opened the door and stepped through before Corbett could stop him. He and Chanson went out on to the top step. A figure moved from behind a battered gravestone. He was hooded, snow covered his cowled head and shoulders. Corbett glimpsed ragged hose, though the boots were good, whilst there was no mistaking the arbalest he held. Other men appeared, at least half a dozen in number.
‘King’s man.’ The hooded one walked closer, lowering his crossbow. Ranulf, sword drawn, clattered down the steps. ‘No further,’ the man shouted harshly. He lifted his head; a ragged mask covered his face. ‘King’s man, whatever you hear in the castle, we are not responsible for the deaths of those maids, nor for what you might see in the forest.’
‘What might I see?’ Corbett shouted, joining Ranulf at the bottom of the steps.
‘The horror hanging in the woods,’ answered the man. ‘But we are poor people, truly dust of the earth; we only kill to eat, remember that.’ The cowled figure lifted his hand, and the outlaws turned and ran, scaling the cemetery wall and disappearing into the trees beyond.
The three companions stared into the falling snow for an instant, before gathering their horses and turning back towards the castle. The sombre greyness of the day deepened as the light faded. The snowstorm was subsiding, but it had turned the countryside into a silent white wasteland, emphasising the blackness of the trees and bushes above which solitary birds soared, whilst the gorse and undergrowth crackled as the snow dripped and slipped to the ground. They reached the path stretching across the open downs up to the main gate of the castle, where pitch torches and braziers glowed fiercely along the battlements.
‘It looks like a donjon from Hell,’ Ranulf muttered, yet he was eager enough to reach the gateway and escape from the chilling stillness of the countryside.
They clattered across the drawbridge where Corbett reined in. Leaning over to Ranulf and Chanson, he gave strict instructions not to tell anybody about the confrontation in the cemetery. Chanson took their horses, while Ranulf went to the buttery claiming he was still famished and Corbett returned to his chamber. A servant was waiting outside. Corbett unlocked the door and the man busied himself lighting the capped candles. He used a pair of bellows to fire the brazier and quickly strengthened the weak fire in the hearth, placing fresh logs over a bank of charcoal strewn with herbs which gave the chamber the smell of summer.
‘My Lord.’ The man sweated as he used the bellows, urging the flames to spurt up and fire the wood. ‘You’ll be as comfortable soon as a pig in its sty.’
Corbett grinned at the analogy. He helped the servant until he was satisfied, then gave him a coin and, when he had gone, locked the door behind him. He kicked off his boots and was about to settle before the fire when he heard a faint singing. Going to the window, he opened the shutter and listened intently. He recognised plainsong drifting up from the chapel of St John’s Within the Gates and all exhaustion forgotten, quickly thrust his boots back on, left the chamber and ran down the stairs. He met Ranulf just outside the tower, and grabbing his henchman by the arm, they hurried into the icy gloom, slipping and slithering as they made their way to the castle chapel. Ranulf made to protest but knew it was futile. As he had remarked to Chanson, ‘The one thing Master Longface loves is the opportunity to sing.’
The chapel of St John was a long, whitewashed barn-like structure, though the walls had been covered by paintings and the raised floor of the sanctuary was tiled with beautiful stone. The altar, of Purbeck marble, seemed to glow from the light of the candles placed either side. Father Matthew, assisted by Father Andrew, was busy organising members of the garrison into a choir to rehearse the hymns of Advent.
‘Why, Sir Hugh.’ Father Matthew beckoned them forward.
‘King’s man.’ The hooded one walked closer, lowering his crossbow. Ranulf, sword drawn, clattered down the steps. ‘No further,’ the man shouted harshly. He lifted his head; a ragged mask covered his face. ‘King’s man, whatever you hear in the castle, we are not responsible for the deaths of those maids, nor for what you might see in the forest.’
‘What might I see?’ Corbett shouted, joining Ranulf at the bottom of the steps.
‘The horror hanging in the woods,’ answered the man. ‘But we are poor people, truly dust of the earth; we only kill to eat, remember that.’ The cowled figure lifted his hand, and the outlaws turned and ran, scaling the cemetery wall and disappearing into the trees beyond.
The three companions stared into the falling snow for an instant, before gathering their horses and turning back towards the castle. The sombre greyness of the day deepened as the light faded. The snowstorm was subsiding, but it had turned the countryside into a silent white wasteland, emphasising the blackness of the trees and bushes above which solitary birds soared, whilst the gorse and undergrowth crackled as the snow dripped and slipped to the ground. They reached the path stretching across the open downs up to the main gate of the castle, where pitch torches and braziers glowed fiercely along the battlements.
‘It looks like a donjon from Hell,’ Ranulf muttered, yet he was eager enough to reach the gateway and escape from the chilling stillness of the countryside.
They clattered across the drawbridge where Corbett reined in. Leaning over to Ranulf and Chanson, he gave strict instructions not to tell anybody about the confrontation in the cemetery. Chanson took their horses, while Ranulf went to the buttery claiming he was still famished and Corbett returned to his chamber. A servant was waiting outside. Corbett unlocked the door and the man busied himself lighting the capped candles. He used a pair of bellows to fire the brazier and quickly strengthened the weak fire in the hearth, placing fresh logs over a bank of charcoal strewn with herbs which gave the chamber the smell of summer.
‘My Lord.’ The man sweated as he used the bellows, urging the flames to spurt up and fire the wood. ‘You’ll be as comfortable soon as a pig in its sty.’
Corbett grinned at the analogy. He helped the servant until he was satisfied, then gave him a coin and, when he had gone, locked the door behind him. He kicked off his boots and was about to settle before the fire when he heard a faint singing. Going to the window, he opened the shutter and listened intently. He recognised plainsong drifting up from the chapel of St John’s Within the Gates and all exhaustion forgotten, quickly thrust his boots back on, left the chamber and ran down the stairs. He met Ranulf just outside the tower, and grabbing his henchman by the arm, they hurried into the icy gloom, slipping and slithering as they made their way to the castle chapel. Ranulf made to protest but knew it was futile. As he had remarked to Chanson, ‘The one thing Master Longface loves is the opportunity to sing.’
The chapel of St John was a long, whitewashed barn-like structure, though the walls had been covered by paintings and the raised floor of the sanctuary was tiled with beautiful stone. The altar, of Purbeck marble, seemed to glow from the light of the candles placed either side. Father Matthew, assisted by Father Andrew, was busy organising members of the garrison into a choir to rehearse the hymns of Advent.
‘Why, Sir Hugh.’ Father Matthew beckoned them forward.
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