speed, but he was a better rider than Hugh, Simon could tell, and he felt the fear assail him again, even as he saw Hugh suddenly stop his mount dead, swinging his staff in a circle. The man chasing him was slashed across the face, slamming his head back. Then more trees blocked Simon’s view, and he peered to where he could see Meg, with Rob riding a few yards behind. The boy looked like a sack of grain, both legs out-thrust, his entire body bouncing up and down with each of the pony’s movements. It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen off.
And then he saw his Meg stop and look back. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, she had stopped – she was calling to him!
Simon felt the breath catch in his throat, for to pause here was to die. The men were so close, they would surely catch them all, and Meg, his lovely Meg, would be raped and killed, her body plundered like Simon’s purse. At that instant, he was flooded by and uncontrollable rage. He would
He forced his beast to slow, and then stop, pulling its head around to face back the way they had come. And now Simon took his son and kissed him quickly, about to set him gently down upon the ground, saying, ‘Perkin, my lovely boy, go to a tree and hide behind it.’
That was when the cries reached him. There was a swirling of dust from the road, a thunderous sound, and seven men-at-arms galloped past him, whooping and shrieking, two with lances couched, while the others bore heavy swords. They crashed into the outlaws, and Simon saw a fountain of blood rise through the dust that enfolded them, saw men tumbled from their horses, heard the whinnying of petrified beasts, the echo of axes against armour, the crunch of steel crushing bone.
The bloodlust suddenly left him, leaving him overwhelmed by a terrible exhaustion, and he had to force his fingers to keep hold of his son. It felt as though to drop him would be to lose him forever, and Simon knew he must not do that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He was still in pain as he left the priest’s little home, but Robert Vyke couldn’t remain there any longer. He hobbled along the roadway with a large stick to serve as a staff, looking about him carefully.
‘Master Vyke, where are you going?’ The priest appeared, carrying wood he had gathered.
‘Father, I am sorry, but I have to see if I can find where it was that I was struck down.’
‘I can understand your confusion, my son. But I do not think you should be using that leg yet. Will you not stay here a little longer and rest it?’
‘I thank you, but no. I cannot sit idly, while a man’s body lies rotting.’
The priest nodded slowly. ‘Do you have any idea where you should go?’
‘No, but it cannot be too far from here, as the man who knocked me down must have carried or carted me here.’
Paul looked dubious. ‘Perhaps so. Well, if you head east from here, and a little south, you will come to Bristol. That may be a good place to aim for, my son. Perhaps you will strike the place on the way. Otherwise, you will have to search in all directions trying to find it, and I do not know that you would be content to hunt all over the shire.’
‘No, I am sure you are right there, Father. Will you give me a blessing?’
Paul gave him a hug, and muttered a prayer, making the sign of the cross over his brow and wishing him Godspeed, and soon Robert was on his way, following the road as Paul had suggested.
But as he set off, his teeth gritted against the pain, he knew that the reason he wished to seek that body was less because of the dead man, and more because he was determined to learn what had happened to himself.
He remembered finding the head, remembered crouching to vomit – and then nothing. Perhaps it was the effect of the knock on his head the previous day, but surely the blow wouldn’t still have had such an awful impact on him after such a long time.
Stopping in the road, he ran his fingers questingly over his skull, quickly finding the area of intense soreness where the tranter had hit him. And then his finger found another place, right above his left ear. Touching it was enough to make him wince. So that was it, he thought. Someone had knocked him down again.
But why would his attacker take him somewhere else, unless it was to confuse him and hide the location of the dead man? If that was all the fellow intended, surely he would simply have killed Robert too, as a witness to his crime? It made no sense.
Robert suddenly set his face to the north. There were trees in the distance, and he was sure that there was smoke, too. It was painful to walk on his bad leg, but it would heal sooner if he kept it moving. Resting it too much was the surest way of losing his mobility for good and all.
The way soon became overgrown with brambles and blackthorns. Robert struggled on for a while, until he found himself on the edge of a small wood. He turned off through the trees, hoping that the way would become easier, and at first it was, but only if he followed a shallow incline to a little valley below. Here there was another trail, this time heading more southwards and getting marshy. He went carefully on the soft ground, testing the ground with his staff before putting his foot anywhere dangerous.
It was a slow, painstaking progress along this track, and he could have wept when he saw that the track was bending around to head south-east of here. He was going in the wrong direction entirely. Soon, if he wasn’t careful, he would be back at the priest’s house where he had started.
And then he saw the trees. There was something about them… He stopped, and stared hard, before setting off again in his jerky manner, moving carefully to protect his bad shin and skull, all the time aware of his emotions being pulled this way and that.
At the forefront of his mind was the necessity of finding the dead man, if there was one. If a fellow had been killed, and his body dismembered, Robert wanted to find it so that it could be reported. There were many people who would hurry away from a corpse on the basis that they would not want to be attached as first finder. Robert himself didn’t want to have to pay any man to be bound over to return to this place when the Coroner came to hold his inquest, and later, when the Justices came to listen to the evidence in court. No, of course he didn’t want to get caught up in all that, but still less did he want the murderer to escape.
Also, it was only by finding the body that he could assure himself he wasn’t mad. His dreams had been growing more and more grotesque, the dead man’s head following him as though begging him to return. Maybe if he did so, peace would be granted to him.
The path led in among a stand of trees, and he saw with a thrill of excitement and trepidation that there was a hedge on one side, with a puddle nearby. With a grunt of resolution, he forced himself to look at the hedge. Sure enough, there was a gap in it large enough for his body to have crawled through. If he was right, the head was just over there… He bent and peered in.
And saw the head still sitting on the branches where it had lain before.
Simon and Margaret sat gratefully on the stools provided, and sipped the wine passed to them.
‘So, Master Puttock, I think you must be glad we appeared when we did, eh?’
Simon looked up at the man who had appeared. He was a big fellow, but a man encased in a coat-of-arms and mail tended to have a commanding presence. This one still had his face concealed by his helmet, and Simon stood, a little unsteadily, and bowed. ‘Sir, I am very glad to see you and to be able to offer my profound thanks. I don’t…’ Then he paused. ‘How did you know my name, sir?’
‘How would I not know the name of a friend?’ The man laughed, and lifted off his helmet. ‘Remember me?’
Simon gasped with pleasure to see Sir Charles of Lancaster. ‘Sir, never was a knight more welcome!’
The knight nodded with a grin. He was a tall, confident man, with clear, blue eyes that told the world he
