…?’
Wayland looked down the coast. Syth was gone. He smiled. ‘An angel came to me.’
Riding by night they approached the walls of Norwich while it was still dark. They dozed shivering on their mules until the city began to take shape against the morning sky. Low clouds wept a thin drizzle. They waited until the west gate opened and traffic began to flow before moving closer. Hero studied the tower. A square building roofed with thatch, its timber walls pierced by loopholes. Sheep grazed in front of it, but after curfew the ground would be empty. Hero raised his eyes to the sky, praying that the dreary weather would last another night.
He turned to Wayland. ‘I’ll go into the tower as soon as the guards change after dark. It might be a while before I get the chance to signal.’
They retreated to a nearby copse. Wayland hobbled the mules and left the dog to guard them. Then he and Hero skirted the city on foot and approached the north gate. Costermongers cried their wares at the entrance. Two guards manned the gate, chatting up a pair of English girls.
Wayland looked at Hero. ‘Ready?’
Hero gave a convulsive yawn. ‘Now or never.’
At first it seemed like they would stroll through unnoticed. Then one of the giggling girls pointed at random and the guard she was flirting with followed her throwaway gesture and noticed Hero. Their eyes met.
‘Keep walking,’ Wayland said.
‘They’re going to stop me. I know it.’
‘Give me the eels. Stay three or four paces behind me.’
Wayland strode ahead, whistling a jaunty air. The soldier didn’t even look at him. He stepped away from the girls and was about to stop Hero when Wayland tripped and sprawled, sending the creel flying. Half the eels shot out and the others began to slither for freedom. A crone selling charms shrieked and clambered onto her stool. A retailer of palm crosses waved one in each hand. The girls screamed and threw themselves into the arms of the soldiers. A mule laden with clay pots shied against a barrow heaped with Easter buns.
Wayland scurried through the wreckage. ‘My precious eels! Help me, good citizens. That’s a week’s work escaping.’
A boy made of mud and sores darted from nowhere, grabbed one of the eels and raced off with it lashing under his arm. Other urchins dashed forward and began scooping up the buns. The guards didn’t hinder Wayland, but they didn’t help him. They were falling about laughing, punching each other in mirth. By the time Wayland had gathered up the last eel, Hero was inside the city.
They met up at the White Hart.
‘Your dish will be ready by evening,’ Wayland said. ‘Give the dame a penny for her trouble.’
‘Run through what you have to do.’
Wayland sighed. They’d gone over the plan a dozen times. ‘I sneak into the house and recover the chest. I buy a heavy axe and a stout hemp rope.’
‘At least thirty yards.’
‘I leave by the same gate … ’ Wayland paused. ‘The guards might wonder why I came in with eels and left with cordage.’
‘No, they won’t. You’re a fisherman who traded his catch for tackle.’
‘Unless they look in the chest.’
‘Buy a net to wrap up the silver.’
‘I return to my position outside the west gate. Then I wait. For how long?’
‘If we’re not with you by sunrise, assume the worst.’
Wayland looked at him. Hero tried to smile. ‘Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’
Awkwardly, Wayland extended his hand.
Hero sat in his room at the inn, unpicking the hem of his tunic. He coiled a long length of twine around the hem and loosely sewed it up again. Maddening, fiddly work, but when he’d finished it was still only early afternoon. He lay on his bed unable to rest. He kept getting up and sneaking to the door, imagining he’d heard footfalls on the stair. It was almost a relief when the church bells rang vespers. He left the inn, went through the dusky streets towards the west gate and spied on the sentries until one of them beat a gong to announce the curfew. A few latecomers hurried in, the last of them speeded on his way by the sergeant’s boot, and then the guards pulled the double doors shut and barred them with a balk of timber. They went inside the guardroom and not long afterwards the next watch came out.
Hero returned to the inn and collected the supper basket and a leather wine bottle. By the time he returned to the tower it was dark and the streets nearly empty. Torches guttered each side of the gateway. One of the sentries lounged against the guardhouse entrance, sucking a toothpick. The other three sat inside around a brazier, playing dice.
Hero took a couple of deep breaths and hurried up. ‘Is this where Vallon the Frank’s held?’
The guard took the toothpick out of his mouth. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘I’m Hero, his servant. Why are you holding him?’
The guard turned to his confederates. ‘Fetch the sergeant.’
In a little while the sergeant came hurrying down the stairs, pulling on his tunic. His complexion was livid, one side of his jaw bruised and swollen. ‘Where have you been hiding?’
‘I’ve been away on my master’s business. I only got back this evening. As soon as I heard he’d been arrested, I came straight here.’
‘What business?’
‘That’s confidential.’
The sergeant grabbed him by the throat. ‘What business?’
‘For the Lady Margaret. More than that I’m not permitted to say.’
‘Go easy, Sarge,’ one of the soldiers said.
The sergeant let go. Hero massaged his windpipe. ‘What charge are you holding my master on?’
The sergeant bellied up to him. ‘Don’t play the fucking innocent with me. Murder, warranted by a justice in Durham.’
‘Murder? That’s ridiculous. Who’s been murdered?’
One of the soldiers shifted uneasily. ‘I dunno, Sarge. He doesn’t act like a man with a price on his head. And those papers from Olbec’s wife looked genuine. I’ve served with Drogo. Good man to have beside you in a ruck, but a nasty temper, always picking fights. This might be just a family squabble.’
‘Makes no fucking difference. The Frank impersonated an official of the king. Acted high and mighty, weaselled his way past me with false documents.
‘Supper for my master.’ With shaking fingers, Hero unwrapped the linen cloth covering the basket and looped the cloth through his belt.
The sergeant sniffed the stew. ‘That’s too good for those scumbags.’ He took out the wine bottle.
‘It’s for the German. He gets in a queer temper if he goes too long without drink.’
The sergeant crooked his face up. ‘See this? The German did that. Nearly broke my jaw.
Hero could hardly speak for fear. ‘He was only doing his job. If he’s committed an offence, we’ll pay the fine. There’s no need to take your grievance to law.’
A smile spread across the sergeant’s face. ‘Lads, one way or the other we’ll come out a few bob ahead.’
One of the soldiers dipped a finger into the stew and licked it. ‘Mmm. Matelot of eels with prunes, like my mum used to make.’
The sergeant smacked his hand. ‘You’ll get your share when you come off duty.’ He nodded at one of the other guards. ‘Search him.’
After a rough examination, the guard stepped back and shook his head.
‘Take him up.’
Two soldiers frogmarched Hero up the stairs. As he climbed the tower, he tried to memorise the layout. The
