by Sam Burnell
“Come on,” Jack yelled to Dan and Mat. The odds were now four to two and it was not likely the remaining men would want to continue the fight, especially with their leader laid flat in a spreading pond of blood behind them.
They rode hard for five minutes and pulled up when they felt they were a safe distance from the fight, all of them breathing hard. Jack though, felt he was breathing more easily than he had in days, the brutal exacting fight and the hard ride had appeased his need for violence. For the moment his anger was satisfied.
“My thanks,” Jack pulled the mare to a halt and held her tight on the reins. “Now we surely all have to leave. We must go back to Burton warn the men, tell them to scatter and we do the same.”
Dan regarded him bitterly, but kept his counsel. This time he had to agree with Jack. Now they did have no choice but to leave: Jack had indeed thrown everything back in his brother’s face.
Within half an hour of leaving them, Jack was on the road north, his belongings behind him and going God only knew where. He’d told them in no uncertain terms to all go their own way, to stay together would be to attract attention and they would be the easier to find.
†
The girl grasped another handful of horsetail stems and began again her vigorous scouring of the wooden chopping boards in the kitchens. Her hands were sore, her soul even more so. It seemed to Catherine De Bernay that she had now lost everything. Richard had tried to help her and she in turn had tried to save his life, but that had gone wrong, so very, very wrong. He was dead and like some inherited chattel, Catherine had become the possession of his brother, Robert.
The memories came back to her of the journey from Burton to London with Robert; she scrubbed harder trying not to think about them. It was only a few weeks ago. The bruises were gone now, but the feelings, the memories, and the violence he’d delivered to her as he’d raped her still made her stomach retch. She’d fought back twice as hard as she could, using fists and feet, teeth and nails, and he let her kick and scream and hit him while he laughed. Then, when he’d had enough, a blow to the head would make her senses reel and he would begin his rape.
The third time though, she didn’t fight back: she’d just let him get on with the foul act. He’d shaken her badly then and Catherine realised he wanted her to fight, needed her to resist him. That time he’d left her with both her eyes closed with bruises and a split mouth that took days to heal, but he had not raped her, and he didn’t bother with her again on the journey to London. It was a bitter victory.
The bloody Fitzwarren family had a lot to damn well answer for. Robert she hated. Last week, he had received the report back from his lawyer about her property at Assingham. Her father, he told her, had been quite astute. Before he died, he had added extensive woodland to his holdings, and it was this that was worth money indeed. Her poor father: he had bought that for his family, for her and her poor mother. She had cried then and Robert had laughed.
But it did give her hope. She’d told Robert he could keep it if she could have Assingham back and he had agreed. Even she knew how valuable good mature timber was. The woodlands around the manor had been stocked with the building blocks of England: chestnut, hazel, and oak, lots of mature oak. It might as well have been a pile of coins, so valuable was this commodity and it was one Robert intended to obtain and harvest into his own coffers. Old Henry’s war against France had raped the countryside of mature timber and Assingham’s untouched tract of woodland was a golden bounty indeed.
For now she was trapped as servant in the Fitzwarren household. The steward, Ronan, kept her on a short leash for only a few weeks, until it became obvious that she was not likely to leave, and his cold gaze and prying eyes left her alone. Catherine was now just another servant to work for the family: a mender, a baby minder, a cleaner, a cook, whatever they needed her to be. All she could hope was that Robert would be able to persuade her father’s family to hand back Assingham, and then she could at least be the Lady of her own household again.
The next blood she had seen was her own and the tears this time had been ones of relief. If Robert had saddled her with his bastard she knew that would have been more than she could have borne. In the darkness of night, alone and scared she’d choked back tears as she contemplated her own death.
Catherine sniffed loudly; she hated thinking of her family. They were gone, and all that was left were painful memories. Her last hope had been Richard: not an easy man to gauge, but he had tried to help her and asked for nothing in return. And she missed Jack; she missed his easy manner and his quick smile. But she missed his presence the most; she had not realised how safe he had made her feel. Catherine didn’t know where he was, but she looked for him in every stranger’s face she saw. Jack wouldn’t have let Robert abuse her like he had; of that she was sure.
†
Jamie heard the movement from the truckle bed in the corner as the man rolled over and he knew he was awake then.
“Jamie… what day is it?” The voice that spoke was weak and broke as he tried to form the words.
“It’d be a Tuesday…not that that will be much good to you.” Jamie chuckled moving over to kneel near the bed.
“Tuesday…that means I’ve been here for nearly a week.” The voice spoke again in a hoarse murmur.
“Like I said knowing it’s a Tuesday would be no good to you lad! You’ve been there for nearly three. And as like to stop there another couple I would guess.” Jamie mused. “God has saved you. He didn’t have to, but he most assuredly did.”
“So long…but it can’t…”
“Aye it was and it is. You bled a lot and by the time I got you here, I thought I’d be digging a grave the next morning I surely did, or at least the morning after. I prayed for your soul and I saw that there was nothing that could be done. But you didn’t die. Every day I thought ‘he’ll be gone soon,’ but you weren’t. After three days I sent for Mistress Crill in the village and she’s been tending to you since.”
“A drink…” the voice managed.
Jamie poured one from the pitcher on the table and handed it to the prone man. A hand behind his head, he helped him raise himself so he could sip from the cup. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he fell back, spent by the effort of sitting up. Jamie sat back on his heels. Maybe he would be digging that grave after all he thought.
“Where’s Jack?” Richard spoke with apparent effort.
“He’s gone. Took himself off two weeks back, the men have left, and the manor is in the keeping of Sir Ayscough until they decide what to do with it,” Jamie supplied, shaking his head.
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know where he went. He wasn’t left with much choice to be fair. The Sheriff would have taken him by force if he’d not fled, so hopefully he’s gone far away from here.” Jamie poured himself a cup of water and took a draught.
“Does he know I’m here?”
“He thinks you are dead, lad. I thought you were.”
“Maybe I am dead,” Richard’s voice almost sounded amused. What was it they said about Hades, he pondered. It was easy getting in - the tricky bit was getting back out again. God he hurt. Richard’s mind felt detached; he was aware of the pain in his left shoulder but somehow it seemed a long way away. There seemed to be no connection between his thoughts and his physical form.
“Maybe,” agreed Jamie, “we’ll have to wait and see won’t we?”
Richard’s mind drifted back into unconsciousness once more. Sweat darkened his hair to the colour of a raven’s wing and illness had accentuated the angular cheekbones, the mouth, often so cruel, was softened in sleep. The grey, cold searching eyes, lidded, couldn’t see Jamie watching him closely. The priest’s thumb pulled the rosary beads through his fingers, slowly, and in time with the laboured breathing from the man on the bed.
Chapter One
†
It was a slow journey, and it was three days before he even had a sense of his surroundings. The sword injury to
his left hand was deep and painful, searing like a burn, but the agony of the cut flesh stopped his mind from wandering. It was bound tight to help the wound heal, and his mind was preoccupied with the pain, sometimes it helped to banish the sense of loss which would not leave him.
It had been a poor summer, the temperatures cool and the rain heavy, leaving the roads mired, the fields flattened and the trees dripping. Alone, and trying to take shelter from the weather against a tree trunk in the dark, he was finally reduced to tears. In the morning he awoke, soaked, half frozen and with his brother’s scornful voice ringing in his ears. It was then that he realised just how much a part Richard had played in his life. He had constantly craved Richard’s approval; he’d worked for it, strived for it, and, on rare occasions, even gained it. If he’d never met him Jack was forced to admit, he would still be a servant in Harry’s household, and he would have been there his whole life.
Richard had known the truth, but that had not mattered to him, he knew Jack could never claim his inheritance. It was only on that lonely journey that he finally realised what he had been given by his brother. It had been gifted to him slowly, sometimes brutally, often reluctantly, but in the end, Richard had shown him that he could be his equal.
And then… Jack swore inwardly… and then he’d given his life for some futile cause, some woman who would probably not even miss a heartbeat at his passing. It was not likely that he’d ever meet her, but if he did, God help her.
Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out the ring that had been Richard’s. It sparkled even in the dull summer’s light. The crest was his, he knew that now. Pushing it onto his finger, he considered it for a few moments before he reversed the ring so only the gold band showed.
†
At Pontefract, he had come across a group of pilgrims from the west-country bound for York to pay homage at the tomb of St William. They were, to Jack, the most wholly inadequately organised group of travellers he had ever come across. How they had made it so far was a complete mystery, and he was sure God must also be shaking His head in disbelief. They were under-provisioned, had little to no equipment with them, and relied on charity and God to provide. Their blind faith, however, seemed to be working.
The group consisted of a Catholic priest, Father Andrew, and four families, with an elderly couple riding in a flatbed wagon pulled by the family horse. The wagon provided the accommodation for the stops, under or on top, depending on the weather; mostly this journey so far it had been under. The group was in high spirits, Father Andrew told a good story, and when he’d stopped to help them with a loosened wheel he had accepted their invitation to join them. After all, they were all going north.
Jack glared at the second rabbit caught in the snares he had laid and swore under his breath. The young rabbit, fur soaked and matted by the incessant drizzle was barely worth skinning. He used his knife quickly and tucked the lifeless bundle into the bag with the other he had caught. The snares and pegs he pulled free of the meadow.
He’d had four snares: two had been embedded tightly in the furry legs, the third he had found un-tripped, and the fourth he could not find. Jack cursed the Almighty for the second time. Tell-tale black loam marked the spot where the pegs anchoring the snare had been torn free. It was now probably adorning the hind leg of a hare, for it was nowhere to be seen. Six was the best number to set, and he’d already lost two, so now he was going to have to craft some more. With only three he was likely to go hungry.
Trudging back to the makeshift campsite Jack handed the catch bag apologetically to Annie, “They are poor rabbits, sorry.”
“Thank you, Jack, they’ll do us just fine,” Annie smiled. She was always smiling, continually thanking the Lord, and held a firm conviction that all would be well. Jack, who liked often to dwell on the bleaker aspects of his existence, found her tiresome.
“We’ll soon be at York. So what takes you to the city?” Paul, Annie’s husband, was poking the fire back to life while his wife settled down next to him, humming happily, as she set to skinning the two small rabbits Jack had brought back.
“Work,” was an automatic response. Jack sat cross-legged, laying out the thin strips of elder bark he had collected to make up a new set of snares.
“Aye well, I’m sure there’s a wealth of that there, what’s your trade lad?.” Father Andrew joined the group and seated himself in the companionable circle.
“Marshal, farrier, stablehand, anything working with horses,” Jack supplied, his head bent to his task, hoping it was obvious he didn’t want to continue the conversation.
“Really?” Paul cast a sideways glance at Jack’s horse.
“Well, it’s been a long journey,” Jack sounded defensive. Corracha had belonged to his brother. The horse’s coat was mired in mud, mane tangled, tail clogged and wet, but despite all this the horse’s beauty was still evident. The chiseled head and dished face set on the long arching neck marked the stallion as an Arabian. Possessing a confident manner, the way he moved announced to the world his proud, powerful and energetic nature.
Guilt flooded through him, he knew the time Richard had spent on the beast. He was worth ten, no maybe even twenty times the cost of any horse Jack had ever owned. It was the reason he’d taken him from the stables in place of his own palfrey. Corracha was worth gold should he need it.
“That’s a fine beast you got there,” Father Andrew, lay a hand on his shoulder, “why not give the boys over there a coin or two, they’ll have him cleaned and brushed out for you in a trice.” He added, “It’ll do them some good, they have had little to entertain them these past few weeks.”
“Aye, I might,” Jack conceded a little grumpily, not enjoying the unwanted attention.
Father Andrew smiled; he knew when to leave a man alone. Clapping Jack on the shoulder he settled beside him, watching Jack’s skilful hands fashion the cord for a new set of snares. Jack used a knife to split the bark lengths into narrow strips. Then ran the back of the knife down each to straighten them and remove the damp spongy material from the side. He twisted a peg into the ground and used it to secure the first of the elder strips and then began to twist them into a tough and durable cord.
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Who was the first man who looked at a tree and thought he could make something as delicate as that?” Father Andrew picked up one of the finely twisted lengths Jack had finished making from the elder bark. “You’d not connect the two would you?” he mused, rolling it between his fingers.
Jack was about to speak, but it was Paul who commented first, “God provides us with all manner of wondrous opportunities, Father.”
Jack rolled his eyes: it never took this lot long to drag the Almighty into the conversation.
“Indeed, where do any of our notions come from?” Father Andrew continued. “All that comes to us that is good is from God’s bounty, even our wisdom. Our skills are all His to give and take away as He wishes.”
“So you believe every skill is God-given?” Jack couldn’t help himself.
“Of course,” Father Andrew continued, with a twinkle in his eyes. “go on lad, I can see you don’t believe me.”
Jack had just finished using his knife to neatly trim the ends of the elder bark string; he flipped the poniard in his hand, holding it out, hilt first for Father Andrew to take. “Hit the centre of the wheel,” Jack gestured at the cart that stood a good ten paces away.
Father Andrew laughed, “I can barely see that far these days, let alone throw a knife that far.”
“Surely though, God - seeing you are hungry - will give you the skills you need to throw a knife so you’ll not starve?” Jack pressed.
“Indeed he might if there was that need,” Father Andrew replied, then added, “can you hit the wheel?”
In a smooth movement, Jack reversed the knife and sent it spinning to embed itself neatly in the wheel hub.
“There then. There’s no need for me to throw, God has provided you, has He not?” Father An
drew spoke triumphantly.
“It doesn’t just happen, that’s borne of practice,” Jack’s patience was wearing thin.
“Yes, and God gave you the time to do that, just as He gave us the eyes to see that this,” Father Andrew held out the fine cord, “could be made from the bark. He put the thoughts into a man’s head that he could make this and he did.”
“Or maybe, someone was just hungry and wanted to catch a rabbit,” Jack said under his breath.
†
The next day, the cart trundled on. The background to the day was always the same: the low chatter of voices and the creak from the cart as the wooden back board twisted when the wheels negotiated the uneven road. Jack liked to ride at the back: here the voices were just sounds, he couldn’t hear the words, and more importantly, they wouldn’t try to include him. Corracha was happy to follow, and it was some moments before he realised that the horse had pulled to a halt behind the wagon. If the wheel pin has come out again, they can bloody well put it back in themselves. Jack had no desire to crawl in the mud again. He kept to his saddle, reins loosely folded in his good right hand and waited.
The tug on his leg made him jump. It was one of the boys, “Help, there’s three men arguing with Father Andrew.”
“Shhh lad,” Jack held his hand out to silence the boy, “you stay here.”
The horse had sensed the change in it’s rider instantly: Corracha’s head was up, the muscled withers tensed, liquid black eyes alert and nostrils wide. Jack saw three men ahead of the cart, arguing with Father Andrew. The cleric seemed as if he was trying to appease them. But, as Jack watched, one of them thumped him hard in the shoulder sending him reeling over backward to land in the road. That was enough to cause a reaction from Jack.
“Where are you going?” wailed the boy. The Arab spun round its tail lashing his legs.
Father Andrew was trying to struggle to his feet, and Annie, a hand under one of his arms, was trying to help him.