Hugh.â The chaplain stared fearfully up at him. âThat horn, followed by the whistling shafts, isnât that true, Master Mayor?â
Claypole took a deep breath. Old memories were pressing deep upon him, images from a foul nightmare. He was truly fearful, yet he must hide it. âLord Scrope did not come?â he asked.
âApparently not,â Ranulf snapped.
âThen we must go â¦â
Master Claypole paused as Brother Gratian arrived, perched precariously on a palfrey that came trotting across the cobbles, the Dominicanâs white and black robe flapping about. He clumsily pushed his mount through the bystanders, reined in and glanced down at the corpse.
âGod have mercy,â he intoned. âGod have mercy on us all.â
âIf we deserve it,â Father Thomas added. âLook â¦â He briskly summoned forward some of his parishioners, inviting them by name, issuing instructions for Jackanapes to be taken to the corpse house on the far side of Godâs Acre. He then wiped his hands on his gown, muttering that he would join them, and hurried away.
Corbett decided not to wait, but turned his horseâs head and made his way across the market square, up the side streets and ice-covered runnels towards the trackway that led across frozen fields to the dark forest circling the deserted village. Master Claypole pushed his horse alongside but Corbett ignored him. The clerk could make little sense of what was happening; he would just listen, observe, recollect, sift and analyse. Silence was best. Corbett tried to recall Maeve resplendent in her fur-trimmed nightgown, her rich hair tumbling down framing that beautiful face, those eyes full of mischief. He took a deep breath and glanced back. Father Thomas had joined them, urging his hack alongside
Master Benedict. The rest, apart from Ranulf and Chanson, were retainers or town levies, a dark host of men, a black cloud moving across the snow-covered fields. Ahead of them a line of trees marked the edge of the forest. Steel-grey clouds pressed down as if they wished to cover the land criss-crossed here and there by hedgerows or long high mounds marking the end of one field and the beginning of another. A flock of birds mobbed an owl caught out in the daylight. Corbett glimpsed a fox, belly low, loping across a field.
The silence grew oppressive, despite the muttered conversations of the men. Father Thomas chanted the Dirige psalm for the dead. Chanson quietly teased Ranulf. The Principal Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax truly feared the desolate, forbidding countryside. Chanson was whispering stories about Drac, a hideous monster that lurked in the forest and came out seeking its prey especially on a sombre day like this. Corbett smiled grimly to himself. This was similar to marching in Scotland or along those Welsh valleys; the longer the oppressive silence lasted, the worse it became. He took a deep breath and, much to the surprise of everyone, wistfully sang a favourite marching song about a beautiful girl in a tower. The words were familiar, the tune simple to catch. Within a short while, other voices were raised in song, the melody echoing across the bleakness, bringing some warmth, dulling fears about the future and the memory of Jackanapes in his death throes. Once the singing ended, Corbett reined his horse in and turned to Claypole, who was staring curiously at him.
âThereâs nothing like a song, Master Claypole. Now, this village, you know the way?â
Claypole pointed to the trackway snaking between the trees.
âThere is only one path in, Sir Hugh.â
âAnd Mordern,â Corbett asked, âwhy is it deserted?â
Claypole pulled down the rim of his cloak, eager to impress this clerk.
âAbout ninety years ago it was totally destroyed in the civil war between the Kingâs grandfather and the barons. A massacre took place around the old church; the place became cursed.
Claypole took a deep breath. Old memories were pressing deep upon him, images from a foul nightmare. He was truly fearful, yet he must hide it. âLord Scrope did not come?â he asked.
âApparently not,â Ranulf snapped.
âThen we must go â¦â
Master Claypole paused as Brother Gratian arrived, perched precariously on a palfrey that came trotting across the cobbles, the Dominicanâs white and black robe flapping about. He clumsily pushed his mount through the bystanders, reined in and glanced down at the corpse.
âGod have mercy,â he intoned. âGod have mercy on us all.â
âIf we deserve it,â Father Thomas added. âLook â¦â He briskly summoned forward some of his parishioners, inviting them by name, issuing instructions for Jackanapes to be taken to the corpse house on the far side of Godâs Acre. He then wiped his hands on his gown, muttering that he would join them, and hurried away.
Corbett decided not to wait, but turned his horseâs head and made his way across the market square, up the side streets and ice-covered runnels towards the trackway that led across frozen fields to the dark forest circling the deserted village. Master Claypole pushed his horse alongside but Corbett ignored him. The clerk could make little sense of what was happening; he would just listen, observe, recollect, sift and analyse. Silence was best. Corbett tried to recall Maeve resplendent in her fur-trimmed nightgown, her rich hair tumbling down framing that beautiful face, those eyes full of mischief. He took a deep breath and glanced back. Father Thomas had joined them, urging his hack alongside
Master Benedict. The rest, apart from Ranulf and Chanson, were retainers or town levies, a dark host of men, a black cloud moving across the snow-covered fields. Ahead of them a line of trees marked the edge of the forest. Steel-grey clouds pressed down as if they wished to cover the land criss-crossed here and there by hedgerows or long high mounds marking the end of one field and the beginning of another. A flock of birds mobbed an owl caught out in the daylight. Corbett glimpsed a fox, belly low, loping across a field.
The silence grew oppressive, despite the muttered conversations of the men. Father Thomas chanted the Dirige psalm for the dead. Chanson quietly teased Ranulf. The Principal Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax truly feared the desolate, forbidding countryside. Chanson was whispering stories about Drac, a hideous monster that lurked in the forest and came out seeking its prey especially on a sombre day like this. Corbett smiled grimly to himself. This was similar to marching in Scotland or along those Welsh valleys; the longer the oppressive silence lasted, the worse it became. He took a deep breath and, much to the surprise of everyone, wistfully sang a favourite marching song about a beautiful girl in a tower. The words were familiar, the tune simple to catch. Within a short while, other voices were raised in song, the melody echoing across the bleakness, bringing some warmth, dulling fears about the future and the memory of Jackanapes in his death throes. Once the singing ended, Corbett reined his horse in and turned to Claypole, who was staring curiously at him.
âThereâs nothing like a song, Master Claypole. Now, this village, you know the way?â
Claypole pointed to the trackway snaking between the trees.
âThere is only one path in, Sir Hugh.â
âAnd Mordern,â Corbett asked, âwhy is it deserted?â
Claypole pulled down the rim of his cloak, eager to impress this clerk.
âAbout ninety years ago it was totally destroyed in the civil war between the Kingâs grandfather and the barons. A massacre took place around the old church; the place became cursed.
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