By Sylvian Hamilton (10 page)

'The
forester,' said Bane with his mouth full of dinner.

'Aye,
the forester. So where do we find him?'

They
found him at home, at his ease and with his feet up, peacefully
sewing rabbit-skins together to make a winter vest. His neat sturdy
well-thatched hut was tucked away in a clearing just off one of the
main forest paths. The door stood open and some hens scratched and
crooned just outside where a scattering of crumbs and scraps had been
thrown for them. The man looked up at their approach but did not move
as Straccan dismounted giving his reins to Bane. As he did so he felt
a spasm of nausea and the headache began to tread more heavily. Not
now, God, please, he muttered, and aloud said, 'Good day,' through
the open door. 'Sir.' The man laid his needlework down, one hand
coming to rest negligently on the hilt of the businesslike knife at
his belt. His face was as brown and seamed as bark, with a great dark
ugly scar on the right cheek. His rolled-up sleeves showed arms
welted with scars. An old soldier.

'I
am Sir Richard Straccan,' said the knight, at which the man stood
up—he knew his manners—but kept a hand on his hilt, for
he knew his way around as well.

'What
can I do for you, Sir?'

Straccan's
headache was getting hard to ignore, and the sunlight was too bright
for comfort. 'I need information,' he said. Til pay for it.'

'Folks
usually do, Sir,' said the man easily. 'A time-honoured custom. Won't
you come inside?' He hooked a stool forward with one foot, and waited
until Straccan sat before himself sitting down. 'There was a man
killed here a while ago. You found his body. At the crossroads.'

'Oh,
that. Friend of yours?'

'No.
Tell me how you came to find him.'

'I
was patrolling that way. I do random night patrols, so they never
know where I might pop up. When I got to the crossroads, there he
was.'

'Did
you hear or see anything else? Wolves? Men?'

'No.'

'How
did the body lie? All in a heap or scattered?'

Tn
a heap.'

'Did
you touch it? Move it at all?'

'I
kicked over the bit his head was attached to. To see who it was.'

'Did
you know him?'

'No.'

'What
about the clothes?'

'What
about them?'

'He
was dressed, not naked?'

'Yes.'

'What
had he on?'

'One
boot –there was only one foot, we never found the other his
leggings, tunic. All torn. Nothing worth the saving.' 'Nothing else
at all? Not even a saint's medal round his neck?' Straccan had to
force his mind to think, his tongue to utter. He was feeling very ill
now; there was no doubt his crusader's legacy, the ague--Saladin's
Revenge, they called it—had chosen today to lay him low.

'No.'

'No
jerkin? No belt?'

'No.'
The man half-turned to swing his stewpot off the fire and set it in
the hearth. Turning back, he looked hard at Straccan. 'You look sick,
Sir. Shall I call your servant?'

'Did
you find anything on him, man? I'm not here to inform on you. I've
nothing to do with the king, or his justices, or the law.'

'What
might it be you're looking for, Sir?'

'He
stole something from me. It might have been round his neck. A little
metal case about this big.' He showed a gap of two inches or so
between finger and thumb and saw the uneasy shift of the forester's
eyes.

'He
had nothing round his neck. God smite me else,' said the man.

Straccan
sighed and put both hands to his pounding head. He felt very cold and
clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering.

'You
might find it,' he said. 'Perhaps it was dropped, and lost in the
forest. If you should find it, I will be generous.'

'I'm
sure you would, Sir, if I found it. How generous, might I ask? I'm
perfectly willing to look for it as I make my patrols, you know, if
it's worth my while.'

'A
gold piece,' said Straccan, pulling one of Master Gregory's nasty
little coins from his purse and slapping it on the table. The
forester stared at it and paled under his tan. 'You've seen that
stuff before, haven't you?' said Straccan. 'You've seen these queer
coins; he had them in his belt, didn't he? I know he did, and you
took 'em. Bane!'

Bane
was off his horse and through the doorway as if by magic, with his
sword's point at the forester's throat. 'Take that knife off your
belt. Drop it. Kick it out the door!' The man hesitated, Bane jabbed
slightly, and the knife skidded over the door sill scattering the
hens outside.

Straccan
was holding on to the sides of his stool with both hands. 'He knows
where it is,' he said hoarsely. 'He had Pluvis's belt.'

As
Bane stepped forward the forester stepped back, and back until he was
against his hearth, and still Bane pressed forward. With a yelp the
man fell backwards and for a moment sat in his own fire. He rolled
screeching away from it, making a desperate grab at the hot stewpot
–to throw –but Bane's foot sent it flying, stew
everywhere, and the forester lay in the corner, swearing dreadfully.

As
Bane raised his sword, the man cried, 'Yes! I took his belt! There
were two gold pieces in it, just like that one!'

Straccan
scooped his coin off the table and flung it into the corner. 'Now
you've got three. You've been well paid so what about my thing?'

'I
never saw it!'

'He's
lying,' said Bane with an evil grin. 'Let's have a look at his
lights. There's truth in entrails, they say.'

'No,
don't!' The forester scrambled back against the wall and sat up in
his corner. 'Yes, all right, I had it! It was some sort of relic a
bone, a bit of finger, nothing else –and a common little latten
case, not even silver. Just a fake. I threw it away.'

Straccan
said earnestly and with effort, 'I swear by God and his most Blessed
Mother, we mean you no harm. Just tell me where it is ...' and
pitched forward off his stool into a whirling fog of pain and cruel
cold.

Chapter
13

First
the shivering. Blue to the lips, blue to the fingernails, toenails;
rigor after rigor. Hot stones, well wrapped, packed all around him,
light soft warm coverings, these made no difference, the cold phase
took its relentless course. There was a woman. She tended him with
extreme gentleness; he was aware of her, a shapeless figure in grey
homespun, a dark shadow moving between him and the light. There was
the clean fragrance of herbs, the sharp smell of a bitter drink
forced between his chattering teeth.

Then
the hot phase. She wiped his face with cold damp cloths that smelled
of rosemary; his skin was uncomfortably hot to her touch, dry,
burning as the fever soared.

He
was burning. He could see and feel the desert sun, the pitiless sun
of Palestine, a vast white-hot glowing disc that filled the sky and
boiled the blood in his veins. They had got him, the infidel dogs,
staked him out for the sun to fry his brains, while somewhere behind
him, out of sight, they watched and laughed. Or was he already dead,
scorching in hell? His clothes were on fire, he could see them
shrivelling and browning, then blackening, with wisps of smoke ... He
struggled to break free, but there were chains, red-hot chains
holding him down. His world shrank to a tiny inferno. He called for
Bane, for Marion his wife, and for his daughter. Something had
happened to Gilla; she was lost; he must find her, he must escape
from hell and find her ...

The
sweating stage broke suddenly and violently. It seemed impossible
that so much water could come from a human body, and keep coming,
pouring from him, drenching the straw mattress beneath him, sour and
acrid. He heard voices –he tried to open his eyes, but the
leaden lids would not lift--Bane's voice and another man's. Strong
hands lifted him, laid him on a fresh straw pallet while the
saturated one was taken away. The smell of herbs again, and savoury
cooking smells. Devils had ceased using his head as an anvil. Cool
hands raised his head, holding a cup against his lips, a hard cold
pressure, the same bitter taste.

'Marion?'
he said.

'Hush
now.'

'Gilla!
I must find her--'

'Don't
talk. Just sip. You'll be better soon.'

He
was as weak as a new lamb, no, weaker, for they struggle to their
feet, and he was barely able to raise his head or move his hands.
Conscious at last, fully awake, he was aware that a curtain hung
between his bed and the rest of the room, and that firelight showed
through a small rent. Now and again a woman moved between the light
and the curtain, casting her shadow on it. Hands raised to her head,
she shook loose the plaits which tumbled down over her shoulders;
unwinding them, combing with quick strokes before re-braiding and
tying their ends. She unfastened her girdle and reached up to hang it
on the wall. Then, still in her gown, she moved out of his sight. He
heard the rustle of her mattress and the creak of a box bed.

He
opened his mouth to speak, to ask who she was, where he was, how came
he there; but while he was thinking about it he fell asleep, and once
again he rode the nightmare: another evil violent dream. They had
troubled his nights for weeks now, leaving him weary and sickened on
waking; their ugly memories swimming up in his mind during the days,
so that he had begun to dread sleep.

When
he woke in the morning the curtain was drawn back and tied against
the wall. The door was open, letting sunlight stream in. No one was
there, but on the table a cream-coloured kitten sat washing itself.
Straccan began to sit up but a wave of diziness made him pause,
resting back on his elbows until his head cleared. He heard Bane's
voice outside, and a moment later his servant I came in, carrying a
leather bucket full of water. Seeing Straccan, he smiled. 'She said
you'd be better today.'

'Who
did? What's this place?'

'It's
Mistress Janiva's house.'

'Janiva?
Is that the woman who's been looking after me?'

'Aye.
That Tostig, the forester –you remember? Him and me brought you
here when you passed out. He said she'd put you right. I told him if
she didn't I'd cut his throat and throw his liver to his hens.'

'That
must have made him very helpful.'

'Yes,
well, he was all right once he knew we really weren't friends of
Pluvis, or spies for the Justices. That Pluvis was even nastier than
we thought, and it wasn't wolves killed him.'

'Nor
demons,' said Tostig, coming in with a huge bundle of dead branches
and sticks, which he dumped noisily by the fireside and clumped out
again.

'Nor
demons,' Bane agreed. 'It was the men of the village. Cunning bunch
of buggers! Never does to underestimate us common folk. Seems Pluvis
made away with one of their little uns, a girl, five or six years
old.'

The
nails of Straccan's clenched fists cut into his palms as a cold
horror struck through him. Bane went on, 'Cecily, her name was. The
other children said he'd been talking to her, gave her a ribbon. He
walked away and left them, but presently she was gone. So they
reckoned it was him.'

Straccan
found he was shaking and lay back again to let the weakness pass.
Cecily, he thought. Five or six years old. Please, God, Lord of Pity,
no! Not Gilla!

'They
got in at his window,' Bane said, 'when he was asleep, and
half-throttled him. Gagged him, tied him up, dragged him out, and
packed him on the priest's mule. Osric was dead to the world, that
was one thing they could count on, he wouldn't hear anything.
Somewhere in the forest they'd taken their oxen, four oxen. When they
got him there, they threatened to castrate him unless he confessed.
So he sang. Like a linnet. Told them he'd flung her in the river.
They found her a few days later, eight miles downriver at
Cubberswick. He told them a mark she had, a little red mark on her
belly. That was true. Offered them gold! So they put away the knife
and he perked up, reckoned they were going to spare him, started to
grin and say now they were seeing sense. He hadn't realised what the
oxen were for.'

Bane's
voice went on, soft, almost a monotone. They had tied him, arms and
legs, each limb to an ox. When he began to scream, someone shoved a
wad of sheep's wool down his throat. He struggled, jerking and
plunging madly, his face blackening, and the noises he made behind
the gag were dreadful. They drove the oxen forward. The beasts took a
few steps and the ropes pulled taut; they hesitated but their drivers
coaxed them on. There was a sound, not very loud, like wet sticks
breaking. The great placid beasts lurched, steadied and stopped.