The cross was lying in the road and two men, dressed in rough clothes little better than rags, were attacking the man in the long sackcloth robe. One ruffian was using a piece of branch as a crude club and the other was pulling at the abjurer’s arm, trying to drag him off the road into the trees. The unarmed Gervaise was putting up a vigorous fight for his life, punching and kicking as he yelled at the top of his voice, but the outlaw with the branch was putting in repeated blows at de Bonneville’s shoulder and arm, slowly driving him off the road as his accomplice hauled him from the other side.
John spurred his great horse into a gallop and shot down the road, rapidly closing the gap between him and the struggling trio. The heavy thump of the warhorse’s hoofs and his own bellowing froze the tableau ahead. All three men stopped fighting and looked open-mouthed at the apparition bearing down on them.
With a yell of fear, the two ruffians let go of Gervaise, who fell to the ground. They ran for their lives into the trees and by the time that John’s stallion pounded up to the stricken abjurer they had vanished as if they had never existed.
John stared for a long moment into the tree-line where the men had disappeared, then slid from his horse and hoisted Gervaise to his feet. The man was bruised and bleeding down the right side of his face and had deep scratches on his neck and arm. ‘Are you badly hurt?’ asked John, immediately feeling the incongruity of concern for the health of a man whom he would gladly have hanged a couple of hours earlier.
De Bonneville staggered to his feet, gingerly touched his injuries with his good hand and examined the blood on his fingers. He winced as he moved his neck and right arm, but said he was free of any serious damage.
John walked a few yards and picked up the cross, which he gave back to Gervaise. ‘Then walk on, as you are bidden by your oath.’
The man groaned, but turned and began to limp again down the centre of the track. One blow of the cudgel had caught him on the thigh and his heels were now rubbed raw by the clogs.
John put a foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself on to Bran’s back. He walked slowly behind de Bonneville and, after a few hundred yards, said, ‘Chudleigh is the next village. You can stop there this night and recover. I’ll give you an extra day and a night travelling time to Plymouth, in the circumstances.’
They carried on for a few more minutes until the coroner spoke again. ‘I’ll see you safe to that village. After that, you’re on your own, for better or worse.’
Later, John never understood why he was so reluctant to tell Gervaise that when he had looked into the trees back there, he had seen Martyn de Bonneville waiting, a naked sword in his hand.
The Sanctuary Seeker Page 27
