Angel of Death

band had shrunk to less than ten men. It was difficult to track down the venison and even more dangerous to attempt assaults on lonely farmsteads. The peasants had become wary of him, taking steps to guard their families and stock at night. During spring and summer when the traffic of the road increased, the pickings were always easier but, even here, the ferocity of Fitzwarren's reputation had spread far and wide. Few people travelled alone; they were always in convoys and usually escorted by at least three or four soldiers from some castle or fortified manor house. Lately, however, Fitzwarren's luck had improved. When he attacked any traveller, convoy or house, he could only take what he needed: foodstuffs, weapons, clothes as well as enjoy the bodies of female captives. He had lived like an animal, hand to mouth, but then he had met the priest and a new venture had begun. Fitzwarren had begun to collect treasures, and simply moved them into London for the priest to sell. It was a highly profitable relationship which Fitzwarren encouraged, using all his greed and cunning. And if he raised enough money, what then? Perhaps buy a pardon? Re-enter society? Join the fold he had so often attacked?
    This morning, however, Fitzwarren was angry, furious enough to leave the forests and take five of his closest followers with him. They kept to the line of trees as long as they could but, if they wanted to approach Cathall Manor, near the village of Leighton, they would have to go out in the open. Hence, Fitzwarren's strict instructions that they be armed to the teeth, each man carrying an arbalest and a quiver of evil-looking crossbow bolts.
    As they came to the crossroads, Fitzwarren took his men back into the trees, sending forward the youngest to ensure all was safe. The young man crept forward like a hunting fox, his ears straining for any sound, his eyes momentarily blinded by the snowy whiteness. He looked out for any flash of colour, anything which would warn him not to proceed further. Like the rest, he was frightened of Fitzwarren. Their leader never tolerated failure; anyone who crossed him or failed to carry out a task could expect little mercy. The young man already felt nervous to be out of the forest. He spent most of his days there, protected by its deep darkness and the lack of paths; it was easy for pursuers to get lost, to fall into some marsh or bog and be sucked down, vanish for ever. Fitzwarren, however, knew the secret pathways and kept to them, so the young men realized the mission this morning must be highly important for their leader to take them out of the forest and so far out into the open.
    The outlaw edged forward; the crossroads were deserted; on either side, the rough track continued between the line of trees. He could see or detect nothing. He looked at the black, three-branched gibbet which stood there, stark against the light blue sky. Three bodies hung from it in chains, a special punishment for those found guilty not only of robbery but murder as well. The young man grinned, showing a yellow, blackening row of teeth. He had known all three men. They were once members of Fitzwarren's gang, but they had disobeyed orders so Fitzwarren had handed them over to the sheriff's bailiffs at Chelmsford and received the reward. The men had been taken out late in the previous summer and left to dangle there. The bodies had long since decomposed, the eyes plucked out by hungry crows; only the whitening bones stirred gently in their iron cages, rattling as if in protest at the presence of the man who had betrayed them. The young man, satisfied that all was safe, indicated with his hand and was soon joined by his leader and comrades.
    The gang walked in single file along the edge of the forest, following the track to the brow of the hill, where they stopped. Fitzwarren looked down at the deserted manor house, its huge encircling wall and barred gates. He gazed around. No sign, no movement: the place was deserted as usual. The only sign of any habitation was faint plumes of smoke on the horizon which rose from the fires and cooking-pots of the surrounding villages. He waited a while; from here he had a crow's-eye view of the entire manor house: the main building with outhouses running parallel to it, forming a courtyard. Usually such a place would be full of activity, grooms, ostlers, blacksmiths, but now it was empty, for the priest liked it that way. Satisfied that there was no danger, Fitzwarren led his