by Maureen Ash
If you wants the boy alive bring Fulcher to the crossing by the oak at None. Come alone.
At the bottom was a rough sketch of a wolf’s head.
“Who gave this to you?” Bascot asked the priest.
“As I said, one of my parishioners-”
“A man known to you?” Bascot’s tone was sharp and short.
The priest nodded. “It was handed to him this morning as he entered the church for Mass. The man who entrusted it to him said it was to be given to one of the priests, and given quickly, as there was a life at stake. He made particular mention that the priest who received it was to be told that it was for the Templar monk who serves the sheriff of Lincoln. My parishioner naturally thought that someone was ill, maybe dying, perhaps one of your brethren. He brought it to me directly.”
The monk looked uncomfortable as he saw the anger building in Bascot’s face. “It was unsealed, Sir Bascot. I did not know its import when first I read it, but the message itself speaks of evil threats. I came as fast as I could.”
“What does it say?” Ernulf asked. Since the serjeant was not literate, Bascot read it out and showed him the drawing that had been added. His friend’s face hardened with an anger that matched his own.
“The man who gave this to your parishioner, what did he look like?” Ernulf barked at the priest.
“I do not know,” the priest admitted. “I was told he was a rough fellow who was standing by the door of the church. After I read the message, I went to look for him, but he was gone.”
“Where is this crossing, Ernulf?” Bascot asked the serjeant.
“Can only be the one where the Trent borders the sheriff’s chase. There is a slight curve in the river there, to the west. An easterly spur of Sherwood Forest comes down hard on the other side.”
Bascot strode to the door, looking up at the sky as he tried to put his thoughts in order. Rain had begun to fall, and the grey lowering clouds that had earlier hung in the sky like dirty pregnant sheep had coalesced into a solid mass the colour of old pewter. It was now late morning, None just a little more that two hours hence. An hour’s ride, even in such inclement weather, should bring them to the spot that the message had designated.
Bascot moved back inside the stables. Ernulf, the man-at-arms, the priest and a pair of grooms were all watching him. “Ask Sheriff Camville if I may see him directly, Ernulf, if you would, and also Lady Nicolaa. I will be in the hall directly.”
As the serjeant turned to go, Bascot moved as quickly as his leg, now aching from a night without rest and the activities of the morning, would allow, to where the chest that held his belongings stood. Inside, along with his own spare tunic and the only other pair of hose that Gianni owned, was his Templar surcoat. He laid it carefully on the pallet beside the chest before calling to one of the grooms to bring him his helm and shirt of mail from the armoury.
Twenty
Gianni looked cautiously around him. The camp to which he had been brought was quiet, the trees that encircled the clearing looming overhead in the early morning gloom like a great ill-fitting ceiling. Wisps of fog drifted eerily through the branches, the shapes flat as though a giant hand had pressed them. Sleeping bodies lay everywhere, some entwined together for warmth, others rolled into a foetal ball as though wishing never to leave their womb of sleep. In the middle of the clearing the remains of the fire that had been lit the night before barely smouldered, only tiny wisps of smoke reluctantly puffing as the embers underneath finally died.
The boy tried to see if there were any guards posted, but the darkness was too deep at the edge of the trees. Cautiously he stretched out his legs and, when his movement was not detected, he tested the security of the rope that bound his leg to the bole of a nearby tree.
He had been brought here the day before, after the captor that had scooped him up in the sheriff’s chase had run with him thrown over his back for what seemed to Gianni like a long distance. Then, after being bundled into a boat and ferried a short way on water, he had been foisted up again on the shoulder of the man and carried through trees whose branches had slapped at his back and shoulders before he was dumped roughly on the ground and the sack that had covered his head removed.
The clearing had been brighter then, with the fire burning energetically from well-seasoned wood that emitted little smoke. Over the flames a carcass of a deer had been roasting, the fat sizzling as it dripped into the fire, sending off a delicious aroma that caused Gianni’s already churning stomach to push bile up into his throat. There had been a lot of people in the clearing, mostly men, but a few women also, all roughly dressed and dirty. Little notice was taken of his arrival until the man that had captured him, and still held him by the arm, dragged him through the press towards another man who sat up higher than the rest, on a rough chair carved from wood and decorated with garlands of ivy.
“This is the Templar’s servant,” his captor said to the man, and Gianni at last looked up and saw that the person who had taken him from the forest was one he had seen before, the day he had gone to the village with his master. It was Edward, the reeve’s nephew. “Strolling through the woods all by himself, he was. I thought as how he might be of some use to you, Jack. Perhaps get a bit of silver if that Templar monk wants him back bad enough to pay for his return or, if not, maybe to use as a servant for yourself.”
The man in the chair had looked down at the prize he had been brought. He was not a big man, but his appearance caused Gianni to feel a frisson of fear. Like the chair, his person was decorated with stems of ivy, most of the leaves brown and curling. The vines were wound around his arms, threaded through his belt, and a circle of them was woven into the pointed cap he wore on his head. His face, like most of the other men who had started to crowd around, was bearded, his a thick dense thatch of a dark golden colour that curled tight to his jaw and down his neck until it disappeared beneath the ragged collar of the scarred leather jerkin he wore. From beneath eyebrows that were as scant as his beard was thick, eyes of dark hazel looked at Gianni, the intense stare reminding the boy of one of the hawks in the mews at Lincoln castle when it was inspecting a gobbet of meat offered by the falconer.
“The Templar’s servant, you say, Edward?” the man called Jack said. His voice was quiet, but there was menace in it.
“That’s right, Jack. I thought him a right good catch to bring you.” Edward’s voice was puffed up with pride in his accomplishment.
Jack leaned back, his hand resting on the thick oak staff that leaned against the arm of his chair. For a long moment he stared at Edward, and the silence grew in the clearing as he did so. Gianni could sense fear begin to grow in the man beside him, evidenced in the nervous twitch of Edward’s fingers where they gripped his arm.
Still the man called Jack did not speak, and Edward began to stutter nervously. “I didn’t do wrong, did I, Jack? No one followed us, I swear. I thought you’d be pleased, but if you’re not, I’ll get rid of him. He’ll just disappear, like he was never born.”
When his words brought no response, Edward dragged Gianni to his feet and would have thrown him back over his shoulder, but suddenly the stave that had been carelessly lying beside Jack’s chair moved so swiftly it was a blur. It came up in his hand and cracked down on the back of Edward’s neck with a blow that brought the reeve’s nephew to his knees, Gianni tumbling down with him, almost into the fire.
“I did not tell you to bring him here,” Jack said, “but now that you have, you’ll wait my command to take him away.”
Edward nodded as best he could while he tried to regain his senses. Struggling to his feet he mumbled, “Aye, Jack. I’m sorry.”
Around him the crowd of people relaxed, some of the men shaking their heads in disapproval of Edward’s folly, others whispering together, smiles on their faces. Gianni could see now that there were children amongst them, including a couple of small ones still in their mother’s arms. All of the people-men, women and children-were clad in rags of one sort or ano
ther, most of them layers of old clothing tied on with other scraps of cloth, or bits of rope; a few more fortunate ones had belts strapped around their middle. Head coverings ranged from hats made from torn pieces of animal fur to crude caps fashioned from the bark of a tree. All the faces were dirty, grimed not so much from lack of water but ingrained in skin that had been exposed to the elements for too long.
Jack’s hawk eyes turned to Gianni. “What’s your name, boy?” he asked.
Gianni made the sign he had made so often in his life to show that he was mute, lifting his bound hands, then opening his mouth and pointing a finger to it while shaking his head.
“Can’t speak, eh?” Jack said. “But since you’ve still got a tongue in there, it’s the way you were born, not from punishment.”
Gianni nodded. He could never remember being able to speak, although he had tried to do so many times, and had finally accepted that he never would, that God had fashioned him that way at birth. Jack looked at the boy’s clothing, noticing the serviceable wool of his hose, the thick padding of his tunic and the stout boots on his feet. Ernulf’s hat was no longer on Gianni’s head; it must have come off when Edward had grabbed him, or was still in the sack that had been thrust over his head. Gianni cringed. He knew well enough that, even without the hat, his clothes were far better than those worn by most of the people crowded around him, and he also knew it would be the work of moments for him to be stripped bare and his garments distributed amongst the women for their own use or for that of their children.
Jack’s mouth split into a grin as he saw the fear in Gianni’s eyes, revealing broken teeth that were the same colour as his beard, a dirty yellow. “Frightened, aren’t you, boy?” he said. “And well you might be, for we’ve no liking for those who live at ease behind castle walls and dine off fine meats, even if they are only servants.” He leaned forward, his head thrusting down, reminding Gianni again of a predatory bird.
“You’ll do well to remember that while I decide what to do with you. Try to run and I’ll give you to the wolves. After we’ve removed your finery, that is.”
This remark brought guffaws of laughter from the people crowded at Jack’s side, including Edward, who had now recovered from the blow he had been given and was joining in the merriment. Jack motioned to one of the men beside him. “Take the boy over to the edge of the clearing and truss him. Not too tight, mind. We don’t want to damage his clothes for those that will have them. Eventually.”
Another burst of laughter followed this remark as Gianni was roughly hauled up and dragged to a tree on the far side of the fire. A rope was tied to his leg and fastened to the tree and his feet were bound with pieces of well-worn leather to keep company with his tied hands. There he was left, hungry and thirsty, while his captors sat just a few yards away from him, eating and drinking their fill as they discussed his fate.
“You will tell me who he is, Joanna, for you will rue the consequences if you do not!” Melisande seized her daughter’s arm and shook her, then threw her down onto a wide padded settle that stood against the wall. The girl stayed where she was, lying on her side and rubbing her arm, looking up at her mother with eyes filled with scorn.
“What of the identities of your own lovers, mother? You are not so free with their names as you wish me to be with mine, are you? Even when my father was alive you had others to warm your bed. I saw you, and more than once.” The girl threw up her head and glared at Melisande. “Like mother, like daughter. I have my secrets, too. And I will keep them.”
Melisande drew back her hand and slapped her daughter across the face, just once, but hard. The mark of her fingers stood out on the girl’s flushed cheek like a stain of blood. Then the goldsmith’s widow shook her head and moved away from the girl, walking across the room to take a seat in one of the padded chairs near the fire. She leaned her head back on the softness at her neck and heaved a sigh.
“You do not know your own foolishness, girl,” she said heavily. “Yes, I gave my favours to men other than my husband, but not before I was married, and never recklessly even then. I want you to marry well, and no decent man will take a bride who has tossed her skirts for all and sundry, not even if I dower you with all the gold I possess.”
“I have not lain with ‘all and sundry’ as you put it!” Joanna expostulated. “I am not a harlot!”
Melisande shook her head sadly, rose from her chair and went over to her daughter. Gently she placed her hand under Joanna’s chin and lifted it, and then looked straight into her eyes. “Not a harlot, perhaps, but not a newly plundered virgin, either.”
When Joanna would have protested, Melisande continued, “I can see it in your eyes, girl. In the way you walk, the manner in which you lace your gown. You have lain with a man and more than once or twice.” She shook her head again. “I would not deny you your pleasure, Joanna; I only wish you had possessed the sense to wait until you had a husband to shield your good name before you indulged your fancy. There will come a day when you will regret what you have done, and regret it dearly.”
Her mother’s words, so softly spoken, took the anger from Joanna’s face, and her defiance as well. Sullenly she hung her head and looked at the floor.
Melisande turned and walked to the chamber door. There she stopped and turned. “I hope you have not been foolish enough to fall for the glib persuasions of a man who is already married or, God forbid, one of those prancing young lords up at the castle. But, whatever the case, you can tell your paramour that if there is a bastard child I will not acknowledge him, or her, as my grandchild,” she said. “If you do not give up your lover, I will send you to a nunnery. The choice is yours.”
Gerard and Nicolaa were waiting for Bascot when he entered the hall. They had been engaged in a conference with Tostig and a couple of other Camville foresters when Ernulf had come to tell them what had transpired. Immediately they had broken off their discussion and given their attention to the plight of Gianni and the involvement of the sheriff’s prisoner, Fulcher.
The sheriff was pacing back and forth when Bascot joined them, his face drawn into a scowl as Nicolaa greeted the Templar and offered her commiserations for the abduction of his servant.
“It must be outlaws that have the boy, for the drawn likeness of a wolf’s head can mean nothing else. Ernulf tells me Gianni was seen alone, going into my husband’s chase. It must have been while he was on that journey he was captured. But what was his purpose for such a venture?”
“I do not know the answer to that, lady,” Bascot replied. “I only know that I must get him back. To do that I must ask that you release Fulcher and let me take him to the place they have designated.”
“Never!” Camville growled. “Even if you give them what they want, they will kill the boy anyway, and you as well, if they can. It is a risk that cannot be taken.”
“Sir Gerard,” Bascot said, “I ask this as a boon from you. The boy is very important to me, more than a servant. He is like my own son.” The admission cost him dear, for although he had come to realise the depth of his feelings for Gianni, he had never before admitted it out loud, even to himself. “If you will grant me this favour, I pledge that I will leave the Templar Order and become your liegeman. It is all I have to offer; if you would have my life I would surrender that as well.” To reinforce his sincerity, Bascot dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
Nicolaa, knowing how much the words had cost this reticent and solitary man, stepped forward and laid her hand on Bascot’s shoulder. “There is no need to humble yourself, de Marins. You have already given my husband and myself more service than was required for your pallet and sustenance. While we would relish your joining our retinue permanently, neither Gerard nor I would wish you to do so under duress.”
She turned to her husband, who had stopped his restless pacing and was standing motionless beside her, a cup of wine forgotten in his hand. “Do you agree, husband?”
Slowly, Camville nodded. “I shall give you your boon, Templar
, without restraints,” he said. “You shall have Fulcher as bait for this carrion, but you will not go alone. Ernulf and I will follow, with some of the castle guard.”
As Bascot made to protest, the sheriff held up his hand. “We will keep out of sight and wait to see what they do. If they have the boy and truly intend to exchange him for the outlaw…” Camville shrugged and did not finish the sentence. “Once your servant is safe we will take the brigand back and perhaps catch a few more of these wolf’s heads in the doing of it.” He looked up from under his heavy brows at Bascot. “If they do not have the boy, they will already have killed him, de Marins, and will attempt to kill you also, once they have their confederate. We will be there to see that does not happen.”
There was a resolution in the sheriff’s face that told Bascot he would brook no argument and the Templar had to admit that Camville’s reasoning was probably correct. He knew he would not get the imprisoned brigand to use as a ransom unless he agreed to the sheriff’s plan, and if Gianni was dead-he felt his breath squeeze in his chest at the thought-he would wish to kill as many of the outlaws as his sword could reach, Fulcher amongst them. He nodded in acquiescence to Gerard Camville.
It was not even the half part of an hour later when Bascot set out. The rain was now falling heavily, being driven in gusty sheets by a fitful wind that blew from the northeast. Fulcher, hands bound and a rope around his neck, was mounted on a sumpter pony, with Bascot astride the grey he was accustomed to use, and holding the end of the rope that secured the brigand. Beside the Templar, Tostig rode, bow slung across his shoulder and arrows in his waist quiver, to guide Bascot to the spot by the river that was to be the place of the meeting.
Behind, in the bailey, Gerard Camville was mounting the big black stallion that was his destrier. The sheriff was in full armour, as was his brother William, who was waiting for one of the grooms to lead out his own deep-chested roan. Another knot of riders was also gathering-Richard Camville, Ernulf, Roget, a handful of men-at-arms, and the squires Alain and Renault. Bascot gave Fulcher a prod in the back with the point of his unsheathed sword and the outlaw, still weak from the beating he had received from Roget’s men, kicked the pony into a shambling trot, preceding the Templar out of the west gate. The sheriff watched them go, waited until he heard the cathedral bells ring out the hour of Sext, then spurred his horse to follow.
