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Hélie heaved and twisted futilely, unable to find purchase for kick or blow. His captors lugged him on, stumbling under his weight. The stallion's challenge blared through the muffling thicknesses of cloth, and his iron-shod hooves crashed thunderously on reeling wood. A man chuckled breathlessly. Urgent terror vividly lighted Hélie's one advantage in his mind. He sagged limply between them. The man at his head tripped and swore. Hélie drew his knees up to his chest and then straightened like a loosed bow. The grip on his ankles broke away, his feet thudded against a solid body and sent it flying, and he went tumbling backwards with the man who held his shoulders. They slammed together against something that gave way, and a terrifying squeal in his ears sent him rolling in cringing dread from the huge hooves that would shatter him to a mess of ragged flesh and broken bones. He brought up with a thump against timber, and clawed at the smothering cloth.
The stallion's scream blasted his ears, and through it pierced a thinner cry of agony and terror that broke short. Hooves hammered on something that crunched soddenly. Hélie writhed over and up to his knees, freeing an arm at last and flinging back the cloth from his face. Darkness swooped and surged, a monstrous shadow heaving over him as he scrambled up, his distended nostrils full of the reek of sweating horse-hide and the sweeter taint of blood. Another maddened shriek, and he caught the glint of eyes and teeth as the wicked head arched over him and lunged. The teeth snapped on the cloth he swung up, jerking him away from the partition. He flung the heavy stuff up and out as it dragged free, over the brute's head as it reared to pound him. Then his dagger was in his hand, and he drove all its length into the huge barrel looming over him, deep behind the lifted foreleg. The furious bugle-cry faltered and cracked. Hélie flattened himself against the wood as the stallion crashed forward, the rank mane brushing his face. The beast heaved and gasped and then stretched out, so close that the neck lay across his feet.
Hélie was trembling in every muscle, so that he leaned limply against the wooden partition, sucking deep breaths into his straining lungs. The other horses were wild with fear, stamping and squealing as they scented blood, drowning any sound the second attacker might have made in escaping. Hélie straightened himself and wiped chill sweat from his brow, gathering his wits. It was too late to pursue him. The destrier was dead, its vast bulk sprawled to fill the stall, but as he gingerly stepped over its outstretched neck he trod on a hand, upturned and empty. The brute's head lay across a pair of unmoving legs that blocked the open doorway. The bolt had been drawn beforehand, he noted grimly as he stepped across them and took one regretful look along the empty passage between the stalls.
He shrugged, and went back to recover his dagger, wipe it across the dead man's tunic and return it to its sheath. The tunic had a familiar look, even in the gloom; gaudy and grubby cramoisy with frayed embroidery on the hem. He stooped to grip the dead man's ankles and heaved backwards with all his weight. Then through the wild uproar of the maddened horses he heard yells from outside, the door crashed wide and dark bodies tumbled shouting into the passage. Disjointed questions and exclamations hailed at him. The scared head groom was at his elbow, yammering incoherently and wringing his hands.
'You see, Oswald, I have saved you work with a pole-axe,' he observed grimly and bent to the last heave. Familiar brown hands joined his own to drag the dead man free and flop him over onto his back. His head was not a sight for the queasy-bellied, but most of his face was still there to be recognized.
Sir Ranulf had Hélie by the arm and shook him sharply. 'Not hurt, lad?' he demanded with harsh disrespect, and grunted in relief as Hélie shook his head. More men were crowding through the doorway into the thronged and noisy space, darkening the poor light, craning a-tiptoe and peering, a name running among them as they jostled.
'Who ran out as you came?' Hélie demanded. Eyes stared, voices muttered. 'Who went forth?' he asked again, and had no answer but headshakings, exchanged glances, curious whispers.
Then he understood; no need for the knave to run at all. He had had but to wait in an empty stall and join the crowd as it thrust in, unremarked and safe. Hélie’s eyes moved in challenge to one face, and the noise hushed. Even the horses were quieting as the grooms went to them. His neighbours fell back from imperturbable Fulbert of Falaise, standing with his thumbs hooked into his belt, scrutinizing without apparent emotion the smashed head of his stocky sergeant.
Gino, poised at Hélie’s side with his hand on his dagger-haft, glanced up at his master’s face for leave to act. Hélie restrained him with a slight lift of the hand and continued to regard the mercenary.
Fulbert’s lips twitched slightly. ‘It seems my warning was inadequate,’ he observed gently. ‘Ingenious—even a little too ingenious, eh, my lord?’
‘You claim to know nothing of it?’ Hélie asked very quietly.
Fine teeth flashed in the murky dusk. ‘You are still alive, my lord. I should have taken the obvious precaution of first knocking you on the head. A cloak, I see. The worse choice.’
‘This man is yours.’
‘Certainly. But a mercenary’s first essential is his readiness to be hired.’
‘By another, you suggest?’
‘Why not? Pay has been hard come by since the King lost Normandy.’
Hélie longed to beat the grin from his mocking mouth. He had no hope of disproving that highly implausible tale, and there was no profit in further inquisition. Fulbert’s wits were too quick to be confounded; he would only provide a target for his jests.
Sir Ranulf, champing audibly, had also realized that truth. There was no hope of proving anything. The attempt had obviously been the inspiration of a moment, an opportunity snatched at when Hélie entered the stable alone. No blame to anyone if a headstrong young nobleman who had that day displayed mental instability should be daft enough to try his mastery over a man-killing brute. A most regrettable accident, but the will of God was inscrutable, and maybe Trevaine would be more fortunate spared his surely ruinous rule. And a young fool who had boasted knowledge too soon would have gone where he could never use it to inconvenience a murderer.
The furious thoughts whirled behind Hélie's grim face without sign, but Sir Ranulf, who knew him well, gazed uneasily at him. Gino, who knew him even better, edged forward slightly and fixed narrowed eyes on the mercenary. An inch of bright steel glinted between hand and sheath. Hélie had but to drop his hand to launch him like a bolt from a crossbow. He surprised them both. 'Enough!' he growled, and thrust straight through the crowd which jammed the aisle like a ship through floating weed. Men squashed back with yelps and oaths, scaring the nervous horses afresh, but he heedlessly gained the bright courtyard and drew free breath.
Hélie was bitterly, murderously angry. All the wild rage that had once made men deal warily with Trevaine's lion-cub burned through him, the more deadly for the hard-learned control that would not loose it recklessly. He had frightened a killer and come very near having his brains spattered over a stable's muck by a brute beast, and that killer was going to have better reason to be frightened. If the rat reckoned that the narrowness of his escape would scare him off, his judgement was worse than his iniquity. Savagely he resolved to expose and destroy the recreant who cast the blame for his vile poisoning on an innocent girl. He had thought to withdraw his offended nose from the stink of Warby's ills; now he was plunged midriff-deep in that cesspit and determined to dredge up truth. He had accepted dismissal from the red wench, and what sort of gutless craven granted any girl the right to bid him go or stay? Hélie uttered a laugh that was nearer a snarl and headed purposefully for the garden gate.
He was almost there when a high wail lifted the hair on his nape and halted him almost in mid-stride. The bailey was hushed save for that cry. The child had died. Hélie crossed himself and briefly bent his head to mutter a prayer for his soul's rest, a queer regret tugging at his conscience that he did so only as a formality; that few would grieve for Robert's son. Then he made for
the gate with lengthened strides. There was little time now.
He padded along the grass path like a stalking lion, and like a lion thwarted of his meat lifted his head and stared about him when he saw no brown figure under the apple-tree. A stifled sound reached him. He stiffened, moved closer, and halted. His wrath melted. The red girl lay under the apple-tree, her head in her arms on the turf bank, shaking to half-smothered sobs.
She had not heard him. He hesitated, tempted for a moment to depart soundlessly as he had come. She was not a girl to make of tears a weapon to win indulgence; she wept alone, and would be shamed to have her weeping observed. But urgency drove him; there was no time for shame or delicacy. He bent to touch her shoulder.
‘Demoiselle,' he said gently.
She twisted about, her head jerking up like a wild thing's. For a moment she crouched at his feet; then she was up and away, her hands lifting and her body poised as though she would spring for his throat like a trapped wildcat.
'You!' she spat. ‘Why have you come back?'
‘To serve as your champion, demoiselle.'
‘Champion?' Her voice broke hoarsely, and her dark eyes, dry now, were wide with fury and fear. ‘You are Hermeline's! Go back to her!'
‘I am not Hermeline's in any way.'
She backed a pace towards the apple-tree as though she needed its solidity behind her. ‘Shall I believe you?' she demanded harshly.
‘Demoiselle, I am pledged to find the real murderer.'
‘What has he done to you?' she asked in savage cynicism.
His flush scorched his face, but he answered evenly. ‘He tried to kill me.'
‘So you risk poison in your cup or a blade in your back!' she said violently, and drew a shuddering breath. ‘Will you not go while you are free?'
‘No.'
She turned to the apple-tree, set her forearm against it and hid her face. Her shoulders jerked. He stepped close and laid a hand lightly on her arm. She struck it away, snarling, ‘Keep your hands from me!'
‘You were over-long in Robert de Warby's company, demoiselle,' he said quietly.
‘I know what men are!' she gasped, clenching her fists at her breast.
‘Some of us are worse than others,' he agreed mildly.
‘Mother of God, it is easy to be a man!' she cried. ‘To go freely—to do as you will with your own—to dispose even of your own body!'
'Demoiselle, this dispute wastes time we have not. Robert’s son has just died. The mother and Hermeline will accuse you of murder. Will you be sought for and dragged weeping from this refuge?’
He had judged aright; his deliberately brutal words jolted her back to her senses. The blood flamed into her white face, and she straightened fiercely.
‘No!’
'Then set yourself to rights and confront them boldly.’ He nodded at her disordered dress, and the crumpled wimple on the grass.
Her mouth twitched, and unexpectedly she grinned. 'You always advocate brazen effrontery?’ she inquired, shaking out the unbecoming homespun.
'Always.’ That grin pierced through the links of his mail to something soft inside it that could be pricked by courage and humour. To cover it he stooped for the wimple, and looked critically at her face. She had not wept tears enough to swell her eyes, but her cheeks were a little smeary. Remedy was at hand; a water-butt stood against the nearby wall, conveniently placed to catch the run-off from an abutting tiled roof. He leaned to damp a corner of the kerchief in the few murky inches the dry weather had left.
'Wipe your face, my girl,’ he bade her severely, 'and order that deplorable head-dress.’
She looped her hair about her head and assumed kerchief, barbette and fillet with graceless briskness. A woman who reckoned herself no beauty at least did not keep a man waiting while she perfected her appearance; she was ready before one might say a Paternoster, and followed him along the path.
They were none too soon out of the garden; as they crossed the courtyard towards the hall four men-at-arms came round its corner and advanced upon them, their countenances composed to wooden stolidity. Their leader, a stumpy bearded veteran, lifted his spear in salute. Some human relief mingled with the proper respect in his voice as he spoke; he had plainly not relished the duty he had anticipated.
'My lady, your presence is required by Lady Hermeline in the hall.’
'Required and enforced, it seems,’ she said dryly. 'I come.’
The man hesitated, eyeing Hélie uncertainly; clearly his orders did not provide for such an intrusion. Durande and Hélie ignored him and walked on, and the four fell in behind as men making the best of an unforeseen difficulty, and tramped heavily at their heels.
In the hall hubbub hushed to silence as they entered. Hélie swept the long room with one swift glance, and wrath flamed in him afresh. It was arranged as for a formal court of justice, with Hermeline slight and fair in the high seat as judge. Behind her were ranged guests and household officials; along the sides of the dais those who sat at the high table, and in the body of the hall servants and soldiers. Almost every adult in the household was present, staring avidly at the tall girl they would see shamed and condemned. All the appearance of a court but devoid of justice, Hélie reflected savagely; the verdict was decided before even the accusation had been made. And it would not help Durande that he stood beside her, though there was no other place for him. He saw the incredulous outrage flash in Hermeline's eyes, breaking briefly through the icy implacability of her gaze.
‘Bring her forward!' she ordered sharply.
‘I need no constraining to face you,' Durande de Vallaroy answered coolly, and walked up the hall to the dais. The wench Mabille crouched against the step, her head bowed upon her knees. Hélie, ignoring Hermeline's angry gesture of summons and Sir Ranulf's surreptitiously jerked thumb, followed half a pace behind the red-haired girl's right hand.
‘You poisoned my brother Robert,' said Hermeline flatly.
‘No.'
She turned on Eustace de Collingford behind her chair. ‘You will do fitting justice on this murderess of yours, my lord?' she demanded.
‘She is innocent,' the weasel answered firmly. Hélie warmed to him.
‘Innocent? She hated him, she feared to wed him, she knew the poison! Who else even desired his death?' she flared.
‘Almost everyone who knew him, I reckon,' observed Fulbert of Falaise with devastating veracity.
Hermeline looked upon the mercenary as though nothing would have pleasured her more than to pour poison into his cup, but did not deign to answer him. ‘Without doubt she did it!' she exclaimed. ‘She must do penance in some strict convent on bread and water and scourging all her days, Lord Eustace!'
‘She is no murderess—'
‘You will not admit it for fear of scandal! Robert is poisoned, and you refuse me justice because I am a weak woman and cannot avenge him!' Tears spilled from her eyes, and the men shifted uncomfortably. She reached out a wavering hand to Hélie.
‘Were you a man,' said Hélie grimly, ‘you could be called to account for that slander, my lady.'
Incredulous fury dried her eyes. ‘You!’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, have I no champion here?'
‘My lady!' Oliver de Collingford started towards her. His father set an arm across to bar his way.
‘Against your own cousin? No!’
‘Mewed up as a prisoner, how could she have obtained this fruit of death?' Fulbert asked pertinently.
‘A servant—the maid Robert ravished like as not,' Oliver suggested.
‘Lady Durande sent the wench to the convent,' the marshal growled.
‘Prudently, perhaps,' Oliver insinuated.
The red-headed girl, who had listened with head erect and face of stone, suddenly mounted the step in a swirl of skirts that fluttered the dry rushes underfoot. Her dark eyes forced down Hermeline's with one contemptuous glance, and scalded shame into the embarrassed faces behind her.
‘Hear me, all!' Her deep voice carried to every corner o
f the hushed room. ‘Had I killed Robert de Warby I would have done it with honest steel in open hall, not with secret poison! Before God, that is truth!'
Hélie was beside her in one leap, his face aflame. ‘And I challenge any man who dares deny my lady's truth to make good his word upon my body!'
Stirrings and whisperings stilled to appalled silence. He looked expectantly at the besotted fool who would betray his own kinswoman to win Hermeline's favour, but Oliver de Collingford stood palsied, his father's arm set like a bar across his chest, hate and fury and fear warring in his irresolute face and its hue changing between red and white.
‘She has bewitched you!'
That word brought Mabille to life. Her blotched and swollen face lifted to snarl, her bloodshot eyes glared from under the tangle of torn brown hair. 'Witchcraft!' she croaked. 'Lord Robert and my son! Hang her!'
Hermeline leaped from her chair, her fists tightly clenched and her slight black figure quivering. 'Since there is no man among you to champion me, I shall avenge Robert myself! Here my will runs! So I hold the poisoner for the King's Justices to do judgement on her! Guard, take her out!'
Durande looked at her in purest scorn, and laughed aloud. The soldiers closed in somewhat reluctantly. She smiled at Hélie and shook her head slightly as he would have joined her, turned her back on the older girl and walked serenely from the hall between two men-at-arms. Hermeline threw herself back into the chair in screaming hysterics. Her women ran to her, dragged her up and forced her from the room into the bower beyond. Consternation gripped those on the dais, and all order below it dissolved in uproar.
Hélie, grimly aware that his knightly intervention had served but to exacerbate matters, faced unrepentant the blameful scowls of those who realized it equally well. He could have done naught else.
'Merciful God, the scandal!' groaned Eustace de Collingford. 'This can never be mended! There is nothing for the girl but the veil, if we can prevail upon Lady Hermeline to—to—'
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