But this man had displayed great cunning and skill so far. And he was no invalid, for all that his wound must almost have killed him when it was inflicted. Not many would survive such a blow, Simon knew.
The woods here for the most part were oak and beech with the occasional great elm towering over all else. There was no sign of Osbert, and increasingly they found there was no sign of the barrow tracks either. Here, in the freshly fallen leaves, there was little to show where it could have gone. And that meant that a resolute man could easily have placed himself up in a tree nearby after doubling back, and if he had a bow …
There was no point worrying about such matters. No. Better to ride on, and hope that the man would find it hard to pick a target. They continued, Simon aware at all times of the sound of his own breathing, the rasping quality in the cool air. It made him feel like an old man. Never before had he experienced this kind of strange harshness in his lungs. It was almost as though they had turned to stone, and it made him light headed. ‘Where is he going?’ he muttered to himself.
Baldwin overheard his words, and although he was not certain Simon wanted to hear from him, he thought it could do no harm to respond. ‘Up ahead is the road from Jacobstowe to Bow. I suppose he may be heading for that.’
‘Why, though?’ Simon wondered. ‘The faster route, and the safer one, would have been the road to Bow from his father’s home.’
‘That would have taken him back to Nymet Traci, and I doubt he’d have wanted that,’ Baldwin pointed out.
‘And if he passed by there, he’d be going nearer to Bow,’ Roger grunted, ducking to avoid a heavy branch. ‘He wouldn’t want that either.’
Simon nodded, but he was unconvinced, and when they reached a clearing, he knew he had been right to question the man’s direction. ‘He’s collected something from here,’ he said. ‘The tracks are much easier to see now. They cut into the leaves and mud. The barrow is a lot heavier.’
‘The money,’ Baldwin guessed.
‘So I would think,’ Simon agreed. He was about to ride on when he caught a smell. ‘What is that?’
‘It’s dead, whatever it may be,’ Sir Richard said cheerily.
Simon saw the hillock in the leaves and pointed silently. It was Baldwin who let himself down from his horse and pushed the leaves apart. ‘A man, undressed, and somewhat the worse for his neighbours in the soil,’ he said.
The sight was repellent, and Simon was forced to turn away as his stomach rebelled. ‘He has a tonsure?’
‘Yes. This must be the errant monk – Brother Anselm,’ Baldwin said.
Simon nodded. Looking ahead, it was hard to see precisely where the tracks led, but he kicked his mount forward and they all moved on, Baldwin on foot now, his eyes scanning the ground about them. ‘Look! He turned west here.’
It was a strange place, this. As Simon’s horse reached the point where the track turned off, the sound of his horse’s hoofs grew markedly louder. It was not the trees, for they all looked much the same as before. And it was not some echo, but a louder, ringing sound. It made Simon think that the ground beneath was more substantial than the soft forest floor. There was another thing, too: the trees that grew here were sparser up ahead, as though there was a distinct line of soil that was harsher for plants. And then he found an old trunk of a tree that had pushed its way up through the soil. It had been constricted, the bole more bulbous above the ground than below, and all at once Simon saw why. As it reached up, the tree had dislodged some obstructions: dressed stone.
‘This is an ancient road,’ he breathed. Looking ahead, it was easier to see now. The road was so old that plants of all sorts had colonised it, but for all that the arrow-straight route was clear. It was a softer, yellower green than ordinary grass, and although the brambles had smothered it in places, there were yet more areas that were moderately clear.
They could move a little faster now. Although the branches and fallen trees hampered their movement, at least their path was better delineated, and they could see ahead for some way.
For Simon’s part, the idea that they should ride on at speed was taking hold. Although this man was not responsible for the capture of his daughter, nor for the threat of rape or death in the castle when Simon and Baldwin were trying to rescue her, yet he was aware of an overwhelming sense of hatred. Perhaps it was merely that Osbert was the last of the appalling group that had done so much to hurt the people of this area; perhaps it was the realisation that this man had killed and would do so again. It was not any desire to serve the Cardinal de Fargis, of that he was certain. No matter what the reason, he was determined to capture the man if possible. Osbert had participated in so many deaths, not only Anselm’s, and had tried to profit himself at the expense of all those he had seen murdered. It was enough to satisfy Simon.
And then he had another thought. This direction was leading back towards Jacobstowe.
‘What is he doing, going back to where he committed the crime?’ he wondered aloud.
‘It’s the only direction people won’t be looking for him,’ Roger said grimly. ‘And from there it’s not a long journey to Bude or some other coastal port, is it? He’s going to try to leave the country.’
Roman road near Jacobstowe
Hoppon was forced to hobble at speed to try to keep up with the man.
Since leaving the house, he had gone as fast as he could, his old dagger clattering at his side as he went. He had grabbed it at the last minute, hoping that he would not be forced to resort to it, but reluctant to go after Osbert without it.
If it was Osbert, of course. There was nothing he had seen so far that indicated that it was the man. It could as easily be some tinker or tranter who had happened across the old road and had decided to take the straight route. Except that now it was not an entirely straight route. A man trying that old path must negotiate the trees and roots that had churned the surface, as well as avoiding the great holes where men had dug up the dressed stones for their own use. And not many tranters would think of going by such a hidden route. Hidden routes meant hidden dangers. Men were happier to stay on the main roads.
He caught a glimpse, just a fleeting one, through the trees, and the sight made him set his jaw and hurry onward. Tab seemed to catch his mood, and stopped gambolling about his legs, instead moving with more purpose, as though he could see sheep to be rounded up and was keen not to fluster them.
The squeaking was loud now, and it was no surprise that Osbert couldn’t hear his approach. The noise was sharp and painful; then there was a loud crunch, and a curse.
‘The old git, he couldn’t even look after his barrow,’ Osbert said, and crouched low.
Hoppon could see that the wheel had dipped into a large hole, which had been concealed by the grass, and now, from the sound, part of the barrow was broken. It was enough to hold Osbert up. Hoppon moved forward cautiously, but even as he did so, Tab realised that his master felt that this was his enemy.
With a low snarl, the dog hurtled forward, determined to protect his master at all costs. He didn’t see Hoppon’s desperate signals. For his part, Hoppon saw only a monk in his robes, and urgently whistled and shouted to his dog. And then he realised that the monk had no tonsure.
Osbert heard the snarl and was up and facing the danger in an instant. It took him just a moment to see that there was only one dog, not, as he had feared, a whole pack of hounds on his trail. But one was enough. He drew his sword even as Tab launched himself at his leg. The dog’s teeth managed to grip his hosen, the canines ripping into his thigh, and then he brought the sword down, the point stabbing. It entered the dog’s back behind the shoulder blade and slipped down into his lungs, tearing through the ribs.
Tab gave a whimper and tried to pull away, but the terrible pain of the blade transfixed him. Try as he might, he couldn’t escape, and although he snapped up at the blade in a frenzy, it was to no avail. With the blood spraying from his nostrils as he desperately tried to get away, Tab began to shiver, and
at last slumped, while Osbert set his boot on the dog’s back and tugged his sword free.
‘You old cretin. Did you think you could stop me?’ he snarled as he approached Hoppon.
Near Jacobstowe
Simon and Baldwin were both feeling the excitement mounting now. Simon instinctively drew a little nearer to Baldwin as they rode, their pace increasing as they found areas of brighter light, where the trees were thinner. All he could hear was the snap and crackle of his cloak in the rushing air.
The path was dangerous, he could see. There were stones dug up every now and again. No doubt it was the locals taking them in order to build houses and sheds. Dressed stone was not so easy to come by that a Devon farmer would turn his nose up at it. But it did mean that there were the twin risks of both potholes and loose rocks above the ground, either of which could break a horse’s leg. But for now, Simon did not consider the risks. He was concentrating on the capture of this last member of the castle’s team.
‘Simon! Hold!’
Baldwin’s urgent cry made him turn, and then he saw the two figures at the side of the road. He reined in, his horse digging long ruts where his hooves skidded on the soft grass, and was aware of Sir Richard and Roger pulling up to avoid him, then he was off his horse and running to the man.
Hoppon was breathing stertorously, his hands fixed over his belly as though trying to hold his blood in his body and let none escape. From the stains on his shirt and the gore that soaked the grasses at his side, he had not long to live, Simon thought. The man’s face was already grey and pasty from the cold as death took his warmth from him.
‘It’s Osbert. I heard him on the path. Thought to stop him. Speak with him. Tab wouldn’t wait; went for him. I tried. Tried to get him, but he was too quick.’
Simon saw the little dog’s twisted, bloody body and felt a wave of revulsion. This pair were no threat to anyone. There was surely no need to kill them. As he watched, Roger walked to the dog, and to Simon’s surprise crouched at the dead animal’s side, stroking Tab’s soft ears and the rounded head, while tears ran down his cheeks. There was no sobbing, no overt anger, but Simon could feel the man’s emotion. It was a slow, building rage.
‘Where did he go?’ Simon said quietly.
‘To the town. Jacobstowe. He’s clad in monk’s robes. Anselm’s robes.’
‘You will be avenged, Hoppon,’ Simon swore. ‘We’ll send a man to look to you.’
‘No. I’m … dead. Catch him. All I ask. Jacobstowe.’
Simon nodded and stood, but then he was struck with a wonderful terror. Edith was in Jacobstowe. She was in danger!
He ran to the horse, leapt into the saddle, snatched up his reins, and was off.
Jacobstowe
Osbert was sweating as he shoved the cursed barrow up the road. It had been hard work to make it so far, and now the swyving wheel was buggered, it was hard to keep the damned thing in a straight line. It wanted to waver off to the right all the time. At the first opportunity he would have to get rid of it and find another, one that was working. Or he could get this one mended, perhaps. It wasn’t as though he needed to worry about money, after all.
This roadway was rutted and muddy, which didn’t help. It was as though the land itself was trying to hamper his escape. At least Hoppon had been so incompetent in the way that he’d tried to slow Osbert’s progress that his impact had been minuscule. Hopefully no one else knew that he might come this way. With luck, he could rent a cart at Jacobstowe, for it would be impossible to carry the box any distance. It was far too heavy, and the square sides made it a difficult object to transport on the shoulders. Perhaps, he wondered, he could sling it from a pole, if he could find some rope. Set a pole like a yoke about his neck? No, the damn thing was simply too heavy. He needed a cart of some sort.
Blessed relief! At last he could see the buildings of Jacobstowe. He would see if he could find some means of transport there, and hopefully soon be on his way in more comfort. Even if there was nothing to be had, surely there would be a smith or wheelwright who could mend the barrow.
He shoved with renewed vigour at the handles, and slowly made his way up into the vill itself, where he cast about him with eager wariness, trying to make sure that he was safe and that no one had made any apparent gestures, pointing at him, or hurrying away at the sight of him. There was nothing. Nothing at all. As he pushed his ungainly barrow down the road into the vill, he felt the anxiety sloughing away like dried mud from a waxed cloak, and he began to walk more upright, like a man who was at ease in the company of others. He even nodded to a man who made the sign of the cross at him.
This was easy. He ought to have got hold of such garb before, if this was how people looked at a monk. It was much easier than any other form of concealment. He would have to keep this by, just in case he might have a need of it in the future. It was good and thick, too. Be useful in the cold weather. Not that he would have to worry about the weather. It wasn’t as if he was going to be stuck in the misery of mud and soggy leaves again, like when he was living rough with Sir Robert.
Shame Sir Robert was dead. In his own way he had been a good man. Still, the bastard had never compensated him for the ruin done to his face. One shilling. Twelve lousy pennies. That was all his dedication had been worth.
As he entered the main street, he reflected that it was all for the good anyway. The bastard would have been a problem before long. As soon as people started saying that the money had definitely been there, Sir Robert would have started thinking. There’d never been anything wrong with his brain, after all. No, and the man would have soon begun to wonder whether even his oldest companion might be worth questioning in more detail. Osbert would have. He wouldn’t have waited so long, neither. He would have had a man like himself stretched over a table and beaten until he admitted where the money had been hidden, and the man would have been very fortunate if that was all that had happened to him.
The road opened out here in the vill. There was a broad area in the midst of the houses, which had been churned into mud by the passage of carts and horses. To the north end of the vill there was a marvellous sound, a ringing noise, like bells. A smith, he told himself, and threw himself forward.
But as he moved, he heard the noises he had been dreading for all the last miles. A roar, a bellowed shout, and the blast of a horn.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jacobstowe
It was Sir Richard who saw him first. ‘There! There, in the monk’s sacking! That’s the bastard!’
Simon had been staring at the ground, wondering whether they had been led astray by some malevolent spirit who had persuaded them to follow a will-o’-the-wisp trail rather than the murderer’s, and he glanced up with shock to hear the coroner’s bellow. ‘It’s him!’ he cried, seeing the man thrust at his barrow with more urgency, and grabbed his horn, giving the three blasts that warned others of felons being pursued. Then he was spurring his mount to greater efforts, leaning down, willing the beast to be first in this race. He wanted the man’s blood on his sword.
Faster and faster along the road they flew. Mud and dirt sprayed up on all sides, and Simon was liberally splashed when Baldwin’s mount went through a broad puddle, and then they were up the last little rise and entered the vill at the canter.
There was no sign of the man at first, but Simon could see the marks in the filth of the road, turning to the right, heading east of north. He shouted and pointed, pulling his horse round in a tight turn. The poor creature slipped, his hoofs throwing up huge clods of mud and foulness, and Simon thought he was about to lose his seat and tumble to the ground, but then the horse gave a convulsive push with both hind legs, and Simon felt the surge of power at his backside, then they were hurtling dangerously along a narrow little lane. There was a turning, and this time he wasn’t so lucky. He felt the horse start to slide, and had only just time to kick both feet from the stirrups as the world seemed to swerve around him. For a heart-stopping moment he appeared to be susp
ended in mid-air, with all the time in the world to notice Osbert further down the road staring back over his shoulder, to see Baldwin reaching out in a futile attempt to save him before Simon could hit the ground; and then the sudden acceleration of the mud and grasses as they rushed upwards to meet him.
The landing was not so much painful as simply numbing. It was as though his entire body was jarred, with each and every bone dislocating and resetting itself. All he could do for a moment was remain still, wondering when the pain would begin to affect him. It was not easy to tell. There was such a sensation of shock that such a thing could have happened, that he was sure there would be an overwhelming agony in all parts of his body at any moment.
‘Simon, are you all right, my friend?’
Gradually easing himself up, Simon took stock. ‘Yes,’ he said with some surprise. ‘I think I am.’
‘Then mount, man! We’ll lose him else!’
Simon shook his head. He felt as though he had been woolgathering for an hour or more, and when he looked about him, the others were all with him still, each of them looking more concerned about his welfare than they were at the thought that the felon could escape. ‘Get after him, then!’ he shouted.
His horse, God be praised, had survived the fall. There was a slight lameness in the front right leg, but nothing serious, he thought, gently handling it. Perhaps it was a strain. If so, a ride might help it to heal.
He climbed into his saddle again and followed after the others as they trotted along the road. But soon it became obvious that they had made an error. The track continued for some few yards and then stopped. There they found a barrow. But it was empty, and there was no sign of Osbert.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 37
