The abbot looked tired but the prior’s face was still angry.
‘You’d be better just getting your backsides out of here right now,’ he muttered, glaring at his captors. ‘Scaflock has a well-earned reputation for violence. He’s already killed some of your men and I’m sure he’ll be along any moment to end this for good.’
Le Page laughed. ‘You think so? I doubt it. Now that we know he’s here, my lads will deal with him easily enough. He might have had a name years ago but he’s a fat old monk now and we still have him outnumbered by about six to one.’
‘Two to one you mean.’
The big outlaw captain spun, his mouth dropping open at the sight of Will standing in the open doorway, not a scratch on him.
‘I’ve killed all your friends,’ Scarlet growled, eyes burning with a frightening intensity, and he felt a pang of guilt at the exaggeration as the abbot blanched, sickened by the thought of so much death within his abbey.
‘You low-born sack of dog shit!’ de Flexburgh shouted, his fear transformed into rage at the sight of the man who’d wrecked his carefully laid plans. The wayward monk drew a sharp-looking knife from inside his black robe and lunged across the room, grabbing Prior Ousthorp and placing the blade against the older man’s neck. ‘Get out of here, Scaflock. Get the hell out of here now or I’ll kill him.’
Will wasn’t sure what to do. The dangerous-looking outlaw leader was watching him with a steely glare, muscles taut, ready to strike just as soon as he saw an opening, and Will could tell this one would be much harder to defeat in a straight fight than any of the other filth he’d bested that day. As they locked gazes, le Page’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly to a point outside the room.
At the same instant there was a grunt of exertion from behind, but Will had read and understood the signs and the sword-point that was meant for his back pierced nothing but thin air.
As silent as a cat, Scaflock had dodged to the side and now brought his own dagger around, feeling it slam home in this new assailant’s body. Before he could continue his attack though, from the corner of his eye Will saw le Page coming for him and, again, he had to throw his body to the side to avoid being spitted like a piece of beef.
He threw a punch, felt it hit home in le Page’s face, and the outlaw stumbled in his lunge, falling against the door awkwardly, knife tumbling to the floor with a clatter. Will tried to follow it up by plunging his dagger into the man, but the outlaw he’d stabbed flailed his legs, tripping him, to a shout of alarm from the abbot.
Will slashed wildly with his dagger, once again feeling it bite home, and prayed he’d killed the maggot as he managed to regain his feet, but with a roar of animal fury le Page grabbed him, using his momentum to force Scaflock backwards. Their legs became entangled, and both men ended up on the floor once more, teeth bared, grappling for their very lives.
Will felt the back of his head bounce off the stone and a flare of panic ran through him. Again he felt his opponent’s hand on his throat and again his skull hit the floor, making sparks of light explode in his vision.
Le Page knew he had his victory now, and he channelled all his energy into continuing that one, murderous attack, eyes widening with joyous battle fever, the desire to see Scaflock’s tonsured head split like an egg filling him with a terrible, almost carnal need.
Despite his massive, bull-like neck, Scaflock couldn’t withstand the outlaw’s grasping hand. He was weak – tired after fighting so many outlaws and his forced run that morning.
As his head hit the floor for a third time he heard the abbot screaming, and even the prior shouted at le Page to stop in an anguished voice, but there would be no quarter given from this outlaw, Will knew.
His hands were trapped underneath le Page’s heavy body, but as he was battered unconscious, he remembered the dagger he held, and twisted his fist, feeling only hard pressure against the blade as it met the outlaw’s chainmail.
Desperately, blackness filling his head, he forced his dagger round and upwards, pushing against his opponent’s armour.
And then the pressure was gone as the blade found a space between the mail links and the weight crushing down on him fell away.
‘What have you done to me?’
Le Page’s voice was high-pitched and hysterical but Will couldn’t move to see what the wolf’s head was talking about.
‘Oh, Jesus, Christ above,’ de Flexburgh muttered from somewhere far away, the renegade monk’s voice betraying a note of hysteria. ‘You’ve killed him! You’ve killed them all, you bastard, but now – I’ll kill you!’
Prior Ousthorp sat on the floor, a shocked look on his face, hands trembling as he tried to take in the day’s events.
Abbot de Wystow slumped down next to him, the nervous energy that had kept him upright for so long dissipating now.
‘So much violence . . . so much death in my own abbey . . .’
It was all over, and hopefully the rest of the monks would return soon to help deal with the aftermath of de Flexburgh’s twisted scheme. The broken furniture, the smashed doors. The bloody corpses including that of their own brother.
The abbot gazed at the black-robed body on the floor of his chamber and shook his head sorrowfully.
‘How did we let things get this far?’ he murmured. ‘Was I really too lenient with the brothers, as Archbishop Melton said? Could I have done things differently?’
For a moment there was silence, the old stones of the abbey dispassionately taking in his words, and then a groan filled the room and the prior jumped fearfully.
‘Help him, John,’ de Wystow shouted, face lighting with hope. ‘Hurry!’
Will opened his eyes and saw the prior bending over him but, before he could speak, he rolled onto his side and vomited. When he was finished he squeezed his eyes shut and gave a small squeal of pain. It felt like the worst hangover he’d ever experienced, and the prior’s half-hearted attempt to comfort him with a patting hand did little to ease his discomfort.
‘What happened?’ he mumbled through wet lips. ‘Why didn’t de Flexburgh finish me off?’ He tried to focus and squinted in surprise as he took in the sight of the tall monk’s body on the ground just yards away, a red patch matting the side of his head.
‘You can thank Abbot de Wystow for your life,’ Ousthorp replied. ‘When de Flexburgh let him go to come after you, the abbot lifted that brass candelabra and smashed it off the big oaf’s head.’
‘Quite a weight in it,’ de Wystow opined. ‘I only meant to stun him but . . .’
Will moved onto all fours, panting and pressing a hand against the back of his own head, which was bloody but didn’t seem cracked, despite the pain that assailed him.
‘God lent strength to your arm,’ he said, retrieving his dropped dagger before finally hauling himself to his feet and glancing slowly around the room.
The outlaw leader, Stephen le Page, had a terrible gaping wound just above his genitals where Will’s blade had pierced the mail and torn deeply through the man’s flesh. It wouldn’t have killed instantly but it had been enough to throw le Page back in mortal fear, saving Will from having his head bashed in.
The other wolf’s head, the one who’d sneaked up behind him, had a similar crimson wound but it was in the side of his head, and Scaflock recalled lashing out blindly, hoping to land a killing blow.
‘Lock the door,’ he grunted, leaning against the wall as his head began to spin again. ‘Hurry, prior. I didn’t really kill all the outlaws – some of them are still alive, locked away. They might get out and come for us and I’m in no state to fight again. Although’ – he forced a sickly smile onto his face – ‘from the looks of Brother de Flexburgh, the abbot and his candelabra can deal with any more of the whoresons that might turn up.’
With that, he slumped to the ground and passed out again.
It took a few days for Will to recover most of his strength, although even then the abbot ordered him to stay indoors on light work. Peeling carrots wa
s no job for him, however, and he was utterly fed up by the time the abbey had been visited by the bailiff and things were back to normal.
The other monks had returned to the abbey a few hours after Will collapsed, and word had been sent to Selby. A request for aid was sent – again – to the sheriff in Nottingham, but in the meantime the tithing had been called out and the men of Selby came to the abbey that evening, led by the headman, James Kay.
The outlaws Will had locked away were still where he’d left them, a testament to the quality of the old locks, and the men had gone quietly enough once they knew there was no chance of escape. In truth, they’d been hungry, tired and just grateful to have survived an encounter with the legendary Will Scarlet.
He felt far from legendary though, when he’d collapsed again and found himself confined to the hard bed in the dormitory. The damage to his skull might not have killed him but it would take some time to recover from it.
Time he knew he’d spend mostly alone.
The monks viewed him as a God-sent hero, particularly the cantor, who, slowed by his ordeal, returned safely with Brother de Houghton the day after the invasion. Will had thought the adulation amusing at first but now it irritated him – the brothers meant well but they didn’t see him as a man. To them he was some kind of avenging angel. Even Nicholas looked at him with awe when he visited his bedside which, strangely, made Will feel lonelier than ever before.
The abbot and prior were both grateful for what he’d done but he knew for sure now that he didn’t belong in the abbey. Recent events had proved that beyond a doubt, surely. What kind of monk maimed and killed so many men, even to help his brothers?
He tried to pray. To be pious. But the fact was, Will simply wasn’t that impressed with God. Where had God been when his wife and children – even his dog! – were slaughtered all those years ago?
But where else could he go? His life was at a dead end, just as it had been all those months before when he’d first come – lost – to the abbey. No one wanted a used-up old mercenary with a bad temper.
The cantor came in one morning, a broad smile on his face which Will didn’t even attempt to return.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ de Loup said, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘We all know you’re not truly happy here.’
Will grunted irritably at the cantor’s words.
‘Why are you smiling about it then, if you know how I feel?’
De Loup’s grin never wavered, in fact it grew wider as he looked out into the corridor and waved a hand, beckoning whoever was out there to come into the small bedchamber.
Will tore his glare away from the cantor, eyeing the doorway as someone came in and, on seeing who it was, he broke into the widest smile anyone in Selby had ever seen on his face.
‘Beth,’ he breathed. ‘It’s good to see you, lass. What brings you here?’
‘Come to see you, you old fool,’ she scowled, and the cantor raised his eyebrows, shocked at the girl’s disrespect, but Will laughed and waved the old man away.
It was good to be spoken to like a man for a change, instead of a hero.
Beth came across and sat on the bed next to her father as the cantor closed the door quietly behind him.
She leaned forward and peered into his eyes, then inspected the back of his head. ‘Are you all right? Truly? The abbot sent word to us and it sounded like you were badly injured.’ Before he could answer she continued in a furious hiss, eyes wet. ‘What the hell were you thinking? You’re not a twenty-five-year-old soldier any more, Da!’
‘I know that,’ he retorted. ‘Only too well. But I managed to save my friends and stop those outlaw bastards, didn’t I? I’m not completely useless just yet, despite what everyone might think.’
His tone surprised Beth, and her expression softened as she grasped his hand.
‘No one thinks you’re useless. Since when did self-pity become one of your problems?’
Will sighed and forced a small, rueful smile onto his face.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked again. ‘I mean, it’s nice to see you, but you have your own duties at home. Especially now you have a son of your own.’
‘Are you happy living here?’
The question took him aback completely and he looked away, at the floor, unsure how to answer. He and his daughter had been close, even despite the period when she’d been taken and used as a servant by a rich nobleman while Will thought her dead. But he’d never been one for talking about his feelings.
‘Are you?’ the girl demanded, squeezing his hand and gazing at him earnestly. ‘Tell me the truth. I was shocked when you said you were coming here to become a monk, but you had your reasons and I respected them. Now though . . .’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘The abbot’s message said you didn’t belong here. No!’ she almost shouted, raising her hands in the air. ‘He didn’t mean it like that – he doesn’t want rid of you. The monks just don’t think you’re happy here, although they all love you. Who wouldn’t?’ She grinned disarmingly. ‘With your jovial nature and easy smile?’
‘Watch it – you’re not too big for a clip around the ear,’ Will groused, but his empty threat only made her smile wider.
Neither of them said anything for a while but Beth stared at him, waiting on an answer to her question.
‘No,’ Will finally muttered. ‘I’m not happy here. I like some of the monks well enough but . . . I’m bored. I feel like my time could be used better somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I stopped those outlaws and it felt good, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my days fighting. Or praying,’ he ended quietly, shrugging his broad shoulders and sinking back into his bedding with a bleak expression. ‘From one extreme to the other . . .’
‘Come home with me.’
Will didn’t think he’d heard her right. Thought his damaged head had imagined her words. He looked at her, wishing she’d really said it.
‘Come home with me,’ Beth repeated. ‘Please. Robert needs his grandfather.’
Tears filled his eyes at the idea of being with his beloved daughter again, and at hearing the name of his grandson, named after his old friend Robin Hood who Will missed terribly.
‘You don’t need me around,’ he mumbled, fearing his voice would break. ‘You have your own family now.’
‘And you’re part of it – you always will be.’ Beth got to her feet and bent to kiss his forehead. ‘I never wanted you to leave Wakefield in the first place but I didn’t want to stand in your way when you said you would become a Benedictine. Now, though . . . You have friends at home who miss you. Tuck, Little John, Elspeth.’ She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him, looking so much like her long-dead mother that Will’s breath caught in his throat. ‘You’re coming home with me.’
With that, she swept from the room and he could hear her conversing outside with the cantor.
He allowed the tears to spill from his eyes, a maelstrom of emotions and memories filling him, but the main, overarching feeling was joy.
He was going home.
* * *
1 Afternoon prayers
2 Evening prayers
Epilogue
‘Come back, you bastard, I’ll kill you!’
For a time he was too angry to notice the men watching him from the other side of the fence. He’d been trying to herd the flock of sheep for a while now but one of the woolly clods wouldn’t do as he ordered, infuriating him so much he almost felt like going inside and finding his old sword. Mutton stew seemed a good idea right then.
Finally the beast stood still long enough for the farmer to catch it and haul it into the pen, ready to have its thick coat sheared. He struggled with the animal for a time but finally harvested most of its soft bounty and shooed the beast back into the field with a tired sigh.
‘Good job.’
Will Scaflock spun at the voice, face red with anger, sensing the sarcasm
in the words and ready to deliver a vicious retort of his own.
His face broke into a wide grin though, when he saw who his visitors were.
‘Brother de Loup. Nicholas. Good to see you – it’s been a long time! Come on. That lot’ – he nodded breathlessly towards the penned sheep – ‘can wait a bit. Share an ale with me.’
They went into the farmhouse, and a small boy no more than three years old ran to meet them, looking warily up at the tonsured newcomers.
Will patted the lad’s shoulder with reassuring words and sent him outside to play, the love in his eyes shining like a beacon on a dark night. He poured three mugs of ale and set them down on the table in the middle of the small room beside a freshly baked loaf, gesturing at his visitors to help themselves.
‘You’ve allowed your hair to grow back,’ the cantor noted, reaching for his mug. ‘Probably just as well – you never suited a tonsure.’
‘Nobody suits a tonsure,’ Will laughed with a raised eyebrow. ‘What brings you here?’
De Loup smiled, and smacked his lips in satisfaction as he tasted the ale. ‘We just wanted to see how you fared now that you’re back home in Wakefield.’
Brother Nicholas nodded agreement, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth happily. ‘Aye! How are you?’
‘Couldn’t be happier.’ Will smiled, and the truth of it was plain in his voice. ‘My daughter is an incredible young woman.’
Just then the child burst back in through the doorway, a tiny ball of wild motion. He grabbed Will’s hand and, laughing loudly, tried to drag him onto the floor.
‘Not just now, Robert.’ The one-time outlaw grinned. ‘I have important visitors.’
The boy wouldn’t give up, however, and continued to pull at Will’s hand, his smile widening but nearing the point where it might soon turn into a petulant temper tantrum.
The cantor looked sideways at Brother Nicholas, both of the monks preparing for the explosion of anger they expected at any second, but their former colleague surprised them completely by allowing himself to be dragged onto the rushes that carpeted the floor.
The Abbey of Death Page 9
