‘Oh, shit!’
‘What’s going on?’ Drogo shouted.
Drax turned his head. Hero heard him swallow. ‘The Frank must have broken free and seized Fulk’s sword.’
Vallon’s voice carried from the void.
‘Do nothing without my order,’ Drogo roared. The bridge began to tremble, a seismic forewarning of his rage. Hero shrank aside as he swept past. When he reached the other side, he stood in his stirrups and held his torch high. By its puny light Hero saw Vallon armed with a sword, holding Roussel in a necklock, Fulk doubled over, nursing one hand under his shoulder.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he groaned. ‘Roussel slipped and barged into me. The Frank took advantage of the-’
‘Silence! I’ll deal with you poltroon idiots later.’ Drogo spurred his horse towards Vallon. ‘As for you …’
Vallon retreated, using Roussel as a shield. ‘We have no quarrel.’
‘No quarrel?’ The gulf between this statement and the enormity of Drogo’s wrath rendered him speechless. When Drogo found his voice, it came from a different register, guttural, as if thickened by blood. ‘I’ll make you repeat those words when I’m standing with my foot on your neck.’
Vallon shoved his hostage away and took guard. Encumbered by torch, sword and shield, Drogo had to guide his horse with his knees. He circled one way, then the other, the snow falling so thickly that Hero could only make out fitful shapes.
‘You’d better dismount,’ Vallon said. ‘You can’t fight with your hands full.’
Drogo acknowledged his handicap. ‘Drax, get up here with your light.’
Drax cursed and dragged Hero forward. Drogo backed up to him and leaned to hand him his torch.
‘Sir, I can guard the prisoner or hold the torches, but I can’t do both.’
Drogo kicked out. ‘God’s veins, am I entirely surrounded by cretins? Cut his throat.’
Drax eyed Hero, shaking his head, then brought his sword up.
‘Stay your hand,’ Vallon said. ‘Here come more lights.’
Hero risked a backward look. A glow approaching through the snow resolved itself into several bobbing torches.
‘Let them come,’ Drogo snarled. ‘There’s no need for concealment now. Assault on a Norman is a capital crime. The more witnesses the better.’
‘Including your mother?’ Vallon said.
‘My mother? What about my mother?’
Vallon relaxed his stance. ‘I think she’s about to join us.’
Five riders filed past Hero. Four were soldiers, the last a small shape muffled from head to toe. Drogo swore under his breath.
‘What’s the cause of the alarm?’ the woman demanded. ‘Who is that man? What’s happening here?’
Drogo rode towards her. ‘My lady, you shouldn’t be out in such foul weather. You’ll catch a flux.’
‘Answer my question.’
‘They’re thieves. Foreign fly-by-nights with stolen relics.’
‘Ransom terms for your son,’ Vallon said.
‘A forgery. As soon as I challenged him for proof, he made a bolt for it. He injured Fulk and robbed him of his sword. Look there if you don’t believe me.’
‘Show me the documents.’
‘My lady, false hopes will only aggravate old wounds. I have too much respect for your grief to allow scum to-’
‘I’ll nurse my sorrows. You will attend your father. Now give me the documents.’
Drogo slapped the packet into her hand.
‘If any harm comes to these strangers, you’ll answer to the Count.’ She drifted back into the snow. ‘Don’t keep him waiting. You know what he’s like when he’s taken drink.’
Drogo rammed his sword into its scabbard and rode back towards Vallon. He looked down on the Frank, breathing heavily, then swung a mailed arm into his face with a force that sent Vallon sprawling.
‘Don’t imagine it’s over between us.’
Vallon picked himself up. He spat blood, wiped his mouth and gave a wolfish grin. ‘I see where you get your temper from.’
Drogo regarded him with naked hatred. ‘Lady Margaret’s no blood relative of mine.’ He raked his spurs down his horse’s flanks. ‘And nor is Walter.’
IV
Stumbling across the bailey at swordpoint, Hero glimpsed men dishevelled by sleep peering from the doorway of the great hall. Then his escort prodded him through another gate and up the castle mound to a stairway at the base of the keep. Beasts lowed behind its wooden walls. So this is where my journey of discovery ends, he thought. At a glorified cowshed.
A knee shunted him up the steps. He climbed blind through the snow. Hands shoved him into a chamber. The door slammed behind him. He gasped for breath and wiped snow from his eyes. At the far end of the room, vaguely lit by tapers stuck into wall sconces, a group of figures waited in front of a tapestry screen. At their centre a burly man with a round, cropped head leaned his weight on a stick and pushed up from his seat. Hero winced. A hideous scar running from temple to jaw bisected the man’s face into two misaligned halves — the mouth askew, one eye fixed in a bolting stare, the other narrowed in a drowsy squint.
Lady Margaret sat beside him fidgeting with Sir Walter’s seal ring, her mouth compressed into a determined little bud that belied her girlish figure. A priest with pouchy cheeks shuffled attendance, one hand clutching the documents, the other fiddling with a crucifix. Behind them stood another man, his face blotched by shadow.
Drogo strode past, pulling off his helmet to reveal a meaty face wealed by the imprint of cold metal. His eyes, glittering under pale lashes, projected fury but also bafflement, as if events had a habit of slipping out of his control. Even when he stopped before his father, he couldn’t stay still, tapping his feet, slapping his sword hilt. He was an engine lacking a brake.
‘My lord, I intended bringing you these men as soon as I’d finished questioning them.’
Olbec waved him down, his lop-sided stare fixed on Vallon. ‘You say Sir Walter lives.’ The two sides of his mouth moved slightly out of phase.
‘He’s alive, well-fed, warmly clothed, comfortably housed.’ Vallon stroked his cloak, which by now resembled rat more than sable. ‘Given the choice, I’d change places with him this moment.’
Margaret clapped her hands. ‘Bring food. Prepare their quarters.’
Hero collapsed onto a bench shoved behind his knees. Olbec lowered himself onto his seat with a pained grunt, one leg sticking straight out. Vallon and Drogo remained standing. Hero saw that the face of the man in the background wasn’t masked by a trick of light, but by a dark blemish. This must be Richard, the weakling son.
Servants brought tepid broth and coarse bread. Hero wolfed it down. When he’d scoured his bowl, Vallon was still sipping from his. Olbec fumed at the delay and shot forward as soon as Vallon laid the vessel aside.
‘Now then. A full account.’
Vallon rinsed his hands in a fingerbowl. ‘Not until your son returns our property and apologises for his churlishness.’
Drogo sprang at Vallon.
‘Stop!’
Olbec’s out-thrust head resembled a disfigured tortoise. ‘You crept into my domain by night. This border is infested with Scottish brigands and English rebels. You should thank God Drogo didn’t cut you down on the spot.’
‘And so should you. If he had, Sir Walter would be dead by autumn.’
‘You’ll have your possessions,’ Margaret cried, pulling her husband back. ‘Where’s my son held?’
