by Grace Ingram
‘That’s folly! They are your tokens of knighthood!’ ‘Knighthood!’
‘For good or ill it’s yours. How can dumb metal offend? Live so that you do them honour, Sir Guy!’
Guy stared resentfully into his eyes, and then bent his head. Conan was right. He braced himself, and moved to Kenric’s body. Faint surprise remained in his open eyes and dropped jaw. His blood had sunk into the earth and congealed stickily on his clothes. Guy knelt and pressed his lids shut, crossed himself and muttered a prayer. Feeling was numb in him. This was not Kenric, this chilling clay. Kenric was gone before God, Who would surely have mercy. He tried to straighten the heavy body, but that was beyond his strength. He stood up, moving like an old man.
Conan’s voice roughened awkwardly at its novel task of comforting sorrow. ‘You’ll blame yourself, lad, but he was old, and it was a quick end, easier than any mortal illness.’
‘That doesn’t absolve me.’
‘It’s worth remembering.’ His own men were waiting; at his signal two of them came forward to take the dead armourer up between them and carry him to the nearest shed. Another heaved the Slut clear of Edric’s corpse. At that Guy started forward, fell to his knees and lifted her, cradling her broad head against his chest and burying his face in her harsh fur. She had no soul he could pray for, her love and loyalty and courage were gone into air and darkness, and tears brimmed hot in his eyes as grief and pain tore him.
Presently he mastered himself and stumbled to his feet. His skull seemed stuffed with wool, but he looked at the shed where Kenric had been bestowed and croaked, ‘My father—’
‘My fellows will prepare him for decent burial and take him to the church.’ He steered Guy by the arm to the mounting-block. ‘Sit down. You’re still unfit.’
‘My Slut—not the dunghill—’
Conan raised his voice. ‘Gautier, Ivo, take a spade and bury the bitch outside the walls.’
‘Bury the bitch, cap’n?’
‘Doesn’t she deserve a grave, dying for her master? Under the ash-tree by the track, to keep her memory before men.’
‘What about this rogue she killed, cap’n?’
‘You may fling him on the dunghill for all I care.’
‘We’ll observe the decencies,’ said Lady Mabel behind him. ‘Gertrude is bringing two shrouds. Sir James, have them taken into the church, and tomorrow the priest can be summoned from Thorgastone.’
‘I shall see to it, my lady.’
‘Lord Reynald, my lady?’ Conan asked.
‘Lying in his bed bewailing his belly-ache and his unnatural sons,’ she answered, her bitterness manifested by her saying as much to the detested mercenary. ‘Wulfrune has given him a potion to make him sleep.’
‘God send she poisons him,’ the routier growled.
‘What will he do—oh what will he do when he wakes?’ Roger whispered.
‘That need not trouble us,’ Guy declared. ‘None of us will be here to find out.’
They gaped at him, and glanced about lest any had overheard. ‘You mean we—we go ?’ she whispered.
‘What better chance will ever offer, with him laid aside and Conan in command of the guard? After supper—’
‘Supper? Are we to sit down and eat as though none of this has happened?’
‘How will fasting help? When he’s asleep, collect money, jewels, a change of clothes, a warm cloak. Bring the children and any of your women who will come, and we’ll be away.’
‘It’s madness!’ Sir James protested. ‘My lord’s wife, and his son—’
‘Do you pretend we’ve any duty to that monster? To go free—’ She caught her breath, and her eyes widened with hope. Then dejection quenched it. ‘Do you reckon I haven’t thought of it a hundred—a thousand times? What’s one night’s start, when he’ll have the whole garrison after us by morning? Where can we go for safety?’
‘To Trevaine.’
‘Trevaine? Henry of Trevaine—he’d hang Roger from his battlements for revenge!’
‘Tell him a fairer revenge would be to escort you to Bristol and put you aboard a ship for Southampton. He’s not an unreasonable man. He’ll threaten and bluster at first, but face him boldly and he’ll agree to it.’
Her eyes steady on his, she said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll take any risk to get Roger out of his hold.’
‘Yes, yes! ’ Roger whispered.
‘Go to supper and behave as usual.’
‘As usual, Our Lady help me! And you?’
‘Would any expect me to enter again under his roof?’ he asked in revulsion, his face twisting as he struggled for self-command.
‘The Devil knows what he expects, but he’s preoccupied with his belly and by now filled with Wulfrune’s potions. And here’s a scullion sweating from the kitchen to learn whether we sup.’
She turned to meet the man, who cast shifty glances from Guy to the stained grass as he gabbled his message. Then she touched Guy’s shoulder and moved away, Roger beside her and Sir James trailing after.
Conan put a hand under Guy’s arm. ‘You’re not fit to ride half a mile.’
‘What choice have I?’
‘None. So rest until it’s time.’ He steered Guy to the forage-shed, and he stretched out on the heap of musty hay in the corner, where grooms and scullions laid their wenches, with a grunt of relief. Conan went out, and Guy fought a foolish urge to call him back. He had never felt so desolate. He stared at the dustmotes wavering in the shafts of sunlight that slanted through the warped frames. Kenric was dead, Emma widowed, the children fatherless, and if Guy had not been mastered by pride and ambition his stepfather could have lived out his days in honour and died in his bed with his family about him and a priest to pass him from life with the last rites of the Church. And all for the Dead Sea fruit of knighthood, that had turned to ashes on his lips. Guy turned his face into the hay’s prickles and felt tears ooze from under his closed lids.
The door opened at the thrust of Conan’s foot. He carried a steaming bowl, a hunk of bread and a cup. Guy sat up with a grunt. The scent of stewed fish made his belly heave, and he shook his head. ‘Folly to starve,’ Conan warned. ‘You’ll not go far with nothing in you.’ He had said as much himself to Lady Mabel, so after a moment’s hesitation he accepted the cup and sipped slowly. The hot spiced wine, sweetened with honey, glowed in his stomach and spread warmth through his body. It quelled his queasiness, and he knew he must swallow something.
‘If only I’d been back in time!’ Conan growled, more to himself than to Guy.
‘Why, what could you have done?’
‘Held him off at sword-point—or run him through.’
‘I thought you were pledged until Easter?’
‘I owe him no debt. The other way; he’s not paid me since Michaelmas. Justification to any routier. Here.’ He set the bowl and bread in Guy’s hands. It was Lenten fare, stewed fish in savoury broth. After the first dubious moment Guy found that it would stay with him.
‘If you are to get away tonight I’ve arrangements to make. My own men on gate-guard for one.’ The door closed behind him. Guy ate perhaps half the food before its congealing clamminess defeated him, finished the wine and lay back, pulling his fur-lined cloak about him. He huddled into the comfort of it and listened to sounds of activity in the bailey. For a time he contemplated a bleak and prospectless future, and then weakness had its way with him. Against all expectation he slept.
Guy roused in darkness to a trampling and a squeal or two in the stables, and climbed to his feet, catching at the wall for support. A group of people were standing in the bailey, lighted by a torch on the gatehouse wall. Horses were being led out. He crossed to the stables, moving more easily as the stiffness worked out of his limbs, and encountered Conan by the doorway.
‘I’ll saddle up for you.’
‘My own Dusty, and my old saddle. I’ll go as I came, owing nothing.’
The children came running. Roger gripped his arm in silence and pressed
close. Matilda caught his hand and bounced up and down. ‘I mustn’t make a noise,’ she whispered. ‘We’re running away in the dark.’
‘Yes, it’s a brave adventure,’ Guy murmured.
‘My father says it’s crazy, but Lady Mabel said she wouldn’t stay another hour and she wouldn’t leave me—’
‘Hush, Matilda.’ He held them both, feeling already the pang of parting; after tonight it was unlikely that he would ever see either again. He counted over the company; Lady Mabel, Gertrude, two of the sewing-women, and Sir James glinting in mail and helmet.
It was not difficult to understand Sir James. For years he had lived in as much security as any man might know in Lord Reynald’s service, accepting the atrocities he witnessed as no responsibility of his, aided by the common inability of the gently-born to grant that their inferiors possessed any human rights. Now he was uprooted, in rebellion against his lord, his future in doubt. And of course he cast the blame for his adversity on Guy.
As quietly as might be they got to horse. Lady Mabel came to take Matilda up in front of her. Conan led two mounts from the stable. Guy started to expostulate. ‘There’s no need for you—’
‘Don’t be a fool. If you should fall out of the saddle d’you expect that wooden image to stop to pick you up?’
‘The keys?’ Lady Mabel asked.
‘I command the guard this night,’ he reminded them. ‘The keys went to my lord, but the gate’s not locked.’
Guy managed to mount with the help of the block, and the high pommel and cantle held a man so that once in the saddle it was difficult to fall, but he wondered how far he could ride, remembering that this afternoon, that seemed an age ago, had seen his first venture out of doors since his illness. Then he was following Conan’s back under the gate-arch. There was no sound nor sight of the guards, only a line of light under the guardroom door. The gate stood wide, the drawbridge down. Once over Conan reined aside to let the little troop pass out, and as soon as the last hooves clopped from the planks the windlass creaked and the bridge began to rise.
‘Your men?’
‘Oh, I’m going back. I’m pledged until Easter.’
‘But you—when he finds out—’
‘I’m not sick and unarmed, to be sent to the whipping-post.’
They followed the others in silence, stirrup to stirrup, down the track to the village. Under the ash beside the track a rectangular mound showed darkly. Guy turned his gaze from it and swallowed hard, blinking mist from his eyes. Dogs barked in the village, and no doubt eyes enough watched through window-slits, but no one challenged them. The ford was thigh-deep to a man, and they walked the horses slowly through it to avoid splashing and reached the far bank dry.
Dusty kept turning his head and checking as if seeking something at his side, and with a lurch of his heart Guy realized that he was looking for the Slut, who had run with him so many years. He dug his heels into the gelding’s ribs to overtake Lady Mabel and Sir James at the head of the troop.
‘Which way?’ she asked.
‘The Collingford road’s the better, by Thorgastone shorter.’
‘I’ll not take the children within sight of the Devil’s Ring.’
‘Then our ways part here, my lady.’
‘You don’t go with us to Trevaine?’
‘I could not ride four leagues. Also I gave Lord Henry my word I’d not approach his daughter again.’
‘But you—where will you find shelter? Still weak as you are—’
‘Don’t trouble for me. There’s a roof in Thorgastone I can claim.’
‘Then this—this is farewell?’
‘God guard and keep you, my lady, now and always. Commend me to Lord Henry, and convey my duty to Lady Helvie,’ he said, and lifted her hand to his lips, taking refuge in formality.
Matilda wailed, ‘You’re not coming with us, Guy?’ Roger pulled his pony close. He stooped to two throttling embraces, two wet kisses, and was tempted to stay with them at least a little longer. But parting was inevitable. He had given his word, and he knew himself incapable of the journey; the five miles to Thorgastone would tax him harshly enough.
‘When I’m a man, and Lord of Warby, w-will you come back to me, Guy?’
‘If I may, little brother.’
‘I wish you’d stay now! P-please, Guy—’ Matilda wept.
‘Dear child, I cannot. Farewell, and God keep you always.’
‘Guy, being come to Bristol, I’ll seek out your mother,’ Lady Mabel promised.
He remembered Emma’s last words to him. His knighthood had proved costly indeed, and Kenric had paid the price. ‘My lady, I have—I have no words to thank you. Tell her I shall come as soon as I may.’
‘Go with God, Guy.’
Sir James, waiting with impatience plain in every restless movement, took her bridle. ‘Enough! We waste time here,’ he declared, and without a word of farewell led off. The woods swallowed them, and the last Guy heard of their going was Matilda’s weeping.
He turned Dusty’s head for the track over the waste. He had his knighthood, and the price had been everything else he valued in life. Each time Dusty turned his foolish head to look for the Slut the pang stabbed him. Kenric lay in the church for strangers to bury, and he might not even do the son’s office of casting earth into his grave. Emma would curse him, Helvie had turned from him, he would never see the children again. His thighs had no power in them, and his muscles protested that he was less than a fortnight out of a sick-bed.
‘So we don’t go to the lady who slashed your face?’
‘Her mother.’
‘Will she help you?’
‘I—I hope so.’
‘She will, if I have to force her door.’
They halted on the crest to breathe their horses. By then Guy was riding on stubborn endurance. Conan edged his horse closer and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We could rest a while, but starting again—’
‘Once out of the saddle I’d never get back. We’ll go on.’
Whenever the track permitted it Conan rode alongside, steadying him with a hand on his arm, and later an arm about his waist. But for his aid Guy knew that he would have fallen from the horse somewhere on the waste and lain until cold and exhaustion made an end. He ached as though he had been pounded in a mortar, his head swam dizzily, he had long since relinquished all control over Dusty and bowed over the saddlehorn, holding to it with both hands. They came down at last to the pasture, and he lifted his head to find his bearings in the moonlight. The village lay before them, no glimmer of light showing; curfew hour was long past.
‘Go round—by the fields,’ he gasped. ‘The other side—that woodland on the left of the road.’ It was the way he had taken that other night over a month ago, after he had escorted the woman from Summerford to safety.
They plodded on. Then Dusty, with no guiding hand on the reins, stumbled over a stone. Guy fell forward, and sank over the horse’s neck until his face was in the rough mane. Conan exclaimed and checked his slide with a grip on his arm, pulling him upright, but Guy was spent. He had not lost consciousness, but no strength was left in him. He felt arms about him, hauling him from Dusty’s back, and found himself half-sitting, half-lying across Conan’s saddlebow in the hold of one hard arm while he compelled the reluctant stallion to accept the unaccustomed burden.
‘Hold on, lad. Not far now.’
Guy subsided against his shoulder, aware of the warmth of his body and the steady thudding of the man’s heart. No obligation, no mere goodwill, could explain the mercenary’s kindness, that Guy had never dreamed was in him. He muttered, ‘Whatever you owed me—it’s more than paid.’
‘You fool, what I owe you is beyond measure or counting,’ Conan said roughly. ‘And I don’t mean my life.’
Guy gave up trying to reckon what he did mean. They circled the village without rousing even a dog in Thorgastone, and came back to the track. After one false cast they found the path through the trees, and at last reached
the cottage in its garden-patch and trod up to its door. The shod hooves clinked on the stones. Conan hesitated a moment, faced with the difficulty of dismounting; Guy was now beyond helping at all. Then he set all his weight in the near stirrup, swung his right leg over the horse’s rump, slid down and heaved Guy over his shoulder as he descended.
‘Who’s there?’ a woman’s voice, sharp with alarm, demanded from behind the door.
Conan steadied himself, shifted his grip, and hoisted Guy up in his arms with a grunt of effort.
‘Who is it?’ the voice insisted. Dim scuffling sounded within the cottage.
‘Guy of Warby,’ the mercenary answered.
‘That’s not his voice!’ another voice that Guy knew exclaimed. ‘Let him speak for himself or be gone!’
‘Helvie—’ Guy croaked.
The door opened a crack, and the moonlight touched a cold glint from a spear-blade’s edge in the gap. ‘There’s an arrow nocked!’ Helvie’s voice warned, and then she caught her breath in a gasp.
Conan moved closer. ‘Lady, he’s sick and far spent. If you will not take him in, there’s nothing for him but to die in the woods this night.’
The door swung back. ‘Bring him in,’ Elswyth commanded, and set aside the spear. Helvie, a blacker shadow in the dark, retreated before them. Conan halted in the doorway, moonlight behind him and blackness before, until a red ember glowed, grew and brightened to a blaze as Elswyth stirred up the fire, banked with ash to smoulder all night. Then he came forward into the light.
‘You!’ Helvie raised the bow, and the arrowhead winked red as if it had already found blood.
‘Helvie—no—’ Guy whispered, turning his face to her as the firelight spun about him and his wits reeled into blackness. ‘Helvie—’
‘Does it matter what I am?’ Conan growled, shouldering past Elswyth to kneel in the rushes by the hearth with Guy in his arms. ‘You are his only refuge. He loves you. Will you turn him away because I have brought him to you?’