Winter Siege (11 page)

The search for Ramon ended at Cainhoe. The village itself had been razed, but a string of corpses hanging from the battlements of a castle overlooking it from a Bedfordshire hilltop were not those of massacred inhabitants.

Gwil spent so long looking upwards that the castle gatekeeper peered out through the grille in the door at him. ‘Friends of yourn?’

Gwil pointed. ‘I’m hoping as that black-haired bastard there is the one as stole a bloody crossbow off me.’

‘Crossbow, eh? Lucky that’s all he stole. Want a closer look?’

Up on the ramparts, Gwil was able to peer down at the heads below. The eyes had been pecked out by crows and the flesh of the faces was in strips, but the long, raven-black hair of Ramon was unmistakable.

‘Thought we was easy pickings, they did,’ the gatekeeper said with satisfaction. He was a jolly man, made jollier by the rotting bunting strung along the walls.

The castle, it appeared, was one of several owned by the D’Albini family. Usually it was unoccupied except for a few servants, but on the day of Ramon’s raid old Sir Nigel D’Albini and some of his men had just arrived in it from putting down a rebellion against Stephen, intending to rest and recoup before setting out again. ‘We didn’t even have time to raise the flag to show Sir Nigel was in residence, see, so them bastards must’ve thought the castle wasn’t manned. ’N fact our lads hadn’t proper got out of their armour before we heard screams from the village and saw it was afire.’

With D’Albini’s bowmen letting fly from the allure and his men-at-arms pouring through the gates, Ramon with his fewer mercenaries had been routed, captured and hanged. ‘But not afore we had some fun with ’em.’ The gatekeeper’s grin was evil.

‘Was there a monk with ’em?’ Gwil wanted to know.

‘Monk? Never saw no monk. What’d a monk be doing with a gang like that? Never saw no crossbow, neither.’

‘What about booty? I heard they’d been robbing churches.’

‘Some. Not much, couple of chalices, bit of gold plate. Nothing to say where they come from, so I reckon as his lordship’ll regard ’em as treasure trove.’

There’d been more than that carried by the gang’s pack mules when they’d left Ely. Either Ramon had stashed the treasure somewhere, or the monk had got away with it. Gwil’s money was on the monk; Ramon had been no match for that crafty bastard.

News of arrivals in the castle had got around, and Gwil and Penda were taken to the hall to be interviewed by Sir Nigel D’Albini, a man with a face seamed like ancient leather. ‘Crossbowman, eh? I could do with you in my service.’

‘Kind of you, my lord,’ Gwil said, ‘but the lad and me, we’re on a quest, like.’ The last thing he needed was to rejoin the war; he had to think of an excuse. ‘There was a monk with those as stole from me. He was with the renegades, but he ain’t one of them hanging out there, so we still need to find him.’ He glanced anxiously at Penda; would she remember that a monk had been one of her rapists? Apparently not; the girl was looking around her with interest, as if she’d never been in a knight’s hall before. Which, Gwil supposed, she hadn’t.

The explanation was accepted, even approved; Sir Nigel was an eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth man. Nor had he a liking for the monastic system. ‘Monks.’ He spat. ‘Bloody leeches, even the best of ’em. God aid you in finding him, then. Send him to Hell from me.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

They were invited to spend the night. The next morning, because there were archery butts in the castle tiltyard, Gwil took the opportunity to give himself and Penda some practice before they left. He’d given in and let the girl try the new crossbow with which she was becoming as adept as with the standard yew bow he’d made for her.

D’Albini came out to watch. ‘That’s fancy shooting,’ he said. ‘You two should give exhibitions. When you’ve found your man, come back.’

‘What’s ex’bitions, Gwil?’ Penda asked as they set out.

‘Mummery and such.’ Gwil had a low opinion of it. ‘Fire-eaters, jugglers and the like showing off their skills to amuse lords on feast days.’

‘What’s fire-eaters? What’s jugglers?’

When she’d absorbed the concept, Penda was quiet for a time. Then she said: ‘That old man said as
we
was skilled.’

‘Better than most, but don’t you get proud now. Ruins your aim, getting too proud does.’

‘Do they pay, these exhibitions?’

‘Suppose they must. Low way of living, though.’

‘Like our money. You said that was getting low. It’d be a way of getting about, Gwil, and we could ask if anybody’d seen a monk with your crossbow.’

He looked at her; in her eagerness she’d tugged at his sleeve, the first time she’d ever touched him. Bless her, did she think the crossbow was the be-all and end-all in his hunt for the monk?

Give it up, Gwil
, God said.
Take her back to Brittany with you
.

‘And do what, Lord?’

Make a home for her. She can’t wander for ever, not dressed as a boy. It’s not natural and one of these days she’ll remember
…

‘Maybe she will, maybe she won’t, but it ain’t natural what they did to her, neither. What that monk did … he ought to suffer.’

Vengeance is mine, Gwil. He’ll suffer when he gets to Hell, I’ll see to that
.

It wasn’t enough. Gwil saw his life, what life he had left, stretching in front of him, unfulfilled, wondering what the monk was doing, whether he was prospering, praying with steepled hands, chanting, being lauded for his sanctity, and all the time his sin seeping from him like filth, miring other young red-headed girls with its slime.

Then, and only then, did it occur to him that the thought of the monk had propelled his hunt from the beginning.

Ramon and the others? Animals on hind legs. Slaughtered animals now. The true monstrosity was the beast dressed in holy robes, an abnormality unfit to live.

‘And there’s a link between us, Lord,’ he said. ‘It was in the girl’s hand. You left the quill case there so’s I could find him through it. You meant it for a sign. Don’t tell me You didn’t. I know You did.’

God remained silent; He couldn’t wriggle out of that one.

‘You all right, Gwil?’ Penda asked. ‘You’re muttering.’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘
We
could give exhibitions, Gwil. We’d earn money. I hit dead centre every time now. I’m good at it, that old lord said I was. I like shooting.’ Penda’s voice became a deliberate whine. ‘Only thing I do like.’

She’s playing on it, Gwil
, the Lord said.
You’re becoming fond, and she knows it. She’s twisting you.

Yes, she was, but that too, like her affection for bright clothing, showed she was getting better. The dullness that had encased her like the patina on an old sword was beginning to rub off, allowing glimpses of the character beneath. And the talking; although she still shrank from strangers, around him she was almost garrulous and what with her incessant questions, there were times when he was nostalgic for the days when she was mute.

‘Bloody mountebank, that’s what you are,’ he said, grumbling.

‘What’s a mountebank?’

The document in the quill case went untranslated because, though he enquired of lawyers, notaries and priests, Gwil found nobody who could read Greek. His other questioning of everyone he met was treated as laughable. A monk? Monks were two-a-penny; most were confined to their monasteries, but there were enough travelling on monastic business, carrying letters etc., from abbey to abbey, as to make them unremarkable.

‘This one stinks of asafoetida, though,’ Gwil would persist. It was no good; most of those he quizzed wouldn’t have recognized asafoetida if it had been shoved up their nostrils, it being a rare commodity in England. A knowledgeable little apothecary whose shop Gwil ventured into at Bedford was at least informative on the substance, if not the monk.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘so named from the Persian
aza
and the Latin
foetidus
, I’m told, otherwise known as “Devil’s dung” or “stinking gum” for its penetrating odour – it
is
a gum, incidentally, not a spice. I presume the person about whom you are enquiring suffers from flatulence? A splendid specific against flatulence, asafoetida. Also boils.’

‘Where would he get it from?’

‘Well, not from the likes of me; I haven’t got a wealthy enough clientele. It is used in the richer kitchens, of course; I’m told that when cooked properly it can impart a pleasant flavour reminiscent of leeks. Your odorous friend must be using it raw.’

‘Yes, but where’d he
get
it?’

The apothecary shrugged. ‘If he is a religious, presumably from his monastery, which, in turn, would have access to a port trading with the Orient where the gum comes from. London, Southampton perhaps, or any of the East Anglian harbours.’

Ely
. That’s where the bastard had got it from. Ely wasn’t on the coast but was lapped by rivers that led to it. He’d been a monk at Ely, which had enabled him to have the geographical knowledge to betray it.

‘Though,’ the apothecary said, intrigued by the puzzle Gwil had set him and pursuing it, ‘one wouldn’t have thought that an ordinary brother would be able to treat his affliction with asafoetida; too expensive, hardly in keeping with his vow of poverty. There are other, herbal methods, though less effective, of course.’

‘This is no ordinary monk,’ Gwil said grimly.

‘I imagine not. He must hold some position in the monastic hierarchy; those functionaries always do themselves well.’

Before he left the apothecary’s shop, Gwil showed him the document from the quill case. The little man peered at it, shaking his head. ‘I’m a Latinist. I don’t read Greek, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s Greek?’

‘I believe so.’

Out of gratitude, Gwil spent one of his diminishing supply of pennies on a strengthening medicine of motherwort and rosemary for Penda before he left the shop.

Where to go now? Where was the monk making for? Did he need more of that bloody asafoetida? If so, where’d he get it?

Not Ely, that was for sure. He’d never return to Ely, not after what he and the others had done there. He and Ramon had been going
away
from East Anglia before they’d separated, heading south-west, so maybe he was keeping to that same direction. London? Southampton?

There was no more success in finding out what the document said; readers of Greek were rare.

‘Couldn’t you’ve given me more clues, Lord?’ Gwil groaned. ‘A stench and a piece of writing no bugger can decipher, what’s them to track a man down by?’

Stick with them, Gwil, that’s my advice.

At least the immediate problem of where to spend the night had been solved by the apothecary. ‘Try the convent at Elstow, just south of here,’ he’d said, ‘the nuns there take in bona fide travellers.’

They set out smartly; the light was changing, evening was coming on, and it would be too dangerous to camp in the open. After dark, a fire could attract men desperate enough to slit a throat or two for the food cooking over it. So far Penda and Gwil hadn’t been subjected to an attack, but they’d seen what happened to those who had been. Already the road was deserted.

Not quite, though.

From round a bend came the sound of screaming and shouting.

Automatically, Penda and Gwil reached for the bows in their packs, he selecting a bolt from his quiver, she an arrow, before stepping into the shadow of trees on the right-hand verge to begin moving quietly along it.

Five figures were silhouetted against the setting sun; the screams came from a young woman pinioned round the neck by the arm of a thickset man whose other hand ostentatiously waved a knife. His equally big companion was shouting at two slighter men. ‘Cash and quick, or he slits her fucking throat.’

The two archers moved closer while the male victims fumbled in the purses at their waists.

Gwil put his foot carefully in the stirrup and armed the crossbow. ‘Mine’s the one holding the girl,’ he hissed at Penda, ‘you take the other.’ He looked at her; she was breathing heavily, her face white in the gloom of the trees, her grin revealing teeth that were even whiter. ‘Get him in the arse,’ he told her. ‘We ain’t out to kill.’

She nodded.

‘Now.’

Instantly, fletched feathers were sticking out of the shouter’s backside, and the hand of the other man had lost its knife to the end of a bolt which sent it into the trees.

For an open-mouthed second nobody moved, then, as the girl freed herself, one of her companions looped into the air, landed on his hands, and performed another half-loop so that his feet connected with the jaw of the man who’d been holding her, sending him crashing down like a felled tree.

It took some minutes for the three travellers to comprehend that their rescuers weren’t replacing the two robbers in order to rob on their own account, by which time the thieves themselves were hobbling off down the road, the shouter supporting his half-conscious friend on one arm while, with the other hand, groping frantically for the arrow still sticking out of his backside.

As a group, they all looked too disreputable to be invited to attend Evensong when they reached Elstow, though the nuns were prepared to provide bread, cheese, ale and a barn with straw to sleep on. They ate by the light of a candle Gwil produced from his pack.

Pan, Wan and Waterlily still hadn’t finished marvelling. ‘Just to hit the knife,’ Wan said. ‘Didn’t even scrape his fingers, far as I could see. You
were
aiming at the knife?’

‘He don’t ever miss,’ Penda said. Gwil turned to look at her, astonished. It was the first time she had spoken since they met the group and he was relieved to see that the taciturn suspicion with which she had previously regarded them, as she did all strangers, was fading. He was also a little flattered that it had been her pride in him which prompted it.

Pan turned towards her and smiled. ‘And you! An arrow, right plumb in the arse. From that distance!’

‘That’s the bit I liked,’ Waterlily said, clasping her hands in delight. ‘That bastard running off with feathers sticking out of his arse. Keep me warm at nights, that will.’ Gwil watched as a broad grin spread across Penda’s face, like the thaw of spring.