‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ Ranulf crouched down and wiped the blood off his dagger on the jerkin of one of the attackers. ‘Their wounds are grievous, it’s freezing cold and, if we took them back to the abbey, what’s the use of tending them? They attacked the King’s men, that’s treason! They died quickly.’
He ordered Chanson to collect the weapons but, when he inspected these, he kept only a dagger, throwing the rest into the darkness.
‘Let Master Talbot bury them,’ he murmured. ‘Now, let’s see what these men have?’
Ranulf opened their wallets and emptied the contents into his hand. He put the coins in his purse but gave a cry of surprise and held up what he had found against the poor light.
‘What is it?’ Chanson demanded.
‘It’s a seal,’ Ranulf declared, peering at it. ‘The seal of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. Now, why should an outlaw, a wolf’s-head, have a seal like this? It’s not valuable. So, it’s either a keepsake or. .’
‘Or what?’ Chanson demanded.
‘Something like a licence or a warrant. You show it to someone, they recognise it and allow you to pass. Or it could be a sign?’
‘Are you saying the outlaws do business with the abbey?’
‘Possibly,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Perhaps for a payment they left the brothers alone? Allowed them to come and go unhindered.’
Ranulf got to his feet. He stared down at the stiffening corpses. Deep in the trees an owl hooted. Chanson tried not to shiver: the owl was a harbinger of death.
‘It’s time we returned,’ he said.
They remounted leaving their bloody handiwork behind them. Ranulf felt exhausted after the attack. He had no compunction about the men he had slain. They would have taken his life as quickly, and without thought, like someone snuffing a candle. Moreover, such outlaws did not kill swiftly: they often tortured their victims. Ranulf pulled his cloak tighter around him as the snowflakes began to fall. He reflected on what he had seen at the Lantern-in-the-Woods: Talbot’s daughter Blanche, her gold cross on its silver chain, the costly-looking bracelet, the rings. Who in these parts could afford such expensive items? Blanche certainly smelt sweetly. Ranulf recalled the story about a scented woman, disguised in the robe and cowl of a monk, being glimpsed in the abbey grounds at night.
‘Come on, Chanson!’ he urged.
Ranulf dug in his spurs, urging his horse into a gallop. Chanson was only too eager to follow. Darkness had fallen and the snow was already beginning to lie.
‘I wonder if it will continue all night?’ Chanson shouted.
‘I wonder what old Master Long Face is doing?’ Ranulf retorted.
At last the abbey came into sight. Dark massed buildings, with sconce torches flickering on either side of the entrance. A lantern gleamed in the window of the small chamber above the gatehouse. Ranulf reined in. A small postern door opened and a brother hurried out carrying a lantern.
‘Who are you?’ he called.
‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson.’
‘Very well! Very well!’
The monk disappeared inside. The bar was removed and the door swung open. Ranulf was about to dig his spurs in when the first fire arrow shot out of the darkness and fell, leaving a trail of fiery light, into the abbey grounds.
Corbett sat on a stool before the brazier warming his fingers. Archdeacon Adrian had left his room abruptly. Corbett, once again, had ordered him not to leave the abbey until his investigations were completed. Corbett heard the cries from the courtyard below, and hastily put on boots and cloak and hurried down as a second fire arrow smacked into the cobbles, its flame spluttering out in the icy slush.
‘What is it?’ Corbett demanded of a lay brother who came hurtling round the corner.
‘Oh, thanks be to God, Sir Hugh!’ He peered through the darkness. ‘It is you?’
‘Is the abbey under attack?’ Corbett demanded.
‘We don’t know.’
Corbett stared up at the sky. Two more fire arrows were falling in a blazing arc.
‘Tell Prior Cuthbert to take comfort,’ Corbett declared. ‘They can do little harm. By the time they fall they are spent.’
Corbett watched another score through the night sky: the mysterious archer must be just beyond the walls, moving quickly to give the impression that more than one bowman was loosing these fiery shafts. The lay brother scurried off. There was little Corbett could do and it was now freezing cold, so he went back into the guesthouse. He had hardly reached his chamber when he heard voices downstairs. Ranulf and Chanson came clattering up, spurs jingling noisily.
‘It’s cold,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘I didn’t know how cold it was until after the attack.’
He and Chanson ripped off their gauntlets and held their fingers out to the flames.
‘Don’t warm them too long,’ Corbett warned. ‘You’ll have chilblains. What’s this about an attack?’
Corbett poured goblets of wine. As they drank, Ranulf quickly told him what had happened at the Lantern-in-the-Woods.
‘You did well,’ Corbett declared. ‘The outlaws deserved their deaths. Let me see the seal!’
Ranulf handed it over. Corbett scrutinised it carefully in the light of a candle.
‘And what happened here, Master?’
Corbett told him what he had seen, his meetings with Brother Dunstan and the Archdeacon. Ranulf whistled under his breath.
‘Nothing is what it appears to be, eh, Master?’
‘It never is,’ Corbett replied, still examining the seal.
‘What is so interesting about it?’
‘As you said,’ Corbett tossed the seal back to him, ‘why should an outlaw be carrying that? It was not taken from a letter or a charter. The seal is not broken. It was specially made and given to someone to use as a sign. You have your suspicions?’
Ranulf quickly told him about Blanche the tavern wench, the costly necklace, bracelet and rings. Corbett heard him out. He sat half listening to the bells tolling for vespers.
‘Do you ever read the divine office, Ranulf? The verse about Satan like a raging lion, hunting, seeking whom he may devour. Our assassin’s like that. He’s observed the foibles and weaknesses of others. I half suspect that Brother Dunstan could be his next victim.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s immoral,’ Corbett declared. ‘Chanson, go and fetch him. Tell him to come alone. I wish to have words.’
‘Do you really think he could be the next victim?’ Ranulf asked as the groom clattered down the stairs.
‘Ranulf, I believe the assassin intends to kill every member of that Concilium. I don’t know why, but I suspect that one of the roots of these present troubles is that damnable guesthouse and Bloody Meadow: the Concilium hid their feelings well but, I suspect, Prior Cuthbert and the rest championed that cause as fiercely as any lawyer before King’s Bench.’
‘You talked of one root?’
‘Ah!’ Corbett got up and stretched. ‘I’m getting hungry.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Not just for food but the truth. There is another deeper root, I don’t yet know what. Abbot Stephen may be the key.’
Chanson returned, with Brother Dunstan following dolefully behind.
‘Close the door,’ Corbett ordered. He gestured to a stool. ‘Sit down.’
‘Why do you wish to question me?’ Brother Dunstan’s hands were trembling so much he hid them up his sleeves.