“The bastard,” Camville swore. “If he loses me my captive and does not recover the boy, I’ll hang him instead, Templar or no.”
“Easy, father,” Richard counselled. “De Marins is not a foolish man, nor a cowardly one. We must see what it is he means to do, then assist when it is needed.”
“Aye,” the sheriff agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “We will wait, but not too long, and from a nearer perch than this.” He urged the powerful stallion he rode nearer into the trees along the riverbank, and signalled Ernulf and the band of men-at-arms behind him to follow as quietly as they could. When the sheriff called a halt, they were near enough to the river for a quick charge to bring them through the trees and to the waterside in moments.
The other archer who had been watching at the river’s edge came sliding back through the trees. “My lord sheriff, the Templar is well out into the river now. Almost halfway across.”
“Then let us pray to God that my brother is there to help him when he reaches the other side, for our horses would need to sprout wings to come to his aid.”
The water was cold and writhed like a snake. Fulcher felt the shock of it, like red-hot iron on the welts and bruises on his body, as he slipped into the water at the Templar’s side. He had felt the shudder that Bascot’s mount had given and the need for its rider to urge the horse forward with a dig of spurs. On the other bank, the trio holding Gianni watched intently, the boy seeming to shrink as he reached his hands down between his knees and crouched, waiting. Other shapes were appearing in the trees behind them, along with the outlines of bows, held nocked and at the ready. Above, the sky was darkening, seeming to lour in elemental disapproval. The rain continued to fall.
“How much farther?” Bascot asked Fulcher.
“Not yet. We must go just a few more paces.” The outlaw had to pull himself up out of the water to make himself heard by the Templar. Once he had spoken, he dropped back down, easing his shoulders.
They were in the middle of the river now. The water was surging up around the chest of Bascot’s horse, streaming alongside in waves, soaking Bascot to the thighs and cresting in Fulcher’s face like the flap of a curtain. The brigand could feel the slip of the rope at his wrist, the Templar’s boot and stirrup digging into his side, and the rough uneven bed of the river as his feet touched it lightly and bounced away, letting himself be carried forward by the horse’s strength, not his own.
Bascot’s horse suddenly stumbled, its hooves hitting the hard ridge of gravel that ran down the river just a little off the middle of its course. The grey lifted one foreleg, then the offside hind, as it prepared to scramble up the obstacle it could only feel, not see. At that moment, Fulcher pulled on the rope around his wrist, sliding it free, and said the one word, “Now.” Almost immediately he dove under the animal’s belly, coming out on the other side. Bascot felt him grab at his stirrup, the hand snake up his boot and grasp the dagger, then Fulcher pushed away, sliding into the current and cutting through the water with powerful strokes. Bascot let out a shout, wheeled his horse in the water and drew his sword. The outlaws on the bank ran forward, shouting at each other and pointing to where Fulcher’s dark head could be seen just above the surface of the water as he cleaved a path away from them.
Arrows erupted suddenly into the air as the bowmen in the forest shot their missiles, not at Bascot, but at their supposed comrade. Bascot knew then that Fulcher had told him the truth. Frantically, he twisted his head, looking for Gianni. The boy was still there beside Edward but even as Bascot spied him, the lad, with a quick movement, bit the arm of his captor so that the reeve’s nephew let out a yell and released him. Then Gianni shrugged, gathered his legs under him and ran, straight for the river. Bascot spurred his horse forward, towards the boy. The grey slipped at first, confused, then pushed with all its strength as his hind legs gained the top of the gravel ridge. Bascot guided him along it as Gianni, running like a deer, reached the bank and jumped as far as he could, legs flailing wildly to give him more distance. He landed with a splash in the water only a few yards from Bascot and, with one bound, the grey leaped forward and the Templar scooped the boy up from the roiling river, dragging him across the front of his saddle.
On the western bank all was confusion. The outlaw archers turned to aim their arrows at Bascot, and the Templar swung Gianni up behind him and pushed his shield over his shoulder so that the boy could huddle underneath its protection. He could feel the lad’s hands clutching at the back of his surcoat, holding on like a leech. Then a shout of warning sounded from the woods behind the archers and from the screen of trees, William Camville burst, his two squires and Roget close behind, swords in hand. The terrified bowmen scattered towards the water but, from the eastern bank of the Trent, the sheriff now appeared, his mount at full gallop and a deadly mace swinging from his hand. The castle men-at-arms were fanned out on either side of him, short swords at the ready.
The battle was of brief duration. Apart from their bows, most of the outlaws had little in the way of weaponry-a few cudgels, some rusty knives, the crude blades of scythes. Some half dozen of the outlaw band were killed outright and almost twice that number captured. Only one of the sheriff’s force sustained an injury; a man- at-arms had his wrist bone broken as one of the outlaws, more desperate than the rest, tried to wrest the soldier from his horse. The outlaw had died from a sword slash delivered by Richard Camville, the blow almost cleaving the man’s torso from the lower part of his body.
The sheriff was well pleased with the outcome of the foray, although he showed some disappointment at the loss of Fulcher. “Still, de Marins, I agreed to exchange him for your servant and that is what we have done. These other miscreants will pay the price for his escape. And I will ensure that they pay dearly, not only for his loss but for that of my deer.”
It was full dark by the time they reached the gates of Lincoln castle, with the captured outlaws, bound at the hands and to each other, stumbling between the men-at-arms guarding them on either side. Gerard and William Camville, along with Richard and the two squires, rode at the head of the procession, the sheriff for once in a jocular mood, while Roget and Ernulf passed a wineskin back and forth and exchanged jokes with the men of the garrison. More somber were the foresters, Tostig and Eadric. Bascot wondered if this was because they had not been able to capture Green Jack or whether it was because Fulcher, a poacher on the territory in their care, had escaped.
But the Templar gave the foresters, the outlaw leader and Fulcher no more than a passing thought. At his back Gianni was fast asleep, wrapped in one of the soldier’s cloaks and with the cap that Ernulf had given him- rescued from the head of one of the captured outlaws-fastened securely on his head. To feel the boy’s chest rise and fall in the soft rhythm of sleep and to know that he was safe, that was enough.
Twenty-five
Fulcher struggled against the river’s tow after he pulled away from the Templar’s horse. Staying underwater, and close to the bank, he had surfaced only briefly to snatch a mouthful of air when it became necessary. The arrows loosed by the outlaws fell thick around him at first, pushing through the water near his head, shoulders and legs, finally losing their impetus as the current swept them away. When he judged it safe he let himself drift into a stand of osiers and, under their screen, came to a halt and cautiously put his head above the water and looked back. In the distance he could hear the sounds of fighting, like a buzzing of hornets, above the roar of the river but no one, neither soldier nor outlaw, came in pursuit of him.
Easing back into the river he swam, with the powerful strokes that seemed more natural to him than walking. He would put a good distance between himself and the warring factions downstream before coming out from under the protective blanket of the river. As he cleaved through the water, the sting of the contusions on his body eased, the deep ache of his bruises started to abate and he began to feel the life of the river around him; otters at play as they fed, trout darting between his legs, a heron prompted into hasty flight, startled by his sudden appearance. Clumps of reeds swept by on the periphery of his vision, then a willow with branches low from the heavy rain alongside clumpy fronds of sedge grass. How he had loved the river when he had, as a child, accompanied his father and uncle as they had gone out, in the early part of the evenings, to set snares for the eels that provided their livelihood. He had loved it all, even weaving osiers to make traps or, in winter, fashioning nets from hemp that his mother had made from nettles gathered in the summer and then pulped and spun, just like wool. He had proved himself even better than his kinfolk at discovering the secret places where the snake-like fish loved to gather,
