Even so, he had to defend the abbot, and he charged recklessly towards the boiling mass, half of him frightened to be going into battle without a weapon in his hand, the other half overjoyed at this day’s excitement after the staid, boring existence of months locked inside Selby Abbey.
But even Will Scarlet couldn’t stand against a fist-sized rock when it tore through the air and smashed into his face.
Sounds came to him as if through a thick fog that blanketed his head.
Sad, low voices with the occasional creak of smashed wood or clatter of something being tossed onto a pile.
With a sudden flash of clarity Will remembered what had happened, and his eyes half opened so he could survey the situation.
Were his brother monks all dead? Were the sounds coming from the victorious townspeople, was their anger satiated and remorse – and fear of the law – overcoming their earlier fury?
Years of instinct made his hand move slowly to his waist, but his sword was long gone and he cursed inwardly.
‘You’re all right!’ A voice, filled with relief, came from his left and he turned, eyes fully open, to peer at Brother Nicholas, who seemed uninjured and gratifyingly pleased to find his friend alive and awake. ‘I was worried that rock might have addled your brain. It didn’t, did it?’
‘No.’ Will waved a hand weakly and pulled himself up on the wooden bench someone had placed him on. ‘I’m fine, I think. Just got a bastard of a headache.’ He looked around the room, noting it was the infirmary that he’d been brought to, and was surprised to see no obvious damage.
‘The mob didn’t come this far inside the precincts,’ Nicholas said. ‘Thankfully there weren’t that many of them, so their fury was quickly spent before they came to their senses and left. Some things were stolen from the presbytery and the chapel but it could have been worse. The noises you can hear are from the kitchen – that was ransacked too.’
‘What about the abbot?’
‘Alive, thank God, although he’s in a worse state than you. He’s old and took a bit of a beating . . .’
Will felt sick. Not from the head injury he’d suffered – that was nothing compared to the shame he felt at not defending the brothers who’d taken him into their fold.
Of all the men gathered in Selby Abbey, Will Scaflock was the one who should have been an asset in a fight. He should have led the defenders against the rampaging crowd, but instead he’d been taken out of the battle before it had even truly begun, and spent it lying on his back while the abbot and the other monks were beaten and humiliated and their possessions stolen.
Robin and Little John would have given him hell if they could see him now. He could picture their grinning faces and it only made him feel worse.
‘I should have helped . . .’
‘None of that,’ Brother Nicholas said, shaking his head firmly. ‘I can see the wheels turning in your head but you’re not to blame for any of this, so don’t start with any self-pity.’ He smiled to offset his harsh words, and put out a hand to help Will to his feet. ‘Come on. If you’re feeling better you can help us tidy up the mess those heathen bastards left behind.’
The former wolf’s head allowed himself to be lifted to his feet and he stood there feeling dizzy and nauseous, but the sensation eventually passed and he nodded gratefully to the younger monk, both for the physical help and the telling-off.
‘Fine. Let’s get to work then.’
They headed out and along the corridor towards the kitchen, which looked as if a whirlwind had hit it. While some of the members of the mob had looked for golden crucifixes, others simply wanted to carry off meat and ale. Cupboards had their doors torn off, despite the fact most of them hadn’t even been locked, while cups, trenchers and pots were strewn around the floor, dented or smashed beyond repair.
‘What kind of madness makes a man throw a cauldron against the wall?’ Will muttered, taking in the sight in bemusement before grabbing some of the damaged items and tossing them into one of the wheelbarrows brought in to help with the clean-up. Then another, more important thought came to him through the fog that still clouded his head.
‘Was anyone killed?’
Nicholas nodded, tossing half a splintered mug across the room into another barrow. ‘Brother de la Breuer suffered quite a thrashing. He bore the brunt of the mob’s fury after he fell in the road. De Flexburgh has been quite upset about it – they must have been better friends than I realised.’ He shrugged and wiped sweat from his brow before bending to scoop up a dented goblet. ‘If de Breuer hadn’t been in his cups he’d never have stumbled and might have made it to safety like his friends did.’
Will stopped working and furrowed his brow. ‘So an angry rabble attacked the abbey, but only one person was killed and all they did was steal a few things?’
‘Aye. Truly God was at work here today, eh? We were lucky.’
Will suddenly recalled the out-of-place military-looking types who’d appeared to be with, yet were somehow separate from the rest of the mob, and wondered what part they’d played in the assault on the abbey. Damn it, if only he’d been conscious!
‘Shame God didn’t look after the cantor,’ one of the other monks, overhearing their conversation, butted in, drawing surprised looks from both Will and Nicholas.
‘The cantor?’
‘Aye,’ the monk, a haggard, middle-aged man with many laughter lines, replied. ‘Brother de Loup was taken. I saw it myself.’
Will crossed to stand in front of the exhausted monk, all thoughts of tidying the mess gone from his head.
‘What do you mean? Taken where? By whom?’
‘No one knows where they took him, but I saw the men that did it. Hard-looking men they were – I didn’t recognise any of them from the town, so mayhap they were strangers.’ He shrugged and shook his head sadly. ‘Who knows what they’ve done with de Loup.’
‘Hasn’t anyone gone looking for him?’ Will demanded, anger turning his face red, and the haggard monk shrank back in alarm.
‘Who would search for him? We’re men of God, not soldiers or lawmen.’
Brother Nicholas stepped forward and interposed himself between the two men, raising his palms reassuringly.
‘Do you know if anyone has sent word to Nottingham for the sheriff?’
‘Yes, Brother Wilfred rode out an hour ago to report the news.’ The haggard monk went back to cleaning the messy kitchen. ‘Hopefully de Faucumberg sends a few of his soldiers to capture the animals that did this to our home.’
‘That’s no use,’ Will railed, turning to push past the other monks hard at work and striding towards the abbot’s quarters. ‘The cantor will be dead by the time lawmen reach here from the city.’
Nicholas hurried after him, sandals slapping on the hard stone floor as he tried to catch up.
‘What are you going to do?’
Will wasn’t sure himself yet, so he walked on in silence. He felt he had to do something though – the cantor was one of only two men in Selby Abbey he could truly call a friend.
He wouldn’t – couldn’t – just stand around while the man was in the hands of those grim mercenaries.
Abbot de Wystow was still in a bad way, so Will and Brother Nicholas found his chambers barred by the small, competent figure of his deputy, Prior John Ousthorp. The man had no interest in talking to two of the lowest novices within the abbey, however, and he sent them on their way without answering any of Will’s questions about the abbot’s welfare or any possible search for the cantor.
Instead, the prior ordered them to help clear up the mess made by the invading mob, and to pray for the abbot’s welfare. He appeared unconcerned about the cantor and Will guessed the two men weren’t close friends.
There was nothing else for it – Brother Scaflock had to throw himself back into the task of restoring Selby Abbey to its former glory, whether he felt like it or not.
This was the life he’d chosen, and the prior, as the abbot’s second-in-command, was no
w the man he had to take orders from.
For two more days Will busied himself with his work, Brother Nicholas at his side, both men growing increasingly alarmed at the continued absence of the cantor, while no help from Sheriff de Faucumberg, the coroner or even the bailiff was forthcoming. Rumour had it that the bailiff was away on other, more pressing, business and wouldn’t be able to reach Selby for at least another week.
Will suspected the lawmen simply didn’t want to get embroiled in affairs of the Church, but he was becoming impatient.
‘Ah, bugger this,’ he said to Nicholas on the third morning since Brother de Loup had been spirited away. The subdued atmosphere of the abbey had begun to grate badly on his nerves and he was fed up with the cold stone walls and the other monks’ sad faces. ‘We can’t get past that pompous prior, and no one else seems interested in helping the cantor, so I’m going into town to see if I can find anything out for myself.’
‘You can’t do that,’ his friend replied. ‘We’ve been told not to leave the abbey grounds. Even de Flexburgh and his mates haven’t ventured back into town, and you know they do whatever they please most of the time. The prior had the gates barred after all the trouble.’
‘De Flexburgh is the one that caused all this – of course he hasn’t been back into Selby. The people will probably string him up by the neck if they see him around again. But me?’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘The folk there don’t really know me as a monk, but some of them might know me as Will Scarlet, the mythical wolf’s head. Maybe I can find out where the cantor is.’
Brother Nicholas shook his head, unsure of the plan. ‘But you’ll get into trouble . . .’
‘Trouble?’ Will hooted in disgust. ‘You mean like de Flexburgh and his toadies? What trouble did they get into for all that crap they brought down on us? Eh? Nothing at all, that’s what. The prior ordered them to say a few Hail Marys and that was about it. They should have been flogged and kicked out for their part in this!’
Neither Will nor Nicholas had spoken to any of de Flexburgh’s friends, but rumours had spread since the attack, and it was now common knowledge that the wayward monks had been inebriated in Selby, publicly fondling the girls they were in relationships with, and throwing money around as if they were wealthy young noblemen.
Which some of them were, of course, but first and foremost they were supposed to be monks with no worldly possessions, never mind purses bulging with coins.
Their extravagant, arrogant behaviour had enraged the people of Selby that day, particularly the lower classes with barely a penny to their name, and the riotous mob had been the result.
So went the rumour, but Will knew there must be more to it.
Who were the soldiers who had been on the periphery of the undisciplined rabble? What was their part in this? Had they taken the cantor? Why?
‘Trouble,’ Will repeated in disgust, and he strode off, Nicholas at his back.
A short time later the powerfully built ex-mercenary was out of his black robe and dressed in a worn, dirty white tunic, faded green breeches and a much-mended brown cloak – clothes the monks took in as charity and handed out to the needy.
Well, Will was needy – in need of a disguise so the people of Selby wouldn’t recognise him as a monk and run him out of town.
He found an old hatchet used for chopping wood out in the garden, and hammered the blade against the wall until it fell off, leaving him with a fine little cudgel that he could carry, hidden, inside his cloak. He’d not meet the people of Selby again without some means of defending himself.
‘How will you get out the gates without anyone seeing you?’ Nicholas asked as he watched Will crafting his makeshift yet deadly weapon. He looked up at the sky, gesturing at the bright sun. It would be hard, if not impossible, to sneak out on such a fine day.
‘Like this,’ Will replied, and he walked straight up to the gates, not caring who saw him, lifted the big wooden bar off and tossed it on the ground. ‘Lock them behind me, Brother – I’ll be back in a few hours, so listen out for my knock!’
He winked and slipped out, patting the cudgel in his belt reassuringly.
Selby was a small town – someone would have the information he needed . . .
Selby might well have been a small town, but it took a single man much longer to cover it on foot than Will had expected. His plan was to wander around the town centre, buying odds and ends from the stalls there, and visiting some of the local alehouses in the hope he’d overhear some drunk with a loose tongue mention the attack on the abbey. He would miss afternoon prayers of course, but no one would care, even if they noticed.
It had seemed a great plan when he’d walked there with hopes of finding the cantor’s whereabouts within an hour or two, but by early afternoon he realised the futility of it.
He’d bought fish from the fishmonger, even though he could have caught the brown trout himself in the Ouse easily enough; he’d spent a coin on a meat pie from a fat baker, who must have saved the best cuts of meat for his own table as the savoury treat was gristly and filled with salt and spices to disguise its lack of flavour; and he’d drunk warm ale in four taverns without hearing a single word about the cantor or even the assault on Selby Abbey.
In short, his day had been a tedious waste of time and he wished more than ever that Robin Hood was still around to guide him. Will had never been a true leader – he’d always worked better as a second-in-command, following the orders of others. And doling out violence, of course – he’d always been an expert at that.
He wandered into yet another alehouse, this one on the western outskirts of town, bearing a weather-beaten sign that named it as Osgood’s Rest, and he wondered idly who the hell Osgood might have been.
His heart sank when he noticed the dingy establishment had only one other customer. He wasn’t likely to overhear much gossip in such a quiet place, but the thought of moving on and repeating the process at another alehouse was too exasperating, so Will bought a drink and sat on a rickety stool by the window.
A cool breeze came in through the unglazed opening, masking the smell of stale beer and vomit, and the ale was surprisingly fresh compared to the piss-water he’d been sold in the previous taverns. He wished he could just pay for a room, put his feet up for the day, and get roaring drunk before stumbling off to bed.
Swallowing a long pull of the drink, he sighed in pleasure and wiped his lips, shaking his head and dismissing the thought of staying out all night. He should be back at the abbey for Vespers[2]. Again, he doubted anyone would miss him, but if he allowed himself to slip back into his old ways there would be no point in life as a monk.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he muttered wryly, tipping the contents of the mug into his mouth again. ‘But this is some damn fine ale.’
As he sat there, a happy glow spreading throughout his body, he stared out of the window, the occasional conversation between the landlord and the other customer nothing more than a formless hum in the background as he watched a scrawny dog relieve itself against the wall of the adjacent building before wandering off.
Osgood’s Rest was situated on a quiet street which didn’t see much human traffic, at this time of day at least. Perhaps it came alive after sundown, Will mused, when the whores and other night-dwellers appeared.
There was a stirring in his loins at the thought of wanton women – it had been many, many months since he’d last enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh – and he tried to think of other things. That bastard Brother de Flexburgh, for example.
The line of thought was no good though, as Will knew the tall monk availed himself of the services of prostitutes as well as enjoying a close relationship with at least one woman within this town.
Jealousy swamped Scaflock.
I’d better say ten Hail Marys to atone for all these wicked thoughts when I get back to the abbey, he mused, staring out of the open window blearily; then his eyes widened and he leaned forward, the old stool creaking in distress as W
ill watched the man that was striding past the alehouse.
It was the butcher he’d seen with the mob at the abbey – the one with the black beard, bloodstained apron and, more significantly, the man who’d been closest to the grim-looking soldiers Will had marked out as the most curious of all the attackers.
Hurriedly, he tossed the remainder of the ale into his mouth – it was too good to leave behind, after all – and dashed out into the street, where he saw the broad shoulders of the butcher disappearing into the distance.
At last, he’d found someone that might be able to help him find the cantor.
Will jogged after the butcher but his quarry had turned onto one of the narrow side-streets and it seemed hopeless. There was no sign of the man, and Scaflock was lost again.
‘Damn it, I might as well just head back to the abbey.’ His head was spinning slightly from the effects of the ale he’d consumed that afternoon, and the anger that was building inside him wasn’t helping matters.
He’d wasted the day looking for a clue – any clue, no matter how small – to the cantor’s fate, only to let the one opportunity he’d found slip through his fingers.
Wandering along a street that he hoped would eventually turn back east and lead him home to Selby Abbey, he failed to take notice of the shop on the corner. He walked another dozen paces before his ale-addled mind made sense of what he’d seen in his peripheral vision, and with a slowly spreading grin, he spun to make sure.
It was a butcher’s shop.
Leaning his head back and staring up at the sky between the buildings that flanked the street, he sucked in a deep, calming breath but gagged on the heavy stench of raw meat filling the air. Telling himself to get a grip, he strode purposefully back towards the shop.
The Abbey of Death Page 3
