by Paul Doherty
Corbett could not prove that the Black Chesters had returned. Yet what other reason could there be for what was now happening? Was the valley inhabited by Welsh rebels, some tribe who had not submitted to English rule? If so, where were these from and why had they emerged now?
‘Sir Hugh!’
‘Yes, Ranulf.’
‘We should return, get out of here as quickly as possible.’
‘I agree, but this is going to be difficult.’ Corbett continued to stare up at the caves: sombre, forbidding dark holes in the cliff face. ‘Rest assured, Ranulf,’ he declared, ‘we have had some success. We now know what happened to that hunting party. We have also established that an enemy does lurk deep in this valley of desolation. We have confronted their threat. We have entered easily enough, though I suspect our return will not be so straightforward.’
He glanced across at the fringe of trees where undoubtedly the executions had taken place eleven years ago. He could almost imagine the bodies of men, women and children hanging from those sturdy black branches. Somewhere close would lie the small hummocks, now laced with snow, where the victims had been buried. He wondered who had carried out such an act of mercy, though there again, according to Maltravers, some of those who had taken refuge in the caves had escaped. Did they still haunt this valley? This bleak and terrible place, the wandering ground for vengeful ghosts whose brutal deaths screamed to be atoned for? And would this happen now? Would God’s anger spill out against Holyrood and all who dwelt there? Corbett quietly prayed that it was not so, whispering a second requiem for the departed souls.
‘Well, Corbett?’
The clerk turned to face Mortimer and Devizes; both had their heads and faces cowled and muffled.
‘We will be attacked,’ he declared. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘Why?’ the marcher lord demanded. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t think, I feel,’ Corbett snapped. ‘We have been warned. We have been allowed to view the remains of the hunting party. Oh, by the way, they must be buried before we leave. Yes?’
‘I’ll see to that,’ Devizes offered.
Corbett smiled and pointed at the scarlet hood the master-at-arms wore. ‘It looks pretty enough, but is that wise? Such a colour will single you out for any bowman.’
Devizes smiled back. ‘Forgive me, Sir Hugh, but this is a holy hood, a gift from Father Abbot: it contains a relic, the fragments of a bone from a Welsh saint stitched into the lining.’ He touched the hood with his fingers. ‘It always keeps me safe, but . . .’ his voice turned brisk, ‘I agree with you, Sir Hugh. We should return, and the sooner the better.’
‘But first the dead!’ Corbett declared. ‘And Master Devizes, when we leave, I want your hobelars to ring our cavalcade. Make sure the horses are rested.’ He wiped the snow from his face. ‘At my command, we’ll leave and ride swiftly.’
Once the burials were hastily completed, Devizes’ men hacking the hard earth to create shallow graves with a crudely fashioned cross above each, the troop reassembled, surrounded by the hobelars, who now held their kite shields to create a moving wall of steel. Corbett lifted his hand, then led them into a canter. The snow was beginning to thicken, turning into a veritable blizzard. The cavalcade thundered through this wall of whiteness, horses whinnying, hooves skittering, men cursing as they lurched on their mounts, hampered by the constant flakes covering eyes and muzzles. Corbett kept his head down, reins held loosely, ready to dismount, his right hand never far from the pommel of his war sword.
The attack, when it came, was almost a relief from the constant pounding of the horses and the clatter of steel. A horn brayed from the trees and arrows whipped through the air. One of Mortimer’s ruffians was struck, an arrow clean through his throat; he was dead before he tipped from the saddle, blood spurting, gushing out like wine from a split cask. Corbett screamed at the hobelars to raise and lock shields against another volley even as one of Ap Ythel’s men slid from his horse. The archer turned the stricken man over, then declared that he was dead and there was little to be done. Another rider, one of Devizes’, was also struck and knocked him from the saddle, to be kicked and trampled under the sharp hooves of other horses.
Corbett, wiping the snow from his face, yelled that they all must follow as he urged his horse into a full gallop. The kite shields were protection enough: they had to keep moving forward. They must follow the trackway and ignore the assault, though he suspected the arrow storm was only a prelude of worse to come.
He was soon proved right. They rounded a bend, following the narrow pathway between the trees. Corbett glimpsed a barricade set up further along the trackway, fallen branches, logs, planks of wood and thorny gorse. Recalling his campaigning days along the Welsh valleys, he reined in, shouting at Ranulf to keep close. He ordered the hobelars to dismount and use their kite shields to form an arc, with Ap Ythel’s bowmen and others close behind.
‘Whatever happens to me,’ he whispered hoarsely to Ranulf, ‘keep the hobelars moving forward; they will protect the archers. My lord Mortimer,’ he called across to the marcher lord, ‘your men should dismount and look after the horses. Bring them up, but only deploy them once the barricade is broken. Devizes,’ he shouted at the master-at-arms, already busy organising his shield men, ‘keep advancing whatever the cost.’
He glanced up the trackway. The enemy probably hoped the mounted force would charge the barricade, to be brought down by a hail of arrows as they became entangled in the branches and gorse. ‘Oh no! Oh no!’ he whispered to himself. ‘You are in for a surprise.’
The hobelars were now arrayed in a small semicircle, which protected both the front flanks of Corbett’s force. On his shouted order, they shuffled forward, then paused as a volley of arrows poured from the barricade; these either flew too high or thudded into the great shields. Archers hidden in the trees either side also loosed, but the shield wall held and then abruptly parted so that Ap Ythel’s bowmen could retaliate. A volley of well-aimed shafts to the left and right sent men tumbling, pierced in the face, belly and chest.
The shield wall continued to approach, until they were so close, the enemy had no choice but to climb onto the top of their barricade to attack with sling and arrow, yet this made them clear targets for Ap Ythel’s master bowmen, who were now loosing shaft after shaft. The hobelars, using their long spears, began to drag away the hastily assembled obstacle, pulling down logs, gorse and rocks. Corbett glanced over his shoulder to where Mortimer and the rest of Devizes’ men were now mounted. A troop of cavalry, impatient to charge. He gestured for them to move forward, pointing to the narrow path that had been cut through the barricade. Archers and hobelars stood aside as he led his horsemen through.
The enemy now realised the growing danger and swiftly retreated, darting figures garbed in the brown and green of the forest. They were desperate to get off the trackway and hide amongst the trees, their only defence against horsemen. Corbett yelled to his troop that they should take prisoners, then they closed with a line of the enemy trying to defend their comrades’ retreat.
Like all such clashes, the fighting grew frenetic. Corbett glimpsed dark bearded faces, wild eyes and snarling mouths. The enemy danced to the left and right of the horsemen in a flurry of knives, clubs, swords and axes. Corbett, both hands gripping his war sword, brought the blade down like a hammer, slashing at his opponents. Blood splashed and gushed, turning the snow a deep, soggy scarlet. Screams, war cries and curses rose then fell abruptly silent; the enemy had either fallen or fled. Mortimer and Devizes shouted at their horsemen not to follow their assailants into the treeline. Corbett, wiping his face of snow and sweat, slouched in the saddle, sword down, as he caught his breath and waited for the surge of nausea to subside.
Ranulf called his name, pushing his horse up alongside Corbett’s, tapping his master’s blade with his own.
‘It’s finished,’ he murmured. ‘It’s over.’
‘It’s never finished, Ranulf.’ Corbett ra
ised his sword in swift salute, then sheathed it and stared around. Most of the cavalcade had dismounted and were tending to the dead and wounded. Devizes, his face blotched with blood, hurried up to declare that they had lost three hobelars, with about five wounded men, most of them lightly injured.
‘And prisoners?’ Corbett demanded.
Devizes gestured at Ap Ythel’s archers, who held two captives close and bound. Elsewhere Corbett’s men moved amongst the enemy wounded, misericord daggers at the ready to give the sorely injured the mercy cut, a slash across the throat to soothe all pain. The snow-covered ground had turned into a red slush, the blood seeping out to form puddles. Two of the horses had also been badly mauled, their legs broken, so these were unharnessed and taken into the treeline for a swift dagger thrust. The air reeked of that strange iron tang that always hung over a bloodletting.
The mad fury of battle was now ebbing away. Men became busy collecting fallen weapons and searching the dead for any valuables. Corbett dug in his spurs and guided his whinnying mount across the battlefield to where the two prisoners stood bound hand and foot, closely guarded by Ap Ythel’s archers. He ordered their tarred hoods to be pulled back and stared down at their faces. The captured men were thickly moustached and bearded, their high cheekbones scored and chafed by the cold, their eyes still full of fury from the fight.
‘Who are you?’ Corbett leant down. ‘Where are you from? Why did you attack us?’
One of the prisoners lunged forward, mouth full of foaming spittle, which bubbled through twisted lips: his keeper struck him on the back and the man fell to his knees coughing and spluttering whilst his comrade shouted a tirade of Welsh. Corbett understood a few words, the usual insults and protests at English interference in Wales and their oppression of the tribes. He realised he would get no sense out of the men, at least not yet, and turned his horse away, half listening to Ranulf, who was listing the casualties of the battle, which included at least two dozen enemy killed. Corbett simply nodded and gazed around the gore-soaked snow and the tangled heap of enemy corpses. They would leave the dead to be collected and buried by their own kin. He could do no more than murmur a blessing, then he crossed himself, stood up in his stirrups and shouted that they would return to Holyrood. Mortimer and Devizes swiftly marshalled the cavalcade. Corbett urged them on, eager to be free of the baleful valley and return to some semblance of warmth and comfort at Holyrood.
On their return, Corbett and Ranulf joined Abbot Henry and his two henchmen, Jude and Crispin, in the warm, scented council chamber. Mortimer also attended, with Devizes as usual standing guard behind Abbot Henry’s chair. The party had reached Holyrood without further trouble. The prisoners were now held fast in a cell deep beneath the Eagle Donjon, the wounded being tended to in the infirmary. Outside, darkness had fallen and the snowstorm increased in vigour. Corbett, with interruptions from Mortimer, described their journey through the valley to the cliffs of Caerwent, their discovery of the hunting party and the attack. Abbot Henry heard them out, elbows on the table, fingers steepled as if in prayer.
‘So,’ he sat back in his chair, ‘we now know for certain that there is a hostile force deep in the valley. God only knows who they truly are.’
‘And our situation?’ Mortimer demanded. ‘Outside, a blizzard blows. One of my men skilled in reading the weather believes this storm could last for days, with drifts at least a foot deep. Lord Abbot, we are besieged by both the elements and those hostiles who lurk in the valley. So what is our strength?’
‘We have a comitatus of about seventy fighting men.’ Ranulf declared. ‘We could and should dispatch messengers to royal castles along the Welsh March.’
‘I have sent couriers to my own estates,’ Mortimer declared. ‘They left early this morning; I am sure they escaped the storm.’
‘We must not forget de Craon.’ Brother Jude spoke, his voice tinged with mockery. ‘The Frenchman is already protesting as if we are responsible for the snow.’
Corbett was about to ask what supplies the castle held when a furious knocking on the door stilled all conversation. A lay brother entered, whispering to Devizes, who passed the message to Abbot Henry. Maltravers, head down, listened intently, then glanced up, staring bleakly down the table.
‘My Lord Abbot?’ Mortimer demanded.
‘Your two prisoners, Sir Hugh; they have both been found dead in their cell.’
Devizes and a group of lay brothers carrying flaming torches led the abbot, Corbett and the rest out of the council chamber and into the freezing night air. The snow was still falling, a curtain of white to carpet and cover every open ledge and space. Corbett, hood pulled tight, his cloak wrapped close about him, stared around. He felt this was a place of real danger. Some demon prowled here, turning the abbey into a house of murder. He decided to watch and wait before he moved to any judgement. They crossed the bailey towards a door already opened leading down beneath the massive donjon. More lay brothers clustered there holding torches and lanterns. Abbot Henry, hobbling on his cane, testily demanded to be taken down the steps into the passageway that ran beneath the keep. This was a freezing-cold, sombre tunnel, with fortified doors on either side above which cressets flickered in the piercing draughts. One of the doors had been flung open, its entrance filled with light.
Corbett hurriedly pushed himself forward to pluck at the abbot’s sleeve. ‘Lord Henry,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps it’s best if I go first.’
The abbot peered angrily at Corbett, then his harsh face relaxed and he gestured at the open door. ‘Go alone, Hugh,’ he murmured, ‘and God help us all.’ He turned, telling his companions to wait.
Corbett stood on the threshold of the cell. Lay brothers had set down lanternhorns, and their shifting light revealed a scene of slaughter. The two prisoners lay spread-eagled on the ground, their heads haloed by thick, glistening puddles of blood. Corbett knelt and turned both corpses over. They were sprawled so close it looked as if they had collapsed into each other before falling to the ground; the cause of death was black iron nails driven deep into their foreheads.
Corbett gazed around. The cell was bleakly furnished, a straw-filled palliasse against each wall, a battered stool and a cracked jakes pot. He peered into this, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the urine swilling there, then returned to the corpses, examining their hands and faces. Apart from cuts and bruises probably inflicted during the bloody melee in the valley, he could detect nothing amiss. Both men were still garbed as he had seen them; little had changed. He closed his eyes and prayed. How had these men died? He opened his eyes. The cell showed no sign of disturbance. The threadbare blankets used to cover the mattresses had been pulled back, as if the prisoners had settled down there.
He heard a sound and glanced over his shoulder. Ranulf was standing on the threshold, staring across at him. ‘Fetch me the janitor,’ Corbett snapped.
Ranulf left, telling others to stay in the passageway, and returned with a burly lay brother garbed in brown with a thick leather apron strapped around his bulging belly. Its deep pockets held jangling rings of keys.
‘Master?’
Corbett grasped the man by the shoulder and turned him, pointing first at the corpses and then at the door. ‘What happened here? Tell me.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ the janitor stammered, ‘I answer to the lord abbot.’
‘You answer to the Crown, and in this place and at this time, that is me.’
‘Ah well,’ the janitor sighed. ‘If you must know, the prisoners were brought down here . . .’ He paused, glancing over Corbett’s shoulder at the door.
Corbett turned. Ranulf had now stood aside to allow the abbot, Jude and Crispin as well as Mortimer into the doorway. He turned back to the janitor.
‘I asked you a question. What happened here?’
‘The prisoners were brought down and thrust into this cell. I personally locked the door; only I hold the keys.’ The janitor tapped the pockets on his apron. ‘I came back once and peered through the gr
ille.’
Corbett crossed to the door and asked the abbot and the rest to stand aside. He then closed the door and peered through the grille, iron bars about an inch apart, a square aperture, unmarked in any way.
‘Who else came down here?’ he demanded.
‘Sir Hugh.’ Abbot Henry hobbled forward, his cane tapping the straw-covered floor. He sketched a blessing over the corpses, murmuring the requiem, then stared bleakly at Corbett. ‘Hugh,’ he repeated. ‘We stand beneath the great four-square Eagle Donjon; there are tunnels and passageways on each of its sides. They all lead down here. You have seen the Stygian darkness; it’s hard to see anything! Lay brothers come and go. Remember, we guard against people breaking out, not breaking in.’
‘And you saw nothing?’ Corbett demanded of the janitor.
‘Sir Hugh, I have talked to others, who will go on oath. They saw and heard nothing untoward, I assure you.’
‘And the door was locked?’
‘Of course, and as I have said, only I hold the keys.’
‘The Angel of Death is here, dark and cowled,’ a voice bellowed. ‘He is steeped in the deepest of shadows, which are all tinged red. Behold, he comes. He demands: are you ready? He whispers the words of the tomb so the grave can open to receive the dead.’
‘Shut up!’ the janitor yelled, going to the door.
‘My time has come,’ the voice boomed back. ‘I have looked into the visions of the night; I have seen tribes of sinners all drinking greedily from the cup of eternal sorrow. The Angel of Death is here, flown up from the hideous depths of hell.’
The janitor was now banging furiously on the cell door opposite.
‘Brother Norbert,’ Abbot Henry whispered. ‘Mad as a March hare under a full moon. Usually he is quiet, but he broached a cask of wine, and what you hear is the result.’ He turned back to the corpses. ‘I will have these anointed and buried if we can hack the earth open. Sir Hugh, is there anything else?’
