Crozier stared at him. The carpenter looked weary. The chamber felt suddenly airless, though the shutter rattled in the breeze. Soughing leaves filled the room, and Benoit wished he could put his head on the table, and sleep.
‘Ye think I was tricked?’ he asked, meeting Crozier’s eyes at last.
‘All too likely,’ said Crozier. ‘If not, then we will have been fortunate beyond what we deserve. But for now we must work on the assumption that every hour brings Baron Dacre and his men closer. We have to act, and fast.’
Benoit began to speak, but Adam held up his hand. ‘Say nothing more.’ He turned his back, and stared out of the window at the withering leaves beyond. ‘Fetch Tom to me, and join us. I know you are dog-tired, but whatever else this day holds in store, sleep won’t be part of it.’
An hour later the three were on the road, Benoit behind the brothers, his face fixed in shame. He had only one source of consolation: thanks to his riding through the night, they had a chance of reaching Greystoke, and young John’s quarters, before any messenger Ilderton might have despatched.
‘How drunk was he?’ Tom had demanded, when Benoit had again recounted the events of the previous night.
‘Cross-eyed but conscious. Capable of summoning a message boy, but mair likely to have just ordered another bottle.’
‘If that’s so,’ said Tom, ‘we still might have the advantage, if we leave now. It’s two days’ ride, or thereabouts. We don’t know the terrain, but we’ve less distance to cover.’
Crozier nodded. ‘God willing, we’ll intercept the messenger before he reaches Greystoke. Otherwise, we will have to go through with the charade.’ Benoit frowned, bemused, and the borderer sighed. ‘Don’t you see? We must introduce ourselves to John the Bastard, as if we are indeed seeking an alliance, and risk the consequences.’
Tom’s face was grave. ‘Unless we reach him before Ilderton’s man, he’ll have time to prepare for us.’
Crozier looked at Benoit. ‘This is where you get your chance, brother, to prove yourself a riding man. We need you with us. If the message reaches him, it’s you that Dacre’s son will be expecting. If this is indeed a trap, then you need to walk into it as if you’re every bit as simple-minded and credulous as Ilderton believes.’ There was an anxious sheen on Benoit’s brow. ‘Fret not. We will be with you, or close behind.’
‘I will show you whit I can dae,’ said Benoit, flushing. There was a mutinous note in his words. ‘I’m nae coward.’
‘It’s not your courage that’s in doubt,’ was the borderer’s cold reply.
The ride was punishing. His morning’s elation had turned to misery, and Benoit slumped in the saddle, solid as a sack of meal. He barely saw the woods and hills they covered, his mind playing over his foolishness and vanity in thinking to return home to praise. Ilderton’s face swam before his, the eyes filmed with rheum and cunning. Where he had thought he was guddling an unsuspecting fish, had his lordship all the while been reeling him in on a hook? Sweat trickled into Benoit’s beard. They were riding fast, but it was mortification that made his cheeks warm, the reins slippery in his grasp.
They crossed the border and wound deep into the Cheviot hills, the pounding of hooves on heathery tracks lost in a rising wind that carried off the sound of their passing. Despite his gloom, Benoit’s spirits rose. He had never ridden like this, headlong into the dying day. His horse galloped as if he would never tire, but the carpenter’s back and legs ached with the strain of keeping up. The Croziers crouched low over their stallions’ necks, men and horses moving as one, as if fused in a blacksmith’s forge.
Dusk had turned into night before Crozier called a halt. In the shelter of a hillside of ash and oak, by a tumbling, moss-banked stream, they rubbed their horses down, and allowed them to drink their fill. Leaves crackled under their boots, dry as tinder. In the dark, the sound was unsettling. ‘Two hours’ rest,’ said the borderer, passing around oatcakes and cheese. ‘We must be deep into Dacre’s lands when daylight comes.’ He unstoppered his flask and drank. ‘Tom will keep watch,’ he added, stretching out beside his horse, and pulling his hat low over his face. His brother laughed, without humour, but Benoit, at some distance from them both, was already asleep, fists clenched over his chest.
The next few miles were ridden with care, a fitful moon lighting their way through lonely grasslands and cleuchs. When dawn arrived, they grew more cautious. From now until nightfall they were dangerously exposed, yet they must ride as if they had nothing to fear. Scots were common enough on this side of the border, but in time of war tensions were high, and even a stranger from an English shire would be quizzed on his business. A tradesman might pass without too much trouble, but Crozier did not fool himself that he and Tom looked like merchants. if they must meet anyone, Benoit would do the talking. One so fat and sluggish would never be taken for a man of arms.
That day they stayed well clear of villages, roads and herdsmen. A drizzling rain settled over the hills, and soon the land was hidden by smirr, the riders but a blur beneath it. It was only after a second night’s too brief sleep that they reached habitation. Descending from the hills as light broke, they halted. Penrith’s crooked roofs huddled below them, thickening the damp air with woodsmoke. The village of Greystoke lay some miles beyond, and the fastest road was through the town. The riders hesitated. Even at this hour the narrow streets were loud with packmen and horses, setting up stalls and unloading their goods.
‘Market day,’ said Crozier. ‘We are in luck.’ He turned to Benoit. ‘After you, brother. If anyone troubles us, we are on a reconnaissance for Baron Dacre himself. We are your apprentices.’ He pushed Tom’s hat back from his face, and removed his own. He gave a grim laugh. ‘No need to look bashful. We’ve got nothing to hide.’ With a flick of the reins he set off, his horse tossing its head and picking its way off the hill as daintily as if stepping between tacks.
Penrith closed in around them, its blackened walls matching their fears. Benoit led the way, past butchers humping carcasses onto their stands, and weavers stacking cloths on their trestles like a hand of cards, each bale peeking out from behind its neighbour. After the greens and browns and sere yellows of the hills, the blaze of colour was almost as much a shock to the senses as the merchants’ cries and the bellowing of cattle and bleating of sheep as herdsmen whipped them into their pens
Nobody paid them any attention. Benoit’s stomach rumbled as the scent of roasting pork filled the morning, and he was wondering if they dare risk buying some food when a child appeared at his elbow and thrust a pair of skinned rabbits under his nose. ‘Fresh killed the morn,’ he piped, holding out his hand for a coin. Benoit recoiled at the bulging eyes staring out of red-ribboned flesh. ‘Ah’ve whelks and cockles if ye prefer,’ said the boy, jogging beside the carpenter, the smell of seaweed rising off the chittering creel on his back.
Benoit shook his head and kicked his horse into a trot, but the press of stallholders and townsfolk brought him up almost at once, his horse rearing in fright at the clash of pans from a pie-maker’s booth. Benoit flailed as the reins fell from his hands and he would have toppled had Crozier not pushed alongside and pulled him back into his saddle. The borderer’s rough grasp stung more than any rebuke. Mortified that he had drawn attention to them, and sure that at any minute they would be accosted, Benoit felt dizzy. By the time the din had faded, the streets widened, and they had reached a bridge that marked the edge of town, his shirt was soaked.
When Crozier rode abreast and slapped his arm with his hat, he was startled. ‘Well done,’ the borderer said. ‘You behaved the part.’ At Benoit’s surprise, Crozier’s expression softened. ‘Come on, now. No border hoodlum would almost fall off their horse like that. Thank the lord you weren’t born in the saddle.’ He gave a curt laugh, and pressed his hat back on his head. ‘You didn’t see it, but when the urchin was tugging your sleeve, the guards by the market cross had noticed us. Soon as you slipped sideways, they relaxed. One of them laughed,
the fool.’
As they rode across the river plain and up into the woods, Benoit breathed deep for the first time in days. It was as if the vice that had been squeezing his chest had at last been loosened. He pushed his hat off his forehead, and looked around, at the track that wandered through the flame-red forest, and the glimpse of rain-sodden hills ahead.
Within an hour the countryside had changed. Where Penrith was glowering, the hillsides rough and the houses dark, the land around Greystoke was trim as a private park. The fields were tidy, the trees lined up as if planted by hand, and when they reached the village it was like a tapestry, so neatly laid out were the slate-roofed cottages around the green, so pretty the pale-towered church.
The riders dismounted by the river that bordered the village. There were two roads into Greystoke, and there was no knowing which Ilderton’s messenger would use. Under guise of watering their horses, they conferred. An old woman peered at them from under her cap as she hustled a flock of geese past with a switch. Tom touched his hat, but she looked away without a word.
‘We can’t stand here long,’ said Tom. ‘A place this small, we are far too conspicuous.’
Crozier nodded. ‘John the Bastard will live apart from the common priests,’ he said. ‘As Dacre’s son and graced with the pope’s blessing, he will have a status more like a lord. The Greystoke manor is where we’ll most likely find him, wherever that is. There, or in the church. Once we know which, we can hide up, and set watch.’
As one, the brothers turned to Benoit. At that moment, the bells in the church tower began a querulous toll, calling the village to mass. A straggle of figures crossed the green, hooded and humble as they fingered their beads. ‘Me?’ asked Benoit, but he need not have asked.
Catching up with the last of the late-comers, he tethered his horse by the lychgate and hurried into the church, crossing himself before taking his place near the doors on a bench worn smooth by centuries of shuffling. The monks gathered in the chancel began to chant, a low, liquid murmur that echoed around the high-beamed church, eddying under the rafters and along the aisles as if making sure all were bathed in song. Heads were bowed as the elderly priest entered and knelt, raising his hands to the altar, his hunched back to the church. Benoit peered from beneath his hat. Two younger priests in white chasubles flanked their superior, narrow and straight as the candles that burned on the walls. They too had their backs to the church. Benoit could not tell their ages, nor their rank. The taller seemed more likely to be Dacre’s son, but it was impossible to be sure.
The ceremony began, and Benoit’s lips followed the litany. A feeling of peace descended on the church, the gloom of the morning lifted by the words of hope and faith. For a moment he forgot his purpose, his spirit lightened by the comfort of a ritual he had loved since he was a child. The priest’s assistant swung the thurible on a short chain, incense swirling like autumn mist, and the priest’s voice grew louder. The villagers looked ahead, eyes fixed as if mesmerised, fingers working their rosaries.
There was a shuddering crash, the cracking of oak against stone, as the doors were flung open and the church breached by workaday light as well as the violent presence of the man who had entered. Dropping their beads, the congregation turned to see a glistening figure framed in the doorway. His gaze swept over the three priests who stood unmoving, like pillars of salt. Raising his cudgel, the man advanced down the nave, water running from his cloak. ‘Is one of you the Bastard Dacre?’ he shouted. The salt heads shook. Brushing his way past the benches of believers, the visitor made for the side chapels, throwing open their doors one by one, each slamming against the old stone wall as if slapping its face. When he found no one on one side of the church, he made for the other. Benoit waited only to be sure all the chapels were empty before slipping out. A horse was tethered to the ring by the doors, lathered with sweat as it pawed the grass. Before the visitor had finished his search, Benoit was on his own horse, and out of sight.
Crozier and Tom were waiting for him by the river. They had neither seen nor heard the messenger, but at Benoit’s news they led their horses swiftly up to the village green in time to see Ilderton’s man whipping his weary hunter down the road to the south. What they did not see was the cassocked young priest drawing water at the church well. It was Dacre’s son, whose day it was for serving the almoners. A minute earlier, and the messenger would have found him. While the village thrummed to the beat of chasing hooves, John the Bastard went about his business, unaware.
The borderers did not have long to stop the messenger reaching the manor. Digging in their spurs, they gave the horses their heads. As they left the village plain and found themselves in thick wooded hillside, they began to close in on their prey.
Not until they were almost upon him did the messenger hear their approach. He looked over his shoulder, and his horse veered sharply as he wrenched the reins in surprise. By now the road was widening between the trees. In another minute they would be at the manor gatehouse, and Dacre’s men within shouting reach. With a frantic kick, the messenger tried to outride them on the final stretch, but his horse was exhausted, labouring on the muddied track as if wading through water. Tom drew alongside, Crozier rode ahead, and Ilderton’s man was brought to a halt. His mount reared in alarm, jibbing at its bit as the strangers pressed in. With one hand the messenger held it steady, drawing his sword with the other. The trees closed in above them, and there was a sudden hush, no sound but the heaving breath of their horses, and the cry of a solitary rook.
At the prodding of Benoit’s sword in the small of his back, the messenger dropped his weapon. His eyes were small, and they narrowed further as he took in his pursuers. Much was conveyed in that look. The man nodded, and spat. ‘I nearly made it,’ he said. He stared at Benoit, whose sword pointed now at his throat. He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Ilderton wouldn’t have credited a barrel like you with as much brain. His mistake, but I’m to pay for it.’
He spoke in the hope of being told he was wrong, but no one gave him comfort.
‘Tell me,’ said Benoit, ‘is John the Bastard his father’s enemy, as Ilderton said?’
The messenger shook his head. This close to meeting his maker, there was no need to lie. ‘Close as ticks the pair of them. Like looking in a glass lake, too; the boy’s the image of his father. His pride and joy, by-blow or not. He’s still but a lad, but one day he’ll do his father proud.’
While the man spoke, Crozier edged his horse closer. When he was within reach, he lunged, Tom grabbed the hunter’s bridle, and the messenger was dragged off his horse and onto the track. Before he could scramble to his feet, Crozier was beside him, boot pressed on his chest. The man’s eyes met his, cold with contempt, and fearless. ‘Just do it,’ he said.
Without a word, the borderer thrust the blade home. Ilderton’s servant let out a sharp sigh, and turned his cheek to the track, as if it were a pillow. As his heart emptied and his mind with it, his last sense was the smell of damp earth, which he was soon to join.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rauf Ilderton would not be as easy to deal with. The ride from Cumberland to the Northumberland moors was less fevered than the race to Greystoke, but the borderers still moved at a pace. Ilderton would be expecting his messenger with news any day. Too cautious to change horses and leave a trace of their journey, they were now obliged to rest fully each night. While sleep was welcome, the delay chafed at their nerves, and the group grew terse as the days passed. Crozier feared that Ilderton would suspect trouble if his man was not back by the end of the week, and Benoit began to fret, knowing the task that lay ahead of him, and how wily his foe. Tom alone was untroubled, only with difficulty curbing his habit of tuneless whistling in deference to their mood.
‘You sure we’ve got to kill him?’ Benoit asked one night as he prodded the fire, juice from the rabbits sizzling on the spit, the mouthwatering smell making his belly growl. A lazy curl of smoke rose above the clearing, trees pressing in on their circle of l
ight, as if to snuff it out.
Crozier stared into the fire and did not answer, his attention held by the flames as if they were showing him a story only he could see.
Benoit rubbed his hands at the blaze. ‘I ken he knows we’re out to get Dacre,’ he said, ‘but if he disnae ken who we are, can we no just leave it be? He might have tried to get us murdered, but from everything he said to me the man’s no great admirer of the baron either. He’d put the warden’s head in a noose as quick as ours.’
At last Crozier looked up. ‘The risk’s too great,’ he said. ‘Soon as Ilderton realises his messenger’s dead, he’ll hound us down. Getting rid of his man meant we have to deal with him too. We have no choice, brother. We can’t leave loose ends.’
Tom emerged from the trees, a brace of pigeons dangling from his belt. ‘Breakfast,’ he said, laying down his bow and joining them by the fire. ‘Easy pickings when they’re at roost.’ A flurry of pale feathers soon lay at his feet, as if a fox had been at work.
Benoit crouched by the fire with a stick, turning the rabbits over the flames. ‘I ken how to dae it, then,’ he said, in a voice the brothers had not heard before. Cast in crimson from the fitful light, his plump face was harsh. Crozier gestured him to sit.
‘Let’s hear it.’
The three huddled as if eavesdroppers might lurk in the wilderness beyond. ‘Beauty of it is,’ said Benoit, ‘this way no one’ll ever ken he’s been kilt.’ His plan had been long hatched, and he spoke fast and low. As he outlined his dark idea, his words rose over their heads and disappeared into the night, as if they too were smoke.
It was evening when they reached Ilderton’s village. Rain and wind swept the street, and Benoit kept his head bowed as he led his horse to the first of the taverns. The brothers were hidden in a copse on the outskirts, waiting for Benoit’s whistle to signal he had found their man. But Ilderton was gone. No barkeeper had seen him that night, nor was his doxy at home. Her companions opened the shutters at Benoit’s knock, hanging over the windowsill and peering down at him, the bodices of their scarlet gowns invitingly unribboned. She had not been seen for days, they told him. Would he like to come up and wait?
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