by Alys Clare
William considered. He kept them waiting, and perhaps he enjoyed making them suffer. Then he declared that he would not enforce the ultimate penalty. The old lords, he announced, would be spared punishment out of the respect they had earned through their long and loyal service to his father. Baudouin allowed himself a wry smile; no doubt, he reflected, the king had reasoned in the privacy of his own thoughts that these old lords would soon be dead anyway and no more threat to him, and it was good for a new king to be able to show leniency that was not likely to cost him anything.
The retribution meted out on others was, however, severe. Odo and the two leaders at Rochester were sent into exile, the king took possession of their estates and their lands, and everything they owned that was not on their persons was removed into the king’s keeping.
The rush to make peace with the king began as soon as this news began to spread. All over the country, the rebels changed in the blink of an eye from the king’s enemies to his staunchest supporters. It was already being whispered that those with the means to do so were trying to buy their way back into royal favour. The king, they said, was not proving unreasonable . . .
‘I must have my crown!’ Baudouin cried aloud. There was nobody to hear. Of all objects to appeal to a king who, not yet a year into his reign, had already had to deal with a rebellion and a possible invasion led by his own brother, the crown must surely top the list. I will tell him all that I know of it, Baudouin thought. I will tell him of its extraordinary powers. The king was reputed to be half-pagan; he had no time for monks and clerics and some went as far as to say that he worshipped the old ways. He was the very man to understand what possession of a power object such as the crown would mean.
Gilbert de Caudebec must swiftly be persuaded to release it, Baudouin vowed, because time is crucial. I must be one of the first to petition the king for forgiveness, for I cannot rest until I know Drakelow is mine once more.
Baudouin was caught in a trap, and circling round and round in it was all but driving him to distraction. Gilbert’s reasoning for not returning the crown to him straight away was that the place where it had been found – Drakelow – was not actually Baudouin’s property at present, but it could not be until Baudouin had won it back: by presenting the king with the crown.
Gilbert had at long last been made to see the irony of this – Baudouin had all but exploded with the effort of keeping his temper – but he was still dithering over whether he would be right to return the crown to the man who claimed so forcefully to be its rightful owner. Do it! Baudouin thought fiercely. Just do it!
There was another, more serious problem for Baudouin to deal with. When he related to Gilbert and the assembled company of important lords’ men the harrowing account of Romain’s brutal murder, he had expected to be believed. He was Baudouin de la Flèche, lord of Drakelow; he was one of their own kind and his word should be sufficient. Now Gilbert was dithering over that, too, asking Baudouin if he could possibly bring the witness before him so that he could hear for himself what this person had to say.
The problem was serious, yes. Not insurmountable, at a cost, but still serious. In addition, there was that wretched girl, saying now that she’d been with Sibert all along and he had committed no murder. Fortunately she appeared to have a reputation as a liar. She had already convinced everyone that she had been nowhere near Drakelow and her tale had been backed up by some village healer who he understood to be the girl’s aunt. Gilbert, sensibly and reasonably, had dismissed the child out of hand. Despite this, Baudouin had a nasty suspicion that she hadn’t given up. There had been something about her; young, skinny and powerless as she was, she had stared him in the eye – something that few dared to do – and he was wary of her, sufficiently so that he had taken the trouble to work out a course of action if she persisted. He smiled grimly. Let her try. He would rather enjoy it if he were forced to do what he had planned. If he was to be denied the spectacle of a hanging – a state of affairs that he persuaded himself was purely temporary – then what he had in mind for the girl would provide some much-needed entertainment . . .
Reminded, he brought his thoughts back to the most pressing issue. Sibert must be dispatched; there was no other way. Whatever it took, the crown must not return to the boy or his family. They too had a claim on Drakelow; an older and stronger one than Baudouin’s, although he would never have admitted that to a living soul. The king was in a strange, unpredictable mood, they said. Because his sympathies were rumoured to lie as much with the old religion as with the priests and the Church, it was just possible that an appeal by the original owners of Drakelow just might tickle his fancy and meet with success.
Then Drakelow, the new house and castle, the land, the outbuildings, would all be lost to him.
That was unimaginable.
It must not happen.
With Sibert dead, it was not going to happen.
Sibert will die, Baudouin told himself. The crown will be returned to me, and with it I shall buy back my manor.
The crown . . .
Apart from its crucial use as a bargaining tool, Baudouin found increasingly that he longed to possess it for its own sake. He had seen it only briefly, held it for an even shorter time when he drew it out of the youth’s leather bag and held it up. Nevertheless, it had already taken hold of him and sometimes he woke from uneasy dreams in which it encircled his brow so tightly that his head ached and, when he put up his hands to ease it off, it would not move. And, despite his efforts not to dwell on it, he could not help remembering that terrifying moment when it had seemed to strike him dumb . . .
The crown.
The crucial aim of making Romain believe that he alone knew about the wonderful treasure hidden at Drakelow had been achieved very well. Romain, indeed, deserved credit for perseverance, for he had encountered that mysterious man, Roger, and, refusing to give up, had finally heard from his own lips the strange tale he had to tell. Romain had been an innocent, Baudouin reflected, and did not seem to have suspected for an instant that his uncle had his own private ways and means of keeping abreast of virtually everything that happened at Drakelow. Much of what happened was at his personal instigation.
Baudouin now suspected – as he was almost sure Romain had not – that Roger deeply regretted having sold his ancient secret to a Norman newcomer. Well, that was too bad. If – when – Baudouin regained the crown, then nobody was going to wrest it from him and prevent him using it for his vital purpose. Especially not a turncoat who, in his attempts to ingratiate himself with his new Norman overlords, had even changed his name.
Baudouin let out the breath he had been holding and felt the tension seep out of him. It will be all right, he told himself. Then, calmer, he turned his horse and trotted back along the track towards Lakehall.
I set off with Hrype that night. They’d undoubtedly have stopped me if I’d waited to ask permission and I could think of no excuse to offer to my sister to release me again from her service so, given the great urgency of doing something to help Sibert, overall it seemed simpler just to go. I hoped to be back before anyone became too anxious about me.
I was not worried about my safety at all. I felt secure with Hrype. It’s always a sound plan, if you’re going into possible danger, to have a sorcerer with you. There was danger; I hadn’t forgotten how I’d heard someone in the undergrowth the previous day, when I’d been on my way back to Goda’s after my visit to Lord Gilbert. I told Hrype about this and he said nothing, merely nodding briefly.
I had imagined we were going to have to walk all the way back to that clearing where the fat woman had sat by her well. I was very surprised when, a short distance along the track, Hrype dodged in beneath the trees and returned leading two horses. Well, a horse and a pony, actually, but nevertheless I was delighted.
‘Are they really for us to ride?’ I demanded eagerly. I had put my hand out cautiously to the pony – a bay – and he was snuffling his lips against my skin in a friendly sort of way.
‘They are.’ Hrype risked a smile.
‘But they don’t belong to you.’ I was pretty sure of that.
‘No, I have borrowed them,’ Hrype replied shortly.
‘Borrowed them?’ I wondered who, among Hrype’s acquaintances, could possibly have offered such largesse.
‘Better that you don’t know any more.’ Hrype’s words had a distinct finality about them and I did not dare pursue the matter.
I hoped it was going to be all right. The penalty for horse theft – if we were caught, would anyone believe that the horses had really been lent to us and we were fully intending to return them? – was hanging.
I realized then, if I had not done so before, just how far Hrype was prepared to go to save his nephew’s life.
We rode our purloined mounts as hard as we dared. Fortunately they were fresh and frisky, fat on summer grass and, it seemed, more than ready for an outing. We stopped for a couple of brief rests to refresh ourselves and water the horses, and late in the evening of the following day we were on the road east of Diss and I was straining my eyes to find the place where the track up from Dunwich joined it.
I found it at last, but by now it was too late to go on and approach the fat woman we had met by the well. She would doubtless have returned to her tiny hamlet and turned in for the night and we would not increase our chances of success by scaring her in the middle of the night.
Early the next day we were on our way.
We must have missed the place where Romain attacked Sibert and subsequently met his death, for before I knew it we were entering the clearing with the well. There was no one about. We dismounted and tethered the horses, then began searching down the faint tracks leading out of the clearing.
She found us before either Hrype or I managed to locate her cottage. We never did find it and for all I knew she could have been some spirit of the woods, only taking mortal form when people had need of her. That’s the sort of fanciful thought you tend to have when you travel with a sorcerer.
She looked at me with a smile of recognition. ‘It’s the little runaway!’ she exclaimed, dumping her empty vessel and reaching out to the chain that held the bucket, deep down inside the well. ‘Did you and your young man escape all right?’
I looked at Hrype. He nodded. Taking this as a sign to tell her, I did. ‘We reached the safety of our home, yes, but Sibert – that’s his name and he’s not really my young man – has been arrested for murder.’
Her eyes rounded in horrified fascination. ‘Murder! Who did he murder, then?’
‘Nobody,’ I said emphatically. ‘But someone says he did. This someone says there’s a witness to the killing and since it happened not far up the track that leads to the coast road, I – we – wondered if you might have been that witness.’
She was already shaking her head and I knew we had wasted our time. ‘I’m sorry, my lass,’ she said kindly, ‘but I saw nothing. I certainly saw no murder, and I thank the good Lord above for it.’ She was still shaking her head, from time to time repeating ‘Murder!’ softly under her breath, as if she scarcely believed it.
Hrype moved a few paces closer to her and, with a polite bow, said, ‘I am Sibert’s uncle. His mother is desperate. Is there anything you can tell us that might help?’
She looked at him, her face clenched in sympathy, and after a pause she said, ‘I saw this girl here and the young man. Sibert?’
‘Yes,’ Hrype and I said together.
‘Sibert. Yes, the two of them passed through the clearing and they both took a drink, although the young man seemed very nervous, very keen to be on his way. Yes.’ She put her hand up to her mouth, frowning in concentration. ‘Then a little later another young man came along and I remember I remarked to him that sometimes I don’t see a soul from one week’s end to another and here we were with three visitors in one day.’
‘What did this man look like?’ I asked. I could barely breathe.
‘He was older than your Sibert, but not much. He was broad-set, with thick, dark bobbed hair, and he wore a fine tunic, although it looked as if he’d been wearing it for days and sleeping in it.’ Romain. It had to be. I looked at Hrype and guessed he’d had the same thought. ‘We had a bit of a chat, and he – oh!’
She looked aghast at me and then at Hrype. Clearly she had recalled something else.
‘Go on,’ Hrype said quietly.
‘I described you to him, you and the lad,’ she said, turning to me. ‘I’m very sorry, I’m sure, if I’ve done harm by it! Oh, dear me!’ She was close to tears.
‘You weren’t to know,’ I said. ‘If he was on this path then he had already picked up our trail and all you did was to confirm that he was right.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ She did not sound very reassured. ‘And now that poor lad stands accused of murder! Who did he kill?’ she asked again.
‘He did not kill anyone,’ I repeated very firmly.
‘No, no, of course not, you said so!’ Now she was blushing furiously, the fat red face scarlet with embarrassment. ‘Who do they say he’s killed?’
I did not think I could bring myself to say it. Hrype gave the answer.
‘He is accused of murdering the other young man, the one who was following him and this girl.’
‘No!’
‘He didn’t do it!’ I said yet again. The murder had clearly come as a great shock to her so I knew, as Hrype must do too, that she was not Baudouin de la Flèche’s witness. She might know who was, however. ‘Do others live around here?’ I asked.
‘Round here? Some, in the little hamlet down the track, although we are very few,’ she replied.
‘Nevertheless, could one of them have been the witness?’ Hrype asked.
The fat woman shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I haven’t heard anyone speak of it and I dare say I’d have heard tell, by now, of such a thing . . . ’ She frowned in concentration. ‘We do get passers-by too, although, like I said, not many and three in a day’s a rarity.’
We appeared to have come to a dead end. She had seen nobody but Sibert, me and then, a little later, Romain. Whoever it was who saw the murder must have waited around until Baudouin came along and then told him what he’d just seen.
Baudouin.
What was it Hrype had said when he came to our house that awful night? Baudouin was worried for Romain’s safety and he set out to look for him.
I said urgently to the fat woman, ‘You’re sure you saw nobody else that day?’
‘No, dear, no. Just the three of you, like I say.’
For a moment I’d thought I was on to something, but just as swiftly I realized that if Baudouin’s intention was to guard Romain because he was concerned for him, then he’d probably make quite sure he wasn’t seen, by either Romain or whoever it was that Baudouin feared might wish to harm him.
I remembered what else Hrype had reported that night. The witness said they saw Romain catch up with Sibert, who then doubled back and jumped Romain from behind, hitting him so hard on the back of the head that the bones of the skull shattered.
It made me feel queasy just thinking about it and my heart ached for poor dead Romain. I did not think I could retain my composure any longer and, not wanting to make a scene in front of the fat woman – who, to judge by her face, was quite upset already – I caught Hrype’s eye.
He dipped his head in a brief nod. ‘Thank you,’ he said to the fat woman. ‘We must go now and leave you to your water-carrying.’
She was still watching us, her expression sombre. ‘I hope your nephew gets off,’ she said to Hrype.
‘I hope so too,’ he replied gravely. ‘Farewell.’
‘God’s speed,’ she replied.
Then we loosened the horses’ reins and hurried away.
As soon as we were out of sight and sound of the clearing, he said, ‘Lassair, we must look closely at the place where the murder happened. It seems likely that it is the spot where Romain and Sibert fought, for you told me that you left Romain there
, wounded, and it is very possible that the killer struck while he was down. I am sorry I had to remind you,’ he added.
I was sorry he had, too. But I knew he was right and we had to look. ‘The place where they fought must be back up this track that leads to the road,’ I said, ‘since the fight was after we’d stopped at the well.’
We rode on. We had missed the place as we went south towards the well but now I was sure we were on the same track that Sibert and I had followed.
In time, we came to the spot. The events of that day were vivid in my memory and I felt cold at the thought of what had happened after Sibert and I had gone.
Hrype had tossed his horse’s reins to me and he was on hands and knees, covering every inch of the ground. I suppose that I should have helped him but for one thing I didn’t know exactly what he was searching for and, for another, I was still feeling unwell.
I looped the horses’ reins around the branch of a young birch tree and leaned against it, sliding my back down its smooth silvery trunk until my backside rested on the ground. I closed my eyes and immediately saw Romain as he was when Sibert and I left him. Oh, I cried silently, oh, if I hadn’t yelled out to Sibert to lift his knee and Romain hadn’t been so hurt, perhaps his assailant wouldn’t have succeeded in killing him. On his feet and fully alert, Romain would at least have had a fighting chance.
I buried my face in my hands, fingers against my closed eyes in a futile attempt to stem the tears.
I don’t know how long the fragment of memory stayed in my mind before I realized its significance. One moment the picture of Romain lying with his knees clutched to his chest was just that, a vividly remembered image. Then the next moment I understood what it was trying to tell me.
‘Hrype!’ I hissed, in a sort of whispered shout; although it was very unlikely that there was anyone about, somehow I felt it was essential that what I believed I had just discovered should only be shared with Hrype.
