'Oh day of wrath!' the figure intoned as it walked slowly forwards. 'Oh day of mourning! See fulfilled the prophet's warning! Heaven and earth in ashes burning! See what fear man's bosom rendeth, when from heaven the Judge descendeth, on whose sentence all dependeth!'
Harnett backed into the corner, his hand flailing out. The figure tossed something at him: the arrowhead fell at Harnett's feet, followed by the candle and scrap of parchment.
Harnett went down on his knees, hands clenched. 'Please!' he begged.
The figure swept closer. Harnett couldn't make out his features: the light was poor, the door to the chamber closed whilst the torchlight flickered behind this awesome, horrid shape. A phantasm which stirred hidden terrors in Harnett's soul and brought back images from his past. Mounted horsemen, mailed and coiffed, torches in their hands, gathered beneath the outstretched brabches of a great oak tree from which figures dangled and danced.
'It's so long!' Harnett moaned.
'Nothing remains in the past, Sir Francis,' the figure replied.
Harnett's head came up. He recognised that voice!
'Oh no, not you, for pity's sake!'
'Make your peace with God.'
The axe came from beneath the man's cloak. Sir Francis crouched. The axe fell and, with one clean swipe, Harnett's head bounced onto the chamber floor.
[Brother] Peter held on to his staff with that little, aplogetic smile still on his face. He could see the raging anger in Sir Tristram's eye and wouldn't turn his back on the man, but he made no threatening gestures, simply stood peacefully, all the while gripping his staff, ready to defend himself should it become necessary.
Sir Tristram bit his thumb to Peter and turned away contemptuously, walking swiftly towards an alehouse.
Peter sighed in relief, but he knew that wasn't the end of the matter. There would probably be a complaint to the Abbot; it might even be a good idea to remain in the Abbey until the raggle-taggle of the King's men had gone. That way he would save putting temptation in Sir Tristram's path.
That wasn't strictly true, though, he admitted to himself. There had been almost a hope in his heart that the man might indeed attack him. It would have been pleasing to strike down one of the most notorious of border reivers. It was against his religion to strike the first blow, but that wouldn't have affected the sense of gratification which he would have felt from knocking Sir Tristram over. Like Joce, he craved the opportunity of a fight.
He was offering up a prayer for better self-control when he heard a scream, a high, keening sound. His head snapped around in time to see a woman appear at the end of the alley, arms thrown up as though she was pleading for help, her clothing bespattered with blood.
'Murder! Murder! Murder!'
Norbert [...] gained the door and grasped the latch, praying that the officious friars had not locked it after he had been careful to leave it open. He never found out. No sooner had his fingers touched the metal than there was a crushing pain in his head that all but blinded him.
The bearded man watched Norbert crumple into the snow. Dispassionately, he saw his victim's eyes close, and a few moments later heard his breathing stop. Norbert was dead. He dropped the stone and wiped his hand in the snow. It was too dark in the shadows of the lane to see whether the skull-shattering blow had stained his clothes, but he was fairly certain that it had not. He knew from experience that the first strike was relatively clean. He straightened his cloak, dried his wet hand on his jerkin, and made his way towards the High Street, thinking grimly about the unfinished business he still had to resolve with his dark-cloaked companion.
