Then the friar said, “We were going to move him to the window, but—” His voice was submissive.
“Nonsense! He is to be lodged in a private chamber. The Earl of Cornwall will use my guts for garters if the smallest attention is lacking. You must put him in the abbot’s guest house, and a man to watch by him.”
Now that he was fully awake, William recognized the impetuous tones of the Earl of Hereford. He opened his eyes and smiled. “I am quite comfortable where I am,” he said.
“Oh, so you are with us again. How do you feel—no, that was a stupid question. I know how you feel. Can I do anything to help you?”
“Thank you, my lord, I think not. Raymond will see to the men—”
“No he will not,” de Bohun said forcefully, with a peculiar expression on his face. “He has a nasty cut on his sword arm and a hole in one leg. He will stay here. Sir Mauger has offered to take your men into his care, and they seemed willing also. He may not know much about war, but I have looked at his encampment. It seems well enough ordered, and his men are not sullen. I would judge him to be a fair master.”
Unable to object without doing Mauger still more harm, William nodded. He felt as if he would choke on unwelcome favors, and his head was ringing with pain and fever. Hereford, who was familiar with wounds, cocked an eye at him and then looked over his shoulder. The friar was coming back with four, strong acolytes.
“I see you are about to be moved,” Hereford said. “I will leave you in peace. No, one protest for form is quite enough. Do not waste your strength on more. Richard will not be pleased about this whole thing. Probably I should not have—”
“Please, my lord,” William said, laughing in spite of his physical discomfort, “I am not a feeble old woman who needs to be cosseted. I have been hurt as badly in Richard’s own service. Both of us know the chances of war. And I beg you not to write to him. I will do so myself in a day or two.”
“Perhaps,” Hereford remarked with patent disbelief. He could see the glaze of fever in William’s eyes and suspected it would be a good while longer than a day or two before he wrote to anyone. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “Richard would rightly blame me for allowing his friend to lie in the common room with the men-at-arms.”
That was true enough, and in any case, accepting de Bohun’s favor would save him from accepting Mauger’s. William smiled and said, “Thank you.” Hereford made an It is nothing gesture and walked away.
There was no need, de Bohun thought, to add to William’s difficulties the necessity of putting a brave front on his pain while he was being moved. That was a good man, but why the devil anyone should want to kill him was inexplicable. He did not seem to be the type who made enemies. He had nothing worth killing for. Nonetheless, the stirrups of his saddle had been cut nearly through. Someone intended that William of Marlowe should fall from his horse in the middle of a battle and be killed.
The young hireling knight had discovered the cut stirrups when he went to take his master’s saddle from the dead horse. He had come to de Bohun nearly frantic because he had to see to William’s troop and William was alone and helpless with his hurts. At first de Bohun had wondered whether Raymond had been hit on the head during the fighting. But, when he heard of the goose, the fight in camp, the arrow, and looked at the knife marks on the stirrup leathers, he changed his mind.
It must be something to do with Richard of Cornwall, de Bohun decided as he walked out of the abbey to ride back to camp. There was nothing about William himself that was important enough to kill for. Thus it behooved him to put William where it would be somewhat more difficult to get at him. It also would be a good idea to keep the whole matter quiet. Richard was too near the throne to take attacks on his favorites lightly. Having done what he could for the moment, Hereford put William out of his mind and wondered whether there was any other device he could use to bring David ap Llewelyn to battle.
If Mauger could have aided the Earl of Hereford on that score, he would have done so. He would have done anything he could to redeem himself. Everything had gone wrong. The plan had worked perfectly, and still William was alive. Worse, Hereford had blasted him for being a fool.
How could he have known there would not be another month or so of fighting? Had he known about the Scottish peace, he would never have sent those messengers off to summon de Bohun when he was attacked. Deep inside Mauger there was a quiver of doubt. He had had no idea how difficult it was to fight a group of men who seemed to appear and disappear in and out of the wooded glades. Their archers shooting from the shelter of the trees had done more damage than Mauger expected. It had taken them so long to win free from their own attackers, he had never dreamed that William’s troop could hold out, especially with their leader dead.
Only William had not been dead. That accursed hireling of his had saved him. Who would have expected the young fool to show such devotion? If he had had a brain in his head, he would have gathered what was left of the troop and run for his life. But no! He had to be a hero, offer his horse, just like one of those puling knights in the romances, and stand over what he must have believed was a corpse to protect it from being robbed or mutilated. It was because he had hopes of the girl, Mauger thought, and ground his teeth. Neither of them must be allowed to live. They must both die here in Wales. It was out of the question for Mauger to leave now. He did not dare do anything that would further irritate Hereford. Therefore, neither Raymond nor William must leave Wales either. At least it had been easy enough to have William moved to the window. That would mark the position of the bed clearly. Mauger wished he had not needed to approach the friar personally to make that arrangement, but none of the tools he had used to carry the goose or start the fight or slit the stirrups was the kind of person to make such a request. The friar would surely have wondered why such a wretch should seek William’s comfort. Not only that, no one would move a pin for the amount of offering such a person could make.
It should not matter. Mauger looked up as Egbert—body servant, tool, faithful henchman—entered the tent.
“Well?” he asked.
“It is well,” Egbert replied. “I did not go in because I did not wish to make an excuse that might lead someone to remember me, but I saw a bed moved under the window and a man therein. I could not see his face though. It was turned away, and I did not dare stand and watch.” Egbert had been with Mauger since they were boys. He never thought about the things his master asked of him, only performed them as well as he could. This was not owing to any lack of intelligence on Egbert’s part. Usually he knew quite well why Mauger did the things he did without being told. He was totally devoted, although he did not love his master, because his comfort, his well-being, even his life was Mauger’s to dispose of as he liked.
With all of that, Mauger was a good master, never cruel or unreasonable, although he could lose his temper and land a sharp buffet. Egbert certainly did not hate or really fear Mauger, but there was no warmth in their relationship either. Never had Mauger asked after his health or considered whether he was warm or cold, fed or hungry. He was rewarded with money, and the comfort and status that would buy, but never with a word of heartfelt praise.
He also knew he was by no means indispensable. If he claimed sickness, he was excused from duty and indifferently replaced with another. Thus, Egbert understood that he was only of value while he performed and performed well. If he failed, he would be cast aside to sink into the poverty and total deprivation from which he had risen when he had been chosen to be Mauger’s servant. That was what he feared, not Mauger himself, and that was what kept him faithful and close-mouthed and efficient.
“Then the friar has done as I asked,” Mauger responded. “Very well, but remember it must not seem as if Sir William was sought out especially.”
“No, I remember. I will steal some things, I saw several worth taking. It will appear that he woke and saw me stealing and I silenced him. Otherwise, if you prefer, I could slit three or four throats as well a
s his.”
“No. You had better stick to the thief idea. They will not search as hard or long for a frightened thief as for a madman who goes about slitting throats for no reason.” Mauger reached into his purse and drew out a gold coin. “There will be more when I am richer, as I will be when I hold Marlowe and Bix. Now, have you heard anything said among Sir William’s men about how he was hurt?”
“None saw it happen, but he was hit by arrows.”
“I know that. I wondered if anything was said about those stirrups. I thought they would both be dead and I could get the saddle, but that interfering bastard was before me.”
“The stirrup leathers were gone from the saddle when the troop came back to camp, that is all I can tell you. But no outcry has been made. I would say the young knight took them off and threw them away for fear he would be blamed.”
It was a pleasant relief to come innocently up to the abbey the following day with the offering he had promised and find the place in turmoil. It was the most natural thing in the world to ask what had happened. It was a pure delight to be told that a thief had somehow gotten into the infirmary, struck the acolyte on watch unconscious, stolen several fine eating knives and purses, and had killed one man who must have wakened and been about to cry an alarm. Mauger had not the slightest difficulty in making his voice tremble as he said his friend was in the infirmary and expressed a desire to see him and be sure all was well with him.
When Mauger entered the infirmary and saw the empty bed under the window, he felt for a moment that he would faint with joy and relief. He stared at the empty bed, transfixed, not really believing in the midst of his joy that the planning of years had at last come to fruition.
“What is it, my son?” the infirmarian’s voice asked at his elbow.
“My friend,” Mauger stammered, “the man I asked to be moved to the window— Where is he? I heard…”
“No, no, it was not he, not Sir William,” the friar comforted, patting Mauger’s arm. “By the earl’s desire, he is in a private chamber in the abbot’s guest house.” Mauger’s face, which had been pale, blazed red with rage. The brother took it to be a flush of joy and smiled happily. “He is safe, quite safe.”
“May I see him?” Mauger asked.
The infirmarian’s smile faded. “See, yes. Speak to, no. He is greatly fevered and would not know you, likely. We try,” he added apologetically, “when such high fever comes to keep all excitement, all stimulus away.”
“Greatly fevered?” Mauger’s voice was shaking with hope again. Perhaps all the failures had been to save him the trouble of committing murder. Perhaps William was fated to die of his wounds. “Is he then in danger of his life? Yesterday you said he would live,”
“God willing, he will.” The voice of the infirmarian was troubled. “But the fever is worse than I expected, and the wounds, especially that in the shoulder which had to be cut to remove the arrow, are greatly inflamed.”
“Will you take me to him?” Mauger asked.
“Yes, of course,” the brother said. He summoned an acolyte and told him where to take Mauger, warning him again not to go into the room or at least, not to speak to William. “They have such strength in their fever,” he remarked, walking to the door with Mauger, “that they can do what weakness would prevent otherwise. If seeing you should remind him of some duty he thought left undone or some slight unavenged, he might rise from his bed and open his wound or take a chill. That would be a disaster.”
“No, no,” Mauger assured him. “I will not speak to him.”
It was unfortunate for Mauger that the acolyte had heard the brother’s instructions. Although William was alone, tossing and muttering incoherently, Mauger did not dare try to send his guide away or step into the room while he watched. As he rode back to camp he cursed the Earl of Hereford bitterly for an overactive conscience. Just because he had agreed that William should lead the raid was no reason for all this special attention. In a way it was all to the good, however. He had noticed William’s gear in the room. This time there would be no mistake. He would see to it himself that the fevered man fell on his own knife while fighting dreams.
Manger ate a leisurely dinner, mulling over various plans for seeing that Raymond followed William into the grave. Afterward, he disported himself with one of the better whores in the camp and, just before dark, rode off with Egbert, with whom he had had a few words on the subject of stabbing the wrong man. The words had not been too sharp. Mauger realized that Egbert had to work fast and in the dark. Besides, his hatred of William had grown with each check and now he was looking forward with real enjoyment to plunging a knife into him.
No one raised any question when Mauger passed through the abbey gates. So many men from the camp came to visit comrades or to collect belongings of those who had died to send to relatives that the gateman paid no heed to single incomers. Egbert rode around to the small postern in the west wall that led to the abbot’s residence and tethered his horse out of sight. He drew his hood over his head so that his face was shadowed and rang the bell. This gate was always kept locked, but a brother who worked in the abbot’s house was assigned to answer the bell. He was annoyed when Egbert stated the cause of his visit and told him he should have gone round by the main gate. When Egbert begged pardon humbly and said that he had walked far and was afraid the gates would be shut before he could get around to them, the brother admitted him. Having relocked the gate behind Egbert, he pointed the direction to the guest house and went back to his own work.
A shadow followed him out of a patch of darkness in the direction he had pointed. Egbert watched, then lifted the key from the hook where it hung, unlocked the gate, replaced the key. That was all of Egbert’s task this time, but he did not slip out. Of late, he had failed too often. Mauger had been unusually pleasant about it, but he did not intend to take any chances this time. He found a shadowed nook in the abbot’s garden from which he could see the gate and sat down to wait. It might be several hours until Mauger could finish Sir William. If by some chance a late visitor should arrive, the gate might be discovered to be unlocked and the oversight remedied. Then Egbert would have to unlock it again.
Although Sir William had been alone when Mauger looked in on him, he was not alone long. Raymond’s absence had been brief. The killing in the infirmary, about which he had heard when food was brought for him to break his fast, had brought his suspicion to fever pitch and sent him off to Hereford. Both remembered the infirmarian saying he had planned to move William to the window. That was not proof that someone had died in William’s place, it could have been a coincidence. A man bent on murder seldom stops to steal knives and purses. Still, it was a strange coincidence.
Raymond’s first reaction had been to move William again, at once, but Hereford objected. Such desperate efforts to be rid of William could not be stopped by moving him. They would merely continue as soon as his new position was discovered. It would be far better, the earl insisted, to catch whoever was trying to kill him.
It was, of course, impossible to move a whole troop into the abbey. Even if Hereford could have overborne the abbot’s objections, such an action would almost certainly warn the intended murderer, who would put off his attempt. In the end, it was decided that Raymond should watch by Sir William’s bed and four men would hide in each adjoining room and the rooms opposite ready to rush to Raymond’s aid should he cry for help.
The first hitch in this plan occurred ten minutes after full dark when Raymond lit a candle. William had been lying quietly, but minutes after the faint light appeared he began to toss and mutter. Raymond bathed his face and gave him a drink, but he could not quiet him. William’s eyes roamed from side to side, watching the shadows cast by the flickering candle. Suddenly he began to scream warnings of an attack from dark doorways.
The shouts brought Hereford’s guards rushing into the room, weapons drawn, which excited William so much that Raymond had considerable difficulty holding him in the bed. After some confu
sion, he explained what had happened to the guards and begged them not to come in again unless he himself called them with certain agreed-upon words. Having got them out and William relatively quiet, he put out the candle which seemed to have caused the trouble.
Although William remained on the bed, he continued to mutter and even strike out from time to time, so that Raymond did not dare light the candle again. He did not dare to do anything else either. As soon as he moved in his chair, William reacted. The sick man’s hearing seemed preternaturally acute.
The enforced stillness was making it very difficult for Raymond to stay awake. He had carried more burdens, both physical and emotional, in the past two days than in his entire life before. As the slow minutes passed, his head began to nod. Three times he caught himself and forced his eyes open. Eventually, however, his head sank forward on his breast and he slept.
Not quite an hour later, the latch of the door clicked softly. Raymond twitched uneasily and then sank back into sleep. William’s eyes opened, glittering with fever. The moon had not yet risen, but a luminance from the starlit sky cast a faint shadow from the window onto the wall opposite. William’s muscles tensed. He was vaguely aware of pain, but all his senses concentrated on the shadow. Somewhere outside of his direct focus of vision he was aware of movement. He shifted his eyes, but his fever-sharpened senses were also distorted and unreliable, and he was caught in a nightmare in which arrows flew out of a high darkness. He looked higher while Mauger silently opened the door.
Mauger’s footsteps were soft enough not to disturb Raymond. William heard, but the sound did not fit with his fever dream and caused a whirling confusion. He lowered his eyes and saw the darker shadow advancing on him. This did not fit with any hallucination in his mind, and he watched it advance with puzzlement. He did not move or protest when Mauger pulled off the light blanket that Raymond had laid over him. There was a familiarity in that action, which, even fevered as he was, he associated with his own good. The brothers uncovered him when they cleaned him and rebandaged his hurts.
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