horse, set it in the traces, and were off. The dead brute they dragged with them, for the meat.
The horse was the only valuable possession Robert Vyke had owned. Without it, he was impoverished. His wife Susan would find life more harsh and cruel. A horse meant transport, it mean income when loaned to a friend, it meant barter: ale and eggs and cheese. But the purveyors had taken him.
Before Robert Vyke lay a puddle, and he splashed into it unthinking, unaware of anything but his own misery, but then there was a tearing pain in his ankle and leg, and he felt himself fall, the long shaft of his bill tumbling through his hands to clatter on the stones of the road, his pack of belongings thumping down beside him, while men scattered from the bill’s sharp blade.
‘What is it, you fool?’ Otho demanded.
‘My leg, my leg!’
‘Get up, you hog’s arse! You think we’re going to wait for you?’ the Sergeant demanded, and he hawked long and hard, bringing up a large gobbet of phlegm, which he spat near Robert’s face. ‘On your feet! By Christ’s blood, you make a man want to kick you, you do. First you pick a fight with a poor bastard who’s only gone and lost his pony, and now you want to doze by the wayside. Waiting for a frisky wench to snuggle up to, eh? Maybe a pair? Well, forget it!’
Otho was known for his rough humour, but Robert was not of a mind to laugh. He took a long look at his Sergeant and then, sobbing with the pain, he slowly eased himself upright. Only then did the Sergeant stare down at his leg. ‘God’s ballocks, man! How did you do that?’
‘Mary save me!’ Robert said, as he saw the blood slowly pulsing from the long gash. ‘Otho, I–’
‘Christ’s pain! you’re no good to me like that, you tarse,’ the Sergeant said mildly. He was staring at the men behind them as though Robert was already passing from his mind. ‘No good to us at all. You’d best stay behind and hope the bastards don’t see you. They’ll be after us anyway, not you. You piss off up north of this road, and you may be all right. Understand?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘No, better than that, lad, you make your way to Bristol after us. It’s only a few miles from here. Can you do that?’ Otho added doubtfully, glancing at the flap of skin hanging loose. He then leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘Look, if they do catch you, just give yourself up, eh? There’s no point trying to fight. No point any of us trying to fight,’ he added to himself dully. ‘Right – you got a thong or some twine?’
While Robert stretched his leg out before him, Otho bent and bound the wound with a length of linen, then he wrapped a thick leather thong over it to hold it in place. ‘Take care, boy.’
‘You too, Otho.’
‘Yeah. Well, I hope we’ll meet again.’ The Sergeant rested a fist on Robert’s shoulder, and Vyke saw that he was thinking about something. Otho was a man who considered his actions carefully. If he wished to say something important, he would weigh his words. Now, he looked away as though saddened. ‘Look, Robert, if you get home safely, see my Agnes, eh? Tell her… just tell her I wanted to get home,’ he said.
Robert nodded. There was no need to say more. They both reckoned it was unlikely either of them would see the village or their wives again.
Then Otho hefted Robert’s bill on to his shoulder and bawled at the rest of the men: ‘What’re you lazy gits staring at? Taking a rest while you can? It’s going to be a long march before we get to see the King, me boys, so get a bleeding move on!’
Gradually, with many a curse and muttered complaint, the men began to stagger forwards again, while Robert watched from the side of the road with eyes filled with tears. He had no idea where he was, nor how far from his home, and now all his friends were walking on and leaving him. Herv Tyrel broke from the shambling mass and passed him a lump of old bread he had saved, then winked, while others either nodded and gave him a ‘Godspeed’, or looked away, ashamed to be deserting him.
The little party shuffled on past, and if it weren’t for the pain, for the fear of capture, and the desperate loneliness that was engulfing him, Robert Vyke could have enjoyed the exquisite delight of sitting here at the wayside while the others all continued on their way.
‘You’ll be dead in a day.’
The vicious whisper came from his right, and he was about to turn when he felt the dagger at the side of his neck.
‘Who are you?’ Robert Vyke asked, scarcely moving his head.
It was the horse-driver. ‘Walerand the Tranter, most call me. Won’t do that again now I’ve lost my only pony, swyve them all.’
‘Well, Walerand, I am called Robert Vyke. When you have finished serving the King, you come and find me, and I’ll be glad to set my dagger against yours, anywhere, any time. Unless you’re such a coward that you’ll kill me here instead.’
‘I’m no coward, horse-lover. I’ll find you, and I’ll cut your throat like a hog’s.’
‘Really?’ Robert said, and he slowly turned his head to stare at the man. ‘Next time we meet, Tranter, you’ll pay for your stupidity.’
‘Mine?’ the Tranter said, and grinned. Then he slammed the pommel of his dagger into Robert’s head, and the young man knew no more.
CHAPTER SIX
Cecily knelt beside her palliasse and clutched the little wooden cross on her necklace, her eyes closed as she prepared herself and then began to speak.
The act of prayer had always been soothing. Mumbling her words as she drew down God’s attention upon herself, on Emma, on the Capons, on all she knew, would always in the past have brought her comfort. With her eyes closed, she could sense the presence of the Almighty as she fingered her rosary beads and talked directly with Him. But not this time.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come. There was a thickness in the base of her throat that seemed to all but choke her. Even as she stared down at her rosary, she knew it could hold no spiritual solace – and that knowledge came to her with a shock that felt like an actual punch in her belly.
Her mouth closed, and the beads trembled as her hands began to shake. Moaning, she leaned forward until her brow touched the palliasse, while tears began to seep from beneath her eyelids.
Her fingers gripped at the rosary, but there was no strength in them to move the beads along their cord. It seemed that God Himself had turned from her. Her soul was damned, because she had taken the vow to protect the child, to be like a mother to him all his days, and she had
For one error, she would be cursed for all time; she was quite sure of it. Her fingers would not work the beads; her hands gripped the cross, but she felt no sensation of ease from the holy symbol. With a stifled cry, she threw the cross and rosary aside and fell sobbing to the bed. She hadn’t wanted those men to kill Little Harry, but it mattered not a whit; she knew her guilt. She had come to appreciate the full depth of her crime, and now there was nothing she could do about it. She was lost – perhaps forever.
‘I wouldn’t have done it if I could have helped it,’ she whispered, and the sobs began again.
She tried to beg for forgiveness, but He made no sign that He could hear her. At last, in desperation, she grabbed at the rosary beads again, but in her snatching them up, she did not notice that there was a knot formed. As her anxious fingers pulled the beads apart, there was a sudden give, and it seemed to her that time stopped.
The beads sprang from the cord that had bound them, and flew into the air, forming graceful arcs as they rose, only to tumble back to the ground, bouncing and rolling hither and thither.
‘God save me!’ she screamed in horror, her eyes rising to the ceiling as though Christ was there already, staring down at her with an immensity of sadness on his face.
