Will shook his head and spooned some of the pottage into his mouth. The dormitory was at the rear of the building, on the opposite side from the front gate.
‘What was it all about?’ he asked, in a similar low tone.
Nicholas glanced to his left, eyes taking in the laughing figure of Brother de Flexburgh at the far end of the long table, and leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Him and his mates have been annoying the townsfolk again.’
Will looked along the table and pursed his lips in disgust when he saw whom his friend was talking about.
‘Some of the folk were at the gate after dark last night, shouting for the abbot. Demanding he do something about discipline here in the abbey. Or else.’ He ended in a harsh whisper, face flushed with anxiety.
‘Or else?’ Will mumbled, still shoving food into his mouth. He’d spent another hard morning in the garden watering the vegetables and shovelling manure onto the earth to help them grow, and it had worked up a fine appetite. ‘Or else what?’
Brother Nicholas shrugged, but the monk’s simple gesture was heavy with portent and Will felt a shiver of anxiety run down his back. He looked sideways again at de Flexburgh, who was leading an obnoxiously loud conversation amongst his followers, drawing disapproving looks from many of the older monks including the cantor.
De Flexburgh and the rest of his company finally finished their meal and left the room, leaving their used bowls and cups on the table for someone else to clean up.
Will noticed de Loup’s hard eyes following the troublesome lot until they were gone, but then the cantor turned and gazed right at Scaflock and his expression darkened even further.
‘What are you doing now?’ Nicholas asked, oblivious to de Loup’s black look in their direction. ‘We have a little free time until Nones[1]. No doubt de Flexburgh and his mates are heading off into town to see their lady friends. I’d suggest we stay well clear given the mood in Selby. Might be trouble.’
Will shrugged and rose from the table, taking his empty bowl and ale-mug over to the kitchen to wash them out. ‘I expect the abbot has had a word with those fools. The man might be soft-hearted but he’s not soft in the head. He won’t want an angry mob coming here – word would soon reach the archbishop.’ He shoved his dishes into the lukewarm water in the stone basin, wiped the remnants of his food away, and then used one of the rags to dry them off before placing them back on the shelves in one of the cupboards. ‘I think I’ll just go into the garden and find a quiet spot to pray for a while – these walls stifle me at times.’
Brother Nicholas put his own clean dish and mug back in their places and followed Will out, through the refectory and into the sunshine. It was a fine, scorching hot day, a true blessing from God, yet the young monk sensed a melancholy in his friend. A sadness that clung to the former outlaw like a heavy cloak.
‘Would you like me to join you?’
‘No!’
Will glared at him, then his hard, lined face softened and he shook his head. ‘Thank you, lad, but I’d rather be alone with God for a while.’
Nicholas watched his friend go, head bowed, shoulders slumped, and he hoped Will would find the peace he deserved.
Will sat, head bowed, on an old tree stump in a secluded area of the large gardens, the broad leaves of a young beech offering him some protection from the sunshine. His hands were clasped and he had the vacant expression of someone deep in meditation, and yet he felt a little guilty.
He’d told Brother Nicholas he was coming here to pray, and he often did come to this place where he knew he’d not be disturbed, but he never prayed, not really. Not like the devout monks – the ones that wore hair shirts and scourged themselves bloody in the name of God – did.
No, Will came to reminisce. Sometimes he would think about his wife and children who’d been slaughtered so horribly when he was a much younger man, and how different his life might have been had they lived. Those thoughts always made him angry, but then he’d remember his daughter Beth – who had survived that brutal, murderous day – and he would wonder in confusion whether to thank God or to rage at Him.
He had found happiness and contentment in life when he’d been pardoned a few years ago and begun living on his farm with Beth. But since his girl had married and moved to her new family home, even though she was still within Wakefield, he’d found himself increasingly morose and lonely. Work on the farm came to bore him, and he’d wondered what the point of it all was. Surely he was just passing the days in meaningless, worthless toil until, eventually, he’d meet his dead family in Heaven.
Of his old friends from Robin Hood’s gang he only saw Tuck around town, but the friar was a busy man doing God’s work. Little John would very occasionally visit from his blacksmith’s workshop in Holderness, but Stephen had rejoined his beloved Hospitallers. Thomas L’Archer, the old Grand Prior who had held the grudge against him, was near to death and a replacement already lined up – Leonard de Tybertis had assumed command in all but name and he was friendly to Stephen, knowing him from years earlier. So the bluff Hospitaller sergeant had left for service in Rhodes, and Will’s other old friends like Peter and Arthur were all either moved to far-off places or simply dead.
When Beth had given birth to his grandson, Will had been both proud and overjoyed. But it only made his solitary existence on the farm feel even lonelier, as he’d recall his younger days with his wife when they’d looked after their own beautiful babies.
Tears spilled down his cheeks and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.
When Tuck suggested he become a monk it had seemed like a crazy idea at first. After all, Will had never been very religious. And yet that was the thing that decided him in the end: maybe God could replace his family, and Jesus would fill the gaping wound in his soul. It seemed to have worked for Tuck, who was a generally happy, contented man, which was all Will hoped for.
It was either that or, at past forty years of age, become a mercenary again, and the thought of killing strangers for money now seemed repugnant. He was past that, for better or worse.
Strangely enough – horribly enough! – his previous life as a sell-sword seemed to live on in his memory as some of the best times he’d ever had. A young, hard man learning to fight, to crush his enemies as part of a great powerful army, drinking and carousing with his loyal companions . . .
All these images from his life spun around in his head and he felt as though he might go mad.
He raised his tear-streaked face to the sky and silently wondered, again, what the hell was the point of it all?
This wasn’t the life for him.
When Brother de Flexburgh and his arsehole friends acted like spoiled noble lordlings, he wanted nothing more than to beat the crap out of them. That wasn’t how a man of God – a Benedictine monk – should think, though. He knew de Flexburgh’s lackeys felt great affection for him, so clearly the man wasn’t quite the black monster he appeared to be in Will’s head. Who knew what hardships the big monk had suffered in his life to make him the person he was now? That was how a true man of God should look at the situation.
Will had no place in the abbey and should never have come.
Should he?
Again, his mind whirled and he told himself he had to persevere – to work harder at his relationship with God if he wanted to find peace either here or in the afterlife.
Surely he was in Selby for a reason.
Gravel crunched on the path close by and he hurriedly wiped his face with the hem of his habit, glad the warm sun had dried his tears by now, although he was sure his eyes must still be red and puffy.
The cantor, Brother de Loup, appeared, walking slowly past the sweetly scented rosemary and lavender bushes and heading for Will as if he’d known he was there.
‘Brother.’ Will nodded in greeting, somewhat warily, knowing from the way the man had come straight towards him that this was no chance encounter.
‘I see your windflowers are still doing well,’ the cantor said, t
aking a seat beside him and pointing at a small patch of white blooms nearby. ‘They don’t usually flower as late as this; you’ve tended them well.’
‘With your help.’ Will nodded, smiling, remembering the day his friendship with the cantor had truly been cemented.
One of his biggest frustrations as a farmer had been his inability to grow certain plants. Vegetables were simple enough, but he had always wanted to add some colour to his land, particularly around the house, to brighten the place up for Beth. When he’d noticed some pretty white flowers with a musky smell in the garden of his widowed friend, Elspeth, he’d asked to take some and she’d happily helped him dig a few out and replant them.
They had never taken properly though, despite his careful tending, and it upset him, making him think more than ever that he was better suited to killing than nurturing life.
Then he’d come to the abbey and noticed a small patch of those same flowers growing here in this quiet part of the garden. They’d been well past their flowering cycle by then, and Will resolved to nurture them as best he could when they were reborn the following spring. But when the time came, despite his best efforts, they were limp and stunted when they should have been blooming. And then Brother de Loup had come upon him, just as he had today, and noticed his sad expression.
‘Those are windflowers,’ the cantor had told him. ‘They need a certain kind of soil if they’re to reach their full potential. I thought you were a farmer before?’
Will had been too interested to be angry at the question, especially when de Loup headed back into the abbey, returning a short time later with a cup of vinegar.
‘Add a little of this every time you water the flowers.’
Will had thought the old monk mad – vinegar! – but he had followed the advice and, well, the results were plain for all to see, as the small white flowers now filled the air around them with the musky scent that reminded him fondly of his friend Elspeth.
He had been so thankful for the cantor’s help and felt he should repay the man, even if it was just with his friendship.
‘I heard about you beating Brother de Flexburgh,’ de Loup said unexpectedly, bringing him back to the present, and Will felt like a child receiving a telling-off from a parent, his face flushing red, friendly thoughts gone.
‘The bastard deserved it and more.’
‘Did you know he bit off the end of his tongue?’
Will shrugged. ‘Five years ago I’d have left him in a much worse state. Trust me, he deserved what he got, and more.’
De Loup nodded. ‘I completely agree,’ he said, surprisingly. ‘If I was the abbot, and had your fighting skills, I’d thrash the man and set an example to the foolish boys that follow him around.’
‘So why the dark looks?’ Will asked, sensing a ‘but’ in the cantor’s words.
‘It is not your place to teach these men discipline, Brother Scaflock.’
There was a silence for a time then, as both men watched each other grimly. De Loup finally went on, his voice lower, less harsh this time.
‘You came to us to escape a life of conflict, and to find peace. Let Abbot de Wystow run the abbey the way he sees fit – trust me, he’s not as weak as he appears. He might even surprise you one day. Tend your windflowers and the rest of the garden. Work on your singing. Pray! And, if you feel the need, come to me to talk about your purpose in life or your fears. Please – you’ll find I have a sympathetic ear.’
He smiled, and again Will was struck by the man’s resemblance to Friar Tuck. It wasn’t in the way he looked so much as his manner, and Will found himself returning the smile gratefully.
‘Furthermore,’ the cantor continued, his face growing hard again. ‘Next time you get into a fight with that oaf de Flexburgh, make sure you take the whole tongue off the noisy bastard, not just the tip.’
Will burst out laughing and the tension between them dissipated completely. They were kindred spirits these two, despite their vastly different paths through life.
The companionable silence was suddenly disturbed by the sound of shouts and running feet, and Will jumped up, force of habit making him reach for a sword that wasn’t there anymore.
‘Close the gates! Close the gates now, or we’re all dead men!’
The voices finally came close enough to make out and the cantor also got to his feet, although with none of Will’s nimbleness.
‘De Flexburgh again, from the sounds of it,’ de Loup sighed irritably. ‘Come on, you might as well come with me and see what the hell he, and his useless friends, have done now.’
As they hurried towards the front entrance, Will wished he hadn’t rejected the idea of carrying a club, as the babble of many angry, threatening voices could be heard descending upon the abbey.
It sounded as though the people of Selby had finally had enough of the wayward monks.
As Will and the cantor headed towards the gates, the tall, lean figure of Abbot de Wystow could be seen ahead of them; just as he reached the entry to the abbey grounds, Brother de Flexburgh came charging past, breathless and wide-eyed, although Will noted a strange gleam in his eyes before he disappeared into the great stone building.
Will could see the main road leading to their gates now, and coming towards the abbey was a mob of possibly twenty or thirty people, all moving at as fast a pace as they could manage. Abbot de Wystow stopped to glare out at them defiantly, however, straight-backed and confident.
The cantor muttered an unseemly curse and hurried ahead to stand beside the abbot, while Will, mindful of his lack of status within the abbey, stood back at a respectful distance, his battle-hardened eyes taking in the oncoming mob. It appeared to be nothing more than some irate townsfolk – he could see a baker, clearly marked by the flour dusting his apron, and a black-bearded butcher with similarly stained garb, although his sported a bloody livery of crimson and brown rather than clean white.
It seemed a rabble, and yet Will’s long years of experience told him something was amiss. He stared out, searching, until he noticed the men on the far left of the approaching mob, just behind the butcher. Half a dozen of them, these men had a certain look about them that Will knew immediately, for he’d seen it often enough: soldiers.
They wore no livery, instead blending into the crowd almost seamlessly in grubby brown gambesons and breeches. Not quite soldiers – they surely had been at one point, but now those six men were more than likely outlaws.
Why would a gang of wolf’s heads join an angry mob? Did they seek to plunder the abbey in the commotion? Again Will wished he had a weapon of some sort, as he knew those hard-eyed men would certainly be armed.
Four of de Flexburgh’s friends appeared and sprinted in through the gates, drawing an angry glare from the abbot, but the terrified men didn’t slow and were soon lost from view inside the church.
As he watched, Will spotted a final, lone, black-robed monk still struggling along the road towards the abbey: Brother Adam de la Breuer. At thirty-five the man was almost as old as de Flexburgh, but he clearly didn’t have the stamina or turn of speed his friend boasted and he lagged behind, panting like a thirsty old dog, the skin on his scalp almost as red as the untidy ginger hair around his tonsure.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Abbot de Wystow demanded, his voice strong and powerful, but the approaching mob paid him no heed as their quarry seemed to catch his foot on some invisible obstacle, then, almost in slow motion, stumble for half a dozen paces before sprawling flat on his face with a cry of fear.
Some of the other Benedictines had come out from the church to see what was happening and they all stood there now, watching in horrified silence – the cantor and abbot among them – as the forerunners of the mob caught up to the fallen de la Breuer and began to beat him savagely.
Will looked on, surprised at the violence the townspeople were doling out towards a clergyman, but he wasn’t inclined to go to the fallen monk’s aid. Brother de la Breuer was, in Will’s opinion, an arsehole. A dr
unk and a troublemaker, the monk had been accused of having carnal knowledge of not just Alice, the smith’s daughter, but her sister too. If the mob wanted to deal out some justice with their fists and feet, well, de la Breuer surely deserved it.
The ginger-tonsured monk wasn’t any better liked by the other Benedictines, who looked on impassively as he was kicked and punched, squealing loudly but not even attempting to defend himself.
Abbot de Wystow, however, was a different matter.
‘That’s enough!’ he roared, striding out through the relative safety of the gates towards the enraged mob, who, having started on a path of violence, clearly felt there was no going back.
A rock sailed silently overhead, just missing the abbot, and the man flinched. Apparently he hadn’t expected to be attacked, but in this he was sorely mistaken, as another rock flew past, then another, before at last, inevitably, one bounced off de Wystow’s lean frame and sent him reeling, a pained look on his face.
Will knew something wasn’t right about this whole situation and he couldn’t just stand back and do nothing any longer. The mob had continued their beating of Brother de la Breuer, but some of them, intoxicated with aggression and their sense of righteous retribution, ran ahead now, eyes fixed on the fallen abbot while yet others headed for the shocked cantor.
Will saw the men he’d marked as soldiers hanging back, not joining the mad charge, and, planning to mount a defence, he spun to glare at the monks standing shocked and indecisive at his back. His heart sank at how few there were – just eleven of them, and half their number over fifty years of age. It was hardly a fighting force to be reckoned with, but it was all he had.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he roared, his powerful voice filling the muggy air. ‘Defend your brothers – follow me!’
Will turned back and began to run out, through the gates, making straight for the abbot, who was lying curled up in a ball in the road now as blows rained down upon him; and, once more, Will desperately wished he hadn’t rejected the idea of carrying a club. Realistically, without a weapon he could hope to incapacitate only three or four – five at a push – of the attackers. It wouldn’t be enough, especially once the outlaws at the back of the mob joined in with the assault.
The Abbey of Death Page 2
