Guthric told them to collect a sack of grain, a quarter-side of salted beef from the gate-guards, then helped them on their way with a hefty nudge.
‘Robbers to the last,’ he grunted, ‘though I believe they told you what they knew.’
With a humourless smile, Baynard said, ‘I’ve no reason to doubt you, old Guthric. Their first being encouraged in the verities by you.’
But then things turned for the better.
The fifth man to be questioned was unlike the others. A whippy young creature, with a mane of cinnamon hair, he’d come of his own accord to the Hall of Tremellion. He was acquainted with the Saxon, though had only this morning returned from what he vaguely described as ‘an errand for some friends’. Now, seated in his chair, he gazed boldly, almost insolently at Falkan.
‘You ask me about this linn of yours, m’lord? Well, I don’t know what the rest of ’em had to say, but two days easy from the woods down there? Then it’s the mill I was sent to once to pick up flour. Be worth your while to visit it. See the water that spills off the rocks. Sixty feet high, they say. Comes down in a regular torrent, it does, the linn that feeds the mill.’
‘And where might this be?’
The young man linked his fingers together, cracked his knuckles, helped himself to ale from the pewter jug. Then he grinned at Guthric, wiped it away and looked straight at Baynard Falkan. ‘Heard there was talk of freedom to fish in the Hexel, for the man what could name the linn.’
The constable moved toward him, then halted as Baynard extended the barrier of his arm. ‘You heard right,’ he acknowledged. ‘And I’ll give written licence to prove it. But before you tax my patience, master—’
‘Quillon,’ Guthric announced with grim satisfaction. ‘Known him for years. A cocksure fellow, our handsome Master Quillon. Quite a one for the women. And netting Tremellion’s fish.’ He glared at the lion-haired Quillon, the muscular young man grinning back.
‘You ain’t never seen me near your precious river, Constable Guthric. Wouldn’t know a lamprey from a loach, if I saw ’em together. So you ain’t got no call—’
Baynard’s fist slammed the table. ‘By God!’ he shouted. ‘Do you think I have time for this? I’ll know the name of the mill, Master Quillon, and hear it from you now! Where is it? What’s it called?’
The impudent villager had the sense to watch his step. One might seek to aggravate the Saxon, but not the present Lord of Tremellion.
‘It’s the Linn of Tresset, sire. Named after the village. Two days riding due west of the forest. ’Bout the same south-west from here.’
‘I shall need you to guide us.’
‘I never heard talk of—’
‘Well, you’ve heard it now,’ Guthric snarled. ‘You’ll lead us there, or I’ll march you back to that hovel you live in—’
‘Hovel? It’s neat and clean as—’
‘The one you share with your roundelay of women—’
‘Faithful to one, I am. How can you—’
‘Where I’m bound to find a basket of stolen fish… Just bound to … The moment I set foot inside the door…’ Then, enjoying the moment, it was Guthric’s turn to grin.
Quillon couched his hands below the table, imagining how it would be without his thumbs. Avoiding Guthric’s gaze he said, ‘Be it as you wish, m’lord. Ain’t averse to showing you where it is, the Linn of Tresset.’
A few hours later, daring to leave the fortress almost deserted, Falkan and Guthric led the remnants of the garrison in search of the murderers’ hideout, following the storm-worried mane of Quillon’s cinnamon hair.
* * *
The next day he’d recovered his spirits, revelling in his important, new-found role. He guided the horsemen through a string of scattered hamlets, winking at the girls who watched as the riders trampled by. From time to time he reined in, waited for Baynard and Guthric to draw level, then volunteered some comment, offered a quip.
Later, when the insolent young man had spurred ahead to check the route, Guthric mused, ‘You’d have no need to issue a licence, my lord… If by hazard that joskin went and got himself drowned in the mill race…’
Falkan felt a surge of warmth for the clumsy, loyal Saxon. ‘He may not be to your taste, old Guthric, and I’m not yet convinced he’s to mine. But before we watch him sink beneath the bubbles we should ask ourselves – how much does our dislike of Master Quillon stem from envy? Whatever his faults, he’s a damned singular fellow.’
Then he heard his companion give a snort of disgust and they rode on in silence, south by west, across the bleak Cornish moors.
* * *
Assuming Ranulf and his henchmen had gone directly to the mill, they’d have reached it some forty hours before their pursuers. Time enough in which to deal with the Levantine, enjoy the wagonload of women – and move on. It was this that most concerned Baynard Falkan; the fear that his brother would have traded Sir Geoffrey’s treasure, paid off his henchmen, then fled. If so, where on earth would Ranulf have gone? To one of his friends’ castles? To a fortified manor? North, south or west, all of which would bring him to the coast. Or had the murderous riders stayed together, circled back from their hideout, set their sights on what was, under the law, Ranulf Falkan’s domain? In other words, were they, even at this moment, ensconced in the fortress of Tremellion?
With an imperious gesture, Quillon flagged the company to a halt. They were among gorse and scrubland now, the rocky ground giving sustenance to stunted oak trees, the morning’s progress slowed by rifts and fissures in the earth. Away to the right, a series of natural shelves terraced an escarpment, and Quillon was pointing toward it, telling the group to listen.
‘You hear that? Beyond the cliff over there? The toss and tumble of water? It’s the head of the fall, seventy feet if it’s—’
‘Sixty, the last time,’ Guthric told him, ‘and we confirmed you as a liar even then.’
The young man shrugged, unabashed. ‘The thing of it is, it’s high. But knowing what you’re about, that you plan to snare your father’s murderers, m’lord, I’d offer it’s the best way to the mill. Not the easy way, I ain’t saying it is, for the easy way’s to go left, down the slope and out on to the track. Leads around to the mill itself, that track. But if anyone’s there they’d spot us half a mile off.’
But now it was Falkan’s turn to flag his hand. ‘You’ve served us well, Master Quillon. And I agree with you. The approach must be made from the linn.’ Then he signalled to his men-at-arms, the residue of the garrison, and the five men dismounted, four of them lifting sacks and satchels from their horses. The fifth man took charge of the animals, tethering them near the base of the terraced cliff.
Baynard swung down from his palfrey and the eight men grouped together below the escarpment. They were well away from the track that led to the mill; hidden from the path by the gorse and oaks, the jagged slabs of rock that reared from the ground. The sky was overcast, evening closing in. Rainclouds threatened to shorten the day.
It would suit the men to attack under cover of dusk, though not with the sky so dark they’d grope their way blindly, water below them, water hissing from above. If the thing was to be done with any likelihood of success, it would have to be started now.
‘You,’ Falkan said. ‘Master Quillon. You’ve guided us correctly, at least to the sound of a torrent. You’ve earned your licence, and shall now stay here with the horses. But before we leave you – is there anything more we should know about the mill? Anything to prevent us descending the falls?’
Quillon shrugged. ‘So long as your ropes’ll reach to the pool. Eighty feet down, from where it tumbles over.’
‘Grows by the hour,’ Guthric muttered. ‘Or anyway in the telling.’
‘We’ve rope enough,’ Falkan answered. ‘Three tested lengths of it. A hundred feet in each. And belts that hold a half-dozen daggers, balanced to be thrown. Oh, yes, and –’ nodding to one of the soldiers – ‘these.’ The man stood ready with a br
oad-mouthed sack. Baynard told him to open it, then invited Quillon to look.
Serpents squirmed and wriggled within a lining of damp green moss.
‘Them! Quillon exclaimed. ‘They’re just eels! Find ’em anywhere about. They’re only what I fish from the Hex—’ Then he clamped his mouth tight, turned aside, looked for a way of escape. He was aware of Guthric approaching. Aware that any court in the land would see him mutilated or hanged for what he’d said. So, Master Quillon. You fish eels from the Hexel River, the property of Tremellion. Steal them, in a word. Poach from the lord who protects you. Such an admission as yours, Master Quillon, and this court has no choice—
‘Listen,’ the young man hurried. ‘Hear me out. Maybe I could be of use to you, helping you get to the mill. I ain’t afeared of swimming, my lord, an’ I’m sturdy enough, see it for yourself.’
‘He’s a self-admitted liar and a thief,’ Guthric said. ‘I’d no more trust him than—’
‘Trust comes second,’ Baynard Falkan told him. ‘It’s this man’s knowledge of the mill we need tonight.’
‘And you’ll have it,’ Quillon assured him. ‘I’ve been there before. Told you I went to get flour. Think of me as you will, my Lord Falkan, I never had a bad word for Sir Geoffrey. He went easy with us. Gave the village work, and paid for it fair. An’ that joke you just heard me make about the eels—’
‘Give this man some knives,’ Falkan said. ‘He is sharing in the attack.’
* * *
Even with the long-haired conscript, Falkan’s force was slight. They’d leave the horses tethered but unwatched. If the approaching storm made the animals restless – well, perhaps the rumblings of thunder would drown their distress. Then again, if they were discovered, a single Tremellion guard would be quickly overwhelmed. The only thing to do was check their tethers, and pray they didn’t break away and stampede across the moors.
With the light closing fast, the eight men climbed the shelves of rock, heaved themselves over the rim of the escarpment. Guided by the sound of the falls, they struggled through the tangle of briars and weeds. By the time they reached the head of the linn they were ripped by the thorns, one of the soldiers whitened with the pain of a splintered ankle, another nursing a flap of skin on his eyelid.
These two would be left to make sure the ropes held firm; to lower the weapons; swing the sack of eels clear of the fall. The other six would descend to the pool, swim to the mill-bank, then seek a way in to the building.
If anyone lost his grip on the rope, he’d risk being swept downstream, away from the pool and into the mill race where, Quillon assured them, the victim would be churned and chopped by the massive, iron-rimmed wheel.
Surprised by the spout of water that gushed from the forest, Baynard and Guthric crouched at the head of the falls. They peered at the scene below them, sensing the sweep of darkness overhead.
* * *
The mill-house of Tresset bordered the far bank of the stream, some fifty yards west of the pool. Its roof tiles were speckled with lichen, its visible walls green with ascending damp. The yard to the east of the house was empty, outbuildings locked tight.
Falkan decided the stables were elsewhere, and waved to the poacher to join them.
Meanwhile, the knight and constable studied the rear wall of the building.
By the set of its tiny windows, the mill supported three separate levels. And it seemed to the watchers that all of them were dark.
Quillon sank beside them. The roar of water dinned in their ears, and Falkan had to yell at the poacher – ‘Where do they stable the horses?’
‘The other side! Beyond the mill wheel! Where the track comes in!’
‘So what are we seeing here?’
‘The back of it! That yard below us, it’s—’
Then Guthric clutched Baynard’s shoulder. ‘Over by the corner! That last window along! There’s a light moving behind it!’
The thunder of water was matched by the thunder of the storm. Water sprayed from the river, sluiced from the clouds, the men now shielding their eyes to see below, hauling each other close in an effort to be heard.
‘That light!’ Falkan shouted. ‘What is it, the room—’
‘A food store! It’s joined to a sort of gallery! There’s others beside it, all along that wall! What he’ll do, whoever’s in there—’
‘What?’
‘Whoever’s in there,’ Quillon gestured. ‘What he’ll do, he’ll cross to the middle of the gallery! Then he’ll go down some steps to the main room of the mill! To the main room of the mill!’ Ignoring his self-confessed crime, the muscular Quillon caught at Baynard’s sleeve. For an instant their rainswept faces came close, the poacher surprised as the wiry Falkan twisted from his grip. Well now, he ain’t so underfed as he looks…
‘And the way to get in?’ Falkan shouted. ‘What do you know of the way to get in from here?’
Guthric nudged his master, dropped his arm to point. ‘There’s a bar – you see it, my lord? – protruding from the wall. Halfway up. Below the ridge of the roof.’
‘I see it.’
‘And the opening beneath? Seems to me –’ his voice then dashed by the water and the wind – seems to me it’s where they heft the grain. Get in there and we’d climb on down to the gallery Quillon described – then the steps—’
‘We’ll do it,’ Falkan rapped. ‘Whoever’s in the place, they’re likely inattentive.’ Then he paused to let the rain spill from his face, remembering what the arrow-shot soldier had told him. A wagonload, of women, down there at the linn.
Oh, yes…
It would suit Ranulf nicely to murder his father, steal away with Tremellion’s wealth, and anticipate the pleasures brought by a wagonload of women…
He wiped at the spray, at the storm. Then he motioned Guthric and Quillon to make ready, calling to them again, though the words intended for himself. ‘We’ll do it! We’ll do it now!’
Chapter Seven
At Falkan’s signal, two of the ropes were sent snaking from the head of the fall. One end looped around outcrops of stone, the coils of rope shivered downward, snatched by the torrent, vanishing in the mist. The young knight seized one of the lines and began his descent. Guthric took hold of the other.
They spiralled and swung in the exploding clouds of spray. The force of the water slapped them aside, sucked them back into the fall. The men gasped for breath; skidded lower; felt their backs and shoulders slammed against the smooth sides of the linn.
Quillon followed, and one of the soldiers. Then the other two uninjured men-at-arms, leaving the final pair to lower the sack and the weapons. Each rope now bore the weight of three sodden men, though Falkan had forbidden the wearing of hauberks. Attempt to swim in a suit that contained upward of fifty thousand links of pincered iron, and a man would be already encased in his shroud…
Judging the distance as best he could, Baynard Falkan dropped into the pool. He kicked away from the rope, swam to the bank, then turned to see how Guthric and the others were faring. But rainclouds were already overhead, the ceaseless eruptions of spray drawn like a drab linen curtain around the fall.
* * *
Guthric released his grip on the rope, twisting clumsily as he fell. He hit the water, sank below the surface, felt a sudden jarring pain at the base of his neck. He’d struck the submerged branch of a tree, the impact stunning him, driving the air from his mouth. His body rolled as he swallowed water, his limbs made sluggish by the blow.
At the far side of the pool Falkan waited, peering into the mist.
But if the Lord of Tremellion was too far away to see, the poacher was not. He’d glimpsed the flinty old Saxon lower himself down the rope, and grinned as Guthric dropped sprawling into the pool. About as much use in water as a cat, Quillon decided. If God made cats that big.
Descending easily, he’d waited for Guthric to thrash his way to the surface. But he hadn’t. He’d gone under and stayed there, and Quillon no longer found it dro
ll.
He let go of the rope, arched his body, managed to turn his fall into the semblance of a dive. Then he was under the water, thrusting forward, clawing at weeds, at the tangle of branches, his long arms reaching – groping blindly – You damned old rock, where are you?
His fingers scrabbled at leather, caught hold of a woollen-clad arm. Even now the constable proved stubborn, and Quillon was forced to swim underneath him, urge the waterlogged body upward, his own chest hammering for air.
They surfaced near the edge of the spray-sewn curtain. Now Falkan could see them, Quillon gesturing urgently for help. The young knight went in from the bank, he and the poacher hauling the Saxon to the shallows of the reed-fringed pool. They dragged him ashore, rolled the man on his side, then watched with horror as water gushed from his mouth, ran from his nose. Remembering something he’d witnessed when Sir Geoffrey had sent him to serve aboard the fishing boats off Ireland, the warlord’s son doubled his hands into fists and pounded at the spread of Guthric’s back. There was no finesse to it; just a desperate attempt to make the victim fight for breath. A dozen blows and a further gout of water poured from the constable’s mouth. Quillon wiped a matting of weeds from Guthric’s face. There was still no movement – then suddenly a twitch, a heave of his shoulders, a raucous, spewing cough. ‘He ain’t no robber after all,’ Quillon observed. ‘Seein’ as he’s given back the river.’ Then he reached across and with blissful disrespect, awarded the Lord of Tremellion a congratulatory slap on the arm.
* * *
The others arrived without incident. The weapons and moistened sack were lowered, collected by the attackers, the swords and knives handed out. There were no shields or helmets or armour; no grenades of Greek Fire; nothing bulky, for Ranulf’s pursuers would rely upon the element of surprise. The speed of attack. And the eels.
The Edge of the Blade Page 6
