“So you will send me to the March,” said Hugh, “to keep an eye on Clare.”
“No,” replied the other. “I have posted men there already. Locals, who know the country and its politics.”
He snapped shut the folio and sank back into his seat. “You will go north, beyond Trent. A country you know well.
“Earl Ferrers has many friends among former rebels in the north country. The old king should have hanged the lot of them, in my view. I am merely the son of a country squire, of course. The wisdom of kings is beyond me.”
“You will remember one man in particular. The chief plunderer and ravager of the north. Sir John d’Eyvill. His brother left a mark on you.”
Burnell was extremely well-informed. Hugh automatically touched the edge of the livid scar on his neck. It ran all the way down, across his body from left collarbone to right hip. A sword-slash inflicted by Sir John’s brother, Robert.
“I expect you want revenge for that scratch,” said Burnell with another of his knowing smiles. “Now is your chance.”
4.
The monks tramped wearily along the highway. This was the last stretch of their journey to Stanley Abbey, and they were all footsore and hungry. Added to their torments was the roasting heat of a summer’s day. It was June, and all around them lay the dappled shade of the greenwood. If their abbot had a heart, he would have allowed the brethren to rest awhile under the trees, devour the last of their rations, massage their aching feet.
Unfortunately Abbot Stephen had a lump of iron in place of a heart. A severe man, thin and upright, he demanded exacting standards. The younger son of a knightly family, he seemed to think he was on campaign, in charge of a band of hardened soldiers used to marching long distances in sweltering heat.
“Onward, brothers,” he cried. “The abbey is just seven miles away, by my reckoning. Another hour or two, nothing more.”
It was easy for him. The abbot was the only man on horseback, perched on a fat white palfrey that ambled along at an agreeable pace. Stephen experienced not the faintest twinge of guilt. Why should he? The abbot was an old man, past his sixtieth year, his joints afflicted with rheumatism. The brethren were all young, disgustingly overweight and short of breath. It was his duty to whip them into condition.
He scowled. Some of the monks had groaned at his rallying cry. One or two muttered blasphemous curses under his breath. John twisted in the saddle to face them.
“Any more of that, you heathens, and I’ll have every second man flogged when we reach the abbey!”
More groans, a few whimpers. Abbot Stephen was liberal with the floggings, and often wielded the rod himself.
“But, father...” murmured Brother Anselm. Stephen glared at him. Anselm was one of the eldest of the brethren and often acted as their spokesman. A troublemaker.
“Silence!” Stephen roared. “I don’t want to listen to any of your whining pleas for mercy, brother. Nor do I care who uttered the blasphemy. You can all draw lots for punishment and suffer together!”
He twisted round again, satisfied he had made the point. The monks trudged on sullenly behind him. Stephen could picture their hangdog faces. Every man would rage at the abbot in the privacy of his heart. That was all well and good and as it should be: Stephen had hated his abbot no less, when he was their age.
Open defiance was another matter. Stephen put his faith in discipline. That was the only true way to God. Without discipline mankind reverted to barbarism.
To hate another man, without expressing it, required iron self-control. Discipline, in other words. He would teach the young men under his charge the value of this ancient virtue, or beat it into them. They would thank him one day.
He was still mulling over his own essential goodness when a man emerged from the forest. The stranger walked calmly in front of the procession, just a few yards before the abbot’s palfrey, and raised his hands.
“Good day to you, brothers,” he called in a loud voice. “And what a fine day it is. Truly, the good Lord has seen fit to bless us with sunshine and flowers.”
He grinned and lowered his arms to fold them across his broad chest. Abbot Stephen, determined to appear no less calm, reined in his palfrey. The brethren shuffled to a halt behind him.
The old clergyman looked the newcomer up and down. He was tall, wiry, well-knit and strongly built, doubtless from an active life out of doors. His face was burnt brown by the sun, handsome in a slightly battered, fleshy sort of way, with a furrowed brow and lines around the nose and mouth. He went unshaven, and there was a kindliness to his mild blue eyes.
A deceptive kindness, no doubt. Abbot Stephen had seen such rogues before, usually on the gallows with a noose round their necks. The stranger wore the practical, well-worn greens and browns of a forester, with a sword and dagger dangling from the thick belt round his waist. A quiverful of arrows was slung over his shoulder and a leather baldric strapped round his left wrist.
This one is a survivor, thought John. The outlaw – for such he took the man to be – was about fifty, if not older. His stubble was nearly white and he had a slight paunch. All that stolen venison had started to weigh him down.
Stephen kept his eyes fixed on the outlaw. He knew there would be other such men lurking in the woods either side of the king’s highway. Skilled archers, no doubt, able to bring down a running deer at fifty paces.
Or a clergyman who fails to keep a civil tongue in his head. I must give him no excuse. Otherwise he will kill me and slaughter my flock.
Despite his severity, Abbot Stephen did feel a paternal care for the monks in his charge. They were only sheep, after all, young boys with little to no experience of the world. Stephen had been a fighting soldier before he entered the church, and knew what renegades were capable of.
“We are poor brethren of the abbey of Stanley,” he said carefully. “We carry little treasure, and what we have I carry on my own person. Here.”
He took the purse from his belt, a bag of red velvet with a gold lining, and tossed it at the outlaw, who snatched it and carefully weighed the bag in his hand.
“Five shillings,” said the abbot. “Enough to feed you and your men for a fortnight.”
He risked a smile. “That is, when you aren’t poaching the king’s deer.”
The expression on the other man’s face made his heart skip. The outlaw’s smile had faded, and his eyes were no longer mild. Instead they grew hard, like two chips of flint.
This man has killed before, Stephen thought nervously. He won’t have any qualms about doing so again.
“I have no patience with liars, sir abbot,” the outlaw rasped, “and resent being taken for a fool. Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Roger Godberd. Some call me the Hooded Man.”
John tried not to let his fear show. Roger Godberd, the outlaw of Swannington, right-hand man to Earl Robert Ferrers. He and his men had carved out a notorious reputation during the civil wars. From their hideout in Sherwood Forest they rode forth to burn and plunder and waste the land.
The Hooded Man. John knew that name, a title worn by many of the robber chiefs that plagued England.
“Master Godberd,” he said, with a polite little duck of his tonsured head. “I have heard of you, of course, and your brave deeds. Forgive my ignorance. It was said you had come into the king’s peace.”
Roger bared his thick yellow teeth in a sudden grin. “So I did,” he replied. “But times change. Now, to business. We know you have travelled from Garendon Abbey in Leicestershire. Indeed, we followed you every step of the way.”
The abbot hesitated. Did Roger know of the treasure they carried, or was he guessing? The monks had brought six mules with them, trotting along at the rear of the column. Each beast carried a wooden chest tied across its back. The chests had false bottoms, with over three hundred pounds in silver hidden in compartments under holy relics.
Stephen had more than one choice to make. Stanley Abbey had endured a difficult year. Their lands were rav
aged during the war, and unseasonal weather ruined the previous year’s harvest. Disease and famine inevitably followed in the wake of heavy rains, killing more of their already decimated tenants. Swollen bodies littered the countryside – men, women and children lying in fields and dunghills like so many dead cattle, with few to give them decent burial.
Dead peasants led to a severe drop in tithes. From being one of the richest monastic houses in England, Stanley was reduced to one of the poorest. In desperation Stephen called in a few favours from his brother abbot at Garendon, also his cousin. The latter preferred to keep his sordid private life hidden from the world (two pregnant village girls and a rape, among other things) and was only too glad to hand over the money in exchange for Stephen’s silence.
“We carry some of the greatest treasures on earth,” He said. “But they will be of little value to you. The knuckle-bones and fingernails of the blessed Saint Barnabas, vials of holy water and so forth.”
He cursed his own folly. Some of the money from Garendon should have been spent on hiring an armed escort for the journey back to Stanley. Instead he preferred to take the risk and put his faith in God. It seemed the Almighty took a dim view of Stephen’s avarice.
“Liar!”
Another voice, harsh and full of anger, echoed from the woods. Stephen quailed at the sight of its owner. A huge man with a yellow, toad-like face, framed by a thinning mass of greasy black curls. He was also dressed in the faded garb of a forester, and carried a wickedly sharp hatchet.
Several other men followed him out of the trees. They had a gnarled, rugged look, as if they had sprung up from the living earth. John saw no pity in those hard peasant faces, only greed and bitterness.
Their leader pointed his hatchet at the abbot. “Break open those boxes, you old turd,” he growled, “and show us the money. Otherwise I’ll split your skull and show the world the colour of your brains.”
John’s pride overcame his terror. He came from fighting Norman stock and refused to submit to crude threats.
“Do your worst,” he said haughtily. “There are more worlds beyond this one, and I shall gladly enter the Kingdom of Heaven as a martyr. From there I shall spend eternity watching you writhe in the deepest pit of Hell.”
The stocky man’s thick lips peeled back into a snarl. “Save your threats, father. I am damned many times over already. If you won’t open those boxes, I’ll do it myself.”
“Walter,” Roger said in a warning voice. His comrade paused briefly and spread his arms wide.
“Come, master,” he grunted. “Do we mean to rob these shavelings, or stand about exchanging pleasantries?”
Walter strode on towards the palfreys at the tail of the column, followed by his cronies. Helpless to intervene, Abbot John could only sit and watch. Clergymen were forbidden to shed blood, so he carried a light mace hidden under the folds of his tunic. Part of him longed to rip out the iron-tipped cudgel and smash Walter’s brains out. Another, more sensible part persuaded him not to do anything foolish.
The toad-faced outlaw stalked past the cringing line of monks, not one of whom dared to meet his eye. Smirking, he thrust his hatchet into his belt and drew a dagger. He used it to saw through the ropes fixing the nearest chest to a palfrey’s back, then ripped off the lid and upended the container.
His cronies cheered as some loose rubbish cascaded onto the grass. Dusty knuckles and finger-bones, glass vials, a little round casket. The casket split open when it hit the ground and some blackened teeth fell out.
“Behold, you sinners!” Walter cried. “The mortal remains of the blessed Saint Barnabas! Look not too hard upon them, lest he strike you with lightning from Heaven!”
He stooped to pick up one of the vials, tore out the stopper and drank down the holy water inside. Several of the monks gasped with horror; others made the sign of the cross. One of the youngest went deathly pale and fainted. The abbot cursed his own cowardice.
Lord, he prayed silently. Strike this man dead, because I cannot. Stop his heart. Turn the marrow in his bones to ash. Will you let him commit this unspeakable blasphemy? Mock Holy Church?
He waited in vain for a response. No storm clouds gathered in the spotless blue vault of Heaven; no sudden lightning bolts stabbed down to vaporise the heathen.
Walter wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy hand. “I don’t feel any different,” he remarked. “I thought a drop of holy water might give me superhuman strength, or make me beautiful. How disappointing.”
“You already have the face of an angel!” shouted one of the outlaws.
This triggered more rough laughter. Walter grinned at the speaker, puckered his lips and blew a kiss at him. Then he tossed the empty vial over his shoulder and turned back to the open chest.
He stamped down hard on the false bottom. John cringed as the wafer-thin timber crumpled, revealing the shining glories beneath. Walter bent down, his little eyes burning with greed, and sifted his hands through the mass of gold and silver pennies.
“What did I tell you, boys?” he crowed. “The abbot lied to us. Bloody monks. I shit on ‘em.”
Roger hurried over to inspect the contents of the shattered box. By now more outlaws were streaming out of the woods, sunburnt, tough-looking men clad in green, armed to the teeth. Stephen counted fifty of them, and then stopped counting. This Roger Godberd and his ugly accomplice were no petty thieves, but leaders of a small army.
“Get them open,” Roger ordered his men, who set about the task with relish. They pushed and fought each other to get at the chests; tore them from the backs of terrified palfreys; broke them with staves, mauls and bare hands. Whoops of joy filled the air as the outlaws seized handfuls of glittering pennies. Harsh words were exchanged, knives drawn to fight over the loot.
“Enough!” shouted Roger. His voice cut through the air like a war-horn. The noise died down and his men stopped arguing. Those who had drawn their blades sheathed them just as quickly.
Stephen was impressed. With his own love of discipline, he could not help but admire Roger’s mastery. In one respect at least, he and the outlaw chief were kindred spirits. He also sensed that Roger was reluctant to spill blood, if it could be avoided.
He screwed up the courage to speak. “You cannot blame me for hiding the truth. The money is not mine. I borrowed it from Garendon Abbey to prevent our house at Stanley falling into poverty and ruin.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Roger’s face flushed. “So the abbot of Garendon lent you the cash,” he snarled. “How much, exactly?”
“Five hundred pounds, eighty-seven shillings and ninepence,” the abbot replied promptly. His voice, far more shrill than he intended, came out as a frightened squeak.
“Ha!” Roger exclaimed. “You were short-changed, father. I know your brother abbot all too well. He was my landlord once, the grasping pig, and would have evicted me if I hadn’t taken to the greenwood first. A mere five hundred pound? Why, that sweating whoremonger could have loaned you treble the amount and made barely a dent in his treasury!”
John was well aware of this, though didn’t care to admit it. The abbot of Garendon was an irritable, vengeful man, and it wasn’t safe to push the blackmail too far.
Some of the older monks were outraged by the blasphemy unfolding before their eyes. The bones of Saint Barnabas were now scattered all over the glade, while part of his jawbone was tossed about by several outlaws in a game of catch. One of them stuck the grisly object on his head.
“Look, boys,” he hooted. “I’m wearing a halo! Do you think I’ll get into Heaven now?”
This was too much for Brother Michael, a portly monk in his late forties. His knees creaked from decades of kneeling at prayer on cold flagstones, and he was never flogged. There was no need, since he chastised his own flesh every night with a knotted rope.
“Sons of Belial!” Michael howled, his jowly face puce with rage. Like many big men, he was surprisingly light on his feet, and advanced upon the outlaws like a wars
hip in full sail.
He tried to snatch the jawbone off the young man’s head, who danced aside and waved it mockingly under Michael’s nose.
“You want this, brother?” he sneered. “Come and get it, then – look, the blessed saint has taken flight!”
He hurled the bone at one of his mates, who caught it deftly in one hand. Puffing and growling, Brother Michael ponderously turned about. The boys formed a circle around him, braying with laughter as they tossed the bone to each other. He staggered around like an exhausted bull, pawing in vain at the precious relic as it was repeatedly held out to him and whipped away.
Abbot John’s fingers crept towards the hidden mace. He was fond of Brother Michael and could not bear to see the man humiliated. If this went on for much longer, he would rush in among the outlaws and break a few skulls before they brought him down.
If God wills me to die here, he thought piously, then so be it.
Before he had the chance to sacrifice himself, Walter intervened. The big outlaw shouldered aside two of the young outlaws and swung his glittering hatchet at Michael’s glistening bald head. It split the monk’s crown and sliced down to the bridge of his nose. Dark red blood spilled down his face, frozen in an expression of shock.
Michael’s overworked knees finally gave way. He crumpled to the ground and toppled sideways, encouraged by the toe of Walter’s boot.
“There,” said Walter in a matter-of-face voice, reaching down to tear up some grass and use it to wipe his dirty hatchet. “That’s stopped his noise.”
There was a long moment of silence, broken only by distant birdsong. Even the outlaws were stunned. The quiet was broken by a sob from Brother Anselm, one of the murdered man’s oldest friends. Abbot Stephen suspected they had been more than friends.
Anselm knelt and started to pray, eyes screwed shut, hands shaking, tears rolling down his face. Several others started to weep. Stephen’s fingers closed about the shaft of his mace. Perhaps he would make the sacrifice after all.
The Hooded Men Page 4
