by Maureen Ash
Twenty-one
It had been almost dusk before the outlaws gathered around the man in the chair ceased talking. Gianni had watched them intently. He could not hear what they were saying but the days he had spent begging in Palermo had made him practiced in recognising people’s attitudes from the way they stood or gestured with their hands. From the manner in which a person walked, or held their head, it was possible to judge if they would be generous or not, if they would be angry at being importuned or merely ignore the outstretched hand with blank eyes, if they would look guilty for being without alms to give, or self-satisfied because they had more than the beggar. The same had been true of the other rag-wrapped urchins with whom he had shared the small piece of wharf where he had slept and taken shelter. Some had been fearless in their harassing of the merchants, ship owners and sailors that worked or came to trade at the wharf, knowing which ones would be pricked by shame and throw a coin and which ones would respond with a curse or the kick of a boot. But others, Gianni among them, had been too small and frightened to try such tactics, resorting to a helpless whine or cringing tears to wring the price of a piece of stale bread for their efforts. Even amongst themselves it had taken stealth and guile to hide any successful result of their begging. They were friends only when all were hungry. As soon as any alms were given, the recipient would quickly secrete the pittance he had been lucky enough to gain or, if not quick enough to hide it, to swallow it, whether bread or coin, knowing that, if it were the first, it would fill his stomach and if it were the second, it would be safe from the rough clutching hands of the others until he could void it in secret.
It had taken Gianni only a few moments to forget his fear of the dark circle of trees surrounding him and remember those days, and to realise that the outlaws here in the forest were no different from those he had known in the time before the Templar had come. Resolutely he pushed thoughts of wolves and other nameless terrors from his mind and concentrated on studying his captors.
It had been apparent from the first that the man seated on the chair was their leader, even as the burly miserable-tempered boy Alfredo had been the self-appointed captain of the band of urchins in Sicily. And this man was the same type as Alfredo, too, a bully, but clever with it, using sharp words and stinging blows to rule those whose mind and body were not as quick or as strong as his own. The reeve’s nephew, Edward, had called the man Jack, but Gianni thought of him in his mind as Diabolo, like the devil he had once seen painted on the wall of a small church where he and some of the other smaller boys had sometimes begged food from the priest in the chapel. The picture had imprinted itself on Gianni’s mind. It had been just inside the entrance, a painting of a huge figure grinning down at the writhing bodies of the unshriven souls at his feet while he poked them with the pitchfork he held in his hand. Curling spirals of flame had risen up around the satanic figure, enfolding the head and body in loops and whirls of hell-smoke, just as the man called Jack was wreathed in the strange winding of stems and dead leaves. And, just like the Diabolo in the mural, this Jack pushed and prodded at the people gathered round him with his heavy staff, chastising as he saw fit and commanding their obedience.
Finally one of the brigands had been summoned to come forward to where Jack was seated. Reverently the man had lifted up a little box and taken from it a small pot and quill, and a piece of dirty and much-scraped parchment. The paper and quill he handed to Jack, then laid the box carefully across the leader’s knees and held the pot ready while Jack dipped the pen and wrote on the parchment. The band of outlaws looked on admiringly as Jack penned some words on the paper. Gianni doubted whether any of them were literate, which was another means whereby Jack had them in his thrall. Then the paper was rolled up and given to one of the band. Jack pulled him close and whispered in his ear; the man had nodded and hurried off into the forest.
There had been some cheering from the group as the man left, and Jack had called loudly for ale, and the male members of the band had joined him eagerly in a cup while the women began to serve up to their menfolk and children the meat that had been roasting over the fire, dishing it out wrapped in some of the dead brown leaves that littered the forest floor.
Gianni’s mouth had watered as he watched the meat being torn from the skewers that held it. He was both hungry and thirsty, and felt fear clutch his bowels again as he wondered what they were going to do with him. The Templar would be searching for him, he knew, but he would not look in the forest. He would look through the castle, then the town, but it would not occur to him to look outside the city walls. Why had he been so foolish as to think of going to the village? He had betrayed his master’s trust and now he would pay for it. He wondered if he would be starved, for there seemed little food to go around. If the note that had been sent was to ask Sir Bascot for payment for his return, it would not profit them to feed him. If the Templar agreed to pay the ransom, a day or two without the food they could ill spare would not harm him, and if Sir Bascot refused to pay, then the food would be wasted on a useless hostage. Gianni shivered. Would they kill him if his master would not pay? Or would they, as Edward had suggested, make him a servant to Diabolo Jack? With visions of that thick stave coming down on his back every time he failed at some task, Gianni was not sure which fate would be worse.
Richard De Humez looked across at his daughter, then swivelled his eyes to meet those of his sister-by-marriage. His expression was a mixture of anger and fear. He had come to Nicolaa’s chamber at Alinor’s request, had waited with impatience while some matter of great urgency was dealt with by Nicolaa in the hall, then had sat in growing amazement as he had been told the reason why Alinor had asked for this private meeting.
His daughter’s voice broke into his racing thoughts. “I know, father, that you were not in favour of John taking the throne and would have preferred Arthur. I heard you saying so, to mother. I even heard her trying to dissuade you from any rash action that could jeopardize your position with the king. You were not quiet. If I heard you, so could others.”
De Humez looked from one to the other of the two women. They were more alike than just niece and aunt. His wife, Petronille, Nicolaa’s sister, was dark, as he was himself. But Alinor had inherited the redness of hair and high colour of her Haye antecedents. She had also inherited their stubborn and outspoken high-handedness, and was as he remembered Nicolaa to be in her youth, before time had moulded her forthright temper to include a modicum of diplomacy. He thanked God it had been the soft-spoken second Haye sister who had been chosen for him to take as a wife, even if her dower had been much smaller. He wished that Petronille was here now; she would have calmed the stormy scene he could see coming before it had even begun.
“What you heard being discussed between your mother and myself was private, Alinor. It was an opinion expressed by many nobles at the time, not only by me, and has nothing to do with you. I am greatly displeased that you have bothered your aunt with such ramblings.”
De Humez tried to put as much anger as he could into his voice, but knew his headstrong daughter would take little notice, and tried to console himself with the knowledge that Alinor believed she was protecting him rather than putting him in danger.
“Alinor has not been a bother to me, Richard,” Nicolaa said, trying to speak calmly in an attempt to soothe the ruffled feathers of her sister’s husband. “She is only concerned to protect her family-which is my family also-against any slander that may arise. The king has a long ear for any hint of unrest about him. I would that he heard none about any of our kin and will do whatever I can to ensure that he never does.”
Slightly mollified, de Humez took a sip of watered wine from the cup that Nicolaa handed him, and said, “There is no rumour to forestall. I have no connection now, and never did have, with any support for Arthur supplanting John.”
Nicolaa took a mental breath and forced herself to smile. She had a liking for her brother-by-marriage even though she knew him to be querulous and vacillating. He wa
s an indulgent husband and father, but he was also indecisive and prone to be sanctimonious. His would be a willing ear for any plot that would increase his own aggrandisement, as long as he felt the danger to his position would not be too great. A little like King John, she reflected briefly, the very monarch de Humez, she was sure, had not willingly supported. This time her smile came naturally. She had an affection for John, too.
“It is the matter of Hubert’s death, Richard. Even though Gerard has done his best to ascribe the squire’s murder to outlaws, there is much rumour being bruited abroad that it was for political purposes-that Hubert was privy to a plot against John and was killed because he threatened to expose those involved. That is why Alinor came to me, and why I asked to have speech with you. If you voiced your…opinion…about John to anyone other than Petronille, if you even so much as hinted that you would be willing to support a plan that would topple him from the throne, you could be implicated. Not only in Hubert’s death, but in a treasonous plot.”
As the blood drained from de Humez’s face, Nicolaa allowed her voice to stiffen. “I am fortunate enough to have the king’s favour. That is due to the proven loyalty of my family and myself in the past. But my husband, as you know, does not have the same regard from the king. If it were to be suggested that not only one husband of the Haye sisters, but two, are rumoured to be disloyal…” She let her voice trail off deliberately, watching de Humez closely, then spoke with tones of ice. “Are you sure that you have not spoken of what you call only ‘an opinion’ to any other than Petronille? That any knowledge that Hubert might have had of treason would not have included your name? Be very sure, Richard, of your answer.”
De Humez shook his head, put down his wine cup with shaking hands. His face was ashen. “I swear to you Nicolaa, I have not, would not-I am loyal to King John. On my oath, I swear it.”
Nicolaa observed him closely as he made his protestation; saw the concern in Alinor’s face as she, also, searched her father’s expression in an attempt to detect the sincerity of his words. It was possible de Humez was telling the truth, but had there been a slight falter in his voice? Had he been unwise enough to let an indiscretion slip in company that was dangerous? Some word that perhaps was not meant, but could be taken as truth?
“I believe you, Richard,” she said at last. “And I will do my best to protect your name, and that of my sister and her children. But remember this, just as a candle carelessly dropped on a scrap of straw can be the beginning of a conflagration, so can one ill-judged word bring ruin on the one that utters it. If any hint of this comes to the king, and your name is involved, let us pray that his affection for the Hayes will prompt him to disregard it.”
Gianni had worked all night at the knots that had bound his feet and hands. Under cover of darkness and the blanket of mouldy leaves that had been thrown over him he had managed to untie them, then refasten them with a loose wrap that would easily slip undone. He knew that it would be useless for him to try to escape into the forest. He did not even know in which direction to run if he had the chance. But he had learned what they intended to do with him, and he would be ready if an opportunity for escape presented itself.
Carefully he rolled onto his side and looked through the gloom towards the dying embers of the fire. Only one man sat awake, the small skinny one who had brought him some food earlier and was now keeping watch over the encampment. He had said his name was Talli and even though he had tried to be rough with his captive, he had seemed to have some sympathy for him. Gianni had given him the wide-eyed scared look he had used so often when he had been a helpless urchin begging for food, and Talli had softened slightly, bringing him a tiny strip of venison to chew on and a wooden bowl of water to drink. It had been as Gianni was gnawing thankfully on the meat that Talli had hunkered down beside him and told him what was to be his fate.
“Hungry, weren’t you, boy?” the brigand had said as he watched Gianni devour the food. “Well, if all goes right, you should be back in the castle by this time tomorrow and able to get yourself some better fare.”
Gianni had given him a tremulous smile and put a hopeful look on his face. The outlaw had nodded. “Yes, that’s right. If your master does what he’s told, then that’s what’ll happen.”
Talli had leaned closer to Gianni, his eyes gleaming out from the dirt that stained his flesh. “Green Jack’s a clever one, he is. See, him and Fulcher don’t like each other. Fell out over Fulcher not wanting to join Jack’s band when we first come to Sherwood. Well, now Fulcher’s in the sheriff’s gaol, and the rest of us come here to Jack, so there’s no grudge anymore, see. And if Jack can get Fulcher free, then he can come here as well. Be Jack’s man, like. And Fulcher’s a good man to have. He has a right true aim with a bow and there’s not a fear of man or beast in him. Ah, I’ll be glad to see him again.”
Talli had fallen silent then and Gianni had ducked his head and given him another imploring look. In response the outlaw had patted his shoulder and said kindly, “Don’t worry. Your master will come for you, Jack’s sure of that. Edward said the Templar values you highly. He’s bound to come. All he has to do is bring Fulcher to Sherwood and then Jack’ll change you for him. That’s what Jack wrote on the parchment.”
A look of wonder came over Talli’s face. “Imagine that, being able to scribe words.” The outlaw had leaned close to Gianni. “No one knows where Jack come from, but if he can do that he must have been more than just a serf, mustn’t he? Perhaps he was the son of a merchant or even a cleric.” The little brigand shook his head. “His crimes must have been serious ones for him to have ended up here.”
Talli had said no more, just thrown the leaves over Gianni, and then taken up his vigil by the fire. Gianni had curled up, pretending sleep as he worked at the knots. Whatever happened tomorrow, he would ensure he was as prepared as possible for any chance that came to escape from the clutches of Diabolo Jack.
In Baldwin’s chamber Osbert paced about excitedly as he told his friend about Gianni being taken hostage by outlaws and how the Templar was going to try to get him back.
“The sheriff has taken a force of men-at-arms to assist Sir Bascot, and Sir William, Alain and Renault have gone as well. Ah, I wish I were old enough to have joined them.” Osbert almost danced with glee as he pictured the battle that he was sure would take place on the banks of the Trent.
“It will be a great coup if they can get Sir Bascot’s servant back and capture some of the outlaws as well,” Baldwin agreed, his pale face shining as he, too, envisaged a clash between the two forces. “I hope Alain has a chance to show his mettle,” he added. “It would make Alys so happy to think that her brother has proven his worth. She has had much lately to plague her…”
He broke off, realising that he had almost given away the secret about Alain and Renault’s absence on the night of Hubert’s death but, to his surprise, Osbert did not question the unspoken words. Instead he came and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It is alright, Baldwin. All of us pages and squires know about the suspicion that has fallen on Alain and Renault. We made Hugo tell us when Rufus saw them going into Lady Nicolaa’s chamber and Hugo was waiting outside.”
“They didn’t do it, you know, Osbert,” Baldwin asserted. “They swore to me on a holy relic that they were innocent. No one would endanger their immortal souls with such a lie.”
Osbert gave his friend a comforting grin. “Of course not, Baldwin. I am sure they told you the truth.”
Footsteps sounded outside the door and a servant entered, bringing a round wicker basket full of charcoal to feed the brazier that was kept constantly burning in Baldwin’s chamber. As the man deposited the receptacle on the floor, Osbert gave de Humez’s son a covert glance. He hoped his friend was right and that Alain and Renault were innocent, even if it was only so that Baldwin’s faith in human nature should not be destroyed. But privately the young page doubted that the two squires were free from guilt. Unlike Baldwin, he knew that if there was en
ough at stake, men would swear on the most holy of relics, be they saints’ bones or the blood of Christ, and still not tell the truth.
Twenty-two
Fulcher could barely keep upright on the back of the pony as they approached the place designated for the exchange for Gianni. He was a strong man, but the beating given him by Roget’s men, combined with the distance they had travelled through the needle-sharp pricks of rain, had rendered his body almost useless. Only the point of Bascot’s sword nudging the space between his shoulder blades had kept him from sliding to the ground.
Finally, a low word of warning from Tostig gave Bascot the signal to bring his mount to a halt. The forester moved his horse close to the Templar and pointed through the mist of rain. There, a few score yards distant, was the river and, at the water’s edge, a large oak tree, its branches bare of leaves.
“That is the place, Sir Bascot,” the forester said. “I should leave you here. The instruction was for you to be alone when you brought the brigand.” Tostig gave a furtive glance over his shoulder. Behind them the trees were thin, with a stand of coppiced hazel crouching like a hunkered dwarf at their base. Nearby, a few desiccated red berries still clung to the branches of a rowan tree, providing the only splash of colour on an otherwise desolate landscape. Downstream, beyond the oak, a willow tree curved gracefully on the eastern bank of the Trent as it wriggled slightly in its course to the Humber estuary. No horses or riders could be seen. Across the river the thick mass of forest was silent.
