“Yes, a pint would round off the evening.”
Taking another mug from the shelf, Hugh took the jug and wandered out through the screens to the hall. Following, and burping softly, Simon was surprised to find Edgar waiting with the boy, Wat. The lad looked at the bailiff with an unfocused stare, grinning foolishly, but Edgar motioned toward the door.
“Sir, please shut it.”
Surprised, Simon did as he was bid. Only then did Edgar rise and open the door to the solar. Instantly Uther bounded out and looked about, seeking his master.
“What’s he doing here? I thought he was out seeing to trespassers!”
“Ah, he must have decided to come back,” said Hugh distantly.
“But, you said to Baldwin that he was patrolling the land to keep someone at bay.”
“Yes, Master.”
As Simon frowned with incomprehension, he was sure he could hear a querulous voice. He was about to walk to the solar, from where the sound appeared to issue, when Edgar put out a hand to stop him.
“Sir, you don’t want to go through there.”
“But can’t you hear someone?”
“Sir, I think it’s the wind.”
“I can hear someone-it’s Emma! She’s calling for help!”
“Surely, if she wanted help, she’d come down to ask for it.”
“She would, sir,” Hugh confirmed. “She would only have to open her chamber door and walk down here, wouldn’t she?”
Simon looked at his servant, then at Baldwin’s. Both avoided his gaze, studying their ales carefully. The bailiff looked at Uther, who seemed to share his confusion, and scratched an ear thoughtfully. Then Simon looked at the doorway, and slowly a smile creased his features. “Do you think Uther is protecting his master well even now?”
“I think his master would be delighted to know how well his dog is keeping unwanted folks away from him,” observed Hugh, and belched.
John got back to the wall and stood, panting as quietly as he could, nervously studying his surroundings as he sought any sign of a waiting guard.
The same sky which Baldwin was standing under so few miles away was becoming congested with clouds that looked as if they were composed of finest spun-silver threads. Only now and again was the moon visible. For the most part it was obscured by the clouds as they grew ever larger.
It was some consolation to John, as he hesitated by the wall, that the land was not under so bright a light as before. When he had set out earlier, the sack on his back filled with the hollowly clanking pewter, he had felt as if he had been under constant scrutiny from every man and woman who lived in the town. It had seemed that every tree and bush had intentionally dropped twigs and branches to try to trip him and make the sack rattle ever more loudly, or to ensure that the ground itself crackled and crunched with every footstep to show precisely where he was. The journey to the hall had been one of terror for him, each step another pace toward possible ruin. When he was almost halfway to the opened window, a screech owl had given its raucous shriek, and he had thought he might end up at the top of the oak beside him, so high did he jump at the unexpected noise. Every hair on his head stood upright in sympathy with his pounding heart.
Thankfully the sack had been passed over without incident, and John could stand out in the yard in the darkened shadow of a tree while it was hauled inside and stored. After a few whispered words, John had turned and set off home again, and it was then that he had heard that awful whistle.
While the owl had set his heart thudding with sudden fear, the whistle had made that organ attempt the opposite feat. He had uttered a shocked gasp, his head filled with every combination of ghoul, ghost, fairy, goblin and devilish story he had ever heard. Then they were superseded by the memory of the soldiers billeted at Coffyn’s house, and he took to his heels.
It was fortunate that he could remember the way back to his wall, especially as his path took him by the most circuitous route he could devise. Scorning the direct way, he had rushed toward the road, doubled back through some trees, squirmed his way under a thicket, cut his hands on brambles in the process, shoved himself between the bars at the window of the stables, making soothing noises to the intrigued horses within, and scuttled forth from the darkest opening at the furthest corner from the house, only to wait, desperately scanning the ground ahead for pursuers, before making his painstaking way back to his tree and safety.
He watched carefully, his eyes screwed to mere slits as he tried to observe the faintest hint of movement, but could see nothing, and at last he was satisfied. Stepping with a high gait, testing the ground before trusting his weight on it, he made his infinitely slow and cautious progress to the wall. His rope was quickly off his shoulder, and he took one last glance behind him. He had no wish to be snared as he had been the last time. Then he threw. It caught, he yanked twice, it held, and he scrambled up. On the wall, he unhooked it, and let himself fall at the other side, giving a sigh of relief.
Coiling the rope, he glanced up. The sky was filling quickly with fresh clouds, and he stared a moment in appreciation. Going to the stable door, he tossed the rope over its nail, patted the mare, and made his way to the house. After the excitement of the evening, he felt the need of a good two quarts of ale. Thrusting the door wide, he went to the little fire and kicked the embers together, throwing a handful of tinder on top, and setting a log over all, then crouched to blow it into life.
“So, Irishman, you feel the cold?”
He froze. “You wouldn’t hit a man on the ground, would you, sir?”
His answer was a blow on the side of his skull that felled him. He grunted, while the pain exploded, both in his head and at the top of his neck. It was as if he had fallen from a height and crunched the bones. It was agonizing, and he was so stunned he couldn’t shout or scream, but could only lie dully, unable to reach up and feel the wound.
He could see the second blow approach. It was a club, he noted, and he saw the heavy wood rise slowly, hesitate, and then sweep down.
“No, please-”
It struck, and his last conscious thought as the cudgel met his skull was how strange it was that he couldn’t hear it strike. But then the pain returned, and overwhelmed him. He was unaware of the hand gripping his leg, lifting it gently, while the club swooped down to shatter John’s knee. 17
E dgar winced at the sight of the fire in the hall. There was not enough dried timber to make a flame. It had burned through in the night, and no one had tended it yet this morning. He could fetch Wat, indeed he should kick the lazy devil from his palliasse in the kitchen, but when he glanced in, he guessed that waking the lad wouldn’t help much.
Instead, he marched to the logpile. Dropping an armful carelessly on the floor, he fetched the sack of kindling. Soon he was kneeling, flint and his dagger scritching and clattering together as he tried to bring a spark to the tinder. Blowing, he managed to produce a tiny whisp of smoke, and fed it with dried leaves and grasses before adding small twigs left over from the clearances of the previous summer. Each year as trees were felled for firewood or coppiced for fencing, furniture and charcoal, the smaller, useless branches were saved for this function.
When he had produced a healthy flame, and had set two logs side-by-side over it, he settled back on his heels to watch it suspiciously for a while.
“You could have been quieter, if you’d wanted.”
Edgar grinned at Hugh’s sullen tone. “True!”
Hugh was lying on a heavy bench, like two or three other guests of Baldwin’s from the night before, and he groaned to himself as he hauled himself upright to rest on an elbow, scowling at Edgar. He grabbed at his rough blanket before it could slip off. “Where’s Wat? I thought he had to make up the fire.”
“Someone got him drunk last night. I think he’ll be late to rise today.”
Hugh chuckled quietly. “He seemed to enjoy his beer.”
“You shouldn’t have kept feeding him that strong ale, though. He doesn’t know how much he can take.”
“It happened to us all when we were young. I thought he coped well.”
“Until he got outside,” Edgar agreed. As soon as the wobbling boy had got to the back door and taken in his first deep breath of cool night air, he had hiccuped once, then started walking up and down the yard with increasing
