it? Here are a group who were planning a secret attack, yet practised with their weapons in the greenery where verderers, foresters, beggars, wandering tinkers and chapmen could see them.’ Corbett pointed down the chamber at the pile of bones. ‘They were collected,’ he said, ‘and piled there deliberately.’ He went back and moved the bones away to reveal the great beam embedded in the wall beyond. ‘Ranulf, bring the lantern closer.’ His companion did so. ‘Look.’ Corbett pointed at the countless fresh marks in the thick dark beam.

‘Archery,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘A target post.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf gestured at the far end of the crypt, ‘they came down here and used this central pillar as a target. If they could hit that in this murky place, they would strike anything in God’s own daylight.’

‘So,’ Corbett declared, ‘if they were practising their archery down here, and I think they were, why go out in the greenwood where the world and his wife might come upon them? One lie after another, eh, Ranulf? We will have to start again. Question Scrope and Claypole closely, show we are not the fools they think we are …’ He paused abruptly. ‘Did you hear that, Ranulf?’ He put a finger to his lips, then the sound came again: the long, chilling blast of a hunting horn.

‘It could be Master Claypole or Robert de Scott,’ Ranulf said hurriedly, ‘calling in their men.’

‘I doubt it!’ Corbett declared.

They hastened up the steps into the church and out of the nave. As they did so, another horn blast trailed away. Corbett stared round. The funeral pyre was almost prepared, the corpses lying between layers of kindling, bracken and dried wood. One of the comitatus was already pouring oil but the rest were scattering, looking for arms. Claypole came round the church towards them, his white face all sweat-soaked.

‘Sir Hugh, the Sagittarius is here.’

‘Who called him the Sagittarius?’ Corbett asked.

‘Sir Hugh, that’s the name given to him.’

‘But that’s not the name, is it?’ Corbett glimpsed Father Thomas emerging from the trees with a pile of kindling in his hand. ‘That’s not the name that was told to Father Thomas when he was visited in his church.’

‘Sir Hugh, what does it matter?’

‘Yes, yes, I agree.’ Corbett drew his sword and stepped out of the porch. ‘Ranulf, for the love of God tell those men to use their wits. If the Sagittarius is here, the church is their best defence.’

Both clerks went out calling to the escort to fall back. Corbett tried to ignore the thought of that nightmare killer, bow drawn, arrow notched, slipping through the trees searching for a victim. For a while there was chaos and confusion. Corbett organised some of the men to watch the treeline, whilst the others fell back to the church.

‘Nothing!’ Robert de Scott called out. ‘I can see nothing at all.’

Corbett chose ten men and led them out into the trees,spreading out, moving forward towards what he considered to be reasonable bowshot, a perilous walk through the coldest purgatory: trees and gorse soaked with ice and snow, all shrouded by that heart-chilling silence. Eventually he summoned the men back, strode out of the trees and ordered that the pyre be lit. Sacks of oil drenched the wood and bracken, the corpses hidden between. Father Thomas blessed the pyre once more, sprinkling it with holy water using the asperges rod and stoup he’d brought. One Pater and three Aves were recited, then the torches were flung. Everyone withdrew as the flames roared and plumes of black smoke curled above the trees.