Blood Moon (23 page)

But things were about to get worse. As I scra
bbled about trying to extricate myself I must have dislodged the soil above me for something dropped out of it and landed with a plop on my shoulder. I shuddered for out of the corner of my eye I could make out a bony white hand and as I slowly turned my head I found to my horror that I was staring at a skull that was grinning back at me, its teeth barred and its eye sockets empty - and that’s when I finally I screamed. I admit it, I was stupefied with fear. I was convinced that one of the monsters who lived in the mound had risen up angry at having its final resting place disturbed and was ready to drag me down into whatever heathen hell from where it had just emerged. But by then Onethumb had scrambled nearly down beside me put his fingers to my lips to silence me. We weren’t yet safe from our pursuers.

‘Which one?’ I whispered
, my voice trembling. ‘Which of them is it?’ Please God, I thought, let it not be Rosabel.

With a grimace
Onethumb pulled something from the bushes and thrust it up for me to see. It was the shirt that the skeleton had been wearing. I almost fainted with relief. Whoever this was it could not Rosabel or Raoul or Adelle but someone else who must have been there much longer than a mere few days.

Slowly my breathing returned to normal,
and at last I summoned the courage to look at the skeleton properly. I could see now that it was in fact old, picked clean by time and the little creatures of the forest. He – for from its clothing it was undoubtedly male - was perched on the seat of a cart which had been pulled by a mule whose own skeleton was still harnessed to the front and bleached as white as the driver’s. The entire contraption must have been swallowed up by the ditch and then lost from view as with time the forest grew up and enveloped it. It seemed the driver must have done the same as I had done only he had fallen to his death probably by the jolt as he landed instead of sliding gently as I did. My trembling fingers felt around the back of the neck and confirmed my suspicion: It was broken. At least his death would have been quick. His mule, however, had not been so fortunate. Still manacled to the cart and unable to escape, it must have slowly starved to death over many days struggling hopelessly to free itself while the eyes of the dead driver looked unseeingly on. The cart itself was remarkably intact, its load of hemp rope still secure on the back destined for a delivery that was never to be made. He seemed to me like a harbinger from Hades bringing his load of death into the world and I shuddered at the thought.

And I was still shaking as I scrambled back up the slope aided by Onethumb. It was
then I realised I must have lost both my boots in the descent. That would have been bad enough but I had lost hold of my satchel and our own precious cargo of food and water was also at the bottom of the ditch and had now disappeared from view. Short of descending again there was no way we were going to find it. Nor was it wise for us to try for as Onethumb pointed out, we must have made a dreadful racket as we crashed about not helped by my screams. We needed urgently to get away before our pursuers or some other unsavoury opportunist came along. But in this we were already too late. Onethumb tapped me on the shoulder and pointed further down the slope to a distant figure on horseback - a lone rider just standing and watching us, his white tabard and chain mail glinting in the afternoon sunlight. I caught my breath. Was this perhaps the “angel” mentioned by Hervey’s friend and the tramp at Mother Han’s? One of de Saye’s men? Fortunately he was too far away across the gorge to reach us which was presumably why he didn’t try. But he clearly wanted us to see him. It was surely just a question of time before we saw him again.

*

We managed to scuttle further into the forest but the deeper in we went the denser became the undergrowth the more disorientated we became and without boots my feet were being torn to shreds. We had to hold up while I ripped my undergarments into strips and with leaves and twigs wrapped them around my bleeding ankles – no time for modesty. But linen was no substitute for leather and soon I was having to stop and make more. By now it was getting dark again and a penetrating fog had descended to confuse us even more. We were lost, tired, hungry, cold and with no possible hope of escape. The fog might have worked in our favour for as well as shielding us from view it might mask the smoke from a fire. Whether it did or not and we were discovered by our mysterious white angel surely a swift blade through the brain was more merciful than slowly freezing to death. But along with everything else I had dropped my fire-striker when I fell into the hollow and without it we had no means of making a spark. I was close to despair and was seriously thinking that Onethumb might be better going on without me. Younger and fitter than I, he might just make it out of this maze alive. Better that than we should end up dying alone with only yards separating us.

It was then that they began arriving, dropping silently from the trees above our heads and landing on soft, practised feet. As soon as we knew they were here we were up on our feet
and ready to fight but by then it was already too late. Onethumb tried to run but was knocked sprawling to the ground. I didn’t even bother to try realising I had no hope of escape. A knife was at my throat and I muttered a silent prayer to a merciful God for a quick death certain our last minutes on earth had arrived.

Chapter
24

THE MEN OF THE
FOREST

‘Who
are you?’ The man’s breath was foul against my ear.

‘Pilgrims,’ I coughed. ‘We’re pilgrims.’

‘Pilgrims my arse!’

There were five of them and they easily overwhelmed us. Having forced us to our knees three then went off somewhere, I guessed to check that we were alone, leaving two to guard us.
Did they need any more? We were easy pray and no mistake. But who were they? Not de Saye’s men and not the king’s either, more’s the pity. They looked as though they had been living rough for some time, their clothes were rags and from the smell of them they could have done with a good dowsing. They all wore masks covering their eyes but I took hope from that for if they intended to kill us why bother hiding their faces? My fear was that they would rob us and then leave us tied up here to die of cold and hunger.

‘We don’t know who you are and we don’t care,’ I braved hopefully. ‘Look I have my eyes closed so I cannot see your faces. You can take all we have, we won’t resist.’

It wasn’t much of an offer. We hadn’t much to begin with and most of what we’d brought was now at the bottom of the ravine.

The foul-breathed man swaggered over to me and stuck his face in mine. ‘
You
don’t tell
us
.
We
tell
you
.’ Then he started pulling at my robe. ‘I’ll, er, have this for a start.’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

He unsheathed his knife and waved it threateningly in front of my nose. ‘Did you hear me? I said take it off!’

Still I shook my head. ‘Out of the question.’

He grabbed the back of my head and pressed the blade against my windpipe breathing his foul breath into my nostrils and making me flinch. I wasn’t sure which I feared the most - the knife or his breath.

‘You may slit my throat,
but you still wouldn’t get my robe.’

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘Because you’ve just tied my hands together.’ I lifted them up to show him.

For a moment he seemed unsure of what to do next. Fortunately the other man who had been holding onto Onethumb now pulled off his mask, and falling on his knees he clasped his hands together in supplication.

‘Oh God, a monk. I knew it! I knew it! Oh God!’

And then to my astonishment he started to moan -
in Latin.
I looked at him with interest. What sort of cutthroat moans in Latin?

Thankfully this made Foul-breath release his grip on my neck and dance over to the man. ‘
Stop it,’ he growled at him. ‘Get up or I’ll slit your throat, too!’

‘
But he’s a monk. Don’t you see? God will smite us if we harm him.’

Foul-breath snorted and kicked him making him yelp.
‘God my arse!’

I relaxed a little. ‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘I am
indeed a monk. And I’m on important business. For the abbey. You had better listen to your friend.’

Foul-breath danced back to me. ‘You said you were pilgrims.’

‘Pilgrims of
God
,’ I babbled nonsensically. ‘It’s God’s work we are about. So you had better not harm us or God’s vengeance will be terrible indeed.’

Foul-breath looked around
, his eyeballs rolling. ‘Well,
he’s
not a monk,’ he said pointing his knife at Onethumb. ‘He’s but a cripple. Maybe I’ll slit his throat instead.’

He
danced over to Onethumb and twisted his nose making poor Onethumb squirm silently.

‘Huh! Mute, too.’

Onethumb snapped at the man’s hand making him pull it away.

‘Aggressive little beggar, ain’t he?’
chortled Foul-breath.

‘He’s my manservant,’ I said quickly. ‘And he will desist
when I tell him to – won’t you Onethumb?’ I said forcefully.

‘Onethumb!
’ snorted Foul-breath. ‘What sort of daft name is that?’

‘No worse than Fitchet.’

We all looked round to see the other three had returned – two men and a youth.

F
oul-breath turned angrily to the speaker. ‘No names!’ he snapped. ‘We don’t use names.’

The new man
now removed his mask.

‘Gil,
what are you doing?’ said the youth.

‘It’s all right,
Lena. They’re alone. They’re not the warden’s men.’

Lena
- a girl’s name. Yes, I could see it now: The wide hips and narrow shoulders. So - a girl, a buffoon and a moaner in Latin. These were curious cutthroats indeed.

I was beginning to form a measure of our captors. They were not the desperate hard-men I had initially feared. The one called Gil was clearly the leader, a striking-looking man in his early forties. Then there was the girl,
Lena, perhaps fifteen summers and a pretty face underneath all that filth. What was she, I wondered – Gil’s daughter? Then came Fitchet-foul-breath who kept his mask on covering the top half of his face; and the Latin-speaker who looked and sounded like a defrocked priest. Finally there was the fifth man, the only one who said nothing at all but glared at everyone. I found him the most worrying for as my mother never tired of telling me, it is always the emptiest pots that rattled the loudest - meaning me usually. I wondered what burden this silent man carried around with him that might suddenly burst out and engulf us. I would have to keep a watchful eye on him.

For now, though, it was Fitchet who was concerning me most for he seemed to have taken a fancy to Onethumb. He remained squatting in front of the boy studying him intently. In truth, I was less worried about what Fitchet would do to Onethumb than what Onethumb might do to him.
I prayed it wouldn’t be enough to get his own throat cut.

‘I like this one,’ said the grinning Fitchet. ‘Can I keep him?’

He got his answer to that: Onethumb spat in his face. I winced, but Fitchet merely wiped the saliva from his cheek leaving behind a smudge of clean pockmarked flesh.

‘We are travellers, sir,’ I announced boldly to our “host”, Gil. ‘We wish you no harm merely to resume our journey. If you’ll point us in the right direction we’ll be on our way and will bother you no further.’

‘Travellers, eh? What sort of travellers enter the forest with no food, no weapons and…’ he pointed at my bandaged feet. ‘No boots.’

I looked down
at my bedraggled and bleeding feet. ‘I had boots. I lost them.’

Gil nodded. ‘And you made enough noise about
losing them in that gulley to bring the soldiers down on all of us. We’ve been watching you ever since you arrived, going round in circles.’

Ah,
so that was the reason they attacked us - fear that we would expose them.

‘I apologi
ze,’ I grimaced. ‘We are not used to the ways of the forest.’

‘All right,’ he nodded.
‘So why are you here? Why did you leave the road?’

I shrugged. ‘Because of the soldiers. We could not get passed.’

‘They let the king’s men pass.’

At this news my heart leapt, for if the king’s men were indeed still in the area we might yet be able to get to them – if only we could get away from these people first.

‘Why are the soldiers here?’ asked Gil curiously. ‘Do you know?’

‘No
idea,’ I said rather too quickly and smiled a little too carelessly.

He smiled
too. I could see it was not going to be easy to pull the wool over this man’s eyes.

Fitchet, true to his name, was growing agitated with all the chatter. ‘I
say we slit their throats. Simplest done least said.’

Once again the Latin-speaker, God save
the blessed man, came to our rescue: ‘No Gil, for pity sake. We are not murderers.’

‘No, we won’t slit their throats.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘You are making the right decision.’

‘At least, not till I’ve found out what they want.’ He nodded to Fitchet. ‘Bind them. We’ll take them back to camp.’

‘No, wait – please!’ I implored him. ‘It is vital we continue our journey.’ I wanted to find the king’s men before they finally disappeared.

‘Soon as I know why you’re here.’

‘But I’ve told you already!’ I insisted.

‘Funny. I don’t believe you.’

He tied a rag round my eyes, stuffed a gag in my mouth and started to push me ahead of him.

‘This one won’t need a gag,’ Fitchet giggled and prodded Onethumb
in the ribs with his knife. ‘He can’t cry out whatever’s done to him.’

We walked – or rather, stumbled – blindfolded for an hour or more until I was exhausted and totally disorientated. If they let us go right now we would never find our way again. We could be half way back to Bury for all I knew - or half way to London. But at last we came to a halt, our blindfolds were removed and I looked about us. It was dark by now but when the clouds parted and the moon bathed everything in its eerie glow I could see that we were in a small clearing. It looked pretty much like every other clearing we had traversed that day, empty. Then at a signal from Gil the very ground beneath our feet seemed to come alive: Bushes rose up, earth banks moved and trees buckled over.

‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed with delight. ‘You live underground!’

‘Don’t get any ideas about remembering it,’ growled Fitchet flashing his knife again.

‘Oh, I won’t,’ I assured him. ‘
Ask him. I’m hopeless at that sort of thing,’ I said pointing at Onethumb.

Gil prodded me through a gap in the undergrowth that had opened up. Once inside this “door” closed behind us and I found we were in the middle of a small but well-organised stockade. It was still open to the sky but invisible from ground level. Impressive as it was and comfortable it was no substitute for a real home. Some might say the life of a monk is harsh but at least when I wake in the morning I am secure in the knowledge that a good stout wall surrounds me and where my next meal will come from. Still, out here in the greenwood they had the freedom of the unfettered with no lord to censure them but God – so long as they remained at liberty, of course.

There was a fire in the middle of the camp and an old woman tending it. I guessed she wasn’t the only one for I had the feeling that we were being watched with eyes all around us. I guessed there must be more womenfolk about and children but I thought it better not to enquire. It was like an entire secret community here in the greenwood and I have to admit I was impressed. Whatever the old woman was cooking made me realise just how hungry I was. Neither Onethumb nor I had eaten since that morning’s hunk of stale bread. They sat us down on the ground and tied our feet together but left our hands free so that he could eat the feast. And what a feast it was made all the tastier for knowing it was the king’s venison we were eating.

Over the next few hours I grew more and more to like the look of this man called Gil. He was intelligent and well-versed, not at all the ruffian I first took him to be. I could not begin to imagine what circumstance could have led such a man to his present predicament. But now with our bellies full and a warm fire at our backs we were beginning to relax enough to chatter, and I seemed to be the one doing the chattering. The beer, too, was good and pretty soon I was telling him all about why we were here, our miracle escape, the dreaded de Saye, the meeting in the abbey church, the demands of the barons and the oath to force the king if he refused. He listened to all without comment until I’d finished.

‘There’ll be no justice in
England while there are lords and kings,’ Gil said quietly.

I snorted. ‘Well that’s just plain silly. How can a people be governed except by a king and his council?’

‘Your abbey has no monarch until a new abbot is elected.’

‘Exactly – and look at the mess we’re in.’

‘Perhaps you should elect your own abbot.’

‘Oh, we’ve tried that
, I said yawning. The king won’t have it.’