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.
I
N
B
ALDWIN’S CHAMBER
O
SBERT 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 enough 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.
F
ULCHER 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.
“I am sure the sheriff is not far behind and will put men both above and below the spot where the oak grows,” the forester said. “Give him a little time to get them into position, then move up. I will go and join them. May God grant you good fortune.”
With these abrupt words the forester turned his horse and within a moment was gone, the rain-darkened flank of his horse disappearing like a wraith into the curtain of mist.
Fulcher, who had finally tumbled from the pony when they halted, knelt motionless on the ground, head hung on his chest and breath coming in great shuddering gulps. He got reluctantly to his feet when Bascot prodded him with his sword. The Templar felt no pity for the man; his whole being was intent on freeing Gianni, on discovering if the boy was safe and well. His mind dare not dwell on the possibility that the lad could be injured or dead and might perhaps be lying deep in Sherwood for the wolves to find. He thought only of the boy as he had last seen him, alive and happy, and concentrated on keeping that image in front of him.
As they neared the tree, Fulcher stumbled forward on his feet, leaving the pony behind. Bascot scanned the forest on the other side of the river as best he could, cursing the loss of half his vision. The oak was dripping moisture onto the sodden mass of fallen leaves at its base; the very air was drenched with wetness. The river itself was in full spate, water rushing in tiny wavelets against the drooping grasses and reeds at its edge as the flow in midstream eddied into small currents that broke and ran before they were fully formed. Bascot knew that the Trent was a river that had a tidal bore which had the capability of becoming frightening at full intensity. When it rose to its peak it was called the Aegir, after a Norse sea giant, and he had been told of the damage it could do. Although the bore usually only swelled to full power in the spring, it had been known to happen after a heavy rainfall, and he prayed that it would not let loose such a monster today, not if he was to get Gianni across from the other side.
When they reached the base of the tree, Fulcher once again fell to his knees, then rolled over onto his side and lay like a man dead. He had not spoken one word throughout the journey, had not seemed interested in his fate then, nor did he now, with closed eyes and scant regard for the water that streamed down upon his bruised and ragged figure. Bascot eased his horse away from the brigand, the better to see around the trunk of the huge tree, and flexed the fingers of his left hand before easing the strap on his shoulder that bore the weight of his shield. Water dripped from the end of the nose guard on his helm, running in streams from the rim of the conical steel cap he wore over his hood of mail. He felt the dampness of moisture that had gathered under his eyepatch and shook his head to free it and his sighted eye from obstruction. His surcoat was wet through, only the padded leather gambeson he wore underneath his hauberk saving his skin from the dankness, and raindrops glistened on the hilt of his sword and the mane of his horse. The animal also shook its head, and emitted a loud snort in protest at the weather, but it made no other movement except for an impatient lift and kick of a hind leg, after which it stood still, seeming as wretched as its surroundings.
For nearly half the part of an hour Bascot stood there, watching and listening. The river was narrow at this point, perhaps thirty or forty yards across, and looked shallow. Bascot thought it was likely to be fordable here, the place having perhaps been used in the past for toll passage and so was the reason it had been called a crossing in the note sent by the brigands who had Gianni. His thought was prompted by the remains of a raft-like construction standing near the river’s edge, a collapsed pile of broken planks from which a short hank of rope, ancient and rotting, lay coiled in the reeds. Nonetheless, traversing the narrow expanse of water might soon prove difficult for, as time passed, the roar of the river grew in magnitude and the rush of the current swifter, as though it was in turmoil. Then, through the growl of angry water, the Templar heard what sounded like a shout and he saw a movement among the trees opposite him.
“Ho! Templar!” The call came from a man standing at the edge of the screen of trees. He was dressed in murky brown and had a bow strung and at the ready in his hands.
Bascot raised his arm to show that he had heard and edged his horse closer to the bank.
“Bring Fulcher over,” the outlaw called to him. “We will give you the boy once our comrade is safe on this side.”
Bascot took his time in answering. Behind the lone man he could discern what seemed to be the shapes of one or two other men, but they were well concealed in the trees and he could not be sure that what he saw was anything more than the blurring of tangled bushes distorted by the screen of rain.
Finally he made an answer. “Where is my servant? I will do nothing until I see him alive and well.”
A few moments of silence passed before there was some stirring in the undergrowth and two figures appeared at the edge of the clear space where the archer stood. Bascot recognised one as Edward, the nephew of the reeve at the village where he had questioned the dairymaid. The other was Gianni, his hands tied in front of him and his arm firmly held in the grasp of the reeve’s nephew. It appeared his feet had been hobbled also, for he stumbled as he came into sight and moved forward with small hesitant steps.
Bascot felt his stomach contract at the sight of the boy. He looked so small and slight beside the bulk of his captor, his head bare, curls a dark wet rumpled mass and eyes peering intently in Bascot’s direction, as though he could send him a message with his mind.
Bascot nodded once, then tugged on the rope that was tied to the brigand lying on the ground. Fulcher groaned and struggled to his feet, then spoke softly.
“Templar, it is not me that Green Jack wants; it is you and the fine ransom you will bring. Do not trust him. Once I am on the other side, he will slit my throat and take you captive. Have a care.”
Bascot looked down at the outlaw. “Green Jack? Is he the leader of these men? The one who sent me the note?”
Fulcher nodded. “It can be no one else. This is his stretch of forest.”
“I do not understand. You say he will kill you. Are you not a
compagno
to this Green Jack? Why else would he risk such a venture as stealing my servant if he did not value your life?”
Fulcher grinned, his mouth distorted by the lumps and bruises that littered his face. “I do not know how it came about, but I do know that Green Jack values no life but his own. If he lets me live, he knows I will kill him.”
The outlaw gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It is of no matter to me, Templar. I will either die here or dangling from a rope by order of the sheriff. I would rather have taken Green Jack to hell with me, but if I do not have his company perhaps the Devil will greet me easier.” He gave a deep sigh. “It is up to you; do as you will.”
Bascot eyed the river. It was a short space across and it looked as though it would not reach the height of his horse’s shoulders at the middle. He could drag Fulcher across by securing him to his saddlebow, but the danger came on the other side, where he would be surrounded by the outlaws he was sure were secreted in the forest behind Gianni and the men on the bank. For all that he was equipped with mail and sword, if there were too many of them, it was likely he would be overcome. If Fulcher spoke true, and he was the target of this whole escapade, then both he and the boy would be at the mercy of this Green Jack, despite any effort of Camville, or his men-at-arms, to save them. For himself, it would be a matter of fighting, but Gianni would be helpless and, if the brigands were attacked by the sheriff’s men, he could easily be killed in the resulting battle.
Bascot looked again at the rotted planks and threadbare rope. The sight reminded him of a day when he had been barely more than a toddler on his father’s fief on the south coast of England. There had been a boat that day too, lying on the shingled beach that was not far from the keep that stood high on the headland, a watching post for invaders from the sea. On the day he remembered, he had been with his father and two older brothers. He had been carried aloft on his father’s shoulders as they had taken the path down to the beach, but when they had arrived on the shore, he had been placed in the boat and his father had rowed the little craft out a short way into the small bay that curved around the landing place. His two brothers had stood on the strand, watching, their faces alive with merriment. Bascot had not understood their amusement, but recalled how he had joined in their laughter as they watched him being taken out into the midst of the waves that rolled in from the sea.
When they were a short distance from the shore his father had shipped the oars and let the boat drift. He had pulled Bascot up onto his knee and said, “You are a de Marins, Bascot. You come from a long line of ancestors who have fought and earned glory from battles upon the sea. Always our keeps have been within sight and sound of the ocean. It is our protector and, at the same time, our enemy. To be a true son of our line you must live up to our name of de Marins—the mariners—and that means you must learn to be as one with the sea, not only to swim in it, but to feel its strength, learn its comfort and respect its terrors. And there is only one way to do that, my son, and that is to meet it as though in battle, to both conquer it and care for it as though it were your serf.”
With these words, Bascot’s father had thrown him over the side of the boat and into the water. The Templar still remembered the shock of the waves closing over his head, how he had sunk down, his breath involuntarily held as he watched tiny bubbles of air that had been trapped within the folds of his small tunic float to the surface. Then he had tried to breathe and water had flooded into his nostrils, gushed into his mouth as he had opened it in a vain attempt to take in air, and he had felt the saltiness of the water sting the back of his throat and make his stomach heave. Without thought, he had pushed upwards, pumping his legs furiously in a desperate attempt to reach the light shining on the surface above him. When his head broke through, he took great gulps of air, unconsciously working his arms in conjunction with his legs to keep his body afloat.
As his vision had cleared and his breathing steadied he had heard his father’s great booming laughter. “Well done, my son. You are a true de Marins, just like your brothers. Now you have all fought the sea and made her your servant. She is the hardest enemy you will ever fight, but she is also the greatest ally in all of the world, and you are worthy of her.”
After his father had pulled him back into the boat and taken him to join his brothers, Bascot realised that both of them, too, had been subjected to the same treatment. That day he had been proud of himself, and of his family, but in later times he had wondered what his father would have done if he had not been able to swim. Would he have been left to drown, or been saved and then shunned as an outcast?
Bascot looked across at Gianni. He loved the boy like a son. No ordeal was necessary to prove that. Somehow he would get the youngster away from the outlaws and back to the safety of Lincoln castle, even if it cost his own life to do it. He looked once more at the river. Perhaps the trial his father had put him through had not been wasted. At the moment, the river gave the brigands an advantage, but there might be a way that he could use it for his own purposes and so turn the stretch of water, as his father had said, into his ally rather than his foe. A mirthless smile stretched his mouth. How his father would have applauded his notion.