The Love Knot

Chapter 23

There had been a sharp frost overnight and when Oliver stepped out of the alehouse door, he was confronted by a glittering silver dawn. The first breath he drew almost cut his lungs. On the horizon, the rising sun was a hazy orange disc.

Blowing on his hands, he ducked back within the dwelling where Godard was stacking the two straw pallets they had used as beds against the wall of the room. The ale-wife put a jug of hot rosehip tisane on the trestle and two bowls of steaming gruel, each sweetened with a dollop of honey.

'Cold morning, she said. 'You'll not want to ride far without stoking your braziers. Although she addressed both men, her glance was reserved for Godard, to whom she had taken a fancy. Godard, in his turn, seemed quite smitten by the ale-wife — ale-widow to be precise. She was perhaps in her thirtieth summer, with a sheaf of tawny hair bound in a green kerchief, and large bones well-fleshed and buxom. Her name was Edith, in honour of the old King's wife.

'Any more of this fare, mistress, and we'll not want to ride at all, he said gallantly, as he sat down and dipped his spoon.

Oliver watched the exchanges between them and smiled bleakly to himself. Hope sprang eternal. Godard was popular with the keep women in Bristol. Despite his brusque manner, he had a knack of being at ease with his feet beneath a trestle, and he was always willing to hew wood and draw water.

'Do you ride far? she ventured.

Oliver sat down in front of his bowl. 'Ashbury.

She took a besom from the corner and started to sweep the beaten earth floor. 'You're going to hire out as soldiers then?

Oliver shook his head and spooned the thick oat porridge into his mouth. It was by far the best he had tasted, better even than Ethel's. 'No, I was born there. It's a sort of pilgrimage. If he could not possess then at least he could look, and there were graves to be visited.

Edith gave two vigorous sweeps of the birch broom, then rested on the handle to look at him. 'I've lived here all my life, she said. 'This alehouse belonged to my mother before it came to me, so I know everything that goes on hereabouts. If you were born at Ashbury then you must be an Osmundsson.

Godard blinked and gazed at his lord.

Oliver continued to eat his porridge and said nothing.

'You even look like Lord Simon, except your hair is paler and you don't wear a beard. He often stopped here on the road home from Malmesbury, she added.

Sighing, Oliver pushed his bowl aside. 'I am known as Oliver Pascal in Norman company, he said, 'but you are right. Simon was my brother, God rest his soul.

She nodded and narrowed her eyes. 'You're the younger son, the one whose wife died in child-bed.

Oliver inclined his head stiffly. He was wounded enough already without having her curiosity probe at his emotional flesh.

'The rumour is that you were killed on pilgrimage.

'A good reason never to listen to rumour or indulge in gossip, Oliver said curtly and stood up. 'I am whole and alive as you can see.

Edith clutched the broom and put her other hand on her hip. 'If the two of you ride into Ashbury, you won't remain whole and alive for long, she warned. 'Odinel the Fleming will nail your hides to the keep wall.

'Only one of us will be risking his hide, Oliver said. 'I am going alone.

'But my lord, I… Godard began, but was silenced by Oliver's raised hand. 'I need no company for what I have to do. Besides, your very size will mark you out for comment. I am taller than most men but you stand a full handspan above me. Word will fly quickly enough to the keep as it is. You will stay here and wait for me. I'll be back by dusk. 'And if you are not?

Oliver shrugged. 'Ride on. Take the spare horse with my blessing and find another master.

Godard clamped his jaw and looked affronted but he said nothing, or at least not until Oliver had gone to saddle Hero.

'If there is one thing I regret in my life, he said to Edith, 'it is not wringing Louis de Grosmont's good-for-nothing neck when I had the opportunity at Rochester. He has nigh on ruined a man of ten times his own piddling value, and the lives of countless others into the bargain.

Leaving her justifiably bewildered, he stumped off to the privy beside the midden pit.

The sun melted the frost from the open places, but in the hollows it lingered like white, leprous fingers. Oliver rode along the track that had once been familiar territory. Now, although it looked the same, it had changed, for its welfare lay in a stranger's hand; every twig and thorn on every wayside bush, every clod of soil in the ploughed fields. As he rode, Oliver began to wonder if it had been a mistake to make this pilgrimage. The feeling of love and possession for the land was so strong that it filled his eyes. The Welsh had a word for it; hiraeth. There was no parallel term in English or Norman… or Flemish.

Twice he almost turned the grey and headed back to the alehouse, but sheer doggedness kept his hand steady on the bridle. He had come this far; he would honour the graves of his family. At the back of his mind, pretending not to exist, was the treacherous thought that if he made a good enough reconnaissance of the site, Earl Robert might yet be persuaded to give him the troops to regain Ashbury.

The sun climbed a shallow arc in the sky, shedding light but little warmth. It was mid-December, the time when folk remained at their hearths, making, mending, telling stories. Hero's shadow lengthened on the track as man and horse approached Ashbury village. There were other settlements attached to the keep but mainly in the form of hamlets and outlying farms, spread over a distance of fifteen miles. Ashbury itself boasted a population of four hundred inhabitants. A market was held outside the church every other Wednesday, and there were two water mills on the river, one for fulling cloth and the other for grinding corn. There were fisheries too, and the river was wide enough to permit trade by barge. The honour of Ashbury might be small, but it was prosperous — a treasure worth stealing.

The village road was deserted, but dogs soon ran out from the tofts to yap at Hero's heels. A woman came to her door, a cooking ladle in her hand, and watched Oliver ride past. A little girl of about three years peeped out at him from the safety of her mother's skirts. At the village well, more women stood gossiping over their water jars. He recognised a couple of them and pulled the hood of his cloak further forward. While he would have liked nothing better than to draw rein and speak with them, it was too dangerous. He felt their eyes upon his progress and knew that what had been idle chatter as they drew their water would now become serious speculation.

Another hundred yards and a frozen duck pond brought him to the boundary of the old Saxon church, with its solid timber walls and low, square tower. Smoke twirled from the hole in the thatched roof of the priest's house, but no one emerged as Oliver tethered Hero to one of the stockade posts and entered the churchyard.

The grass was grazed short and scattered with sheep drop-pings. At the far boundary, the green turf was wounded by the scars of three recent graves. Winter was the dying time. The old, the weak, the sick succumbed.

Stamping his cold feet, Oliver entered the church. The nave was flagged with heavy squares of stone, some marking burial places. It was deemed a privilege to be laid to rest in the presence of God. To the people who came to pray, walking upon the tombs of the dead was a reminder to prepare their own souls for the afterlife.

Oliver knelt and genuflected to the altar. Two mutton-fat bandies sputtered and gave off the aroma of roasting, rancid lamb, by which sign Oliver knew that Father Alberic still had the living here. He made his own altar candles, only allowing the grand beeswax ones for Holy days. It was more economical, he said, and it gave the people a greater sense of occasion when they were used.

Oliver remained on his knees. The stone beneath him was cold and the bones beneath it probably colder still. His wife, his tiny daughter, and beside them his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents; the passage of time marked by the increasing smoothness of the heavy tomb slabs. All of his line was buried here, saving himself and his brother. Simon had fallen in battle, the last ruling Osmundsson at Ashbury, and Oliver did not know what had become of his mortal remains.

'I swear you are not forgotten, Oliver said, his breath clouding the chapel's wintry greyness. 'While I live, your memory lives too. The forlorn statement echoed off the walls at him. When he was gone there would be no one to remember either him or them. Perhaps he ought to accept Prince Henry's offer of a wealthy heiress, settle down, raise sons and daughters to carry his line and burden another generation with expectations handed down from the past.

He grimaced at the thought and, rubbing his stone-bruised knees, eased to his feet. It was a pilgrimage that he had needed to make, but he felt weary and relieved at a duty performed rather than uplifted and refreshed.

'Lord William? A voice spoke behind him, filled with fear and question.

Oliver spun round and found himself facing the diminutive form of Father Alberic. The elderly village priest boasted almost as many years as Ethel had done. Peering and squinting in his dark brown habit, he resembled a mole. He was quivering like a small animal too.

'No, it is Oliver. Don't you recognise me, Father? Have I changed so much?

The old priest stared for a moment longer, then the tension sighed out of him and his wizened features wrinkled into a smile. 'Master Oliver, by all that is Holy! I thought you were your father returned to life!

Oliver embraced Father Alberic, his nostrils filling with the familiar scent of musty wool and old incense. 'Would that it were so, he said. 'Would that we were all still here.

They parted, although the old man remained close to Oliver, his brow furrowed with the concentration of focusing. 'My eyes are not reliable these days, he said. 'It won't be long before they send a replacement from the abbey and retire me to a corner of the infirmary to mumble my gums. Not that I'll be sorry. It has been difficult of late, very difficult indeed. His folded his hands within his habit sleeves and gave Oliver a troubled look. 'What brings you here? You put yourself in great danger.

Oliver lifted his shoulders. 'I had to come. He lifted his eyes and stared around the bare little church, its one glory a small stained glass window above the altar. It had been presented by his father in celebration of Simon's birth. When the sun shone, it painted the floor with lozenges of jewel-coloured light. 'Do you remember the last time I stood in this place?

Alberic scrubbed the side of his bulbous nose. 'It would be the day you left for the Holy Land, my lord. We had the wax candles then.

Oliver smiled, but the expression was fleeting. Alberic's remark only added poignancy to the pain. 'Simon embraced me and wished me Godspeed. I can still feel his grip on my arm. He looked at the stained window. 'When I returned to England, it was to learn that he was dead and Ashbury in the hands of Stephen's Flemings. I have come to visit his grave, if he has one, and to look again on what is mine by right. Great danger it might be, but like a swallow I return.

The old man pursed his lips, his expression revealing that he understood the sentiment whilst being concerned at its outcome. 'Then you do well to come alone and quietly, he said. 'Lord Odinel is reasonable enough for a Flemish mercenary, but the captain of his garrison is a devil. He made the sign of the cross, his right hand trembling. 'There has been no peace since he came to the keep at Michaelmas. His old voice was suddenly gritty with loathing. 'Come, I sully the church by even speaking of him within these holy walls. Lord Simon does indeed have a grave. I will show you where he is buried.

Stiff with rheumatism, the priest led Oliver out of the church and into the large, oval enclosure. At the far end, near the fresh graves, were three yew trees, and in their shade stood an arched marker of carved yellow sandstone. 'The Fleming would not let him lie in the church with the others, but he did grant him the ground beneath this tree. Young Watkin, the shepherd's lad, was serving his stone-carver's apprenticeship at the abbey and he made the stone. We held a proper funeral for him, did what we could.

'For which I thank you. Again Oliver knelt, this time feeling cold turf under his knees. Father Alberic stood a little to one side, waiting in respectful silence. His face in repose bore a strong resemblance to Etheldreda's.

Bowing his head, Oliver paid homage to his dead brother. They had never been particularly close but neither had they been rivals, the boundaries of their relationship clearly defined and understood by them both. If not for his pilgrimage, Oliver would have fought for Ashbury at Simon's side and this would have been his grave too.

Crossing himself, he stood up and twitched his cloak into place. 'Say masses for my soul and those of my family, he requested, and gave the old priest a small pouch of coins. 'Including Etheldreda of Ashbury.

'She is dead then? Alberic looked at the bag in the palm of his hand.

'It was her time and she was at peace, Oliver said, and thought that he sounded more like a priest than Alberic. 'It was only at the end that I found out about the blood-bond we shared.

Alberic smiled and shook his head. 'My sister was a law, or perhaps a lore, unto herself, God rest her soul. We all knew she was different, but we only loved her the more. He hung the pouch on his belt, his hands trembling slightly. 'Nine children our mother bore, Ethel the eighth, me the ninth, and I'm the only one left to bear witness.

Oliver made a wry face, for he knew exactly how the priest felt. Needing to move, he walked out of the shadows cast by the yews. The fresh graves confronted him, three of them neatly dug in a row.

'You said there had been no peace since Michaelmas. Are these a part of it?

Father Alberic wrinkled his brow. 'Not as such, he said. 'Lambert of the brook was five years older than me with not a tooth in his head. He indicated the first grave as he spoke. 'Winter cold took him in his sleep. Second grave's for Martha, mother of Jeb the swineherd. She turned blue and took with a seizure end of last month.

'She used to work in the hall, scrubbing the trestles. I remember her well. Oliver's mind filled with the vision of a robust woman with a red, shiny face. 'She was young to have a seizure.

'Aye, well, it was because of this. Alberic pointed to the third mound of earth. 'Jeb's daughter, Gifu, her grandchild and only ten years old.

'What happened? Oliver crouched by the grave. It was late in the season, no flowers to be had, but someone had laid a cluster of sweet briar on the soil, the berries a bright blood-red. He knew from Ethel that they were purported to protect the dead and ensure them a peaceful rest.

'No one knows, but everyone suspects, the old man said, kneading his hands together. 'The little lass went into the woods to gather kindling and met with her death. Her father found her drowned in the stream that runs down to the river, but it was no accident and her body had been violated. The entire village raised the hue and cry and soldiers went out from the castle too, but no one has yet been brought to account. He shook his head. 'It was too much for Martha. We buried her three days after we buried Gifu.

'You say everyone suspects? Oliver gave him a sharp look.

The priest sighed. 'Lord Odinel has been absent of late in King Stephen's service, but he has left a strong garrison here. At Michaelmas they came, a dozen soldiers seeking winter quarters. They are war-hardened mercenaries with respect for neither God nor man. Lord Odinel uses them to show that he can rule with an iron fist if necessary. A look of sadness and anger crossed the old man's face. 'He thinks that we will be grateful to him for curbing their worst excesses, but I have yet to see gratitude grow out of fear and loathing.

Oliver rose from the grave side. 'And you think that one of these men killed the girl?

Father Alberic shrugged. 'We have no proof, but most of us are sure of it. The week before Gifu died, one of the keep women who sells her favours to the men was raped by six of them and beaten senseless. I have heard similar tales in the confessional — from witnesses and victims, not the soldiers. I have yet to shrive any one of them. He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. 'But what can we do?

'If I had the men, I would come and put an end to this, Oliver said with cold fury, his fists opening and closing.

'Ah no, my son, it would only be the beginning of a time far worse. A spark of alarm kindled in Father Alberic's eyes. 'When war comes to a territory, it is the ordinary people who suffer. Their crops are trampled, their homes burned. Pestilence and starvation follow.

'So you would rather live beneath the fear and tyranny that you have now? Oliver demanded incredulously.

'What choice do we have? Even if you did come with an army, they would destroy as they retreated so as to leave you with nothing. I beg you, let it be. He took hold of Oliver's arm. 'The wind blows chill in the open. Come and break bread with me and sup a bowl of pottage before you go on your way.

From which statement Oliver understood that the subject was closed and that his presence in Ashbury was perceived as dangerous to its occupants. For a moment he was tempted to thrust Alberic's offer aside and ride off in bitter anger, but he curbed the impulse. Setting fire to the river bank was not the way to build a bridge.

'One day I will return, he said, 'but I swear that not a single ear of corn shall burn or a villager suffer because of it. That time will come, J promise.

Father Alberic walked towards his dwelling. 'Folk hereabouts don't set much store by the Empress Mathilda, he remarked by way of warning without actually saying that he doubted the fulfilment of Oliver's promise.

'I know that. I have no expectations on that score myself, but she does have a son and he bids fair to rival his grandfather and his great-grandfather in stature.

'But a small child as I remember?

'Growing swiftly. I can bide my time. He grimaced. 'It's all I have these days.

Oliver brought Hero into Alberic's compound and gave him hay and water. Then he sat down to dine at the priest's trestle, one eye on the lengthening shadows. He would have to leave soon.

'Tell me about your pilgrimage, Alberic said. 'What was Jerusalem like? Obviously the priest was determined to keep the conversation away from troubles in the village and the entire, distressing business of the war.

'Hot enough to roast a man inside his chain-mail, and thick with the dust of ages, Oliver replied. 'Beauty and squalor such as you could not imagine. There are places that have not changed since before the time of Our Lord Jesus.

The priest was enthralled and leaned across the table. 'Did you see the temple of… He broke off as the sound of approaching hoofbeats joined the homely crackle of his hearth fire. For an instant the men stared at each other in silence, and then Alberic began urging Oliver to his feet.

'Like as not it's the soldiers from the keep, he said. 'Someone must have reported your presence. They're wary of strangers just now because of poor little Gifu. Best not be caught. They seize first and ask questions later.

Oliver spun from the trestle, grabbed his swordbelt and was already buckling it on as he strode to the door. He had no intention of being trapped inside a one-roomed cot by a band of mercenaries, and he knew if they caught him he was unlikely to live. He would be 'legitimately' executed as the Empress's spy or made a scapegoat for the girl's murder.

'God be with you, my son! cried Father Alberic, as Oliver snatched his shield from beside the door and ran out to the shelter for his horse.

'He has need to be, Oliver said grimly as he freed the reins and scrambled into the saddle. Hero gave a grunt of surprise and indignation as Oliver's heels slammed into his flanks. The stallion sprang forward, but the opening on to the village road was already blocked by four mounted soldiers.

The deep tones of late sunlight brightened the hide of the leading horse from bay to red and the rider's shield bore a device of crimson chevrons on a background of brilliant blue. The colours were sharp enough to cut and score themselves indelibly on the brain. Oliver and Randal de Mohun stared at each other in mutual shock, the moment stretching out as each man strove to recover his balance.

De Mohun affected to do so first, crossing his hands on the pommel of his saddle and grinning wolfishly. 'Our paths seem destined to cross, don't they? he said. 'Have you come seeking employment from me this time?

'You are on my land, Oliver snarled as shock gave way to the enormity of rage.

'Your land? De Mohun continued to grin. 'Passing strange, for I thought that this place belonged to Odinel the Fleming? He looked round at his men, inviting them to share in the mockery. 'If you have not come as a recruit, I can only assume that you are trespassing. He drew his sword, the low sun gilding the blade. 'Lord Odinel does not tolerate trespassers.

'Wait, Sir Randal, wait! cried Father Alberic, who had been watching the exchange with growing dismay. He hastened forward, tripping on the folds of his habit. 'I can vouch for this man. He has only come to pay his respects at his brother's grave.

'You can vouch for him, can you? de Mohun said silkily, and turned the sword in his hand.

'Go within your house, Father, Oliver said quietly without taking his eyes off de Mohun. 'This is no concern of yours and I would not see any harm come to you because of me.

The priest dithered.

'Go! Oliver spat.

Chewing his lip, Father Alberic backed away and with great reluctance returned to his dwelling.

'Touching, said de Mohun. 'But you give orders as if you are lord of this place, which you are not.

'Then that puts me on a footing high above yours, Oliver retorted, drawing his own sword. 'I would not even grace you with the title of "scum".

De Mohun spurred his mount at Oliver, who quickly turned side-on and parried the blow on his shield. At least, blocking the opening as he was, the other three could not push in and surround him, but neither could he win free without overcoming all four men.

One of them rode his horse up to the sharpened stockade fence, stood on his saddle and leaped over to Oliver's side, a dagger in his hand. Oliver saw the danger and, slashing a blow at de Mohun, pivoted Hero and rode straight at the man on foot. The sword swung and chopped, and the mercenary fell without time to scream, his dagger flying from his hands. In leaving the entrance, Oliver had opened himself to attack by the other three men, but there had been no other choice. There was a way out if his speed and timing were right but both had gone spinning awry in the frantic game of kill or be killed. De Mohun came at him head-on and his companions went left and right. As Oliver struck and parried, he knew that he faced certain death unless he could diminish the odds.

The soldier on his shield side was wearing a padded gam-beson but no mail. Oliver wrenched on the bridle and, as Hero pivoted, he slashed at the garment. The linen burst, disgorging its lining of felted wool. Oliver's sword bit deeper, opening up the man's ribs to the bone.

The soldier screamed and pulled back, clutching at the wound in his side. But in taking his man, Oliver had left himself dangerously open to the weapons of de Mohun and the other mercenary. Even as he turned to face them, he too was struck in the ribs. Unlike his victim, he was wearing a mail hauberk. De Mohun's blade skidded on the steel rings but, although it failed to cut, the blow was made with bone-shattering force. Pain that was both numb and agonising tore through Oliver's chest. A second blow followed the first, then a third and a fourth as the other mercenary joined in with gusto. Oliver warded the assault on his shield, but it quickly became splintered and battered, and his arm began to tire.

'I should have killed you on the Jerusalem road years ago! panted de Mohun. He was incandescent with the fury and joy of battle. Oliver had no breath to answer. All he knew was that it was now or accept the grave. For all that he had contemplated the oblivion of death, he had no desire to embrace it at the hands of Randal de Mohun.

His shield high, he spurred Hero at the other soldier's chestnut and cut low, aiming at the man's unprotected legs. The sword bit flesh down to bone, and the man bellowed with rage and pain. A space opened up between the mercenaries and Oliver urged Hero through it. Then he slapped the reins down on the stallion's neck.

At a dead gallop, the grey shot out of the priest's yard, through the church gate, and on to the greensward in front of the bell tower. De Mohun's bay ploughed after them at breakneck speed, caught up and confronted. The horses pushed together, hooves flailing, teeth snapping. The men hacked at each other. De Mohun had the advantage of being fresher and without injury. Oliver's shield wavered as he grew increasingly tired, and de Mohun launched a vicious, overarm blow. Oliver felt, rather than heard, his collar-bone crack, and in that same instant lost all strength in his shield arm. De Mohun came in again like a wolf. His sword point lodged in the bend of Oliver's elbow and he began to prise the bones apart.

Through blinding pain, Oliver chopped across and down. De Mohun snatched his hand away to avoid losing his fingers, and once again Oliver turned Hero and dug in his heels. He had no coherent idea of where he was going. All that was left was the hazy instinct to flee.

Showering turf, Hero spun round the side of the church and galloped towards the graves beneath the yew trees. Oliver could not determine whether the roaring in his ears was the sound of de Mohun's pursuit or his own heartbeat. One was as close as the other. The gravestone flashed past and the stockade fence loomed. Oliver lashed the reins down on Hero's neck. The stallion took a short, choppy stride, bunched his muscles and, ears back, took a flying leap.

The horse sailed over the posts, landed on the slope of the bank with a jarring thud, and stumbled and pecked all the way down to the ditch at the bottom. But he kept his feet and, with a tremendous surge, lunged up and out on to the far side.

Barely conscious, Oliver clung to mane and bridle. Through blurring vision, he watched de Mohun's bay take the stockade, drag a hindleg and come down hard on the bank. Man and horse somersaulted over and over, finishing in a tangled heap in the ditch. The bay threshed to its feet but, in the act, rolled and trampled upon its rider, mashing the chain mail into his body. The horse stood trembling and shuddering, bloody froth blowing from one nostril.

'Jesu, Oliver whispered and, despite his agony, rode Hero over to look at de Mohun. He was face down in the ditch. If not dead, then he soon would be, for his nose and mouth were immersed in the churned, muddy water, but Oliver suspected that his soul was already on its way to hell.

Turning Hero, he headed towards the road and felt the wetness of blood sliding down his arm and webbing his hand.

The day that Godard passed at the alehouse was one of the most pleasant he could remember. It was not that he did anything out of the ordinary. He spent the morning hewing wood for Edith and, after a substantial midday meal of bacon stew and savoury griddle cakes, occupied the afternoon by mending her spade and her wooden rake. The delight was in living as he had lived before the war had torn the land apart; the delight was in looking at Edith as she went about her chores with quiet efficiency. She looked a good, buxom armful; a comfort when a man needed comfort, but she had strength too, and beautiful butter-coloured braids beneath her kerchief.

'Suppose you and your lord will be moving on tomorrow, she said, and looked at him from her eye corner while preparing a broth with chicken dumplings.

Godard sighed and rose from his stool. 'Like as not, he said, and went moodily to look out of the door, his arms folded, his massive frame propped against the opening. The light was shifting and slanting as the sun dipped westwards and a chill perked the air.

He heard the slosh of water as she stirred the cauldron. "Tis a pity, she said after a moment. 'I did not realise how much I missed male company until I had one to myself again.

Godard unfolded his arms and looked round. 'What about your customers?

'Oh, them. She sniffed and waved her ladle. 'They all have wives waiting at home, and those that don't are only worth a skillet round the head to send them away before bedtime.

'I've never been married, Godard said. 'When you're the youngest of eight, you don't expect to.

Their eyes held for a moment longer. Then Edith made a show of bustle and Godard cleared his throat. 'Mind you, that's not saying I wouldn't like to be.

She was silent, but he was strongly aware of her presence. One more step, one more push was all it would take. Being a cautious man he held back. Equally cautious, she avoided his gaze and went studiously about her business until the moment had passed.

Godard resumed watching the road. A child came with a quart pitcher and a request from his mother that it be filled with ale. He was followed by two men, thirsty after a day's toil in the fields. Godard drank a mug with them, then went to check on his horse. Shadows lengthened and dusk began to soften the world with shades of blue. The moon rose, luminous and cream-silver. The smell of chicken broth floated on the air in delicious wafts. Godard gnawed his thumb knuckle and willed Oliver to appear on the road, but except for villagers beating a path to the alehouse, it remained empty.

The stars twinkled out and the final strands of sunset vanished over the horizon. Finally Godard strode inside and swept on his cloak and hood. It was one matter for Oliver to tell him to ride on and seek another master, a different one for him to do it.

'I am going in search of my lord, he said to Edith, who was busy ladling broth and dumplings into a bowl for a customer.

She nodded briskly, adding, 'Have a care, and gave him a quick look in which there was unspoken concern.

Godard smiled and plucked his quarterstaff from the corner. 'You need not worry about that, he said in a gruff voice, but he was pleased that she was anxious for his welfare.

Once on the road, he made such haste as the moonlight would allow. He did not want to risk foundering his horse, but neither did he want to waste time. Godard was not afraid of the dark, but he was not particularly fond of being out in it either. Beyond the village, the road dwindled to a rutted cart track with smaller tracks branching off into the fields. Silence descended, the only sounds to break it being the clop of his mount's hooves and the champ of its breath. Godard began to sing to himself, then changed his mind. The darkness was too vast, too wide and full of hidden, listening ears.

He came to a wooded stretch where the road dipped down into a black hollow. Godard drew rein and seriously contemplated turning back for the warmth and welcome of the alehouse. He imagined a steaming bowl of broth, feather-light dumplings and Edith's welcoming smile. The pity was that without discovering what had happened to Oliver, he would be unable to enjoy any of it. 'Hah, he said with irritation, and kicked the gelding's flanks.

Man and horse descended into darkness. There was a boggy stream at the foot of the hollow which Godard heard, rather than saw, as the horse splashed through it. Emerging on the other side into a lacing of darkness and moonlight, he did not see the dappled horse on the track in front until it nickered and came trotting to greet him. Breath steamed from its nostrils. The reins were knotted around the saddle pommel and there were dark stains on its pale coat.

'Steady lad, steady, Godard crooned and caught Hero's bridle. He secured the destrier to his gelding and wondered what in Christ's name had happened to Oliver. The stains on Hero's coat looked like blood, and probably Oliver's to judge from their position.

He clicked his tongue and urged the gelding forward, and almost immediately saw the flash of chain-mail near the place where the grey had been standing. Godard flung down from the saddle, tossed a loop of bridle over a tree branch to secure the horses and ran to the fallen man.

'Lord Oliver?

There was a groan and Oliver tried to raise his head. 'Godard, you purblind fool, I told you to go.

'My hearing's not what it used to be. Where are you hurt? With gentle hands for one so huge, Godard tried to make an examination.

'Everywhere. There's not a whole bone in my body. Let me die. Oliver closed his eyes.

Godard tapped the side of his master's face with rigid fingers. 'I've not made this journey just to bring back your corpse. Where there's life there's hope, he said sternly.

'Where there's life there's pain, Oliver responded, but opened his eyes.

Godard tightened his lips. He knew that unless he got Oliver back to the alehouse in short order, he would die. If his wounds did not kill him, the cold would.

'You have to mount up, sir, he said. 'I will ride behind you and hold you in the saddle.

Oliver laughed, the sound choking off on a wheeze of agony. 'You're gullible enough to believe in miracles, then, he gasped.

'Yes, sir, Godard said stoutly. 'It's no more than two miles to the village. Seems a pity to lie here in the frost, even if you are dying, he added in a practical tone. Rising to his feet, he fetched the horses. There was a flask of usquebaugh in his saddle bag and he took a swallow for himself and gave the rest to Oliver. 'Drink this down. It'll put fire in your blood.

'It will take more than fire, Oliver said, but set the flask to his lips and drank grimly.

'Just get yourself on to the horse, sir, I will do the rest, Godard said.

The usquebaugh tore through Oliver's veins, infusing a false sense of heat and well-being, taking the edge off his suffering. But it was still agony to stand up. The pain in his ribs was so violent that he could scarcely breathe and his left arm was totally useless. The blood had ceased to flow from the wound when he had fallen from the horse, but now, as he strove to rise, he felt the hot trickle begin again. Gritting his teeth, fighting a nauseous wave of blackness, he set his foot in the stirrup and Godard boosted him across the big gelding's back. He almost fell off the other side and only saved himself by clutching convulsively at the reins with his half-good right hand.

Godard swiftly mounted up behind him and took his weight.

'Jesu, it would be easier to die, Oliver groaned as the gelding paced forward.

'But better to live, Godard said. Darkness engulfed them has the horses clopped through the hollow, and then emerged into the moon-dappled woods. 'How came you by your wounds?

Oliver spoke slowly with effort. 'Randal de Mohun was captain of Ashbury's garrison… When he heard there was a stranger in the village he came to investigate.

'Randal de Mohun, God's teeth! Godard had asked the question in order to keep Oliver talking and prevent him from slipping into unconsciousness. Now his eyes widened and he paid full attention. 'How did he come to be at Ashbury?

'Simple… He had heard me talk of the place. Oliver paused to fight the pain and gather strength. 'He knew that it was held by one of Stephen's Flemings… small chance of being called to account for his crimes. It killed two birds with one stone… gave him employment and a place to keep his head low.

'The whoreson, Godard said in hoarse revulsion.

'One girl-child is dead, molested in the forest, but there will be no more, Oliver said, after another pause. 'We fought, and he is dead. He closed his eyes and felt the darkness drifting in. Godard's voice prodded at him, asking more questions, making demands. He felt anger and tried to snarl at Godard to leave him be. The sounds he made bore no resemblance to those he had intended. He wanted peace and he could not have it. If he could only achieve the darkness, there would be freedom from pain.

'Not far, Godard kept saying, but still the lurching stride of the bay gelding continued. He was almost beyond notice when it stopped — too far gone to help himself, but not far enough to diminish the excruciating pain as Godard lifted him bodily from the saddle and carried him into the alehouse. The staring startled faces, the blazing fire, the tearing agony in his body all served to convince him that Godard had plucked him from purgatory and personally deposited him in hell.