by Paul Doherty
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ap Ythel crawled back to join Corbett, ‘we should move, leave the enemy dead.’
Corbett got to his feet and issued the order, and the shield wall continued its slow, shuffling march towards the gatehouse. Now and again the clerk glanced back. The fallen enemy archer lay soaked in his own blood. Though his companion had decided to remain hidden, Corbett could hear his soul-wrenching screams.
‘He is cursing in Welsh,’ Ap Ythel murmured. ‘The man I killed was his twin brother, but there again . . .’ he shrugged, crossing himself, ‘they have killed my kin, so I have a blood feud with them.’
The march continued. The small shield ring had almost reached the drawbridge when two more arrows whipped through the air, smashing into the shields. Corbett yelled at the hobelars to move as swiftly as possible. They did so, boots drumming on the drawbridge. Once they had reached the safety of the cavernous gatehouse, the drawbridge was raised, the portcullis clattered down and the men began to tear off helmets and jerkins, their bodies drenched in sweat. Mortimer supervised the removal of the dead to the coffin chamber beneath the infirmary.
Once they’d disarmed, Corbett, Ranulf and Ap Ythel returned to their own quarters to wash and change before joining the abbot and his three henchmen, Crispin, Jude and Raphael, in the refectory, its doors closely guarded by Devizes and a retinue of lay brothers. The buttery served bowls of hot oatmeal laced with honey and nutmeg, as well as tankards of morning ale, together with freshly baked bread, butter, and conserves made from the fruits gathered and dried the previous autumn. The abbot intoned the Benedicamus and the meal began.
Corbett, Ranulf and Mortimer ate silently, eager to satisfy their hunger and slake dry throats with refreshing ale. De Craon joined them just as the bread and fruit platters were passed around. The Frenchman bustled in, garbed in a scarlet and gold jupon under a blue and silver robe. His hair, moustache and beard were all neatly combed and coiffed, his eyes rounded in amazement at what he had seen and heard that morning, his mouth crammed with innocent-sounding questions.
‘God save us from him,’ Corbett whispered to Ranulf. ‘A true Judas! He cries all hail when he means all harm.’
‘Master, I agree. I wonder what role that French fox played in the bloody events of this morning . . .’
Abbot Henry called for their attention. ‘God knows what was planned and plotted this morning,’ he declared, looking up at Devizes, who stood, hand on the hilt of his sword, to the right of his chair. ‘Sir Hugh, Lord Mortimer, perhaps you could enlighten us.’
‘Better still,’ Corbett retorted, turning to Ap Ythel, with whom he’d had a brief discussion before they had entered the refectory, ‘my captain of archers will explain.’
Ap Ythel’s strong, lilting voice echoed through the chamber. ‘It was very easy for the enemy to set their snare. My lord Mortimer dispatched two couriers just before the blizzard swept in. Sometime last night, those two unfortunates were taken out onto that stretch of snow and decapitated.’ He shrugged. ‘Now the enemy, whoever they are – and I suspect they know the valley very well, in all sorts of weather – used the snow to cover their tracks. What they planned and plotted was very clever. The ground stretching out from the edge of the moat is furrowed, it ripples like the waves of the sea; the folds and ridges formed provide both protection and concealment. The bowmen who attacked us were clothed in white and used sheets of the same colour. They dug deep into the snow and waited for us to collect the dead. They expected us to go blundering out. On reflection, they could have killed all of us, one shaft after another. Imagine, my Lord Abbot, men desperate to escape, fleeing towards the drawbridge, lumbering and staggering through the snow.’
For a while Abbot Henry just sat, head down. Eventually he glanced up.
‘And what now, Sir Hugh?’ he asked. ‘What do you propose? Captain Ap Ythel, can you see a way forward?’
Corbett gently tapped Ap Ythel’s ankle with his boot, a reminder of what they had agreed before coming here. Neither of them was in any doubt that arrows had been loosed from inside the abbey fortress just before they reached the drawbridge. So there was not only an assassin prowling Holyrood but a dyed-in-the-wool traitor as well. For the moment, however, they’d decided to keep their suspicions secret.
‘My comrade and I,’ Corbett pushed away his tankard, ‘will take careful counsel together, then we shall decide.’
‘You’ll inform us?’ Mortimer barked.
‘The other enemy archer.’ Corbett chose to ignore the marcher lord. ‘Father Abbot, you were standing on the gatehouse; you must have seen what happened.’
‘He crawled away like the vermin he was.’ Devizes answered for his master. He forced a smile. ‘There was little we could do.’
‘Leave the corpse to rot,’ the abbot declared. ‘It can lie as a warning to the rest.’
The meeting broke up, everyone eager to return to the warmth of their own chamber or to toast themselves before the roaring fire in the great hearth, which stood in the centre of the outside wall of the refectory. Ranulf and Ap Ythel followed Corbett up to his room. Once he had closed and locked the door behind them, the clerk carefully scrutinised the chamber, moving furniture, examining the floor and lifting the brightly coloured arras that covered the wall.
‘Sir Hugh?’
He grinned at his two companions. ‘Someone in this abbey fortress,’ he declared, ‘loosed those arrow shafts at us. They missed simply because they left it too late. We retreated swiftly to the gatehouse and across the drawbridge, so it would have been difficult for the would-be assassin to position himself properly and aim accordingly. Let’s face it, my friends, we face an enemy both within and without.’
‘Sir Hugh.’ Ap Ythel loosened his war belt and placed it on the ground beside him. ‘I can guess what you are plotting. You are going to use that corpse as a lure to our enemy.’
‘Of course.’ Corbett sat down between his two henchmen. ‘I heard that scream of protest at the death of a beloved brother killed so swiftly, so unexpectedly. The archer, whoever he is, will return under the cover of night with his comrades to retrieve the body. Isn’t it strange?’ he mused. ‘Even in the most violent struggle, love plays a part. But that’s the way things are. So, how can we trap those who will definitely come? If we leave Holyrood, they may well detect us, and we must not forget the traitor within. We have to slip out.’
He paused at the howling from the abbey war dogs. On their arrival at Holyrood, he had visited the kennels and viewed the massive beasts, ferocious hounds with long legs and cruel jaws: animals trained to bring down any prey they were loosed against. The Knights of the Swan had used such dogs when they had campaigned in both Wales and Scotland, and their ferocity and cunning were legendary. Ranulf had also been fascinated by those huge, ugly brutes, which were only kept in order by their keepers, four burly lay brothers. Garbed in thick leather, these dog-men were armed with daggers and white willow wands, expertly pared so that their sharp edges could sting the backs and legs of the fierce animals they managed. Again the savage howling echoed, shattering the abbey’s stillness.
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett turned and smiled at Ap Ythel.
‘Sir Hugh, you are not thinking of leading those dogs in a wild charge against our enemy?’
‘No, no.’ Corbett laughed and clapped Ap Ythel on the shoulder. ‘The howling has provoked childhood memories of my father’s demesne, a good, prosperous farm. He owned two mastiffs, watchdogs, whose barking at night always alarmed me. I used to think demons from hell had come to ride the beasts through the dark. Anyway,’ he gestured at the jug of mulled wine on the tray, ‘Ranulf, please fill three goblets, and while we drink, let us plot. How can we trap our enemy? We need to take prisoners. I want to question them about what is truly happening in that Valley of Shadows.’ He paused at a fresh howling from the kennels. ‘Something’s disturbed them,’ he murmured, ‘but let us, like keen scholars, ignore everything else and ponder on our problem.’
Ranulf filled the cups and distributed them, then the three men sat discussing the possibilities. At Corbett’s insistence, Ap Ythel slipped out to order Brancepeth to keep a sharp but discreet eye on the corpse and report anything untoward. On his return, Corbett questioned him on the most keen-sighted amongst his archers. ‘Oh, Brancepeth certainly,’ the captain replied. ‘At night he can see as well as any owl. Why, Sir Hugh?’
‘Look.’ Corbett arranged objects on the table. ‘Our enemy will undoubtedly return under cover of dark. They will bring a sledge with slats of wood so it can slide swiftly across the snow. They will follow the valley trackway because the snow elsewhere is too deep. At the same time, they will mount a vigil on both our main gate and the postern doors.’
‘So what shall we do?’
‘A good question, Ranulf, and the answer’s obvious. The only place we can hide is the moat. It is a wide two-sided trench: the water is frozen hard and the approaching enemy will not see us until we decide they should . . .’
Corbett, teeth chattering, leant against the snow-covered far bank of the moat. He, Ranulf and Ap Ythel had been informed that the corpse still lay sprawled on the ice. Making sure that no one saw them, they had slipped out by a narrow postern door close to the main gate, sliding down the bank onto the thickly frozen moat.
They had planned well. Armed with war bow, sword, dagger and club, Ap Ythel had summoned five of his archers. They carried small bowls of heated charcoal and were swathed in heavy military cloaks. They had not informed Abbot Henry or anyone in Holyrood about what they’d planned, but gathered silently in the gatehouse, where Ap Ythel instructed four of his archers; the fifth, Brancepeth, would remain on the parapet walk above the gatehouse, keeping close watch. If the enemy approached, he would fashion snowballs and throw them down into the moat as a warning. They had done everything they could. Like the rest, Corbett had eaten a piping-hot stew; nevertheless, he still felt the cutting cold, the deepening freeze, and quietly prayed the enemy would move sooner rather than later.
It was a bleak, hard night. No snow fell, but the skies were clouded, with no moon or stars. An ominous silence weighed heavily, though occasionally Corbett and the rest would startle as some hunting bird floated ghost-like over their heads. Sometimes the predator would plunge, and a sharp, shrill scream meant that some creature had died under its claws. The hours wore on. Corbett’s eyes were growing heavy when one, then another snowball fell into the moat.
He roused his comrades, whispering for silence. One of the bowmen scrambled up the frozen bank and peered over. There was no need. Corbett heard faint sounds from the dark: the crack of frozen snow, the slithering clatter of wood, the gasp of voices. He crawled out of the moat and, joined by the others, ran at a crouch through the dark, staggering and slipping. Their enemy was now in full sight: a huddle of dark shapes shifting against the poor light. These shadows turned and started towards them. Corbett and his party had been seen.
The enemy emerged from the darkness wielding razor-sharp swords and daggers. Curses were shouted, war cries yelled, then battle was joined. A clumsy, bloody struggle, blade grating against blade, steel against bone, flesh hacked and gashed. Screaming and cursing, men slashed at each other and, when close enough, grabbed at cloak, belt, jerkin or hair, desperate to gain a grip with one hand so that they could deal a killing blow with the other.
Corbett was confronted by a darting opponent, who slipped and slithered like a snake as he swung club and dagger. The clerk stepped back. He had given strict instructions that this was not about killing the enemy but capturing them. He edged further back; his opponent followed. They were now free of the melee. Corbett yelled for Ranulf. The Clerk of the Green Wax emerged out of the dark to deal his master’s opponent a cracking blow to the back of his head. The man slumped to the snow. Ranulf immediately seized him by the collar of his jerkin and started to drag him away. Corbett grasped the hunting horn pushed through his war belt and, following Ranulf from the fight, brayed it long and hard, the agreed sign to withdraw. Two of Ap Ythel’s bowmen who had not joined the fray stayed back to cover their retreat.
Slowly, clumsily, Corbett’s line moved back. Ranulf alone had taken a live prisoner. Ap Ythel was dragging another, but a shaft from the darkness struck the captive full in the chest and the captain of archers left the corpse to bleed in the snow. Corbett grimly acknowledged that the enemy also realised what was happening. At one point they seemed to be massing for a fresh attack, though it was now too late for any further fighting. Corbett’s line was moving faster. Ap Ythel’s archers loosed a steady rain of shafts. Holyrood had also been alerted. From behind him Corbett heard a grating crash as the drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis raised. He glanced over his shoulder. Mortimer and his hobelars were massing in the entrance to the gatehouse, but there was no need. The enemy withdrew, melting back into the darkness, and Corbett continued his retreat into the comfort and protection of Holyrood.
Within the hour, he received a summons to meet the abbot and the others. Corbett, Ranulf and Ap Ythel strolled into the chamber. Corbett nodded at Mortimer, but pointedly ignored de Craon. Once he had taken a seat, he gestured at the French envoy.
‘I don’t know why he’s here. Never mind, I’ll be succinct. Father Abbot, you and others may protest that what I did was, in the main, hidden from you. I had good reason for that. This abbey houses a traitor, an assassin, as opposed to you and yours as he is to me.’
‘No—’
He raised a hand to still the abbot’s protests. ‘I am not going to waste your time or mine proving what I said. I don’t need to. In my chancery pouch I carry letters from the king, authorising me to do whatever I see fit in any situation I find myself in. I do so now. I can produce these letters if you wish, but I am sure you will take my word. Now,’ he rose and bowed, ‘we have a rebel to question.’
He turned on his heel and, followed by Ranulf and Ap Ythel, left the chamber, returning to Corbett’s room, where two of Ap Ythel’s archers stood guard over their prisoner. The captive was small, dark as a mole, with night-black hair framing a round, solemn face, his cheeks chapped and scarred by the cold. He was sitting, hands bound in his lap, staring at the floor. He glanced up as Corbett sat down on a stool opposite, then grinned and muttered something in Welsh.
‘He says,’ Ap Ythel translated, ‘that he almost killed you.’
‘Almost!’ Corbett replied. ‘Almost is a ghost word about what didn’t happen. Tell him I shall certainly kill him if he does not answer my questions. So first, what is his name?’
‘Olwen,’ the prisoner spat out. ‘I understand and speak your heathen tongue. I am Olwen.’
‘And who are you, Olwen?’
‘I am what you see.’
‘Are you an adherent of the Black Chesters?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do,’ Corbett retorted. He pulled the stool closer. ‘The Black Chesters? Paracelsus?’ He caught a shift in Olwen’s eyes. ‘Why have they returned? What do they want? Why do they attack us? Why now? Answer me.’
Olwen abruptly pulled his head back and, before Corbett could move, spat out a mouthful of mucus, which splashed the clerk’s face. Ap Ythel punched the man in the side of the head.
Corbett took the napkin Ranulf offered, cleaned his face and gently poked the prisoner in the shoulder. ‘You threaten us,’ he accused. ‘I am the king’s personal envoy in these parts. I carry the royal standard. I represent the king, your king, yet you attack us. Such a crime makes you a traitor worthy of death, and the most dire punishment for treason is being hanged, drawn and quartered.’
Olwen flinched, though he tried to maintain his stubborn expression.
‘Paracelsus, the Black Chesters, the tribesmen in the valley? What is happening there?’ Corbett demanded.
‘You are heathen English. You should not be here. You have no right.’
Corbett straightened up. ‘Ap Ythel,’ he ordered, ‘take four o
f your men and the prisoner to the cells beneath the donjon, where we will question him more rigorously.’
Olwen was pushed out of the chamber and across the bailey into the towering four-square donjon, where they were met by the janitor. Corbett ignored the man’s protests, and demanded to be taken to an empty cell. Once inside, he had a swift conversation with Ap Ythel, who ensured the prisoner was chained to rings in the wall so that each arm and leg was securely clasped.
‘You can stay there for a while,’ the captain of archers snarled. ‘And you, sir,’ he pointed at the janitor, ‘will come with me.’
Ap Ythel and his four bowmen pushed the janitor out, leaving Corbett and Ranulf alone with Olwen. Abbot Henry came down, escorted by Devizes, who offered to beat the prisoner into submission. Devizes spoke in Welsh and Olwen retorted with a litany of curses and foul abuse. Once the abbot and his master-at-arms had left, a lay brother brought down a tray of food and a wine jug. Corbett tried to force a cup between Olwen’s lips, but the man spat it back. Corbett drank and ate a little himself, then returned to questioning the prisoner, but he refused to answer even the simplest question.
Time wore on. Corbett was about to send Ranulf to discover the whereabouts of Ap Ythel when the captain of archers and his escort returned. Ap Ythel now carried a cage containing the largest and ugliest rat Corbett had ever seen, a brute of a rodent with a quivering snout, glittering eyes, long tail, and sinewy body taut with fury at being imprisoned. He rattled the bars of the cage with his dagger, inciting the rat into a fresh spasm of fury, before putting it on the ground. He then took from one of his comrades a quiver, a long, spacious tube fashioned out of leather and used to contain arrow shafts for a war bow. Both ends had been removed, one end being perforated with holes so cord could be threaded through.
Ap Ythel ignored the anguished look in the prisoner’s eyes. He knelt down, placing the top end of the quiver firmly against the side of the prisoner’s stomach, using the cord to clasp it as tightly as possible so that it dug into the man’s flesh. Watched silently by the rest, he then took down a cresset, which he handed to one of his men. ‘For the last time, are you going to speak, to confess?’ he demanded in Welsh. Olwen just stared back, though Corbett flinched at the terror in the man’s eyes as he realised what was about to happen.
