Song of a Dark Angel

silence broken by the creaking of his saddle and the whinny of his horse. He looked over his shoulder, but the rain-sodden moors were empty. He dismounted, hobbled his horse and began to explore the building. Every single room had been ransacked. Corbett had witnessed similar occurrences in the king's wars along the Scottish borders. He always appreciated, albeit wryly, the plundering skills of local peasants. Doors, hinges, anything which could move had been taken, even rags, pots and bedding. Hardly anything remained, apart from the occasional smashed earthenware bowl, to show this had once been an active community.
    Corbett visited the upper chambers and, despite their stark appearance now, realized that Master Joseph and Nettler had occupied the best chambers. The walls were white-washed and, by the marks on the floors, Corbett saw they'd enjoyed good bedding, furniture, even carpets. The windows, glazed with horn or glass, had simply been removed. Some of the tiles from the roof had also been taken, so watery patches were already beginning to form on the floor. Corbett went round, visiting every place. His unease grew, not only because of the wickedness which had been perpetrated here, but because of the empty stillness and the stomach-churning feeling that he was being watched.
    He returned to check on his horse and stood looking at the lowering sky.
    'Where is Alan of the Marsh?' he muttered, absent-mindedly patting his horse's muzzle. 'Think, Corbett!' he said to himself. 'Alan of the Marsh must have come here as a fugitive hiding from the Gurney of the time. He was looking for a place to hide.'
    Corbett stared round the yard. He glimpsed a small, low, brick building, which looked as if it had been standing for an eternity. Corbett went across. It was an old malt house smelling musty and tangy, littered with pieces of wood and shards of pottery. Corbett tapped his boots and shifted the dirt with his foot; the floor was not beaten earth but stone. He began to kick away the piles of rotting straw and sighed as he found the trapdoor. He took the pommel of his dagger, knocked back the bolt and lifted the trapdoor by its rusty, iron ring. He paused to fashion a crude torch, lit it and carefully went down the rotten wooden steps. He held the torch up, away from him, the flames dancing in the light breeze. He was standing in nothing more than a pit, a small cellar. The floor was earthen and the torchlight revealed only the occasional spider's web. He heard the screech of rats as they scurried away.
    'No secret passageways,' he muttered. 'Nothing but a dirty cell.'
    Then he saw that on one wall someone had scrawled a crude A and an M and a drawing of what seemed to be a skull – two eyes and a nose connected by a triangle. Corbett studied the drawing carefully. He had no doubt that he had found the hiding-place of Alan of the Marsh and that it was he who had scratched the drawing on the wall. In which case the letters and the triangle must convey some secret message. The torch was burning low, so Corbett dropped it and went back up the steps. He was so immersed in his own thoughts that only the sudden awareness of a woman's perfume made him look up. He saw the heavy billet of wood coming down and screamed even as he collapsed unconscious on the steps.
    When he came to, he was wet and cold and his head beat like a tambour. He could not understand why people were screaming at him and why his feet and legs were so cold and wet. He dragged himself forward. If only the people would keep quiet. He sat up, trying to calm his nausea. He looked down in stupefaction at the waves swirling around, looked up and saw white gulls circling like angels above him. Something was very wrong. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He had been in that cellar, now he was on a cold, deserted beach. The cliffs were in front of him. From where he sat, he could see the gallows where the baker's wife had been hanged.
    He realized he had been knocked on the head, but what was he doing on the beach? And why now? A wave lapped against his waist. Corbett stared out across the swelling sea and realized with horror what was happening. The tide was coming in, not in creeping waves but in one of those surge tides so well known and so treacherous along this coast. The waves were angry, high and swollen, racing in with a fury Corbett had never experienced before. He staggered to his feet and began to stumble across the beach towards the path leading to