The Abbey of Death

by Steven A McKay

  When discussing the plan with the abbot, it had been suggested Will go on an hour ahead of Nicholas, then, once nearer the drop-off place, conceal himself, but Scaflock had rejected the idea. There were numerous other outlaws living in the greenwood, and any of them might stumble upon Nicholas. Without the ransom goods he carried, this whole scheme would be ruined and the cantor as good as dead. No – the limping monk needed a guard of some sort and it had to be someone out of sight yet close enough to help should Nicholas be waylaid.

  ‘We’ll pray for your success,’ the abbot had promised, and Will had been grateful. He would take any help he could get.

  The prayers earnestly rising up from Selby Abbey seemed to do their job, as Nicholas had only passed half a dozen other parties on the road, all of them innocent traders or similar, before the smoke that marked the location of a small village – Wistow – appeared on the horizon. Will could even make out the little bridge that crossed the shallow water of Black Fen Drain.

  The River Ouse was somewhere to the east, although too far away to see, and now Nicholas stopped, looking in that direction, head swivelling left and right as his eyes searched for the great old oak the outlaws’ ransom note had mentioned. At last he spotted it and moved off in its direction as Will nodded in appreciation. The lad must have been nervous, frightened of attack by the cantor’s abductors now they were so close to the drop-off area, and yet Nicholas hadn’t glanced back even once to where he knew his protector must be concealed.

  Instead, the young monk moved as fast as his crooked limb would allow, over the uneven, often marshy terrain, directly towards the solitary, venerable oak that must have stood guard over these fields for hundreds of years, as Will came along behind, using juniper bushes and bracken as cover.

  Eventually, Scaflock knew he could follow no further. The outlaws would certainly have at least one lookout nearby, watching the drop-off location. He would simply need to pray that Nicholas would deliver the ransom and head back to the abbey safely.

  The sun was high overhead as it neared midday, and Will settled down to wait, hidden amongst a small grove of birch trees that was fringed by masses of summer foliage. He was used to waiting like this, for something to happen. He’d done it many times in his life, as a mercenary and as an outlaw, and he was able to control his anxiety better than most men would in such a situation.

  He undid the laces on the sack the bottler had prepared for him back at the abbey, and peered inside. Minutes later he’d shelled and eaten two hard-boiled eggs, some cheese and a few strawberries, washing the lot down with sips from a water skin.

  It was hot even within the shade of the trees, and he would have liked nothing better than to lie down and sleep, but Will Scaflock was far too experienced to fall into that trap and he stared out through a gap in the foliage, hopefully awaiting the reappearance of Brother Nicholas.

  How long would a ransom drop-off take? Will had finished his lunch and he felt like the sun had covered much of the sky before, at last, thanks be to God, Brother Nicholas reappeared, minus the sack which had held the abbey’s coveted valuables.

  It was done, then. The fact the young monk still lived suggested the outlaws had accepted their offer of half the ransom now with half to follow later, and that meant Will had a chance to locate the cantor before he was disposed of.

  Scaflock watched from his hiding place in the undergrowth as Brother Nicholas limped back towards the main road and then set off back in the direction of Selby, his gait seeming somehow more jaunty than it had been on the way there.

  Will’s lip curled in a half-smile at the lad’s obvious happiness on successfully completing his mission, then he settled back down to wait again, until both Nicholas and the outlaw with the abbey’s extorted hoard left the area.

  He ate more of the cheese and some bread, drank half of the remaining water in the leather skin, then, hoping enough time had passed, rose to a crouch and hurried through the field of near-ripe wheat towards the massive oak.

  As he approached it he felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering a similar ancient tree which he and his friends had camped close to in Barnsdale, back when he was a wolf’s head himself.

  Pushing the gloomy feelings aside, he quickly reached the gnarled old trunk and stood close to it, eyes searching the area for any threats, hand on the pommel of his newly returned sword, ears straining for any sound, which, he hoped, would be obvious out here in the middle of nowhere.

  There was nothing other than the gentle buzz of bees harvesting the carpet of nearby myriad flowers and the harsh, angry croaking of a sleek carrion crow that stalked the ground searching for food, a beady eye fixing occasionally, warily, on the watching Scaflock.

  Of the abbey’s sack of valuables there was no sign. Whoever had collected it from young Nicholas had presumably hastened back to the outlaws’ camp without delay.

  Relaxing a little, Will moved forward and began to examine the ground. He saw Brother Nicholas’s footprints and ignored them, the simple, flat monks’ sandals leaving an obvious pattern in the soft mud. Of much more interest were the tracks that clearly met, then moved away from Nicholas’s, leaving a trail to the west. Scarlet drew up a mental image of the area, trying to discern where the wolf’s head might have been heading. In such an empty landscape, the outlaw would have headed directly – as the crow flies – towards his camp.

  The map in Will’s head suggested one of two places: Bigging; or, slightly further off, Kirk Fenton.

  It was a start.

  Unless the outlaw who’d taken the ransom had known he’d be tracked and left a false trail for any pursuers . . .

  Will discarded that idea and took a last look around, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. Then he began to run in the direction the outlaw’s footprints led, hoping they’d not become lost in the fields, and that, ideally, he’d be able to catch sight of the outlaw in the distance and follow him straight to the cantor.

  Will felt good. After long months cooped up in Selby Abbey with nothing to do but pray, sing and tidy the place, this was fine. Real man’s work.

  He grinned as he ran, then frowned at the thought of the kidnapped cantor, but he dropped a hand to the pommel of his sword and the grim smile returned to his face as his palm closed around its familiar leather-bound hilt.

  He was going to rescue Brother de Loup or die in the attempt.

  Truly God was on Will’s side that day. His quarry’s footprints were invisible on the open, summer-dry ground, but every so often the man had passed through a stand of trees or other thick foliage which had retained the previous evening’s rain within their shadows. Those damp sections of terrain left clear traces of the outlaw’s footprints, making it fairly easy for Scaflock to follow the trail.

  The fugitive was faster than Will though, and the trailing monk didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of the wolf’s head during the entire chase.

  It eventually became clear that the tracks were leading further north than Bigging, and Will cursed, knowing the outlaw must be heading for Kirk Fenton. That meant an extra few miles of running he could have done without.

  There was no help for it though, and he was glad he’d been able to rest and regain his strength earlier. He wished he was twenty years younger as his calf muscles began to burn from the exertion and his breathing became more laboured as time went on but, at last, he neared the tiny village of Kirk Fenton and stopped to take a look around.

  This area had some of the flattest terrain in all England. Nothing but farms and fields for miles, broken only occasionally by trees, almost-dry streams, and narrow dirt tracks that passed for roads.

  It was a terrible place for an outlaw gang to hide out.

  There.

  Will focused on a thick grove of birch trees on the horizon, some way to the north of the village, and felt sure he’d located Brother de Loup’s kidnappers’ camp.

  The unmistakeable, greasy smoke from a good-sized cooking fire rose in a column from the centre of that grove
, easily visible to anyone within a mile of the place, and the monk’s mouth watered as he imagined what succulent roasting beast was sending such alluring plumes of grey up into the summer sky.

  ‘God, I could go for some cooked beef right now,’ Will muttered as he stared at the distant campsite. ‘With the edges crisp and burnt from the fire . . . A nice piece of freshly baked bread and some cool ale . . .’

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his black robe and looked around. Seeing a solitary Scots pine just a few paces away, he made his way slowly towards it.

  ‘This will have to do for now,’ he mumbled, sitting down with his back against the trunk of the tree and emptying the remainder of his food pack onto the ground.

  That was surely the outlaws’ camp ahead and it gave Will heart, for they were clearly fools with little woodcraft to give away their position with a fire like that. Either that or they were too stupid to think anyone might attack them out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Still, despite all that, he couldn’t just run towards the grove of trees, sword drawn, and hope to frighten them off. If the outlaws saw him coming on the open terrain they’d certainly have the sense to organise their defences and he’d have no chance against them. They might even kill the cantor and that was the last thing Will wanted.

  No, he would wait until it was dark, then get in close and confirm this was indeed where Brother de Loup was being held, before making his way back to Selby to lead the law here in greater numbers.

  For now, he rested against the tree he’d chosen, grasped his sword and allowed himself to fall into a light slumber until night fell.

  ‘They really are fools,’ Will said to himself a few hours later as he made his way carefully across the open ground in the gloom of the moonlit evening.

  The outlaws’ campfire hadn’t been banked with the onset of night – on the contrary it seemed to glow like a great orange beacon in the surrounding darkness, offering Scaflock a target he couldn’t fail to see.

  Or hear.

  The sound of raucous singing carried across the flat ground, the dead, still air doing nothing to dissipate it, and Will fancied he could make out individual voices in the overall rabble.

  As he approached the noisy campsite he drew his sword, the blade smeared with mud earlier in the day to dull the shine – he didn’t want it glinting in the moon’s pale light and giving him away – and peered into the birch trees that fringed the outlaws’ camp.

  Robin Hood would have had lookouts posted in those trees, vigilant for the approach of any threat, but Will didn’t really expect that the cantor’s foolhardy, overconfident abductors would follow such precautions. It didn’t hurt to be careful though, and he moved slowly, silently, like a shadow, from tree to tree, as he neared the blazing fire, epicentre of probably the merriest celebration the area had ever witnessed.

  ‘What’ll you do with your share of the ransom once we melt it all down?’ a voice demanded, and Will crouched in the long grass, waiting, listening.

  ‘Buy a whole shitload of ale!’ came the answering cry, and there was a chorus of gleeful agreement from at least half a dozen throats.

  ‘Get a few whores too,’ another voice grunted, to more cries of delight.

  ‘What if they don’t pay us the rest of the money though?’

  ‘Who cares?’ someone replied. ‘We’ve got plenty here today already. If that limping fool doesn’t come back with the rest we’ll just kill the old monk and move on.’

  The drunken conversation continued as Scaflock moved forward again, hugging the trees. He might have made his name as a ferocious, uncompromising fighter with a horrendous temper, but, when needed, he could move as silently as one of the Saracen assassins so feared by the Crusaders.

  And it was just as well.

  To his side, so close he could smell it, came the splattering of liquid striking the earth and Will stopped dead in his tracks.

  He peered into the blackness and focused on the figure of a tall man emptying his bladder.

  With great reluctance, Will refrained from skewering the easy target. He wasn’t there to attack the outlaws – he was only there to confirm the cantor was still alive.

  The outlaw finished relieving himself, laced his breeches back up and stumbled back to the fire as Will followed in his wake, still keeping close to the shadows, alert for any more of the drunken fools.

  When he could see the faces around the fire he stopped moving and stared, trying to get his eyes adjusted to the orange glare. He didn’t recognise any of the men at first, until he noticed a long-haired, bearded fellow who stood a short distance outside the brightest circle of firelight.

  He knew that one all right. He’d been at Selby Abbey when it was attacked and the cantor taken.

  And then Will’s middle-aged eyes had to make another adjustment as he tried to focus on something at the bearded outlaw’s feet. He peered into the gloom and, finally, nodded in relief – it was the cantor, and he was still alive, apparently chewing on a cut of meat.

  Despite his tasty meal it was obvious Brother de Loup hadn’t had an easy time with his kidnappers as he bore a purple bruise, and the beaten, broken expression on his usually cheerful face enraged Will to the extent he almost attacked the outlaws there and then. He would be hopelessly outnumbered, even if he did have the element of surprise for a few moments.

  He stared at the cantor for a time, trying to make sure the man was, despite the bruising, in good health. It was impossible to tell at this distance and in the poor light, but the monk still lived and that was the important thing.

  Now Will just had to sneak safely away from this vipers’ nest and return to Selby with the cantor’s location so the bailiff could get here. And Will would make damn sure he was a part of the rescue party . . .

  ‘I knew you’d come in close for a good look.’

  The familiar voice froze him in his tracks and he turned his head.

  Sure enough, leaning against a tree was the tall, burly, unmistakeable silhouette of Brother Robert de Flexburgh.

  The man was staring directly at Will.

  ‘You were only supposed to find the location of the outlaws’ camp, but your bravado urged you in closer, so you could get a look at the men responsible for abducting your precious cantor. I’m surprised you haven’t attacked the gang already.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Scaflock hissed, nervously glancing back at the camp, but he’d misread the situation entirely and he now noticed two more dark shapes appearing from behind the trees as de Flexburgh straightened, a malevolent smile flickering in the nearby firelight.

  ‘Thought you had me nicely locked away, didn’t you?’ De Flexburgh smiled. ‘But the abbot was too stupid to set a proper guard on my cell. When old Brother Walfort came to give me my dinner he forgot to lock the door at his back. He probably doesn’t know I’m gone even now, the old lackwit.’

  Will brought his sword up as de Flexburgh laughed, and set his feet ready to attack. It was time to show this pitiful excuse for a churchman what it meant to cross Will Scarlet. He braced himself to charge, the thrill of impending battle now coursing through his veins, and then he collapsed on the ground.

  Confusion washed over him but he dimly recognised a searing pain in the back of his skull and knew something had hit him. Before he blacked out for the second time in a week, he saw de Flexburgh walking across, teeth glinting.

  Will lost consciousness, but not before he’d felt the hated monk’s kicks hammering into his body.

  Morning came, bright and warm with barely a cloud in the sky, and the sweet sound of a blackbird’s song filled the air. As Scaflock opened his eyes, the pain from the previous night’s beating washed over him like a bucket of icy water and, hating himself for it, he groaned loudly, curling into a ball with fists and teeth clenched.

  ‘Ah! Our visitor is awake,’ an amused voice boomed and Will forced his heavy eyelids open to see who spoke.

  It was a filthy looking man
of average height but with the build of an ox. His shoulders seemed almost twice as wide as Will’s and he wondered if the outlaw’s mother had mated with some great beast of the fields rather than a normal man.

  ‘You might as well go back to sleep,’ the wolf’s head suggested jovially. ‘My mates will be back soon, no doubt. I’d offer you some breakfast but I can’t be arsed.’ The big ox snorted derisively and wandered off, lying down on the grass a short distance away and staring up at the clear blue sky with a contented smile on his round face.

  ‘Jesus, why didn’t the bastards just kill me?’

  ‘Because they’re frightened of you,’ someone replied, and Will, despite the pain, jerked his head around in surprise to look at this other new voice. ‘How are your windflowers by the way?’

  It was Brother de Loup.

  He was tied to a tree but eating again. The sight of the succulent meat being torn apart, juices running down the cantor’s lined old face, should have been enough to fire Will’s own appetite, but food was the last thing on his mind.

  ‘What? Frightened of me?’ Will asked. ‘Trussed up like a chicken, beaten black and blue? Glad to see you’re still alive by the way. Sorry my rescue attempt failed.’

  De Loup smiled sadly and spat a piece of bone onto the grass beside him.

  ‘Aye, they know who you are. I made sure to tell them once they’d finished kicking the hell out of you. They decided they didn’t want your famous friends like Little John coming after them to avenge your death so they’re keeping you alive in hopes of a ransom.’

  Will gave a bark of laughter which ended in a howl of pain. He suspected at least one of his ribs might be cracked, possibly more, but at least his reputation had saved him from worse.

  ‘A ransom? For me?’

  ‘Everyone knows you stole a fortune in gold and silver when you were an outlaw.’ The cantor nodded, frowning reproachfully back at him. ‘I’m quite sure you didn’t turn it all over to the abbey when you became a monk – no one ever does! – so it stands to reason you gave it all to your kith and kin.’ He shrugged. ‘At least, that was Brother de Flexburgh’s reasoning once he realised the outlaw leader, Stephen le Page, wasn’t going to kill you.’