The Edge of the Blade

by The Edge of the Blade (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  When they questioned the terrified verderer, Falkan’s lean, dark-skinned face was as impassive as Guthric’s. He had wept for his father, but would not weep again. Nor would he show much gentleness of character, his dreams of Christiane de Magnat-Vaulmier abandoned, his desire to take the Crusading Cross forgotten. Perhaps later, at some future time… But all that concerned him was to learn about the ambush, discover who’d been responsible, track them down and kill them and reclaim Tremellion’s treasure. In this, as in most things now, Falkan was at one with Guthric. It was time to listen to the reasoning of Justice, the blood-flecked demands of Vengeance.

  * * *

  They heard little of advantage from the verderer. He’d come late on the scene, peered with horror at the long trail of corpses, noted that some were in link-mail hauberks, others in leather jerkins. All those in mail had been brought down by arrows, my Lord Falkan, whilst the rest, the archers, it seemed to us they’d been trampled, or cut by swords. God will it, my lord, the survivor’ll still be alive when the carts bring him in. We made him as comfortable as we could… But the path around the moor…’ He twitched defensively, praying he’d not be held responsible if the man-at-arms died on the way.

  ‘How long will it take them to get here?’ Falkan demanded. ‘Before nightfall?’

  ‘Oh, well before nightfall, sire. My own mount cast a shoe when I was still some way from Tremellion, which slowed me down. I’d say the carts will be here an hour before dark.’

  Guthric made the man repeat his story. All of it. From the moment he’d come along the track and heard the whinny of wounded horses. He badgered the verderer for details, snarled at him to cudgel his memory, bullied the unfortunate keeper until the man began to contradict what he’d said.

  Falkan then beckoned the constable aside. ‘There’s nothing more to be learned from him; we’ve squeezed the creature dry. Easy enough to pretend he’d never set eyes on that grisly scene. The thing to do now is feed him, give him a jar of ale and decent recompense for his trouble. See to it his horse is shod. Then saddle two others, so we can meet the wagons on the road. I want to hear what that survivor has to tell us. If he dies before we get there – well, I have my own suspicions, but I’d rather hear him recount what really happened.’

  Guthric turned to see the orders carried out. Then he swung back, started to speak, contented himself with a guttural, ‘What Lord Geoffrey would have expected, I daresay.’ As a compliment, it lacked limbs, yet the constable’s approval struck the core of Baynard’s being.

  Two important truths had already emerged in the wake of the massacre. Baynard Falkan wanted Guthric to stay on at Tremellion. More than that, stay with Falkan himself. And more even than that, be his man, as the Saxon had been Sir Geoffrey’s.

  But that could only happen if the ugly, humourless bear respected his new master. It was one thing for the literate Falkan to admire the grizzled Constable of Tremellion; quite another for Guthric to serve the younger son of his lord.

  There were fifty, maybe a hundred nobles who’d snatch at the chance to employ this broad-shouldered monster. They’d pay him better than Sir Geoffrey ever had; lodge him in more comfortable quarters; see his bed was warmed by frisky women. As soon as they learned that Sir Geoffrey Falkan was dead, they’d make their overtures to the Saxon.

  So Baynard flinched with agreeable surprise when Guthric remarked that Sir Geoffrey would have done things much the same.

  It was not to say the constable would resist those other offers. But approval from Guthric – well, no man on earth would ever buy his approval. It would be given and, timely growled today, it helped stiffen young Falkan’s spine.

  * * *

  By the time the men were ready to leave the castle, the guards in the gatehouse were tolling the alarm. As the bell clanged, men trampled down the narrow spiral staircase, hurrying to announce the arrival of the train.

  A long, lumbering procession of farm carts and wagons, each of them bearing victims of the ambush.

  By rights the young Falkan should have sought out his father’s bier, knelt beside it and offered a prayer to Heaven. He should have allowed the drizzling rain to soak through his tunic, drip from the narrow blade of his nose, soften the mud that would cling to his knees, half-burying his boots. Obedient to custom, he should have stayed there until a priest could be found – some unhappy cleric hauled from Launceston.

  But Baynard did none of this, ignoring the men who bowed to him, striding past as they indicated the wagon in which Sir Geoffrey’s body lay.

  He asked instead, ‘There’s a man who survived the attack. One of our riders. I’ll thank you to say where he is.’

  Masking their surprise at his cold-blooded manner, carters and foresters led him to a tented, two-wheeled vehicle that stank of its everyday use, a dung cart.

  Not that its dying occupant cared about the smell.

  Nor that Baynard cared, clambering in to crouch beside the victim, then wave the foresters away. He looked up sharply as Guthric appeared, gestured to the constable to keep silent, then leaned close to the soldier.

  He was horribly wounded, the snapped-off shafts of at least three arrows protruding from his flesh. One behind the left ear, another in the thigh, a third that had somehow drilled its way between the links of his hauberk, an inch below his right shoulder-blade.

  He was hunched on his side, and a glance could tell he would die within the hour.

  So Baynard went to work on him, couching the man’s head, lifting it to hear what had happened in the forest.

  For the first time in his life he said, ‘I am the commander of Tremellion. Baynard Falkan. You will know me.’

  And the dying man whispered, ‘Am I near home?’

  ‘You are home, soldier, and merit in store, once we’ve rid you of these arrows.’ Time spent in cheering him, though Falkan would not have had it otherwise. You do not address a dying man as you’d speak to a rheumy cur.

  ‘We’ve chatted before, my Lord Falkan,’ it pleased the soldier to remind him. ‘We talked of that easy post I had… Guarding the north wall of the castle… You were making the rounds… And you came up to stand beside me…’

  ‘So I did,’ Falkan agreed, no longer remembering that brief conversation, whenever it might have been. He could feel the man slipping, no doubt willing to die in friendly arms, and hastened to ask him what had happened – who had commanded the ambushers? – what had the soldier heard beyond the screams and groans that are the dialogue of combat?

  With extreme tenacity, the thrice-wounded soldier struggled to show his loyalty to Tremellion, obedience to Falkan. It wasn t easy, for the broad tips of the arrows were buried deep… But he’d do what he could… Hurry things along… Fight against the dimming of his eyes…

  ‘We were riding through the forest, my lord. Suddenly this waspish buzz of shafts. Some of us injured. Many. Hard to tell. Then onward. And into another swarm. Horses dying. And men. I was one moment mounted, the next on the ground. I have to say, my lord, it was nice and cool, the moss…’

  It was then that Baynard snatched the man by the shoulder, urging him to get on with it, tell what he had to tell!

  The dying soldier reared from the skins the verderers had laid in the bed of the cart. Falkan braced him, knew his life was edging away, spoke urgently to him – ‘After the ambush, what?’

  ‘What, my lord? Why, the archers came out and the riders arrived and hacked them to shreds… And someone said, “Foolish old man. I’d bet half the treasure you supposed me to be with a whore.”’ And then the soldier shouted – ‘Oh, God, the arrows have found me! I’ve been such a bad man, so evil in my ways. Don’t let me burn, sweet Jesus, don’t let me be flayed!’

  A priest would then have blessed him.

  As for Baynard, he sank away, regretting the man would die with so little said.

  But Guthric saw things differently. Heaved himself over the tailboard of the cart. Wrenched the victim from his bed a
nd bellowed in his face. ‘There must have been more! What else?’

  The near-dead soldier reacted in terror, mouthing the words they needed to hear. ‘Two days easy… Deal with the Levantine… Wagonload of women, down there at – down there – at the linn…’ Then, with the calmness of finality, he announced, ‘Sara, you must always close the gate when and rolled his head, a pinkish froth bubbling from his lips.

  Gazing at the Saxon with a mixture of awe and horror, Falkan asked, ‘What did you hear of that?’

  ‘Heard everything, my lord. It’ll need piecing together. But from what this man’s told us, I’d say we’ve enough to get started.’ Baynard nodded, then found it important to voice his thoughts. ‘I’ve just watched you hurry a loyal man to his death. I’ve a deep respect for you, bloody Guthric, but I need to know – I need to be certain there are limits to what you would do. It may well be that my brother laid this ambush, and that I am now the justified Lord of Tremellion, at least in the eyes of the angels. I am therefore in a position to seek your support. I want it, and I’d demand it of you, but surely there are limits—’

  ‘You repeat yourself,’ Guthric growled. ‘I’m as sweet or sour as events direct me to be. Stay out there in the rain, and what would this man have told us? Nothing. Shake him a bit and he speaks. There’s always a sip of wine left in the flagon.’ Twisting on his knees in the dung cart, the Saxon leaned toward Baynard. ‘As for you, my lord, the sweet days are done with. Take my word for it, and acquire the taste for vinegar. Anything else is just fruit we nudge from the trees.’

  * * *

  Falkan spent an hour in the mud, kneeling in prayer beside Sir Geoffrey’s bier. He remembered scenes he’d long thought forgotten. The first time his father had set him up high on a horse. The only time Sir Geoffrey had whipped him – for offering a pension to his tutor, if the man agreed to mark him high in Greek. It was a silly offer, in retrospect, for the ten-year-old second son of Tremellion was scarcely in a position to keep such a promise. And how that strap had hurt…

  He remembered a walk by the Hexel River – he was fifteen then – and hearing voices in a grove of trees ahead of him – and softening his tread to see who was there – and espying Sir Geoffrey and Lady Elena, the two of them seated on a rush mat on the bank, his father fishing – the line snagged in the weeds – his mother brought to tears by laughter as he wrenched at the line, blaming the current, blaming the rod, blaming the cunning of the trout. What a genuine laugh she’d possessed, the Lady Elena. And how willingly she’d shared it with Sir Geoffrey. All in all, they’d been as well-matched a couple as marriage might ever have united…

  As death must eventually ease apart…

  There were other fond remembrances – recollected fruit from the trees. Then his private vision was scarred at the edges by the sound of restless horses, the coughing of men, and he pushed himself slowly to his feet.

  He told the carters to conduct his father’s body to the chapel. Alone, he climbed the zigzag path through the ravine, intent on rejoining his one remaining ally, the humourless, ursine Constable of Tremellion.

  Their decision to conjoin was not celebrated with the chinking of goblets, a trading of mutual compliments, nor the formal embrace that seals historic accord.

  Baynard had made it clear he wanted Guthric as his man.

  And the Saxon had told him the sweet days were done with, acquire a taste for vinegar – not exactly a willing response. But he’d also said, ‘Anything else is just fruit we nudge from the trees.’ Fruit a man might garner in his lifetime? Or orchards the two men might jostle through together?

  Still spitting blood, though less often now, Baynard Falkan entered the gatehouse, his spirits clawed to shreds by the loss of Sir Geoffrey. He followed the path that traversed the inner bailey, crossed the wooden bridge that spanned the lake. Then he paused for a moment, raising his eyes to the ramp that led to the keep. It seemed longer than before. Steeper than he remembered. A dizzying lift of cobblestones that winked in the rain-washed evening. You, my Lord Baynard? You dare set your imprint here as master?

  Watching the drizzle flash and run from the stones, Baynard Falkan trudged the slope of the ramp. He was in mourning for his father, blood on his mind for the killers, shards of memory piercing him as he thought of Lady Elena, felt the whispered lips of Christiane de Magnat-Vaulmier. He hated the suspected Ranulf, stumbled as he reached the head of the ramp and turned, indecisive, to enter his empty house.

  Then saw the same, leather-tented figure he’d met on his return from the island. Blocking the entrance. Daring to bar his way.

  ‘Is that you, bloody Guthric?’

  Silence for a while, and then, ‘It is. And you?’

  ‘What the hell do you mean – and you? I’m drenched and I’m drained and I’m in no damned mood—’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Christ’s bones, you great hulk, who do you suppose—?’

  ‘And you?’

  Deep within him, Baynard Falkan sensed he was changing now; not only in rank and station, but in his grasp of responsibility, his personal stature, his desire for sweetness spat aside with the blood. It did not prevent him leaning against the outer wall of the ramp, staying a moment to suck the damp night air. But the repeated question gave him the pause he needed, told him what he knew he had to hear.

  Knowing the Saxon would help him, he repeated the important, the essential formality of their greeting. ‘Is that you Constable Guthric?’

  ‘It is. And you?’

  ‘I am Baynard Falkan – I’m Baynard Falkan, commander for the while of this castle.’

  Then he waited; only going forward, only lengthening his stride, as Guthric acknowledged from the shadows, ‘My Lord Tremellion.’

  Chapter Six

  Knight and constable considered what they’d heard. Foolish old man. I’d bet half the treasure you supposed me to be with a whore. A glance between them, expressionless, the very lack of movement signifying agreement. They’d no need to discuss that derisive remark. Only Ranulf could have known of the treasure. And it was only Ranulf who had, throughout the years, stormed from the castle, made his way to the nearby village, purchased the solace of a whore. Never the same one twice – not twice with a devil like that – but nevertheless girls who were willing to suffer for the sake of his coins.

  Baynard and Guthric were convinced. It was Ranulf Falkan who’d set and sprung the ambush, paid the hirelings to carry it out, then sent the riders to murder the bowmen. Assassinate the assassins and he’d hoped to cover his tracks. And yet, as with so many other things in life, he’d failed to complete the carnage. Failed to resist the chance to insult the dead or dying Sir Geoffrey. Seized the opportunity to boast – Two days easy… Deal with the Levantine… Wagonload of women, down there at the linn.

  A reasonable guess that Ranulf meant two days easy ride from the forest south of Launceston. But in which direction? And what did he mean by deal with the Levantine? Trade with him? Exchanging Tremellion’s jewels and plate for coin? Or kill the man who was owner of the hideout, leaving the murderers free to settle in? And where in God’s name was it, this unidentified linn?

  Nodding at Guthric, Baynard said, ‘You are better acquainted with these parts, even than I. We know that a linn’s a waterfall, a cascade, something of the like. But where would we find one that’s so well known to Ranulf and his friends he didn’t need to name it?’

  Hunching forward, his scarred face plunged into candlelight, Guthric muttered, ‘I agree, my lord. I am better acquainted, and there are people I can ask. Give me a day—’

  ‘Sweet Christ, another day lost?’

  ‘These people – I shall need time to find them. They’re river poachers, the ones I have in mind. They’ll know every stream and pool in the region. And every linn.’

  ‘I want them brought here,’ Baynard said. ‘Find them for me, assure them they’ll be safe, offer them – I don’t care what. A lifetime’s fishing in the Hexel. I don’t wish
to know their names, nor where they live. Just find me a man who can point us to the linn that’s two days easy from where my father died.’

  The constable dipped his head. Left the room. Prowled from the keep, the courtyard, the castle. His plan was simple. He’d find the river poachers, relay his master’s offer, then judge for himself if the thief had aught to say. If the man was willing to come forward, well and good. If not – then Guthric would take the reluctant creature somewhere quiet. And cuff the timidity clear out of his soul.

  * * *

  In spite of the Saxon’s efforts, it was a day and a half before Baynard got his answer.

  All who climbed to Tremellion – a few of them bruised, as if from some bad fall – were admitted to the Great Hall, given a mug of ale, then questioned until they clung to the edge of the bench. True to his word, the young Falkan ignored their names, chose to forget they were robbers on his lands. It was hard for them to live, these snare-setters, but equally hard for the castellan of a fortress, obliged to feed his household, his garrison. Sir Geoffrey had been lenient with those convicted of poaching, preferring to cut off their thumbs than see them hanged. Of course, if they continued to steal…

  The first four men who volunteered information were forced to admit that, no, the cascades they knew of were far less, and on one occasion more, than two days easy ride from the forest of Launceston.