Hawk Quest (15 page)

‘I don’t like the sound of this crew,’ said a bystander. ‘A night ambush is always chancy. It only takes one of them to get away and—’

‘Shut up,’ Ash said. He turned back to the charcoal burner. ‘Why didn’t you bring them here?’

The charcoal burner showed graveyard teeth. ‘I was going to. It was all set up. I’d got the German well-bladdered, your boy was about to bring you the news, then Frenchie turned up and told the German they’d be going on down the road.’

Ash leaned back on his stool. ‘You must have given yourself away.’

‘On my life. I did everything just like I always do. Ask your uncle.’

Ash scratched his knee. ‘What goods are they carrying?’

‘I’m not promising you the moon. To tell the truth, they look like they’ve spent the last week dossing on a dunghill, but – and you’d hate yourself for missing the chance – the Frenchie carries a jewelled sword that must be worth its weight in silver. He wears a fine ring, too, and paid for his meal in coin.’

Ash fingered his necklace. ‘If they’ve got money, why have they been sleeping rough?’

The charcoal burner dropped to his haunches. ‘That’s what
I
was wondering. What if they’re on the run? There might be a bounty on them.’

Ash didn’t answer. No one disturbed his thoughts. At last he sniffed, wiped a finger under his nose, reached for his sword and laid it across his lap.

‘How soon do we expect them?’

‘They’re probably leaving the tavern about now. I told your uncle to keep them happy until I was well clear.’

‘They might camp in the woods. Finding them won’t be easy.’

‘Edric’s going to follow them. If they sleep out, so much the better. We can fall on them at first light.’

Ash’s cheeks lifted in a smile. ‘Edric’s a good lad.’

‘He’s his father’s boy.’

Wayland realised they were talking about the youngster Raul had lifted one-handed above his head.

Ash stood, crossed to the opposite wall and unhooked a rusty mail vest cut down from a Norman hauberk. He raised his arms and shrugged it on and turned around and showed his face. It was expressionless, his eyes as flat as coins. Wayland raised his hand to his throat and gave a slow swallow. The charm around Ash’s neck was a string of withered human ears.

Ash looked straight at him, walked towards the window and flung out his hands. Wayland threw himself to one side and pressed back against the wall behind the half-opened shutter. He drew his knife.

‘A quarter moon,’ Ash said, inches from his ear. ‘Wear your hoods and mantles. Muffle your blades.’ He pulled the shutters close.

Heart in mouth, Wayland returned to the peephole to see the outlaws grabbing swords, bows, billhooks, spears, an axe. They pulled on shapeless hoods and mantles covered with twigs and leaves. In the rancid light they looked like members of some infernal sect.

‘We’ll wait for them at the goblin oak,’ said Ash. ‘Leofric, you and Siward go back down the road as far as the next turning. Let them pass, then fall in behind. Keep well into the trees.’

‘What about Edric?’

‘Bring him with you. The boy can watch. It will be a good lesson.’

‘Maybe they can put on their show before we kill them. Edric would like that.’

Ash breathed in through his nose. The man who’d spoken looked away. ‘Sorry, Master Ash.’

‘Take one alive for questioning. Kill all the others. Make sure the Frenchie dies in the first volley. Don’t give him a chance to use his sword. We’ll hide the bodies well away from the road. The swine will deal with them in the morning.’

Someone laughed. ‘Your hogs eat better than we do.’

Before Wayland could flesh out this image, the outlaws began to make for the door. He raced to the edge of the clearing and dropped behind a tree. Nine cowled shapes came out of the hut. They filed past him at spitting distance, breath steaming through the slits in their hoods.

The pigs in their enclosure squealed with excitement. They knew what the outlaws’ departure betokened. It was as though a feeding bell had been rung.

Wayland’s first impulse was to run and warn Vallon. But what if the fugitives had left the road and the boy was already on his way to Ash? Even with the dog’s help, it might take all night to find the fugitives’ camp. He thought of torching the cottage, but the outlaws would be a mile away before the building was ablaze and might not see the fire.

He couldn’t wait any longer. The outlaws were already out of sight. Wayland was about to follow when he thought of something else. He sprinted back to the hut, kicked open the door and plunged inside. On the wall hung one of the hoods and capes the outlaws wore as camouflage. He struggled into the cape and pulled the mask over his head.

When he caught up with the outlaws, they were strung out over fifty yards of trail. He looked for the moon and saw it floating tiny and remote above the trees. Vallon must have stopped for the night by now. Wayland reached a decision. He would shadow the outlaws as far as the oak, then tail the charcoal burner and his partner down the ride. Once he’d dealt with them, he’d lie up and wait for the boy. He’d choose a spot far enough away from the oak to give the travellers plenty of warning if they were still on the road.

About halfway to the ride, the outlaws stopped and bunched. After
a whispered exchange, two shapes detached themselves and disappeared into the trees to the right. When Wayland realised that Leofric and Siward were taking a short cut, he teetered with indecision. If he followed them, he might miss the boy returning to the oak. If he stayed with the main party and the fugitives were still on the road, he’d lose the chance to warn them before the two bandits met up with the boy.

Wayland struck out after the scouts.

They were woodsmen on their home ground and moved with assurance, ill-defined shapes flitting through moonlight and shadow. Wayland followed at a stealthy jog. The moon drifted behind a skein of cloud. Darkness stole across the forest floor, hiding Wayland’s quarry. Worried that he might blunder into them, he slowed to a walk. He could feel the bandits getting away from him.

Here
.

The dog turned and Wayland laid his hand on its neck.

They went on at speed, Wayland trusting to the dog’s nose.

Without warning, the dog sank down. It turned a grave eye, telling him that the outlaws had halted and were close. The moon played hide and seek in the clouds. Wayland could make out the ride to his left. Ahead was a glade dotted with clumps of undergrowth. One of the shapes separated into two. A figure ghosted towards the ride, checked that it was empty, then ran into the trees on the other side.

It would be easier to deal with the outlaws singly, but how? Even if he could disarm them without shedding blood, it would take too long. The boy might have already passed by and reached the rendezvous. He had to get back as soon as possible.

He patted the dog’s shoulder and pointed across the ride.
Kill him
.

It stood, took a few steps, then looked back.

He pulled up his mask.
Kill him
.

The dog loped off without a sound.

The moon showed itself again, casting faint shadows. Wayland could see the remaining bandit half hidden behind a tree. He would have to skirt around until he had a clear target. He began his stalk, soundless as a cat’s shadow, until the man’s back was in view. Wayland didn’t know if it was Leofric or Siward and didn’t care. Given the chance, either man would kill him as casually as he would swat a fly. Wayland summoned up an image of Ash, those dead black eyes. He
thought of the fugitives and imagined what the gang would do to the one they captured. He braced back, leaning away from the curve of the bow. At full draw, the arrow was pointing halfway to the moon. He brought it down in a smooth arc, watching the iron leaf at its tip, poised to release the moment the point passed down the man’s spine.

His target jumped aside. Wayland blinked. The bandit was leaning out from the tree, like a runner tensed for the off. He’d heard the stifled commotion on the other side of the ride. Before Wayland could sight again, the bandit pushed off from the tree and went zigzagging into the dark.

Wayland emptied his lungs in a sigh of frustration. Now he would have to stalk the man again. This time it would be more difficult. The bandit would be nervous.

A long-eared owl gave a cooing moan – ‘oo-oo-oo’. If Wayland hadn’t been such an excellent mimic himself, he would have sworn that the call was genuine. The bandit expected an answer. But Wayland knew that his accomplice was dead, gaping up through the branches with his blood leaking from his throat.

The outlaw repeated the call.

If he didn’t get a response this time, he’d know that something was wrong. Wayland cupped his hands around his mouth and echoed the owl’s plaintive cry.

No answer. The bandit must be wondering why his partner had crossed back over the ride. Or perhaps he’d given the wrong call.

He hooted again. Still no response. The silence pressed in on him. His heart beat against his ribs.

Somewhere a twig snapped underfoot. Wayland tensed, all his senses out on stalks.

Ahead of him, a piece of forest began to move, creeping away from him. He stepped from cover and walked towards it, making no attempt at concealment.

The bandit whirled, his arrow pointing at Wayland’s chest. He fluttered a hand across his eyes.

‘Siward?’

Wayland raised a hand and kept walking.

The charcoal burner ran at him. ‘What are you doing? What was that noise?’

Wayland put a finger to his lips.

‘They’ll be here any moment,’ the charcoal burner whispered. ‘Why have you come back?’

Wayland was so close that he could see the man’s eyes through the slots in his hood. He stabbed his finger and the charcoal burner turned.

‘What?’

Wayland stepped in close and swung his knife back, elbow locked.

The charcoal burner tensed and put a hand to his ear. ‘Something’s coming.’

From afar came a faint but forceful scuffling, heading their way. The sound grew louder – a helter-skelter gallop, a relentless … what? The charcoal burner stepped back, colliding with Wayland.

Out of the trees came the dog, racing in a wide curve, its paws scrabbling for purchase. It saw the two men and skidded to a stop. Slowly it turned its head and there it stood, faintly luminous in the shadows, vapour pluming from its jaws.

‘Oh my God!’ the charcoal burner breathed. His bow twanged and Wayland heard the arrow go skittering across the leaf litter.

‘Shoot!’ cried the charcoal burner, fumbling for another arrow.

The dog was already into its charge, a grey-black blur. The charcoal burner dropped his bow and grabbed for his knife. He managed to throw up one arm before the dog flattened him.

Wayland ran forward. The dog had the man’s shoulder in its jaws and was shaking him like a terrier shakes a rat. The knife flew out of his grip. Wayland seized the dog’s mane and tried to wrestle the beast off.

No!

He hauled it away bucking and lunging on its hind legs.

Leave him!

The dog looked at him with blood-crazed eyes.

Leave him
.

The dog stalked off in a stiff-legged circle. The charcoal burner scuttled backwards on his elbows. Wayland followed and stood over him, holding his knife. The charcoal burner looked up at the falconer, his hood twisted and the fabric over his mouth sucking in and out. Wayland leaned down and pulled the man’s hood off. He took off his own hood. The charcoal burner’s eyes rolled up into his skull and his head flopped back.

Wayland trussed him hand and foot and tied him to a tree. He slashed the man’s hood into strips and gagged and blindfolded him.

Then he went in search of the boy.

Vallon’s eyes tracked from side to side, probing the forest margins. All lay quiet as the grave. Raul carried his crossbow loaded, occasionally turning and walking backwards to check the ride behind.

‘How far have we come?’ asked Vallon.

‘Two miles at least. It must be nearly midnight.’ Raul nudged his chin in the direction of Hero and Richard. ‘Those two are ready to drop.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Captain, if you’re worried there’s an ambush ahead, why are you leading us into it?’

‘Wayland knows this is the road we’re taking.’

‘We might not see him until morning. You know what he’s like. He might have gone hunting. Or more likely, he’s tucked up in a cosy roost.’

‘If he is, I’ll kill him.’

They walked on into the oppressive silence.

‘I was in a wood like this once,’ said Raul. ‘It was in Normandy, the dead of winter, just before Yuletide. I had a week’s leave and my wages and I was going to spend them in Rouen. I’d set out in good time, but it snowed in the afternoon and I took a wrong fork. A dreary day it was, sky as dark as doom, not a house or a soul to be seen. I came to a forest and followed a track through it. No other travellers had trodden that path all day. When night fell I was still in the wood, only a sprinkling of stars to keep me straight. Walking through that winter wood, I felt like I was the only being in the world, so I took out my whistle and played a tune to keep myself company. Then I stopped whistling because I had the feeling that I had more company than I cared for.

‘It was the trees. It was as if they were turning round to look at me as I passed. I watched them out of the corner of my eye and I swear I saw them bunching up on me. That was bad enough, but then …

‘Something touched my back. I shot into the air and jumped round. “Who’s there?” I called, but no one answered. Nothing but trees and snow. Right, I told myself, pay no heed to the bogles and bugbears.
Easier said than done, Captain. As I went on, the flesh on my back was crawling, itching for another touch. Well, it didn’t come, but something else did. I heard it creeping up on me –
scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch
. Froze the blood in my veins, stopped me in my tracks. Whatever was after me stopped, too. This time I didn’t dare turn round, because I knew that whatever was behind me had wings and horns and eyes as big as trenchers. I walked on, my knees knocking, and that thing came walking after me. Every time I stopped, it stopped, and every time I went on, it kept coming after me.