quickening his pace. As a soldier, he disliked enclosed places: he wanted to get to the moors and openness.
Not far from them, he found the road entered a wood which stood as if bounding the moors, far from the nearest house. There had been no other travellers for over an hour, which served to heighten his sense of solitude.
Riding into the shadows, he noticed the air felt stuffy. There was a hush, as if even the wild creatures were holding their breath expectantly. The silence was intimidating. When a blackbird crashed off a branch and squawked its way along a hedge in front of him, he stopped his horse with a frown.
It had moved too early to have been upset by him. Something else had worried it. He kicked his horse into a slow walk, and peered around with an apparent shortsighted lack of awareness. To have paused too long would have appeared suspicious, and he had no wish to avoid whoever could be ahead. But as his horse walked on, the knight was as alert as he ever had been.
Other men he had known had told him that they experienced extreme fear and a strange lassitude when they knew they were riding into a battle. He never did. To him warfare was life itself, his whole existence revolved around the fights on the marches, and without battle his life would have little meaning. No ambusher could have realised that from seeing him now.
His head moved sluggishly, as if he was dozing, and, as his horse meandered on slowly, his whole body slumped. Yet he managed to search each bush, every tree trunk, with care.
Only twenty yards into the trees he saw the first man and knew that he was about to be attacked.
The first glance merely gave him a flash of russet. If he had not already been expecting to see someone, he might have missed it, but that fleeting glimpse was enough. Considering where he would have put his own men for an ambush, he soon saw four other places where men could hide. There were too many – if he was attacked here he could be overcome too easily. With that thought in mind, he patted his horse’s neck. Then, with a quick prayer, he clapped spurs to his mount and they thundered down between the trees.
Suddenly the wood was full of angry shouting. He heard the low, thrumming whistle of an arrow passing overhead, a shouted curse, cries and swearing as men realised their trap was sprung, and then he was through the woods and in the open. The moors!
Risking a look over his shoulder, he could see three men struggling with horses. One was up quickly, two others a little slower. Glancing again, the Bourc saw that the first kept ahead of the others.
In front there was no cover of any sort. A quick ambush was out of the question. He would have no chance to stop and mount an attack until he had managed to increase the distance between him and his pursuers. It would take too long to grab his bow or a lance from the packhorse. Pursing his lips, he considered as he kicked his mount again. Then, when he threw another glare back, he saw that his luck was with him. The man in front had increased his lead and was gaining while the others were falling back.
Still bent low over his horse’s neck, he took the reins in his left hand and reached for his sword, checking it would pull free easily. Then he began to measure when he should turn.
It was not long. The leading man behind was a scant twenty yards away when the Bourc saw a stream ahead. Soon he felt his horse slow and pause before leaping. The Bourc just had time to drop the packhorse’s leading rein before they jumped.
With his muscles coiled like huge springs, his horse bounded up and over the small stream, the packhorse following. It was then that he knew he had his opportunity. As soon as they landed, he reined in and turned, facing the man behind just he leaped over the brook.
The Bourc immediately spurred back. While the man and his horse were still in the air, the Gascon pelted towards him, and when they landed he was only feet away. His pursuer had no chance of avoiding the swinging fist in its heavily mailed gauntlet. The blow met his chin, carrying with it the onward weight of both horses and the knight.
Seeing their friend tumble from his saddle, the other two slowed in their chase, and when they saw the Bourc draw his sword they seemed to lose enthusiasm for further battle.
“Go! Go and leave me – or accept the revenge of a knight’s sword!” he shouted.
The two hesitated. Both were dark, thin-featured men, who could have been brothers, for although one was in russet and the other wore a stained blue tunic, they had the same pale skin and thick eyebrows. Their horses were cheap riding horses, not farm animals, and the men looked, although not rich, far from poverty. The Bourc’s eyes narrowed as he stared at them. There was something wrong here, he felt. These men were not common footpads – or if they were, robbers in England were wealthier than in Gascony.
“Go!” he bellowed again, and the two exchanged a glance. One wheeled and started off back to the line of trees. When his companion did not move, he stopped and looked back, but before he could call, his friend had turned as well, with a last malevolent glare at the Bourc. Soon they were riding at a solid trot, back the way they had come.
Only when they had disappeared among the trees did the Bourc sheath his sword and drop from his horse. He quickly bound his prisoner’s hands and feet before surveying him thoughtfully. Then, shrugging, he sat and built a fire while he waited for the man to wake.
Simon and Baldwin ate lunch at the inn, then, guided by Cottey’s directions, they found their way to the dirt track that led to the Oatway holding. They rode together, with Tanner bringing up the rear, his features set in a contemplative scowl as he lurched along.
The snow had stopped again now, but was thick enough to cover most of the roadway, only the longer shoots of grass just breaking through. Nearer the trunks, the bushes and earth were untouched by the white carpet, protected by the great branches high overhead. It looked strange to Baldwin, as if they had left the winter behind in the village and now had entered a wanner area where only the road itself was cold enough to support the virgin whiteness.
While they were still out of sight of the farm, Simon began to hear a regular noise over the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Tap, tap, tap, then a pause, then two more. It stopped, then after a moment started again, and he cocked his head and looked over at Baldwin, who caught his glance and shrugged.
As the tapping got louder, they arrived at a fork in the trail. They chose the left-hand track, and the sound became louder as they followed it. Rounding the last bend, the forest fell back to show a large assart. In the middle stood a weary-looking cottage with stained and ancient thatch, which was allowing wispy tendrils of smoke to filter out above walls that were in need of fresh lime-wash. In front a cow stood chewing hay and watching their approach with bored disinterest, while between her legs chickens madly pecked at the earth and packed dirt of the yard. Over to the left was a strong fenced enclosure with goats, while on the right was what looked like a coppice area, with thick stems rising in clumps.
They slowly rode up and into the yard. It appeared empty, but as they looked round, Simon became aware again of the tapping. Touching his horse with his spurs, he led the way to the back of the house. Here he found a pasture area, recently cleared. Stumps still littered the rough ground, and the snow could not hide the fact that the ground was only thinly grassed. The earth showed through in red scars.
At the far end was a tall, stooping, blue-smocked man with his back to the visitors, working at a series of heavy poles set vertically in the ground. Between each were bushes.
The knight and the bailiff exchanged a glance, then slowly rode on towards him. He was plainly unaware of their approach, and as they came closer they could hear him whistling tunelessly while he worked.
In his hand was a large-bladed bill, a short, solid curved-steel tool shaped like a stubby sickle with a wooden haft, with which he was tapping branches from the bushes around the stakes to build a woven fence of living wood which would later become a hedge – thick and strong enough to keep his animals in, and forest animals out. Suddenly he whirled, the bill raised in his hand, and stood facing them, unmoving, and they halted, considering him.
He was tall, at least five inches more than Tanner, more like Simon’s own height of five feet ten, but although he appeared healthy for his age, which must surely be some five and forty years, he was quite stooped. There was a slightly unnatural colour in his cheeks, as if he was on the verge of a fever. His eyes gleamed darkly from under bushy eyebrows, whose colour had faded to pale greyness like his unkempt hair. It was the eyes that Simon noticed most of all. There was an odd expression in them – not fear, but a kind of suspicion.
“There’s no need to fear,” said Baldwin.
“No? Who are you? What do you want with me?”
