by Maureen Ash
Anxiously she listened for the church bells to ring the hour of None, knowing, as most of Lincoln town did by now, that this was the time when the Templar would be at the riverbank to try to obtain his servant’s release. Once she heard the bells, Joanna would go to the castle, for when news came as to whether the exchange of prisoners had been successful, it would first come there. She needed to know that her lover was safe and, despite her mother’s warning, did not intend to give him up. Only death could force her to do that.
Green Jack was perched in the top of a tree some little way from the spot on the riverbank where his men were holding the Templar’s servant. He had a good vantage point and, despite the bareness of the leafless branches, would not easily be spotted in his clothes of russet brown twined with the half-dead vines. His vision was exceptionally keen, especially for long distances, and he scanned the area surrounding him, looking for the sheriff’s men. He knew they would be there, to the north and south of the old oak, but, hopefully, not on both sides of the river. Although he had instructed the Templar to come alone, he had not expected that command to be obeyed, especially when he had no doubt that Gerard Camville would be involved in the rescue. The sheriff would dearly love to capture even a few of Jack’s men and there was no doubt as to the fate of any who should be so luckless as to end up in Camville’s merciless hands.
Although Green Jack knew the dangers of using the boy as bait, he had been unable to resist the temptation of luring the Templar into the forest. But he had been careful not to stretch the risk to his own person too far. He was some little distance from the crossing he had specified and had sent the men most expendable from his band to be in the forefront of the danger. Berdo, Talli and Edward, the reeve’s nephew, were with the boy; the first two Fulcher’s men and of no importance, and the last too stupid to be of any further use even if he should not be captured. Jack had given instructions to the archers he had sent with them to withdraw into the forest if it looked as though the plan to capture the Templar was going awry.
The Templar. The thought of having one of the men who wore that hated red cross in his, Jack’s, power brought a surge of emotion to his loins that was almost lascivious. How many times had he dreamed that he would one day humiliate one of them, and in just such a manner as they had done to him so many years ago when he had been no more than a lad, a stupid young boy who had idolized their holiness, their strength, their dedication. Whenever one or more of the supposedly virtuous knights had chanced to appear on the streets of Nottingham where he had lived as a child, he had rushed to watch them ride by on their gleaming horses, imagining the valiant deeds they would perform in the Holy Land, and the infidels they would kill in defence of the pilgrims they protected.
Now his thin lips curled in wry amusement of how feeble-witted he had been to believe the stories that circled the Templars like halos of glory. Holy monks who fought for Christ it was said, but they were no better than mercenary soldiers, lower even, for what they did was not for monetary profit, but for love of their own vanity, and to promulgate their sordid vices. He could still remember the day he had managed to scuttle through the gates into the yard of the Templar preceptory in Nottingham, how he had hidden behind some bales of hay and watched a few of the knights at sword practice. They had seemed like giants to him rather than mere men, wielding flashing blades of light as the swords arced up and down, thrusting, cutting, parrying. So intent on the dazzling display had he been that he had not heard the brown-robed serjeant approach him from behind, nor been aware of his discovery until a hand clad in a gauntlet of leather had clamped down on his shoulder. Then he had been swung from his hiding place and tossed out onto the edge of the practice field as lightly and easily as if he had been a flea thrown from a dog.
“It seems we have an intruder in our midst,” the serjeant had called, and the knights had ceased their swordplay to come and look at Jack, who had crunched himself into a fearful ball at the serjeant’s feet. From his vantage point, too frightened to look up, all he could see were the dusty boots of the men around him, and the hems of their surcoats.
“Is he armed?” one of the knights had asked jocularly. “You had best search him, Eubold. He might be a Saracen in disguise, with a scimitar concealed beneath those rags he is wearing.”
“No, no,” another knight had said. “He is more likely to be one of their eunuchs, come to see how whole men comport themselves.”
Much laughter had followed this, then another knight called, “Perhaps we should see for ourselves. Strip him, Eubold, let us see if he truly has any balls, or if it is as de Limenes says and he has been parted from his manhood.”
Jack had tried to struggle to his feet but the serjeant, Eubold, had dragged him up by the hair of his head and quickly divested him of his tunic and hose, then dangled him by his heels in front of the watching knights.
“It seems, lords, that he still has all the equipment God gave him at birth,” the serjeant had said, laughing along with the rest as he gave Jack a shake that made his head flop and his senses spin in a sickening circle. Even now, he could still hear their laughter and the scorn with which they had jested about his exposed genitals.
“Ah, well,” said the first knight who had spoken. “I did not really suppose he was lacking proof of his manhood, else he would not have been brave enough to sneak in here.”
“What shall I do with him, lords?” the serjeant had asked.
“Throw him on the dung heap,” answered one of the knights lazily. “Or whatever you will, Eubold. Just make sure he is gone from here and knows beyond doubt that he is not to come into the preceptory again.”
The spectacle of his humiliation had now lost the knights’ interest and most of them turned away and resumed their sword practice. The serjeant had tossed Jack into the air, catching him by the shoulders as he fell. Then the soldier carried him to the back of the preceptory and flung him, and his clothes after him, into a pile of pig dung that was heaped outside a pen containing about a dozen of the animals. He had watched in amusement as Jack had tried to scramble to his feet and rescue his clothes, the foul-smelling muck sticking to him more and more with every movement. When he had finally pushed himself clear of the heap of excrement, the serjeant had put his boot to Jack’s bare arse and kicked him all the way to the door of the compound. There the guards that manned the gate had laughed as he had run out into the street, where passersby had first looked in amazement at the naked lad, then backed off as the smell of the ordure reached them. From a distance they had tittered with amusement as he had struggled into his clothes and run all the way home.
To Jack, that day had been branded in his memory and his adoration for the Templars had turned to hatred. It had also marked the beginning of the time when his life went sour. His father, a seller of mediocre quality parchment, had died the very next week, his only legacy to his youngest son an unfinished teaching of the rudiments of his letters. A few days later his stepbrother, older by some ten years, had decided he did not want to bear the cost of feeding the brat his father had sired in old age, and had thrown Jack out of the family home and told him to fend for himself. Hunger had forced Jack to steal, and then steal again, until a narrow escape from being caught while robbing an angry pie merchant had led him to take refuge in the greenwood. Through all those years, and the ones that followed, he had never forgotten the humiliating incident in the Templar preceptory, or the irrational belief that the Order had somehow been the cause of all his misfortune. How many times had he fervently prayed for heaven to give him an opportunity to take his revenge? Now his prayers had been answered and requital was at hand. And, if providence smiled on him further, not only would he have the Templar in his power, but also that thorn in his side, Fulcher. His mouth stretched into a smile as he contemplated such a coup.
Twenty-four
Godfroi De Ournay had not accepted Richard Camville’s invitation to join the armed party that was following in Bascot’s wake. He had given the condition of
his horse as an excuse for declining. The animal had indeed become slightly lame on the last leg of the journey from Boston, but Godfroi had checked on him earlier that day and had found the tenderness in his mount’s foreleg almost disappeared. He could, in any case, most probably have secured the loan of a horse from the Camville stables, but had left Richard before his friend could offer one.
The real reason he had refused to accompany the sheriff and his men had been that he had wanted some time alone, to think. Ever since he had spoken to the Templar and had been told of the suspicion that Hubert had been involved in, or had knowledge of, a plot against the king, his mind had been in a whirl. Although he had vociferously denied the charge to the Templar, and to Richard Camville when the sheriff’s son had asked about it, both denials had been a lie. Inwardly he cursed his dead half brother. Hubert had plagued them all his short life, always whining and complaining, and now, even in death, his well-remembered nasal voice threatened the peace of his family. Godfroi got up and replenished the wine cup from which he had been drinking with the contents of a flask kept beside the bed in the small cramped chamber he was sharing with Richard. As he took another swallow of the vintage, Godfroi thought back to the time, some months ago, when Hubert had been on a visit to his mother at the de Tournay manor house in Boston. William Camville had often given the boy leave to go home for a short space-most probably glad to be rid of him for a while-but this time neither he nor his brother Ralph had been aware of Hubert’s presence until it was too late.
They had been ensconced in an upstairs chamber when he had arrived and it was not until Ralph had gone outside to use the garderobe that they had discovered Hubert lingering outside the door. Their half brother had made out that he had just arrived and been preparing to knock when Ralph had opened the door, but both Godfroi and Ralph had wondered afterwards if he had been listening to their conversation. Hubert’s play of innocence had reassured them and they had thought of it no more. But Godfroi was thinking of it now, and cursed his half brother once again.
He got up and strode to the arrow slit high in the wall that served as a window for the chamber. His vantage point looked south, the direction from which King John would come. His thoughts raced, trying to untangle the reason for Hubert’s murder. Had the lad, as he and Ralph had at first suspected, eavesdropped on their conversation and discovered that they were privy to a plan being hatched in the northern part of the kingdom to overthrow John and place Arthur on the throne? If that conversation had been the basis for the barely concealed innuendos Hubert had apparently been so fond of spouting, it was likely that the murderer was someone who had also been party to the plot, and had killed their half brother to still his wagging tongue. If that was so, had Hubert been murdered soon enough, before he had revealed Godfroi and Ralph’s names to any who would betray them?
Godfroi felt cold sweat break out on his brow, from where it dripped and ran into his eyes, as he thought of what his fate would be if the king became aware of their treachery. That the proposed plot had come to nothing would matter little. John was not like his dead brother, King Richard. He did not have a forgiving nature, nor did he trust lightly. Godfroi swallowed the rest of his wine, then poured himself yet another cup. He must hope the de Tournay brothers’ secret had died with Hubert and prayed, with all his heart, that his half brother’s murderer would not be caught.
To the north of the oak where Bascot waited with Fulcher, Alain and Renault were crowded close behind William Camville on the western side of the river. Sherwood was a vast forest, spreading over a good portion of Nottinghamshire, but its eastern edge splayed out like an inkblot, touching the banks of the Trent in more than one place, as it did in the area they were now in, where the forest abutted the river for a stretch of roughly two miles. Its writ was in the province of the sheriff of Nottingham but it was unlikely he would complain about their trespass for, not only was he a friend of Gerard’s, he would also welcome the capture of any of the brigands that continually plagued his territory.
The small group led by the sheriff’s brother also included Roget, Tostig and the young forester Eadric; the woodsmen having been ordered to accompany them so that they could help guide William’s men through the forest. Tostig was mounted, with Eadric riding pillion behind him. Both men carried bows. They had all forded the river just moments before.
“We must try to work our way close to where the Templar is without signalling our presence to the outlaws,” William said. “We must catch them before they retreat into the forest. Our mounts will hamper us once we are amongst the trees and we will be sure targets for any arrows loosed from their cover. Are there any trails, Tostig, that we can use?”
“None that I know of, my lord,” Tostig answered.
William Camville shook his head in irritation and Renault, who had been studying the stretch of riverbank that wound to the south of where they stood, said, “My lord, the river is shallow as it runs close to the bank on this side. Could we not walk our horses in the water for a space? It would cover any sound of our approach and would get us nearer to the Templar.”
William considered this, then asked Tostig how far it was to the spot where Bascot was to take Fulcher.
“A little under half a league, my lord. But the river turns close to the place, and to the outlaws’ advantage, for it curves eastwards. If we are in the water, we cannot get too near before we will be seen. And the river deepens at the bank not far from here. It would be treacherous for the horses.”
William hunched forward to lean with both hands on the raised front of his saddle and gaze at the turbulent expanse of water. “A good thought, Renault, but unfortunately one we cannot use. We must make our way through the forest and lead our mounts; otherwise, their passage will be heard long before we are seen.”
“My lord Camville,” Eadric spoke up hesitantly, “I know the woods on this side a little better, perhaps, than Tostig, for I was in the employ of one of the king’s agisters for Nottingham before I came to Lincoln.”
William swung around to the young woodward. “If you know something that may help us, speak up,” he commanded.
Eadric’s fair face flushed with embarrassment, but he answered the baron without hesitation. “There is a path, lord, only a little way from where we stand. It is a deer track, but a well-used one. We would still have to lead the horses, but could make much better time than by a winding course through the trees.”
“Good man,” William said. “That is the way we will go. And we will have to hurry. It will be dusk soon and I would lief have these outlaws secure in our hands before darkness falls. Lead on, Eadric.”
Bascot gazed once more across the river at Gianni. The boy was still staring at him intently, his gaze locked to the place where Bascot stood. The Templar let his eye stay on the boy a moment and, as he did so, he saw Gianni raise his shoulders in a peculiar hunching motion, then let them drop. As Bascot watched, the boy did it again. The reeve’s nephew, Edward, who still had hold of Gianni’s arm, shook him for the movement, but the boy defiantly did it again, earning himself a cuff on the ear from his captor. Bascot saw Edward’s lips move in what must have been an admonishment to stand still.
Gianni was trying to convey something, Bascot thought. Because the boy was mute, they had long conversed by means of hand or body signals, even after Bascot had taught Gianni to read and write. But this movement was one which he had not used for a long time, not since those early days when the Templar had first come across the boy. It had been an instinctive gesture, both as a measure to sum up courage and, at the same time, a tensing of the muscles to withstand any blow that may have been aimed at him. It had always presaged the lad’s intention to run, to flee whatever threatening situation he found himself in. He had done it often in the first days of being in Bascot’s company, and it had slowly lessened as the Templar had earned his trust. Afterwards, many weeks later, Bascot had teased him about it, especially when he had given the boy some task that was disagreeable, such
as the painstaking job of polishing his mail with an abrasive mixture of sand and vinegar. It had been a long time since he had seen Gianni hunch his shoulders in that particular way, preparing for flight. But he was doing it now, trying to tell his master something. Bascot hoped he was interpreting it correctly.
Bascot hauled on the rope still attached to Fulcher and pulled the outlaw upright. “Can you swim, poacher?” he asked.
The brigand looked up in surprise and nodded.
“How well?” Bascot asked.
“My father was an eeler. I could swim before I could walk.”
“And do you know this stretch of the river?”
“As well as the palm of my own hand.”
Bascot leaned down. “I will give you your chance to take this Green Jack to hell with you, or to escape, if that is what you prefer.” At the look of distrust that appeared on Fulcher’s lacerated face, the Templar went on. “I do not give a damn if you were responsible for the squire’s death, nor do I care if you take deer that belong to the sheriff, the king, or even God. I care only to get back my servant, unharmed.”
Under cover of his shield Bascot withdrew the short dagger he had at his belt and held it up. “This is yours if you do as I say. I will put it in my boot and you may take it when the time is right. Betray me and you will find it in your throat.”
Fulcher looked at the face above him, the leather eyepatch glistening with water, the one sighted eye so pale a blue it seemed transparent. Slowly the outlaw nodded in assent. “For a chance to see Green Jack sent to his grave I would face the jaws of hell twice over.”
Bascot straightened, a grim smile on his face. “Then tell me the lie of the riverbed as it passes here.”
In the forest on the eastern bank of the Trent, Gerard Camville and his men waited. The sheriff was impatient; he had two of his archers stationed near the river’s edge, staggered one behind the other, to relay to him what was passing at the spot where the Templar and Fulcher stood, but so far he had only been told of an exchange of words and the appearance of the boy and some of his captors on the far side of the water. Beside him, his son, Richard, felt his father’s mood, but he knew his sire’s temper. No matter how restless he seemed, he would wait until he gauged the moment right. It was one of Gerard Camville’s greatest assets. The powerful coil of anger that seemed to be ever present in his personality was always in danger of erupting, and often did, but on the battlefield he controlled it, having an innate perception of timing and an almost eerie knowledge of the moment when an enemy was weakest.
