‘Come on, God, let this be the man I’m looking for,’ he prayed softly as he walked in through the door, eyeing the meat pies and the joints of salted meat that hung within the large premises.
‘Can I help you?’ A burly man appeared from another door at the rear of the building, the stained apron marking him as the owner of the place, and Will eyed him in relief.
It was indeed the man that had been with the mob attacking the abbey.
Will wasn’t particularly charismatic, and he certainly had no silver tongue with which to charm information out of people. He’d also never been one to throw money away on a bribe. His old captains Robin Hood and Adam Bell would likely have made friends with the butcher, impressed him with their magnetism, and drawn out what they wanted to know easily enough within a few minutes.
That wasn’t Will’s way.
‘You were at Selby Abbey the other day,’ he growled, covering the distance between himself and the butcher in a heartbeat, grasping the bearded man by the throat and lifting him up off his feet. ‘Weren’t you?’
He punctuated the question by slamming the butcher’s back against the wall. When the man struggled, Will increased the pressure on his windpipe and kneed him between the legs for good measure.
‘I know you were there, you arsehole, because I saw you with my own eyes. So don’t try to deny it – I’m a man of God and it’s a sin to lie to a monk.’
The butcher’s eyes were wide with fear and fast-approaching asphyxiation, but he somehow managed to draw his brows together in disbelief. Could this red-faced lunatic truly be one of the Benedictines?
‘Aye, I’m a monk,’ Will hissed, seeing the man’s confusion. ‘Why do you think I have this stupid tonsure?’
‘What . . . what do you want?’
‘Information.’ Will released the pressure on the butcher’s neck slightly, just enough to let the man breathe and answer his questions. ‘That’s all. Once you’ve told me what you know, you can be about your business and I’ll be on my way.’
The butcher stared at him from bulging eyes for a moment, defeated, but then the red-rimmed blue orbs flickered slightly to a point behind Will and, at the same time, there was an almost imperceptible creak as a floorboard was depressed.
Instinctively, Will dropped the butcher onto the ground and whirled away, just as a meat cleaver sliced the air where his shoulder had been.
Spinning, the monk saw a skinny lad of about fifteen years clumsily drawing his arm back for another swing with the great rectangular blade, and Will exploded forward, his powerful legs launching him at the attacker. Pulling his cudgel from his belt as he moved, he swung it in a shallow arc so it connected with the boy’s cheekbone. As the lad fell backwards, Will followed through with a thundering left hook that smashed his opponent onto the floor.
‘That’s my son, you bastard,’ the supine butcher wheezed, hatred and fury burning like hellfire in his eyes. ‘My son!’
Will calmly turned, and strode back to stand gazing down at the man on the brown-stained floor. ‘You should have thought of the consequences to your family before you and your friends attacked a house of God, shouldn’t you?’
‘I’ll kill you for this, you—’
Will fell, dropping his knee onto the prostrate butcher’s chest, ending the man’s diatribe in a blast of agonised air.
‘You’ll do nothing. Nothing. Do you still not know who I am?’
The butcher stared up, gasping for breath, but at last there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, followed soon after by the blood draining from his face.
‘Will Scarlet? I heard you’d joined the monks but I didn’t believe it was really true . . .’
‘It’s true. Now enough of this damn nonsense! If you’d just given me the information I wanted at the start, you and your boy would still be standing.’
The butcher sucked in a deep, resigned breath, eyeing his fallen son to make sure the lad was breathing, and then he nodded.
‘All right. What do you want to know?’
Will headed back to Selby Abbey, his mind in a whirl as he contemplated the information the butcher had given him.
It didn’t make much sense, and again Will wished he had someone to guide him. Someone wise and cunning like Robin, or even the likeable giant, Little John.
But he was on his own now, and he’d need to solve this problem himself. The responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders.
As he walked through the streets in the late-afternoon sun, sellers still hawked their wares and a child looked up at him hopefully, cap in grubby hand. Will dropped a coin into the sad receptacle without any conscious thought as he remembered his conversation with the butcher.
‘What made you come to the abbey?’ he’d demanded of the man. ‘What happened to rile you and your fellow villagers so much that particular day?’
Of course, it had been Brother de Flexburgh and his useless friends who’d been the cause of the upset, but what had actually precipitated the mob’s anger, the butcher couldn’t say.
‘So how did you end up chasing after them?’ Will had wanted to know. ‘Did you hear a commotion in the street? What was it?’
‘Shouts.’ The butcher had nodded. ‘In the street, aye, you’re right. They were so loud that I came out to see what the hell was happening. There was a couple of men hurrying past, complaining about those damn monks being drunk – again – and starting a fight. Again!’
Will had seen the righteous fury building in the butcher’s eyes and he understood it completely. Here was a man up to his elbows, literally, in blood every day, trying to provide a life for his family. Meanwhile, de Flexburgh swanned around the place with his idle mates, drinking and whoring with their noses in the air, never working a day in their lives as they wasted their rich families’ fortunes and enjoyed the comforts – such as they were – of the abbey.
‘One of those so-called monks had his way with the daughter of one of my neighbours, so I was glad to lock up my shop and follow the men.’
‘Who were they? Did you know them?’
The butcher had seemed taken aback by the question and shook his head at last. ‘No, never seen them before. Hadn’t thought of it at the time, I was too caught up in what was going on.’
Will sighed. In such a small place as Selby you’d assume any stranger would be remarked upon instantly, but it seemed the depth of hatred against the monks overcame even the insular nature of a man like this butcher.
‘All right, so you joined the mob these men were gathering and ended up at the abbey.’
‘I never took nothing,’ the butcher broke in vehemently. ‘When the fighting started I buggered off back here.’
Will felt sure the man was lying – he’d seen the butcher land more than one kick on the murdered Brother de la Breuer, but that didn’t interest him.
‘What happened with those men that started the whole thing? Where did they go?’
‘How would I know? I told you, I—’
Will had leaned in and grabbed the butcher by the throat again, squeezing brutally as he hauled the man back to his feet with apparently little effort. ‘Don’t lie to me, you fat turd. I know you were there in the abbey and I know you were part of the group that beat the monk to death. So, unless you want me to tell the law what I know, you’ll answer my questions.’
‘Tell him, Da.’ The butcher’s son had come to with a groan and pleaded then in a harsh voice, too frightened of this violent ex-outlaw to renew his earlier attempted assault. ‘Just tell him what he wants to know.’
‘Aye, go on.’ Will glared at the butcher, who relented, trying to nod against the pressure on his neck.
‘Fine! Yes, I was in the abbey.’ He bent to gather his breath, using a hand to steady himself against the meat-flecked chopping table. ‘I never stole nothing though, I swear it.’
‘I don’t care if you stole the damn Holy Grail,’ Will interjected. ‘I just want to know what the strangers did when they left Selby.’
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The butcher stood gasping and wheezing for long moments as Will glared impatiently, before, at last, he spoke again.
‘They didn’t steal anything either. Not that I saw anyway, although I wasn’t taking much notice to be honest. They didn’t even come inside the building, just headed for one of the older Benedictines, roughed him up a bit, then dragged him away out the gates. Lord knows what they did with him.’ The gears turned slowly in his head before he finally realised he might be implicated in another murder. ‘Is the old monk all right? Never thought much about it until now. I assumed you lot knew those men that took him off.’
‘Why would you assume that?’
‘Well, I saw them talking to one of your brothers in the market, a couple of hours before we started chasing after ’em.’
Will had straightened at that piece of vital information. ‘Who were they talking to? Describe him.’
‘I don’t need to describe him – I know who he is well enough. De Flexburgh’s his name. He’s the one that defiled my neighbour’s daughter, dirty bastard that he is. Man of God? Pah. Just as well he’s a fast runner or the people would have done for him instead of that other one, aye, and I’d have stamped on his smug face myself, I’m not ashamed to admit it!’
Will contemplated all this as the great stone walls of Selby Abbey came into sight, wondering what he should do next. What would Robin Hood do?
His first thought was to find de Flexburgh and beat a confession from the man, but he suspected that would be the wrong move. The tall monk would surely have his henchmen around him, and even if Will were to incapacitate some of them, the alarm would be raised and Will would be stopped before his righteous violence could extract the needed information.
Assuming the idler knew anything of course. Perhaps the hard-looking strangers had simply been threatening de Flexburgh before the mob unleashed its fury. There might be a perfectly innocent reason for the conversation the butcher claimed he’d witnessed.
If only he could get the tall monk alone, one-on-one . . .
It was growing late now, and the sun began to dip beneath the high walls which had failed so miserably to provide the abbey with any meaningful defence. Will decided to simply head for his pallet in the dormitory to think on what he’d learned.
Maybe he’d even pray to God for guidance.
White light streamed in through the small window above Will’s bed in the dormitory, and he woke up, shielding his eyes with a muscular forearm.
The light was blinding, and fearfully, knowing its radiance could come from no earthly source, he wondered whether to grab the axe-handle he’d left on the floor with his clothes, or drop to his knees and pray again, as he had before retiring.
A voice came to him – not to his ears; it seemed to speak directly into his head – and he held his breath, concentrating intently, trying to make out the words which came in a rush, but he despaired.
It was impossible!
The sense of missing out on some great, world-shattering moment consumed him and he opened his mouth to cry out in rage.
The shout seemed to catch in his throat, and Will realised at last that he was sitting up in his bed, the dormitory pitch-black and the gentle snores of his dozing brothers all around him.
He’d been dreaming.
The sense of despair didn’t leave him though. On the contrary, it seemed to crowd in even closer now that he knew the whole thing had been a meaningless trick of his own mind, and he lay back with a strangled gasp.
He tried to remember the words he’d heard in the dream – to catch the waking edge of it – but it had slipped away and, for some bizarre reason, all he wanted to do was fill his belly with meat and cheese. He was as hungry as he could ever remember being in his entire life, so despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, he stood and fumbled on the floor for his robe, not caring if he woke the rest of the sleeping monks.
His grasping fingers found it at last and he draped it around his sweating body. Silently, he opened the door to the chamber and made his way along the corridor by touch and memory, heading for the kitchen, still trying to regain the dream.
It wasn’t far to the kitchen but, having never tried to reach it in the pitch-black before, it took Will longer than he expected to get there, and the sense of hunger seemed to grow with every step until, at last, he pushed open the adjoining door from the refectory and stopped dead in his tracks.
To his dark-accustomed eyes the dim light of a candle seemed as blinding as the God-light in his dream, and he shrank back into the shadows, realising someone else had shared his night-time hunger.
For a moment Will stood, thinking, but his stomach rumbled angrily and he threw caution aside. The abbot had been insensible since the attack and the monks had much more to worry about than a brother stealing a crust in the night.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened his back and strode into the kitchen as if he had every right to be there.
Brother de Flexburgh spun and stared back at him in shock.
‘Truly,’ Will muttered, a smile twitching the edges of his mouth as he sized up the situation in an instant, ‘this is a gift from God Himself.’
Before the taller monk could react, Will lunged forward and punched him hard in the face, then, as de Flexburgh rocked backwards, he followed it up by grabbing his opponent and hammering a knee into his guts, blasting the wind from his lungs and silencing any possible cry of alarm.
To his credit, de Flexburgh did attempt to fight back, but dazed and winded as he was, he had no chance against the one-time killing machine that was Will Scarlet, and before the fight had even begun it was over, the arrogant monk lying on his back on the hard stone floor.
‘What are you doing in here in the middle of the night?’
De Flexburgh glared up at Will but there was fear in his eyes as clear as day. They were all alone here.
‘I was hungry,’ the downed man muttered. ‘Had a nightmare, and it left me wanting some meat and cheese.’
Will’s brow lowered, wondering how de Flexburgh knew about his own dream. Then, realising it was impossible, he grinned.
God had brought them together, here, for a purpose.
He smiled nastily. ‘I’m hungry myself, so we’ll share a meal together, eh? Or at least I’ll eat and you can watch. But first, you’re going to tell me what you know about the cantor’s disappearance.’
It was the old story. Of course it was the old story.
Money.
Will should have known, even without any inkling of the cantor’s background.
Apparently Brother de Loup came from a wealthy family. He’d been the second son though, and as a result had been sent away into a life with the Benedictines by his father, while the firstborn had gone on to a glorious life as a knight.
Everyone in Selby Abbey knew this apparently, aside from Will because he had not been there very long.
Brother de Flexburgh certainly knew about it and, owing rather a lot of money in gambling debts to some unsavoury people, had come up with a plan to solve his problems.
‘They won’t hurt him, I swear. They’re just holding him in the forest until the ransom’s been paid.’
‘What ransom?’ Will demanded. ‘They haven’t even sent a demand as far as I know.’
De Flexburgh flinched at the venomous tone in Will’s reply. ‘They have! It’s just not been read yet since it was sent to the abbot and he’s still unconscious. As soon as he wakes up, he’ll relay it to the cantor’s family, the money will be paid over, and de Loup will be freed.’
‘Assuming the family pay your ransom.’ Scaflock spat in disgust. ‘I came here to get away from filth like you. You make me sick to the very pit of my soul.’
The insult washed over de Flexburgh with no effect, and Will’s stomach growled again, reminding him of the hunger his dream had brought on.
He got to his feet, never taking his eyes from his downed opponent, and found some black bread, which he shoved into h
is mouth and began to chew hungrily.
‘Can I get up?’
‘No you can’t, you bastard,’ Will retorted, spitting crumbs in his anger. ‘You can lie there like a dog until I’m done! And then we’re going to speak to the abbot.’
Prior Ousthorp was in no mood to allow Will and the sullen Brother de Flexburgh access to the abbot, who, although he’d regained consciousness the previous day, was still understandably weak.
‘Whatever you need to see him about, I can deal with it.’
‘It’s about Brother de Loup,’ Will said reluctantly. He still suspected the prior cared little for the abducted cantor, guessing he saw the older man as something of a threat to his position, since de Loup and the abbot had been friends for years.
‘What about him?’ Ousthorp asked warily.
‘A note was sent to Abbot de Wystow, according to . . . this . . .’ Will gestured towards the cowed, bloodied de Flexburgh in disgust. ‘It’s vital the abbot reads, and acts, on the note’s instructions, as soon as possible. If he’s still unconscious—’
‘I’m not,’ came a weak shout from inside the chamber, followed by a coughing fit. ‘Get me a drink of water, Brother Ousthorp. And let them in.’
The prior glared furiously at the unlikely companions, then pushed the abbot’s door open and waved them into the candlelit room, following at their backs and hurrying across to de Wystow’s bedside, where he lifted a jug of water and filled a small cup with it.
He handed it to the abbot as Will and de Flexburgh stood, heads bowed respectfully until the old man had slaked his thirst and returned the cup with a shaky sigh.
‘Now, what’s all this about the cantor?’
‘You know he was taken by the rioters, Father?’ Will asked.
‘Yes. Brother Ousthorp apprised me of the situation when I returned to the land of the living yesterday.’ He shook his head and stared balefully at de Flexburgh. ‘This is all your fault. Again. What are we going to do with you, boy?’
The tall monk’s eyes flared at the abbot’s use of the diminutive but he held his peace. De Wystow might let him get away with his disrespectful behaviour but he obviously feared Will’s meaty fists would not be so forgiving.
The Abbey of Death Page 4
