Free Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders by Paul Doherty Page B

Maeve sitting in the chair beside him, all peace and quiet. He tried to hide his discomfort by recalling the verses of a carol, but he could only reach the second line so he gave up, concentrating on the journey, watching his horse’s head bob, half listening to the sounds around him.
    They turned off the thoroughfare and took the road leading down to the cavernous gateway of St Augustine’s Abbey. Desroches, to lighten the mood, began a pithy and humorous description of the ambitions of the present mitred abbot, Thomas de Fyndon, but the misty cold eventually silenced him, his witty remarks fading away. As he fell quiet, he kept reining in, pulling at the leads of his sumpter pony. Now and again he’d turn in the saddle and stare back. He seemed uneasy. Ranulf needed no such encouragement. He was highly nervous of the countryside swathed in white, with its gaunt trees, their black branches stretching out like tendrils over the strange noises echoing from the snow-caked gorse and brambles.
    ‘What is it, man?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Desroches spluttered. ‘Are we being followed? I just . . .’
    Corbett reined in, turning his horse as the bells of the abbey began to mark the hours for the dawn Mass and the office of Prime. He glanced to the right and left: nothing but frozen trees, snow-draped bushes, the mist drifting and shifting like vapour; a perfect place, he reflected, for an ambush. Corbett realised he’d been in a similar place before: those ice-bound Welsh valleys, waiting for the enemy to creep closer, to spring up and deal out sudden death. Still the abbey bells tolled. Corbett recalled the words of a sonnet: See how the wicked are bending their bow and fitting arrows to their string . Desroches was correct: something was wrong. A crow burst from a branch directly to his right, followed by the whirr of a crossbow bolt; it streaked through the mist and slammed into a tree behind them. Corbett drew his sword and struggled to quieten his startled horse. Chanson was cursing. Ranulf had already dismounted. Desroches was muttering under his breath. Corbett waited for a second bolt, but then started in surprise:
    ‘Listen now!’ The strong voice echoed from the mist directly to his right. ‘Listen now, king’s man, to the oracle of Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Meddle not in what is not yours.’
    ‘God’s teeth,’ Corbett shouted, ‘show yourself!’
    ‘I have and I will, king’s man.’
    Ranulf made to leave the trackway, sword drawn, ready to flounder through the snow towards the sound of that voice.
    ‘Stay!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Stay, for the love of God.’
    Corbett’s horse moved restlessly as the clerk, sword drawn, peered through the misty whiteness. He knew it was futile. A rook cawed mockingly, then all was still.
    ‘Whoever he was,’ Corbett declared, ‘he’s gone. If he meant further mischief, we’d have known.’
    They continued their journey. Corbett was relieved to glimpse the soaring walls of the abbey. Its great gates swung open at their approach, and as they clattered into the great yard, lay brothers hastened across to take their horses. Corbett slid from his mount and eased the tension in his back and legs. He told Ranulf to take Desroches and Chanson to the guesthouse.
    ‘Where are you going, master?’
    ‘Why, Ranulf,’ Corbett pulled off his thick leather gauntlets and beat them against his thigh, ‘I am going to kiss my Lord Abbot’s ring, present my credentials, flatter him, praise him, his abbey and his guesthouse, and thank him profusely.’ He walked off towards the arched porchway leading to the cloister and the main abbey buildings.
    Ranulf helped Chanson stable the horses and then took Desroches into the guesthouse. Once they’d settled into their chambers, Ranulf brought up the physician’s panniers and coffers and Desroches tended to the ulcer on Chanson’s leg. He cleaned the wound with wine and a herbal poultice,