Munley Priory: A Gothic Story

2

TOBY Martin reined in his horse and surveyed the sleeping village—or rather, where the village would have been, had he actually been able to see it. He could just make out some rooftops, the church tower looming pale on his left, and a distant light in one of the farmhouses, far to the west. He didn't know what time it was, but a faint lightening in the eastern sky told him that dawn could not be far off.

The young man should have been home in bed long before now. He had left the Foxthorpe Posting House at four o'clock the previous morning, and delivered his letters to Stenwick, Pottham, and Redmere all before noon. He gave the schoolmaster at Gunnsted his parcel of books at one o'clock, and after eating a hearty dinner at the Knave's Head he had set out for Munley at two—his final stop before the long trek home. He ought to have made Foxthorpe a little after sundown, but on the old road that wound through Gunnsted Dale it had all gone wrong.

The first hint of trouble had come when he mounted his horse outside the tavern—a violent rumble from his midsection that suggested the meal might have been a little too hearty for his empty stomach. The constant jolting as he rode on had not helped matters, and halfway to Munley it became clear that he could go no further without his dinner forcibly ejecting itself, although Toby was not sure from which end the evacuation would take place. Seeking the shade of a massive oak tree on the side of the road, he had tied his horse to a low-hanging bough and rested against the bole, waiting for the rumblings to subside. He couldn't actually remember closing his eyes, but the shock of opening them and seeing the moon winking maliciously through the oak branches was a horror he would not soon forget.

There were times—this being one of them—when Toby genuinely believed that he might be cursed. The former stable boy had begged and wheedled for years to be elevated to the illustrious position of Post Rider, and now, on his first day on the job, he had wasted no time in making a complete and utter tit of himself. Mr Burroughs would probably demote him—if not sack him outright!—and it hardly seemed worth returning to Foxthorpe at all. For a brief moment he had considered a life on the run, rather than face the embarrassment of slinking back to the Posting House a day late, but supposed it would only end with him being hanged for a horse thief.

So here he was, perched on the outskirts of Munley in the middle of the night, with still another twenty miles between him and his bed in Foxthorpe. And the worst part—which had only now occurred to him—was that he would have to wait for daylight to give the Earl his letter. Leaving it on the doorstep of Munley Hall was out of the question. The message it contained was 'highly important,' Mr Burroughs had said, 'so see that you put it in the Earl's hand yourself!'

Everyone had heard of the mad monk who supposedly haunted the ruins north of the village. No one outside of Munley itself put much stock in the old tales, but reports of unexplained deaths in the village had been coming over the hills for some weeks now, and Toby did not particularly fancy spending the rest of the night here out of doors. He rode on, hoping to see a light in one of the upstairs windows of the White Rose, but upon reaching the village square he found no such signs of life. He dismounted, leading his horse to the hitching post in front of the tavern, and wondered how angry the innkeeper would be if he started banging on the door. His other option was to curl up on the doorstep like a vagrant, which even with Mad Edmund running loose almost seemed preferable to disturbing a man's sleep.

With the reins in one hand Toby felt about for the hitching post, but when the horse gave a sudden jerk of its head he lost his grip.

'What're ye doin', Wilbur? Come here.'

But the animal was in no mood to comply. Snorting, Wilbur backed away.

'Wilbur!' he hissed. 'Ye daft old nag, get over here!'

Even as he approached, the horse continued its retreat. He made a lunge for the reins, and to his surprise Wilbur reared on his hind legs and kicked out with his fore hooves, almost striking Toby in the face.

'Wilbur! What the devil's gotten into ye?' Indeed it seemed that some malign spirit had possessed the horse. Toby had never known him to behave so—the tired old gelding who should have been sent to the knacker's yard years ago had been snatched away in the dark and replaced with an unbroken stallion.

'It's all right old boy, ye'll not come to no harm. Just settle yeself down. It's me, yer friend Toby. Now stand still and let me lead ye.'

Wilbur however was having none of it, and as Toby started forward the horse, giving a final, almost apologetic whinny, turned and galloped away.

'No! Wilbur, come back!'

He ran after for a few half-hearted steps, but the hoof beats were already far up the road. It was hopeless, and Toby was ready to burst into tears when he noticed something on the edge of his vision that drove all thought of retrieving the horse from his mind.

It looked to be a figure, watching him from the side of the road. He could barely make it out in the darkness, but there was a definite shape of a head and shoulders.

'Hello?' he called out, loud as he dared. 'Is someone there?'

He rubbed at his eyes, but when he looked again the shape was gone.

'Now I'm bloody seein' things,' he muttered. He felt strangely light-headed, as if he had stood up too quickly after sitting for a prolonged period. His legs were weak, and he doubled over with his hands on his thighs for fear that he should collapse. 'Easy,' he said to himself. He took a few deep breaths, and the feeling began to pass. 'Just a pigment o' yer imagination. No one's there.'

But when he straightened he saw that this was not so.

They were on his left now, only a few yards away. It was a man—there was no mistaking it—wearing a long coat or cloak, with some kind of scarf or hood covering their head. The way they stood perfectly motionless was only slightly more unsettling than the fact that he had not heard their approach.

'Hello?'

His own voice sounded far away, like it had come from someone else's mouth, but the sound was quickly lost in a vortex as the dizziness overcame him. He was falling, but somehow did not strike the ground; instead he was lifted up, up, rushing toward the stars on a wave of terror, the twinkling lights all melding into one blinding luminescence.