by Paul Doherty
The silence became oppressive. The darkness turned into a murky grey light. Tendrils of mist threaded through the trees, stretching out like the ghostly fingers of some earth-bound wraith desperate for human warmth and company.
‘Notch!’ Ap Ythel’s soft yet harsh order rang through the clearing. The Welsh archers readied their powerful war bows, one yard-long shaft strung, another at the ready. Ranulf, standing beside Corbett, brought up his own arbalest, his keen eyes sharp on the edge of the clearing.
‘Here they come, master.’ His words were followed by a soul-harrowing howling. Dark shapes, bellies close to the ground, burst like demons into the clearing. Long-bodied, with massive heads and gaping jaws, their glossy short-haired coats glinting in the light. Several of them threw themselves against the carts, while others, eager for soft, sweet flesh, lunged towards the horse lines.
‘Loose!’ Ap Ythel roared.
Corbett released the lever of his arbalest and watched the bolt smash into the skull of a leaping mastiff. There was no time to insert another bolt. He grabbed one of the spears pushed through the slats of the cart, thrusting its blade deep into the flank of another mastiff already grievously wounded by a crossbow bolt. The real damage, however, was inflicted by the Welsh archers, who could loose their goose-quilled shafts in a matter of a heartbeat. The arrow storm swept through the war dogs, killing some outright, crippling others. Fire arrows followed. At such close range the archers could not miss. One mastiff did reach the horse lines, only to be badly kicked by one of the dray horses and finished off by one of the archers hiding there.
The attack was sudden, short and brutal and ended just as swiftly with mastiffs stretched in spreading pools of blood, their bodies pierced by clusters of arrows. A few, sorely wounded, were given the mercy cut by the archers, who clambered back into the carts as a second wave of assailants broke into the clearing. For a moment, the sight of the war carts filled with archers, bows bent, arrows at the ready, and the sprawling corpses of the mastiffs startled the attackers. They faltered in their assault even as Ap Ythel screamed at his men to loose.
Another hail of arrows whirled through the air like a swarm of angry hornets. The shafts struck face and chest. Some of Darel’s men wore mailed jerkins and conical helmets; others were dressed in nothing but hardened leather jerkins and armed only with round bucklers and swords, clubs or daggers. They had no real protection against the piercing barbed arrows and would have turned and fled immediately, but mailed horsemen in war helms carrying oval shields threaded their way through the trees, forcing them back towards the carts. Nevertheless, the battle was over. The sight of the dead mastiffs and the crumpled corpses of so many foot soldiers, as well as the constant hail of sharpened arrows, proved too much. As the horsemen faltered, the rest of the attackers broke and fled.
‘We should pursue them!’ Ranulf shouted.
Ap Ythel agreed and Corbett saw the logic of it. The enemy must not be allowed to regroup and plan fresh assaults on their column. He issued the order. When he turned to the horse lines, he noticed that one of the milling mounts was already geared and buckled, but the archers on guard could not say who had done this, so Corbett dismissed it.
The rest of the horses were quickly saddled and harnessed and the pursuit began, Corbett leading his cavalcade out of the camp. The sun was now rising, giving them a clear view, whilst their horses were fresh, fed and watered. They spread out across the heathland and were soon amongst the enemy stragglers. Sword and axe rose and fell; no quarter was asked and none was given. Corbett glanced around. Most of Ap Ythel’s archers were there, along with Thurston and Ranulf. The constable seemed to know the terrain, and followed the overgrown trackways, the same paths the enemy had used to break free of the tangling gorse, shouting and pointing ahead with his sword.
As they breasted a hill, Corbett reined in and stared down at the hamlet nestling in its lea. Wary of an ambush, he led his comitatus cautiously down the drover’s path and into the village. The houses here were squared-off dwellings with oak pillars, the willow withers packed between them covered with dried clay, their roofs made of thick, hard turf. These dwellings stood silent, their doors and shutters flung open. Their occupants had apparently fled. The cavalcade passed empty hog and cow pens, the beasts driven away into the protection of the nearby treeline. Corbett noticed fresh horse and dog dung, as well as the smoking embers of spent fires.
‘They camped here last night,’ he declared. ‘The hill shielded the lights of their camp. The dogs were kennelled in the piggery, the horses stabled in the cow pen.’ He stared at the thick line of forest to the west of the village.
‘We’ve slaughtered their dogs and foot soldiers,’ Brother Adrian declared, reins in one hand, a war club in the other. He pushed his mount alongside Corbett’s.
‘A warrior?’ Ranulf teased. ‘I thought priests were forbidden to fight.’
‘No, canon law forbids us to use swords, hence . . .’ The Benedictine lifted his club splattered with hair, blood and fragments of bone. He pointed this towards the line of distant trees. ‘The horsemen have followed the villagers into the woods. We will never catch them now. Wouldn’t you agree, Walter?’ He turned to where Thurston had reined in behind them.
‘It would be like chasing will-o’-the-wisps,’ the constable agreed. ‘But we left the camp so swiftly; what about the Scottish hostages?’
‘Manacled,’ Ap Ythel replied. ‘Firmly clasped to a cart wheel and guarded by four of my lovely lads.’
Corbett turned his horse, staring round the deserted village. The sun had now risen, yet he felt cold and tired and wished he could be gone from here. He noticed three of the archers dismounting outside what looked like the village tithe barn.
‘There will be little to plunder here,’ he observed. ‘The peasants are canny enough—’
He broke off at shouts and cries from the barn.
‘Owain Glenith!’ Ap Ythel exclaimed. ‘He has the hearing of a hunting cat.’ The door to the barn was flung open and the three archers re-emerged, pulling and pushing a man and a woman. The prisoners struggled violently until Ap Ythel, who had swung himself down from his own horse, drew his sword and pressed its tip against the soft whiteness of the woman’s neck, shouting at both of them to be quiet.
Corbett studied the prisoners. The man was youngish, with the narrow face of a questing rat: pointed nose, receding chin and slit-sharp eyes. He was clean-shaven, his wispy hair coated with nard. Dressed in a quilted jerkin of dark leather with matching hose, he stood quivering, trying to hide the fear bubbling within him. The woman was startlingly different; truly beautiful, but with the hardness of a diamond: large, lustrous dark eyes in a snow-white face framed by long black hair. She conveyed a fierce resolution yet was strangely voluptuous, her full lips slightly parted, one hand almost clawing the air. She stood glaring at Corbett even as she tugged her gold-spangled blue robe more tightly about her.
Thurston got down from his horse and pointed at the woman. ‘You are Richolda, Darel’s witch woman. And you are Hockley, her guardian and bodyguard, Darel’s first cousin.’ He turned back to Corbett. ‘They must have been sheltering here. They expected Darel’s attack to be successful, but now their comrades have fled, taking their horses with them.’ He pointed to a tree. ‘We should hang them immediately.’
Richolda, her face now all sweet and alluring, replied in Norman French, though Corbett caught the slight trace of a northern accent. ‘Sir Edmund Darel will pay any ransom for our release.’ She smiled dazzlingly at Corbett, who heard Ranulf’s swift intake of breath.
‘Lady Richolda is correct.’ Hockley too spoke in Norman French, with a strong rustic burr. ‘Sir Edmund will pay our ransom.’ He spread his hands. ‘It is unfortunate that you captured us. If you detain us, we will be more of a problem than any profit.’
‘Bind their hands,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Mount them on horses and let’s get out of here.’
They returned the way they had come, passing
the straggling line of corpses killed during their pursuit. The camp was no different, littered with dead, both dog and man. Corbett ordered the corpses of the mastiffs to be heaped in a pile and left to rot, while Ap Ythel organised burial parties for the dead attackers. The archers hacked the wet earth, cleared shallow graves and rolled the corpses in, fashioning makeshift crosses to mark the burial places. Brother Adrian recited a swift, pithy office of the dead. Once he had administered the last blessing, the Welsh archers sang one of their battle hymns. Corbett was only too pleased to join them. Afterwards the wine cask was broached, every man being given a stoup to drink and a small loaf of rye bread to break his fast.
Corbett, followed by Ranulf, approached the two prisoners, who squatted on the ground, their hands tied to the wheel of a cart.
‘You should set us free,’ Hockley taunted, his rat-like face twisted into a smirk. ‘Release us or my lord Darel—’
Ranulf punched him in the face. ‘Do not threaten the king’s envoy,’ he snarled. He punched Hockley again, so that the bruise beneath Hockley’s left eye blossomed into a bluish red.
‘You should be more prudent and careful,’ Richolda murmured.
‘And why is that?’ Corbett turned to face her squarely, marvelling at how truly beautiful she was, with her ivory-skinned face, large expressive eyes, midnight-black hair and swan-like neck. He noticed the pentagram on a silver chain around her throat and leaned forward and yanked it off. She startled, her eyes blazing with anger.
‘You treat a lady like this?’
‘No lady,’ Corbett retorted, ‘but a witch, a traitor, a wolfshead and one who would have rejoiced to see me and mine slaughtered by ravenous mastiffs. You came with the war band to gloat over our death throes.’
‘I ride with my lord on all his chevauchées.’
‘Raids,’ Corbett corrected her. ‘Your paramour murders, rapes and pillages to his wicked heart’s content. Anyway, why should I be careful and prudent? Strange advice from a woman who lacks so much prudence she was captured.’
‘We knew you were coming.’ Richolda ignored Hockley’s restraining hand. ‘We knew your strength, your disposition and the treasure you carry.’
‘What treasure?’
Richolda just blinked and glanced away.
‘And you would have killed us all,’ Ranulf accused.
‘Who betrayed us?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Who?’
‘If I knew, I would tell you.’ Richolda widened her eyes flirtatiously. ‘But if you return me safely to my lord Darel, he—’
‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ Ap Ythel hurried across. ‘It’s Roskell! You’d best see for yourself.’
The two clerks followed the Welshman across the camp into the trees and down the slight incline to the burn, an underground rivulet that surfaced just within the clearing, washing over the pebbled sandy soil. Roskell, who had been freed on their return to the camp, sprawled slightly to one side near the water. The squire’s face was hideously blotched, eyes popping in the strain of death, half-open mouth secreting a thick white mucus.
Brother Adrian came hurrying across. Pushing his way through, he knelt and turned the corpse over on its back. He quickly murmured the last rites before moving aside to allow Corbett to crouch next to him. The clerk pulled up Roskell’s jerkin and the threadbare linen shirt beneath. The dead man’s hairy white stomach was much swollen, dark red spots blotching the soft flesh. Corbett moved the man’s head and pushed a gloved finger between the yellowing teeth, searching around before withdrawing his hand.
‘Nothing,’ he declared, examining his glove. ‘He’s been poisoned, but how, with what and by whom?’ He shrugged and got to his feet, leaving the corpse to the Benedictine.
‘So it begins,’ Corbett murmured to himself. ‘Murder and treachery, those demon twins have followed us here.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ a voice whispered hoarsely behind him. Corbett turned and stared at the one-eyed archer, his hood pulled up to frame a rough scarred face half hidden by a thick moustache and beard. The archer raised a gauntleted hand to scratch at a bead of sweat beneath his eye patch.
‘I saw you when I returned,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I am glad you are safe. You must be prudent during these escapades.’
‘So we have murder here. We should meet, talk . . .’
Corbett drew closer. ‘Not here, my friend. We have a traitor and an assassin amongst us. We must be careful. We shall meet at Alnwick. Now,’ he raised his voice, ‘see to the unharnessing of my horse. Tell Captain Ap Ythel we will bury Roskell’s corpse with the rest before we leave for Alnwick.’
Corbett stared around the spacious but stark chamber he had been allotted on the second floor of the rounded Abbot’s Tower built into the soaring curtain wall of Alnwick Castle. He and his party had arrived at the great fortress after a further day’s journey. Stewards of Lord Henry Percy had immediately ushered them to their sleeping quarters. Corbett felt well rested. He had slept soundly on the feather-filled mattress stretched out over the four-poster bed, elegantly shrouded by thick woollen curtains dyed a deep green and edged with silver thread. The chamber also boasted a scribe’s chair, a chancery desk, a chest and a coffer. The window was a lancet, yet broad enough to provide good light, whilst the stewards had also brought in a number of candle spigots along with two small wheeled braziers and thick Turkey rugs for the floor. Once settled, Corbett had supervised the placing of his Secret Chancery chests in the great arca in Lord Henry’s fortified chamber beneath his dining hall. The clerk now lounged at the chancery desk and tried to organise his teeming thoughts into some form of orderly schedule.
Item: they had successfully completed their three-hundred-mile journey from London with the Thurstons, Brother Adrian and the four Scottish hostages. They had travelled north through Pontefract, following the Roman roads into Northumbria. The weather had proved fine and they had encountered no difficulties until Darel’s savage assault the night before last.
Item: they had been warned about this attack by Cacoignes, but could he be fully trusted? Worse, someone in their company had certainly mixed a sleeping powder or potion into the evening meal the night before the attack. Only God’s good grace and the tender stomachs of Corbett and a few others had saved them.
Item: there was certainly a traitor in their company. The witch Richolda, now lying with her guardian Hockley in the dungeons deep beneath one of the towers, had confessed as much. Was this traitor also the assassin? Was the same person who’d informed Darel responsible for mixing the sleeping potion and killing Roskell? Yet how and why? Roskell was of little significance: a hostage, a former Scottish squire held captive for at least six years. A very quiet, taciturn man. Corbett had noticed him constantly threading Ave beads through his fingers. The other hostages kept to themselves. Roskell had been a virtual recluse, more interested in pattering his Aves than talking with his comrades. Moreover, he had been given the same food as the others. None of the other hostages could recall the victim eating or drinking by himself. Indeed, for most of the morning Roskell had been manacled and guarded; his keepers, Ap Ythel’s archers, could report nothing out of the ordinary.
Item: if the traitor and the assassin were one and the same person, why had they plotted the ruthless massacre of Corbett’s party? Did this person also know about Corbett’s more secret instructions?
Item: the Scottish hostages. Corbett was to arrange some form of meeting with Bruce’s coven and hand them over. Did these same hostages plan to begin negotiations about a possible truce between England and Scotland? Had Edward and Gaveston also secretly charged them with this duty? Both the English Crown and its great lords desperately wanted an honourable end to the conflict in Scotland.
Item: the murder of Red Comyn in the friary church of Dumfries in February 1306. The English Crown had been offered an eyewitness account of what had truly happened. This eyewitness had also insisted that such testimony would only be handed over at Alnwick. When? How? And by whom?
Item: Alnwick Ca
stle itself. Corbett had walked the fortress, now turned into a sprawling building site. The northern baron and his family seemed intent on displaying and enforcing their power along the Scottish march. Percy and his wife Eleanor had met Corbett on his arrival. Lord Henry, one of the king’s great killers, was a tall, burly man with the dangling arms of a swordsman. He was red-faced, balding and bulbous-eyed, with a wide mouth above a strong stubbled chin. Corbett had met him on a number of occasions and regarded him as a grim, stern-hearted man who took to war as a hawk to flying. Eleanor, his wife, was equally hard-souled. She was hatchet-faced, gimlet-eyed, a long, sharp nose above thin, bloodless lips; as Ranulf had whispered, there was no prettiness or delicacy about the Lady Eleanor. She dressed as soberly as any nun, her dark hair tightly twisted into long plaits that hung down to her shoulders. This noble pair had insisted on taking Corbett around their new domain.
Alnwick Castle had been originally built by the de Vescy family on a promontory overlooking the south bank of the River Aln, which served as the first line of defence around the castle. Alnwick’s soaring battlemented curtain wall also included strategically placed towers or donjons such as the one Corbett was lodged in. A majestic barbican controlled the fortified main gateway, which was shielded not only by a moat fed by the Aln but also by a reinforced drawbridge and a heavy porticullis with murder-holes. This barbican led into an outer bailey, where the stables, mews, granaries, smithies and a whole range of storerooms were located. A second fortified and stoutly defended barbican guarded entrance into the inner bailey and the most originally constructed keep. Instead of one soaring donjon, as seen in most castles, the inner bailey at Alnwick consisted of a ring of half-rounded towers and other buildings overlooking a great cobbled yard. This truly was, Corbett concluded, a place built for war. A massive, formidable fortress that could become the kingdom’s premier defence of its northern border. However, it could also be used to threaten the Crown, with Lord Henry becoming ‘Cock of the North’ and the arbiter of English policy along the Scottish march.
