'Hermitage,’ Wat panted, 'try running now, reasoning later.’
Hermitage did running.
'What are we going to do with the child?’
'We'll get a good distance and then let him go. It'll slow them down when they have to stop for him.’
'Awful,’ Hermitage shook his head. The despair was still with him.
Just before they entered the wood, Hermitage noticed that the small man had raised the thing he was carrying.
'He's got a bow,’ Hermitage called out a warning to Wat.
The pair of them ducked lower as there was a loud click from some way behind them and a swish through the air.
The shot went wide and a crossbow bolt thunked into a tree off to their left.
'Interesting,’ Hermitage commented in his tone of fascination.
'Very,’ said Wat. 'Running some more would be good now.’
They ran some more. When they were well into the woods Wat selected a suitable a tree and deposited young Sigurd on a high limb. It was too high for the child to jump down and Wat beckoned Hermitage that they must leave. Quickly.
They put more distance between them and the shouting horde of followers who had now entered the woods. The high pitched wail of Sigurd in his tree marked their way.
Hermitage was panting and out of breath. ‘The child saw which way we went and will simply tell his father,’ he called to Wat.
‘Of course he will,’ Wat replied, not very out of breath at all. ‘That’s why we’ll carry on this way until we’re out of sight and then head back to the castle.’
‘Oh,’ Hermitage was somewhat put out by the plan. ‘Do we really want to go back there?’
‘Just to put Scarlan and his bunch of the mad and useless off the scent. Once we’re in sight of the castle they’ll leave us alone. Then we stroll off.’
‘I’m sure they’ll still track us. They’re probably used to this sort of thing.’
‘Hermitage, I know you’re in the middle of a nice despair, but try and be positive.’
Hermitage looked at the weaver ahead of him as they crouched and stumbled through the wood, pushing through undergrowth, which snagged and tugged at his habit. Wat was right. He really must try to be more optimistic. He often thought things were so bad the only option was to sit down and let them do their worst.
‘But won’t the people at the castle stop us and drag us back in?’ He couldn’t help himself.
‘Not unless Grosmal himself is out patrolling, and I don’t think that’s likely. The rest of them will think it's part of the investigation.’
They stumbled some more until they came to an ancient ditch in the wood. It dipped sharply into a high-sided trench and ran off to their left and right.
‘This’ll do,’ said Wat as he led the way down until they were out of sight of any pursuit.
Hermitage followed and tramped along in a thick carpet of leaves. Each year’s fallings had simply piled one on top of the other, so the floor was at least a foot deep.
‘Won’t Lord Grosmal send his men after us?’ Hermitage worried that there were too many connected and unconnected events going on at the same time. He could manage events in a nice, neat row, but all at once really was too much.
‘Probably,’ Wat spoke back over his shoulder, ‘but with enough time he’ll give up.’
‘And what do we do in the meantime? And then when the meantime is over and we end up back this way?’
Wat waved his hand to indicate Hermitage should stop moving. The weaver listened carefully for any sound of Scarlan and his men, and child. Seemingly satisfied, he led Hermitage on more slowly and carefully than before.
‘Hermitage,’ he said, ‘in my experience people never remember the things you think they’re going to remember. There may be some horrible slight you think you’ve done them. You worry and fret over it for years, and then when you meet them again it’s been completely forgotten.’
‘Really?’ Hermitage was amazed. He’d never had the opportunity to meet the same people after many years. He tended to meet people once, and then never again. Even those he positively remembered meeting claimed never to have heard of him. Perhaps Wat was right.
‘Yes,’ the weaver nodded ruefully, ‘it’s the things you’ve completely forgotten they want to kill you for.’
‘Ah.’
‘So there’s no point in fretting over anything really. Just take each new event as yet another nasty surprise.’
‘It seems a very cheerful, if rather fatalistic philosophy,’ Hermitage mused.
‘Sometimes the surprises are nice ones.’
‘Oh good.’
‘Just not often.’
‘Ah.’
They had come to the end of the ditch now and the high walls faded into the floor of the wood. This too was strewn with hundreds of years of leaves, which at least killed off all the undergrowth so the place was easy to walk in.
It was also easy to see through. Wat crouched behind a tree and looked out across the woods, back towards Scarlan’s camp.
‘Bugger,’ he hissed.
‘A nasty surprise?’ Hermitage asked.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Wat clapped the monk lightly on the shoulder. ‘Scarlan’s ignored the ditch and come straight through. Looks like he’s split his men up, though. There’s just him and Durniss. Sigurd and Cotard must have gone to the other end.’
‘If Cotard hasn’t gone back to camp for something,’ Hermitage commented.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He’s, what can we say, reluctant to engage the enemy…’
‘Right,’ Wat nodded, ‘that could be useful.’
Wat peered round the tree again. ‘They don’t seem to really know where we are. They’re casting about all over the place. And they’re still some way off.’
‘But if we run they’ll see us.’
‘They will indeed.’
‘Which will be a bad thing?’
‘Normally, yes,’ said Wat, thinking deeply.
‘And what about the small man with the bow? Can you see him?’ Hermitage asked.
‘Good point. No, I can’t. Don’t want him sneaking up behind us with that thing. Not after the damage he did to Henri de Turold.’
‘Yes, now about that.’ Hermitage wanted to explore a new theory with Wat.
There was a rustle in the leaves behind them.
‘Found you, found you.’ Sigurd son of Sigurd kicked up a great flurry of leaves.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Wat swore and started to move back to the small figure.
A second small figure appeared behind the boy. This one had a crossbow in his hand.
‘Go.’ Wat spat out the word, and he and Hermitage jumped from their hiding place and sprinted out into the wood.
They were immediately spotted by Scarlan, who gave a cry and set off after them.
Hermitage dared a look back and saw the small man drop to one knee and take careful sight along his weapon. Hermitage ran, ducked and grimaced at the same time as he wondered what being hit by a crossbow bolt would feel like. Very painful, he imagined. He just hoped the small man’s target was not the same as in de Turold’s demise.
The click came again, this time louder and closer. The sound of the bolt tearing through the close air of the forest was palpable. This time it ended in a flurry of leaves as the projectile fell to the ground off to Hermitage’s left.
They had made good distance from child and man, and were keeping the space from Scarlan.
Hermitage looked over his shoulder again. He saw the small man heaving the loading pulley onto the crossbow, his foot in the cocking stirrup at the head of the weapon. He clearly didn’t quite have the strength for a quick reload, and Hermitage’s confidence grew.
‘This way.’ Wat swerved to his right slightly and led the way through trees and shrubs. ‘Not far to the edge now, we’ll make it.’
‘Are you sure?’ Hermitage gasped with the effort of the run.
‘Yeah.’ Wat wa
s sure. ‘Scarlan’s no runner. Planner and orderer-about of other people. Doesn’t do the dirty work himself. Durniss’s built like a barn and probably runs like one as well. The child and the little man have short legs and won’t catch up. Just got to hope Sigurd’s too far away from the rest of the band. He’s the only one I’m worried about.’
Sigurd was too far away from the rest of the band.
The problem was he was too far away right in front of Hermitage and Wat.
‘Cheating so and so. He's run on ahead.’ Wat frowned as they saw the bulky figure of Sigurd senior several hundred yards ahead. The man was on one knee, examining the floor of the forest for tracks. They slowed their pace, having left the rest of the pursuit behind.
‘Yargh,’ Sigurd called across the forest as he looked up at just the right moment. He stood and hefted his battle axe above his head. He started lumbering towards them.
Shouts from behind became clearer. It would not be long before they were surrounded.
Wat started walking straight towards Sigurd with Hermitage at heel.
‘Er?’ Hermitage knew that Wat must have a plan. He always did. He knew about situations like this and how to get out of them. He was sure Wat would tell him what the plan was. Any minute now.
Wat leaned over to talk quietly to Hermitage.
‘When we get within about a hundred feet I’ll give you a nudge.’
‘A hundred feet?’ Hermitage thought that was a bit close. ‘Isn’t that a bit close?’ he asked.
Wat ignored him. ‘When I give you the nudge, you go left. As fast as you can round the side of Sigurd. Keep a hundred feet away and then start to run round behind him.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Hermitage could not let his friend sacrifice himself like this.
‘I’m going to run right. We’ll see which one of us he really wants. At least he hasn’t got that other fellow with him.’
‘Cotard? No, I thought he wouldn’t.’ Another thought occurred to Hermitage which he knew wasn’t appropriate for the situation, but he always had to let his thoughts out. They muddled up his head if he kept them in.
‘Why a hundred feet?’
‘I reckon that’s about as far as Sigurd could throw his axe. He looks a bit worn out from the run and he is getting on a bit. Even then it won’t be very accurate.’
‘Very accurate. But perhaps a bit accurate.’
‘Perhaps. But I suspect he won’t be able to make his mind up which of us to go for. By the time he’s decided it’ll be too late.’
‘Oh good. And if he makes his mind up sooner, it might be too late as well.’
‘True,’ Wat shrugged, ‘but what would you rather do? Go up to him and let that axe get really close?’
Hermitage contemplated. He was just coming to the conclusion that an axe a hundred feet away was probably better than one close up when Wat nudged him.
It was a bit much for a nudge and Hermitage stumbled slightly as Wat sprinted off away from him.
'Oy,’ Sigurd yelled as Wat and Hermitage parted rapidly. The big man looked left and right at the departing figures, but only for a moment. He lifted his axe and hurled it as hard and as fast as he could. Having had lots of practice over the years, this was pretty hard and pretty fast. The deadly lump of iron sliced through the cool forest air as it made its way straight for Wat's head. It even made its way straight for where Wat's head was going to be when the axe arrived.
Sigurd had done this before. As soon as the axe left his hand he was off after Hermitage.
Fortunately it seemed as though Wat had done something like this before as well. Hermitage looked back in horror as the weapon set off on its inevitable journey. He then drew breath as Wat stopped for half a step before starting off again. The hesitation was enough for the axe to fly by, right in front of the weaver.
Wat stopped for another half step as he picked the axe from the undergrowth, where he found it had killed a squirrel.
Hermitage thought his running was going pretty well until he saw Sigurd had done running before too.
Rather than run straight after the monk, the man had set off on an intercept course, anticipating that Hermitage would try to get behind him.
Sigurd was closing even though Hermitage was young and fairly fit. His usual running away from people was restricted to the confines of a monastery, where wide open spaces were few and far between. Now there were acres to cross. Hermitage's short bursts of speed were being eaten up by Sigurd's inexorable energy.
Hermitage thought it rather unfair that when he had to stop to recover his breath, the wretched Sigurd kept coming.
He set off for about the third time when he heard a definite sword being drawn. It wasn't a sound he was familiar with, but it was unmistakeable. As the metal shivered from its sheath, Hermitage's back joined in.
The sound of steps in the underbrush was behind him now and he had really forgotten which way he was supposed to be running. All he knew was the sounds of Sigurd should be behind him. The awful man could be chasing him back into the arms of Scarlan for all he knew.
Now he could even hear the breath of the attacker. He knew some swords could be quite long, and so it wouldn't be a moment before he felt the cut of metal in his back.
He took one last desperate lunge and got behind a tree. He turned to look and saw the mighty figure of Sigurd with an even mightier sword raised for the blow.
The mighty sword fell. It made a mighty clang as it crashed into an axe thrown into the tree trunk above Hermitage's head.
'Now now,’ said Wat as he drew up to Hermitage and Sigurd, 'mustn't kill monks. Very bad form.’
Sigurd put his hands to his waist and bent double. He was panting hard and couldn't get his words out.
Wat considered him more closely. Sigurd was not young and it was his reactions which had pushed his body to a level of activity which was unwise, to say the least. The man was red in the face and looked in great pain. His gasps were snatched and uneven and had a horribly terminal ring to them.
Wat put a hand on each of Sigurd's shoulders and pushed the man over backwards.
Sigurd put up no defence and lay panting on the floor.
'Oh God, oh God,’ he eventually got out, making no attempt to get to his feet.
'I think we've done for him,’ Wat observed.
The observation was confirmed when Sigurd rolled over and was sick on the floor.
'He is getting a bit old for this sort of stuff. And he will insist on wearing all this heavy gear.’ Wat himself was panting a bit, but nothing like the edge of death noises coming from Sigurd.
'You want to watch it, mate,’ Wat said to the prone figure. 'Any more of this and Sigurd son of Sigurd will be just Sigurd.’
Wat took a deep breath and waved to Hermitage.
'Come on. Let's get back to the Normans where it's safe.’
Hermitage took one last look at sword and axe, crossed himself and followed Wat out of the woods.
Caput XXIII
Four-o-clock: The Guard the Wench and the Wardrobe
Eleanor was most assuredly in charge of the adventure into the wardrobe. She was pushing William in front of her and slapping his back whenever he stopped. To William the slaps seemed to be getting increasingly impatient, frustrated and frankly rude.
He only stopped because it was pitch dark and he couldn't see where he was going.
Once through the back of the wardrobe itself they were in a rough tunnel. They had to bend to get into it and then couldn't stand up straight. They soon discovered bumping a head on the ceiling not only hurt, but brought lumps of the roof down on top of them.
The sides of the space were rough and crumbling. The floor was uneven and strewn with bits which should have been holding the rest of the place up.
Their passage damaged the passage further as they had to feel their way. The tunnel wound left and right, with obstructions in the floor and large bits sticking out of the walls. In places it was so narrow they had to squeeze
, and in others it seemed to stretch into the distance away from them.
It was clearly a tunnel of mistake – simply a gap between other bits of the castle, rather than a deliberate construction.
They had only been going a few minutes and hadn't got far as every step had to be explored, when William realised that he no longer had any idea where they were. Neither did he have any idea where they had come from, or where they were going. All sense of direction had fled in the twisting darkness and the slippery fear that they might die in here and never be found began to prey on him.
'We should have gone back for a torch,’ he hissed at Eleanor.
'And half a dozen other guards. Ones who aren't afraid of the dark,’ she snapped
'I'm not afraid of the dark,’ he bit back. 'The main problem is I can't see through it. My fault, I know, not being a cat and all, but perhaps you should have asked for a guard who could see in the dark?’
'Never mind the dark. When we find whoever's at the end of this tunnel you can moan them to death.’
'At least if I’m between you and them they won't get nagged into their graves.’
Eleanor hit him again.
'And will you stop doing that?’ William snapped, turning to her in the dark. 'It's not helping.’
'There's a light,’ he said, as he turned back to face the way they were going, 'through a crack in the wall.’
He pointed ahead until he realised he couldn't see the end of his finger.
There was a very faint shimmer down low to their right. It damaged the darkness just enough to indicate that it wasn't absolute any more.
William got down on to his hands and knees, and crawled slowly forward.
'Where have you gone?’ Eleanor hissed, unable to find her man.
'I'm down here,’ William whispered back, afraid that the crack in the wall might be able to hear him.
'This is not the time,’ Eleanor hissed.
'Oh, for goodness sake keep your mind on the job,’ William said, as the thought did cross his mind to crawl back and locate Eleanor's skirts. 'I'm trying to see where this light is coming from.’
The Garderobe of Death Page 21