‘Sir Gervaise D’Amory and I’ll have a flagon of your best brew, and if it isn’t fit for a gentleman I swear you’ll rue it!’
The women hurriedly left.
With a nervous potboy in her wake, Maud shortly returned with a foaming tankard, which she carefully placed on the table in front of him.
D’Amory looked up sharply. ‘Where’s the maid? I’m not to be served by an ill-faced old hag!’
Tight-faced, Maud left and returned with more ale, protectively in front of Aldith.
‘That’s better!’ he said with a lewd grin, eyeing the young woman as she set down the ale.
When she made to leave he called loudly, ‘And what’s your name, maid?’
‘Aldith, wife of Jared,’ she said quietly, stepping back.
‘Is there anything else, My Lord?’ Maud asked, taking her place.
‘Nothing you can serve me with, old woman,’ D’Amory said lazily, his eyes still on Aldith. ‘You can leave. Off you go, then.’
Seeing Aldith about to depart as well he rapped, ‘Stay! I bid you stay, woman.’
White-faced, she stood against the wall.
Slowly, D’Amory took a pull at his ale. ‘God’s teeth, and this is good,’ he said in pleased surprise. ‘Your brewing, maid?’
‘Sir, I’m no maid but well married to my husband. And I own the ale is mine, My Lord.’
One of the knights leant forward. ‘A pretty enough cuntkin, sire,’ he whispered with a cynical sneer.
‘As is wasted on these clay-brained villeins,’ D’Amory acknowledged.
Aldith bit her lip. ‘Is that all, My Lord?’
‘No, it is not.’
He leant forward to the others with a wolfish grin. ‘I’ve a mind to have a piece o’ the culver myself,’ he hissed.
‘What, here, My Lord?’
‘No, you fool, the place stinks of the farmyard. I’ve another notion.’
‘Sire?’
D’Amory ignored him, finished his ale and planked the tankard down with finality.
Loudly he declared, ‘I rather fancy this ale’s better than the swill they make in Ravenstock.’
‘It is, My Lord,’ they all agreed quickly.
‘What say I remedy the situation?’
They hastily murmured encouragement.
‘Mistress Aldith, my friends do all agree,’ he said innocently, ‘that you should come with me to the castle to tell the brewer his business. You shall be well rewarded, of course.’
Maud suddenly appeared at the door. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘She’s a house and husband to keep and—’
‘Get that hag out of here,’ D’Amory snapped.
Two knights roughly ejected her.
‘Now, fairest flower mine, we leave for the castle.’
He took Aldith’s arm and forced her to the door. Outside sullen-faced villagers watched silently as they emerged.
‘My lord, and that there’s Jared’s wife,’ begged Osbert, drawn by the noise from the forge and still in his leather apron.
‘It is, and she’s to perform a service for me.’ The knights tittered at the sally.
His palfrey was brought up, a showy black and richly appointed with accoutrements.
‘Sire, he needs her—’
A gloved fist caught Osbert squarely, knocking him down. ‘And now I do.’
D’Amory twisted round and glared. ‘Well …?’
Hastily one of the knights made a stirrup cup with his hands and D’Amory swung into the saddle.
‘Send the maid up.’
‘Sire, I beg you, no!’ Aldith pleaded. It brought restless murmurs, which were quickly countered with the drawing of swords.
‘Make haste, you oaf!’ D’Amory threw down to the knight making a back for Aldith to mount the horse. Two others hoisted her up.
‘Ride on, then!’ he snarled.
The horses clattered off, Aldith looking back piteously, the villagers standing speechless.
CHAPTER 10
‘What, not done yet?’ Jared said breezily as he returned to the smithy. Seeing Osbert’s wounded head and set expression he added, ‘M’ friend – you’ve met with a mischance?’ The man didn’t answer, looking at him with profound pity.
Then Jared noticed a knot of people arriving outside, their faces etched with grief.
No one spoke.
‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it? You’re not telling me! Aldith – where is she?’
Maud appeared, her face like stone. ‘She’s not here, son. Gone with the baron’s whelp, Sir Gervaise.’
‘Gone? God’s bones, what are you saying?’
‘He came by, took a fancy and …’
In the heavy silence his mind whirled and he clutched at a wooden upright until he steadied.
‘He came here and …’ he began huskily but couldn’t finish.
‘Took her away for himself. She’s with him now.’
The reality slammed in. Jared tore himself away and stormed outside, and choking with tears of helpless rage stared at the grim walls that loured above the village.
‘She’s … she’s …’
‘Calm yourself, son. It happens. She’ll be back when …’
‘No! No! Noooooo!’ he howled, unhinged by the emotion that flooded his soul, falling to his knees in anguish.
Maud went to him and held him. ‘Steady, my boy, your Aldith will come back to you, I promise.’
He broke down and wept pitifully.
She looked up at the others. ‘Please leave us, he’s taking it hard, poor lamb.’
Stroking his hair she murmured, ‘These things do happen to folk such as we. There’s nothing we can do, it’s our place in nature. We take grievous hurt if we can’t get over it betimes, dear son.’
Jared seemed to pull himself together and she sighed. ‘I’ll allow as it’s a hard thing for a man …’
But when he got to his feet she saw on his face such a terrible expression, a bleak fury barely held back, and she went cold.
Throwing off her beseeching arms Jared fixed his gaze on the castle in a long agony of hatred, never wavering in his intensity.
‘Come with me, m’ dearling. You’ll get over it in time.’
He didn’t respond.
Osbert came and tried to say something but there was nothing that could reach the iron soul.
He was still there when night fell and others came to share his soundless torment, but late into the night they left him to his anguish.
In the morning they found the huddled figure and carried him to his bed, all the while weeping softly for Aldith who had not returned to him.
The day was still young when a frightened youngster hurried up and whispered something to Maud.
She turned white and sat down quickly. Her features contorted for a moment before she buried her face in her hands.
‘Go bring Osbert to me,’ she told the child.
He came at once.
‘Osbert, I want you to tell Jared. For the love of Christ and all the saints, I can not.’
‘They found her in the weir, floating – dead. Like an angel, but quite gone from this world.’
Jared’s crazed disbelief turned by degrees into stupefaction; his eyes bulged and he bit on his fists bringing runnels of blood.
Then quite suddenly he threw back his head and howled in a hideous desolation that went on and on, echoing out over the village in an unbearable rage against fate.
No one dared approach him as he swayed to his feet, tears flooding down his cheeks, his features a rictus of heartbreak. He staggered unseeingly outside, the others keeping their distance while he found his way to the woods.
‘Leave him be,’ Maud muttered. ‘Leave him to his grief, Lord save his soul.’
They watched the hunched figure lurch away and disappear into the forest.
He did not return that day nor the next.
No one wanted to thrash about in the depths of the dark, evil forest looking for him and it was a relief whe
n on the third day he appeared at the edge of the common.
‘Jared! We’ve been worried of you, m’ friend,’ Osbert cried, racing up.
What he saw was not his friend. It was a ragged, staring, pitiful shadow of him.
‘Come, lad, we’ll have you better in a …’ He tailed off as Jared pushed past with stark, unseeing eyes, making for his house. Osbert followed behind, his heart going out to the tormented soul.
‘Food!’ Jared croaked. But he didn’t sit nor did he show any sign of recognition. His mother quickly found some maslin and blood pudding and pushed them wordlessly into his hands.
They watched his broken-spirited form return to where he’d come from.
‘He’s a strong boy, he’ll get over it but I grieve he missed her burying,’ Maud said with a catch in her throat.
‘Aye, but in all kindness it’s as well he wasn’t at the inquest.’
‘That cankered Devil’s spawn!’ she swore. ‘The day of judgement will serve him for his evil, and only then will we see true justice!’
As from Saxon times an inquest into a suspicious death had been set in train by the lord of the manor as soon as possible.
Being the last to have dealings with the deceased, Sir Gervaise D’Amory had been called but the man had lightly brushed aside inconvenient questions by swearing that he’d paid the woman good silver for her advice to his brewer, and if she’d been set upon by robbers on the way back with her money, that was hardly his fault.
He’d offered to summon the servants involved who would swear to it but the court ruled that this would not be necessary and returned a verdict accordingly.
Now there was nothing more to do than let the age-old rhythms of the village go forward – but without Aldith’s bright presence in their world. After all, in their hard lives was not death a constant visitor?
CHAPTER 11
The pounding in his head would not go away. Jared plucked a celandine, smelt the flower then brutally crushed it. There was no relief, no lifting of the intolerable pain that had turned his waking hours to a living nightmare. In their daily lives the villagers of Hurnwych saw visitations of God and the Devil in the plagues, ruinous harvests and other doleful events, and knew better than to waste time questioning their fate.
But this! This … monstrous thing – it was not the work of God, it was the work of man. One man who had ripped out his heart and soul. A dissolute fiend with all the power of a feudal overlord.
For that there could be no forgiveness, no charity.
Tears welled again – but these were tears of impotent rage; his grief was giving way to a lust for vengeance.
He stared up yet again at the grim turrets and shadowed flanks of the castle – why did God allow the existence of such? Why did he not send down titanic thunderbolts from the heavens in just retribution, to tumble those proud stones to dust?
He knew his soul was distorted in agony. Others had lost their sweethearts and had healed, why not he?
With an insane roaring in his ears the answer came back – this was not anybody’s sweetling – this was the saintly Aldith that was lost!
A wave of grief threatened to engulf him, and his mind, flailing to escape its hurt, found release in a spreading, alluring and terrible apparition.
Under his hands was the shrieking form of D’Amory, at his mercy and about to pay for his deed. Here, deep in the forest and far from the sight of man he could visit whatever lingering torments he desired on the white, helpless flesh until the final deadly thrust that would send him at last to a waiting Hell.
Jared’s fingers writhed together as if they held the evil neck in them.
Nearby was the sombre ruin he now slept in, the old priory, long decayed and overrun by creepers and shunned by all devout passers-by. The few thieves and vagrants in it had gone, terrified by his moods and sudden rages. He had it for himself. And he’d found below the crumbling ruin of the hall a large cellar down a creaking old wooden hatch. Anything that went on there, however evil, would never be heard by a living soul.
His heart leapt – to exterminate under his own hands, with the most extreme suffering, the cause of his anguish would be joy indeed.
For long minutes he feverishly reviewed the means. Above all it must not be quick – no, it had to be long drawn out and the vermin must know why he was paying, and as well that during that time his death was assured. Yes, if he—
The let-down was cruel. It was just a fantasy. He was here, a cold, wretched, broken creature and the baron’s son up there warm and snug in his castle, never even knowing of his tragic existence of endless heartbreak.
It wouldn’t happen.
His eyes stung and he heaved himself to his feet in the darkening shadows of evening. Another night, to be racked yet again with guilt and remorse, to shiver and suffer on the cold stone, listening to the night sounds of the forest, the scream of a rabbit taken by a stoat, the hoarse roar of a stag – and the haunting beauty of the nightingale.
Yet he couldn’t go back home. Not to where he and Aldith had begun their life together and brought forth young David and … and …
He howled into the darkness, a long and terrible cry that rose up into the uncaring stillness and at its end left everything unchanged.
At some point in his fitful sleep a thought rose up suddenly like a sceptre and wrenched him to full consciousness. A frightful, wonderful thought that brought back in a flood the ferocious gratification he’d felt in his fantasy.
The fantasy was not impossible – it could come true, by God!
Not quite as he’d like it, but the end result was what counted.
Wolfscote Forest was a D’Amory demesne. The baron used it infrequently for hunting but his son was known to ride the forest paths with his followers and thunder along the trackways in breakneck races.
Therefore the cur would come to him. As they rode along, little would the fiend know that his end was nearing with every hoofbeat. As he passed beneath a tree a figure would drop on him, sending him sprawling to the ground and a wickedly gleaming knife would tear out his throat. He would be in hell long before others could come to his aid, and then it would be far too late, justice would have come to Gervaise D’Amory.
Jared knew that he himself would go down, but then what did this life hold for him now?
For the first time for a very long time a deep sleep came to claim him.
The reality of a cold, wet dawn did nothing to daunt him. He had a mission now, a holy vengeance that would be sacrilege not to follow through.
He vowed he would not speak another word until the stinking corpse lay under his knife.
CHAPTER 12
A first task: he needed a weapon. Behind the door of the forge was a seax, the wounding knife that was the mark of a Saxon, made by his father for a friend who’d clung to the old ways but had passed away before claiming it. Now it would attain its consummation in the blood of a Norman.
The second was not so readily achieved. Where was he to lie in wait? The only way was to hide and watch, learn D’Amory’s movements and habits – and then lay his plans.
He knew the forest paths and swiftly made his way to the eastern edge of Wolfscote to a broad track that led into the interior where it was closest to Castle Ravenstock. Jared found a likely hiding place among the undergrowth and settled to wait.
With a terrible patience he let the hours pass, ignoring the occasional villager foraging for firewood, a swineherd exercising his right to pannage, the browsing of his pigs on acorns and the like.
It was late afternoon when he was jerked to a full alert by the subliminal thudding of hoofs through the ground.
It was a group of knights led by D’Amory, restless and ready for their sport.
With a fierce hunger Jared’s eyes took in his prey: caparisoned like a prince and on a magnificent beast worth many years of his own earnings; a spiteful leer on his face and an air of careless arrogance – this was the evil whoreson who …
He crushe
d the rising emotion with an inhuman strength. Patience! In a very short time that baron’s spawn would have the life torn from him by a Saxon knife and it would be enough.
At the edge of the deeper forest the horses came together, whinnying in impatience as their riders laughed and jested. He could hear them but couldn’t understand their French; it didn’t matter, it was plain they were debating a race and laying wagers.
He watched intently: a massive-thewed oak was in a fine position as the horses impatiently gyrated below it, well suited for his bloody task.
He had to get closer – around this bush and a crouched run to the next copse and—
A shout from one of them had all heads turning his way. Jared shrank back but with a joyous whoop first one then another drew their swords and urged their mounts to a mad gallop straight towards him.
He took to his heels, plunging further into the dense undergrowth, ignoring the sharp whipping stems and thorns. But it slowed him and the deeper he got, the nearer sounded the pursuit – it would have been madness to have fled down the open forest path.
A clearing and another coppice. The first horses reached the thicket with a crash and he heard the rider cursing and swinging his sword but coming up fast – and his thicket was thinning rapidly.
He had minutes to live unless … this copse converged on the previous one over to the left – it was a chance!
Hunched, he ran along the outside and doubled back to where he’d been. He dived to the ground, wiggled into the core of the brush and lay still, hardly daring to breathe.
He could hear them crashing about in the undergrowth and through to the far side and then their baffled shouts, their quarry gone to ground.
After some minutes there was an impatient hail and they trotted back, passing so close he could smell them.
More desultory discussion, a pause and then eager shouts and the wild drumming of hoofs fading into the distance. It was another mad race, and he’d been forgotten.
The Powder of Death Page 5