The Abbey of Death Read online

  ALSO BY STEVEN A. MCKAY

  The Forest Lord Series

  Wolf’s Head

  The Wolf and the Raven

  Rise of the Wolf

  Blood of the Wolf

  Knight of the Cross

  Friar Tuck and the Christmas Devil

  The Prisoner

  ‘The Escape’

  ‘The Rescue’

  Coming in 2018

  The Druid

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Steven A. McKay

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN-13: 9781503935051

  Cover design by RBDA Studio

  CONTENTS

  Summer 1328, Selby Abbey

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  If you enjoyed…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Summer 1328, Selby Abbey

  The pleasant sound of a dozen male voices working in harmony rose to fill the great vaulted chamber, proclaiming the glory of God and His creation, and Will Scaflock felt his spirits lift as if carried up by the power of the music.

  He wasn’t much of a singer and self-consciously kept his own voice a little quieter than his Benedictine brothers, but he was getting better, and every so often he’d feel real pleasure upon realising he was actually hitting the same note as the rest of the choir.

  The cantor, John de Loup, had despaired of Will when he’d first come to join them at Selby Abbey a few months earlier, but the choirmaster would take any new recruit he could find. Although there were thirty-five monks in the abbey, only a third of them ever bothered coming to practice. God knew where the others were.

  Actually, the cantor knew very well where many of the missing monks were and so did Will. The former outlaw had been surprised to find so many of his new brothers being censured often by the abbot for a variety of transgressions against the Rule of Saint Benedict: sending alms meant for the church to women they favoured, stealing, public drunkenness, even fornication.

  Archbishop Melton of York had visited just a few years ago and demanded Abbot de Wystow bring the miscreants into line, but the truth was, the ageing cleric was too soft-hearted to provide the discipline demanded by his superior.

  Admittedly, things were not as lax as they’d been at the archbishop’s last visit – or so Brother Nicholas de Houghton, a young man who’d befriended Will, attested. Nicholas himself had been one of the worst offenders a couple of years ago, but he’d calmed down ever since his twenty-first birthday and become a productive, popular member of the brethren.

  Still, there were half a dozen or so monks who continued to ignore the abbot’s demands for stricter observance of the Rule. Will had nearly come to blows with a few of them in the months he’d been here but, somehow, had managed to restrain himself.

  He’d joined the Benedictines to leave that life behind, after all – to find peace in prayer and contemplation. He would never have believed it a decade ago if someone had told him he’d be a monk by the time he was forty-two, yet here he was. Singing, mostly out of tune, in the choir.

  The song died away, and silence filled the high-ceilinged chamber with its wooden arches as the cantor looked out at them from the lectern, a small smile on his round face.

  ‘Glory be to God,’ Brother de Loup muttered, laying down his hymnal and raising his arms theatrically. ‘That was rather good. Even Brother Scaflock managed to remain in tune for some of it. Off you go then.’ He gestured at the monks to be about their work, exhorting them to practise while they swept or baked or copied or whatever else they might be employed in that afternoon.

  ‘Not you, Brother Scaflock. I’d like a word if you don’t mind.’

  Will had already begun to walk out of the choir with the rest of the chattering monks – he had gardening to do and genuinely looked forward to the physical labour which had always been part of his life – but he turned now, eyebrows raised. Had his singing been so bad that he needed one-to-one tuition?

  ‘Don’t look so worried.’ The cantor smiled as he crossed the floor to lower his bulk into the sedilia, the stone seats that were carved into the wall. ‘Come, sit with me. I just wanted to know how you’re settling in.’

  Will took a seat next to de Loup gratefully, although the stone was uncomfortably cold. Even in late summer the abbey rarely felt warm inside, so although sunshine peered through the stained-glass windows, the choir remained quite chilly.

  The cantor, with his portly frame, jovial face and twinkling eyes, always reminded Will of his old friend Friar Tuck, and he knew the cold seat would soon warm. He would sit a while with de Loup, and gladly.

  ‘Aye, I’m doing well enough.’ The one-time wolf’s head and member of Robin Hood’s legendary gang nodded. ‘It’s not the most exciting life but I’m well fed, there’s enough ale and the work keeps me fit.’

  The cantor knew much of Scaflock’s history because the abbot had told him. He knew the well-built, green-eyed man had once been a mercenary before becoming the outlaw known as Will Scarlet when his family were massacred by a former employer. Although Will didn’t talk about it, and no one asked, it was common knowledge that his family’s murderers had suffered the same, brutal fate at Will’s own hands.

  The man was – or had been – a violent killer, but when Robin Hood’s gang won their pardons from King Edward II, Will had settled down to life as a peaceful farmer before, for reasons of his own, finding his way to Selby Abbey where he’d become a Benedictine monk.

  And he was a good monk, working hard and participating in prayers and hymns, even if he did become moody or angry at times.

  ‘I’m happy to see you finding some pleasure in our simple life.’ De Loup nodded, clasping Will by the shoulder in an almost fatherly way. ‘If you ever feel like you want to talk to someone, you know where I am. I’m sure you find it hard being away from your daughter and her baby.’

  Will’s face creased with a mix of emotions at the mention of Beth. She’d grown up now, and started a family of her own, and there seemed little need for him in their lives. Loneliness had driven him to the Benedictines, but thinking of his daughter, and grandson Robert, brought joy to his heart.

  Until he inevitably remembered all the loved ones he’d lost over the years. His wife, Elaine, and their sons Matthew and David. Not to mention the many friends he’d seen killed during his time as an outlaw.

  Maybe he would talk to Brother de Loup about the crushing loneliness he felt; one day, soon.

  For now he had weeds to clear and seeds to plant.

  Two weeks later Will was outside in the garden again, ripping up weeds and filling a wheelbarrow with them as birdsong filled the abbey grounds. He was helped by his young friend, Brother Nicholas, and they worked well together, although small talk was kept to a minimum. Still, Will felt a true bond of friendship with the lad, who was pious and devoted to God even if he’d been something of a rebel in his past.

  Tall and strong, despite the slight limp that was the legacy of a childhood accident, Brother Nicholas de Houghton had truly put his womanising days behind him, and Will saw a lot of himself in the younger man.

  They were sweating in the warm
air, enjoying their task beneath the sunshine, when the abbot appeared, wandering through the garden with a paternal smile on his long, thin face. The monks he passed nodded deferentially to him and redoubled their efforts, cheered by his approval of their labours. Abbot John de Wystow was a good man, Will thought, but he didn’t have the steel in him to be a truly great leader.

  The grounds were large and surrounded by a high stone wall encompassing the chapel, cloisters, stables, brewhouse, kitchen, workshops, dormitory, infirmary, and various minor buildings.

  ‘Oh-ho,’ Will muttered when he noticed the three men who’d just stumbled through the huge gatehouse and were heading along the path straight for the abbot, oblivious in their obvious drunkenness to his presence.

  We’ll see now whether he’s a strong leader or not.

  Nicholas paused from hauling up the roots of some brambles and wiped his brow with a grimy sleeve as he heard the inebriated monks coming towards them, then he spat on the freshly turned earth.

  ‘Brother Robert,’ Will heard the abbot say, the old man’s voice high-pitched but strong. ‘And your two friends, Brothers Thomas and John. What is the meaning of this? Haven’t you three been warned often enough?’ He strode right up to the trio of tipsy monks, who eyed one another like naughty schoolboys, and Will had to restrain himself as he felt an almost overwhelming urge to go across and teach the fools some respect.

  But he held himself in check, watching from lowered brows as Abbot de Wystow lectured the drunks. It wasn’t Will’s place to sort out discipline in the abbey – he was simply Brother Scaflock now, no longer Will Scarlet, lieutenant to Robin Hood. Yet he couldn’t help watching as the confrontation proceeded.

  ‘Well? Answer me!’ the abbot cried. ‘Look there. Your brothers are working hard tending the garden while you three have been out visiting Selby’s taverns from the look – and smell – of it.’ He screwed up his face and wafted a bony hand in front of his nose as if to dispel the alcoholic fumes issuing from the drunken monks’ mouths. ‘Never mind. You’re clearly in no state to understand me. We shall talk in the morning and you can be sure there will be repercussions for your disgusting behaviour.’

  He gestured and the three monks walked past hurriedly, heads bowed as if in remorse, although their faces told a different story. Their eyes were wide and one of them even held his nose as if he might explode into laughter at any moment, but they somehow managed to put a safe distance between themselves and Abbot de Wystow before muffled sniggers escaped their lips.

  Their leader was a very tall, middle-aged man called Robert de Flexburgh, and he strode along in front of his two younger companions, Thomas de Hirst and John de Whitgift, an arrogant, haughty look on his seamed face. He caught sight of Brother Nicholas staring as they came closer, and his brow furrowed.

  ‘Don’t you look at me like that, you little prick. You’re no better than any of us. You were out screwing that lass of yours like she was a whore for long enough, before you turned all pious.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind a go on her myself,’ de Whitgift, a small, handsome monk with fine white teeth, leered from behind his mentor.

  Will looked on with interest, wondering what his friend would do in the face of the drunks’ provocation, but to his credit, Nicholas remained silent, simply glaring murderously at his tormentors.

  As is ever the way with bullies though, de Flexburgh didn’t appreciate being ignored, and he walked across to the wheelbarrow Nicholas and Will had been using to gather their weeds for the past quarter of an hour.

  The big, red-faced monk grabbed the handle of the barrow and, with a furious, challenging glare at Brother Nicholas, tipped its contents out onto the earth.

  Will placed a hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder and gently pulled him back before the young monk could launch himself at the powerfully built troublemaker.

  Brother de Flexburgh noticed Will’s intervention and his eyes grew even harder. Clearly alcohol made the man an angry, violent drunk, rather than a happy one, as his two ale-soaked companions appeared to be. Brothers de Whitgift and de Hirst both stood back, watching the confrontation gleefully, sensing their friend was about to deal out a beating.

  Will shook his head in confusion. He knew people well enough – he’d spent many years dealing with all kinds after all, from murderers and rapists to mercenaries who killed for pleasure as much as for silver, to good friends who’d give up their own life to protect their companions. And yet it still baffled him that monks would behave like this. If they wanted to live a life of vice, why didn’t they leave the order?

  Because they have it easy here, an inner voice told him. They have comfortable lodgings, plentiful meat and drink, and an abbot that lets them act however they please, even protecting them from the law.

  ‘Ah, it’s the old wolf’s head,’ de Flexburgh growled, stepping close, and Will could understand why Abbot de Wystow had tried to wave the smell away. The monk reeked of strong drink, although his eyes were clear enough. ‘Sorry, wolf’s head. I spilled all your weeds onto the ground.’

  ‘Oops!’ one of his two friends mumbled from the back, and the three of them sniggered drunkenly.

  ‘Well, you’d better pick them up then, hadn’t you?’ Will replied in a soft voice, and it was young Brother Nicholas’s turn to step back and watch the proceedings with interest.

  ‘What?’ De Flexburgh seemed stunned that anyone would stand up to him and he leaned back, seeming to grow in his surprise, but Will had dealt with much bigger and much deadlier foes than this fool in his time.

  ‘I said you’d better pick up that pile of weeds that me and Brother Nicholas have just collected, and put them back in the wheelbarrow, you sweaty turd.’ Will smiled, but his relaxed stance was completely at odds with his tone, and his taller opponent seemed utterly bemused by the whole situation.

  For years Brother Robert de Flexburgh had behaved however he liked, pushing the monks of Selby Abbey around, and here was this newcomer, a notorious criminal, giving him orders? Before he could lash out, Will broke in again.

  ‘I said pick them up, Brother, before I grind your face into the ground amongst them.’

  De Hirst and De Whitgift hooted in sheer delight at the former outlaw’s threat, knowing now that a fight was inevitable. They glanced at one another, eyes sparkling, from amusement as much as from the drink, and waited to see what would happen.

  If their leader was winning, they’d join in with a few kicks of their own. Looking at Will Scaflock, though, neither of them were sure if de Flexburgh would come out on top as he usually did.

  Before the big, brutish monk could turn his rage and astonishment into movement, Will’s right hand exploded upwards and the hard muscle of his palm connected with de Flexburgh’s chin, knocking the man’s head back with a jarring click of teeth. Continuing his momentum, Will stretched his leg out and hooked it behind his opponent’s ankle, dragging it towards him so that de Flexburgh crashed to the ground with an outraged cry, blood spilling from his mouth where he’d bitten the tip of his tongue.

  Will’s smile was gone now and he glared at the onlookers, silently daring them to help their friend. Both de Hirst and de Whitgift were too frightened to move though, stunned by the speed and ferocity of the new monk’s attack. Neither man had ever seen a fight start or end so quickly.

  ‘Saints above,’ Brother Nicholas muttered from behind Will. ‘That was wonderful.’

  The fallen drunk, head well and truly mashed into the weeds he’d tipped onto the grass, groaned and turned a baleful eye on his attacker. ‘I’ll make your life a living hell for that,’ he promised, but Will waved away the words.

  ‘I’m still waiting on you to pick those weeds up.’

  ‘Damn your weeds,’ de Flexburgh cried, wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand and staring at it in outrage. ‘And damn you—’

  His two companions knew enough was enough, for now, and each grasped one of the big man’s arms, hauling him back before he co
uld engage Will in a proper fight. The old wolf’s head’s calm demeanour made the monks nervous and de Flexburgh, although he raged and flailed, was clearly not trying very hard to break free of his friends’ restraining grip.

  He was well beaten, but his eyes promised revenge on another day.

  Will was somewhat surprised by the worried looks on de Hirst and de Whitgift’s faces as they eyed their bloodied friend – clearly they liked de Flexburgh well enough. Maybe the man had some redeeming qualities after all.

  ‘Next time you piss me off, or annoy my friend Brother Nicholas here, I’ll give you more than a bloody mouth,’ Will growled, as the defeated trio moved off like some localised whirlwind that had lost most of its power. He looked round at Nicholas and a grin spread across his face which the younger man couldn’t help sharing, before shouting a final, sarcastic barb.

  ‘Go in peace, my brothers!’

  A week went by and none of the bullies paid much heed to either Will or Nicholas, and Scaflock began to wonder if the men had been more drunk than he’d thought. Had they forgotten all about the altercation in the garden? Or were they simply biding their time?

  Will didn’t particularly care. He’d spent years of his life looking over his shoulder, ready for death – it was a habit he’d never lose now. He would be ready for de Flexburgh and his lackeys if they came for him. He’d thought about following his old friend Friar Tuck’s example and secreting a cudgel beneath his black robe, but finally rejected the idea. He’d left the life of an armed fighter behind – if someone wanted to attack him he’d use only the tools God had given him to defend himself.

  ‘Did you hear all that shouting at the gates last night?’ Brother Nicholas whispered as they ate their midday meal in the chilly refectory while, according to St Benedict’s rule, one of the brothers was reading aloud from some old text. Meals were supposed to be eaten in silence, listening to the reader, but Abbot de Wystow was rather lax in enforcing that edict.