‘Sweet Jesu!’ Art whimpered.
He could see it all now. Joce had refused to accept his going. Joce wanted him back, would drag him, screaming, to the house, and once in there, Art knew that all the pain and indignities he had suffered before would be as nothing. For running away, he would be forced to endure the cruellest tortures his master could conceive.
Art gave an inarticulate cry and drew back into the security of the cart.
Rudolf glanced at him in surprise, then jerked his head. ‘Your master?’
‘Yes!’ It was little more than a whisper. Art’s eyes were fixed upon the steadily approaching figure.
‘You are safe with us,’ Rudolf said calmly.
‘He will kill me!’
‘No.’
Joce was in earshot now, and he bellowed at the top of his voice, ‘Hold! Stop those carts!’
Rudolf, hearing his command, muttered in German to Welf, ‘The bastard thinks he can order us around like English peasants!’
‘I said stop the carts! I must speak to you!’
To Joce’s relief the cavalcade drew to a halt, the men and women separating and the men forming a line at the rear of their column.
He was bone tired now: The horse had collapsed near Sharpitor, and he had been forced to make his way on foot after that. At least he’d been in luck so far. He wondered whether Jack the sergeant had been the last of a line of men searching for him, because after killing him, he had seen no more evidence of a man-hunt on his trail. Perhaps he had escaped after all, he thought. Certainly this stranger with the thick accent seemed to pose no danger. If anything, he looked a bit stupid.
‘You are welcome, sir,’ Rudolf called, emphasizing his accent. It was always useful to be able to deny comprehension when necessary, he found. ‘How may we serve you?’
‘May I crave your generosity? I have been robbed, and my food and water were stolen. Could I share a little of your food with you?’
‘Certainly, sir. It is poor fare for a gentleman. Still, you are welcome to share what we have,’ Rudolf said.
Joce smiled, although he was thinking that this man was a fool. He would eat with them, drink with them, and then, when all was dark and these ignorant foreigners were asleep, he would take the pewter. Perhaps someone might wake – well, if they did, Joce would enjoy setting his blade across the man’s throat. It would be pleasant to kill again. There were many of them, and only one of him – but that didn’t concern Joce. He knew he was more than equal to them.
Coroner Roger lunged at the runaway horse and hauled on its reins, almost unseating himself as the wild animal pulled him and his own horse along. ‘I have it!’ he roared gleefully as he drew it to a slower pace, then to a canter, leaning over to pat the beast’s neck, wiping some of the foam and froth away.
‘This is my sergeant’s mount,’ Sir Tristram said with icy calm.
‘Is he the sort of man to lose his horse?’ the coroner asked, but even as he spoke his eyes caught sight of the stain, ‘Blood.’
‘Christ Jesus!’ The blasphemy was deserved. All along the horse’s flank was a great gout of blood.
‘I fear your man is dead,’ Coroner Roger said soberly.
‘Up there! Ah, by the devil’s cods, he must have got past all the men! Jack was up there as a last line to stop him. If he cut Jack down, he could be anywhere.’
‘Not anywhere,’ Roger said thoughtfully. ‘There are not that many paths from here. And the ground is quite damp. Let’s see if we can find out where he has gone.’
They left the runaway horse with another of Sir Tristram’s men and made their way back up the hill. The hoofprints were clear enough, for the horse had galloped wildly, each steel horseshoe cutting deeply into the soft, well-cropped grass, and they had no need of a tracker. They could ride at a gentle canter until they came to the body.
‘Dear God!’ Sir Tristram said with disgust.
‘It’s your man?’ the coroner asked.
‘Yes. That looks like Jack’s body. But where’s his head?’ Coroner Roger jumped lightly from his horse and left the corpse, walking along the hoofprints until he came to a place where the blood lay thickly. ‘Here it is,’ he said, picking up Jack’s head. He set it with the body and gazed east. ‘That’s his direction. He’s going to Ashburton.’
‘Then let’s be after him!’ Sir Tristram grated. ‘I want his head.’
Simon and Baldwin entered the abbot’s lodging after him, and while Abbot Robert roared for his steward, the two sat in chairs near his table. When Augerus hurried inside, he was instantly sent out again to fetch wine. Meanwhile the abbot instructed a messenger to collect Brother Peter.
That monk, when he entered, found himself being gazed at by the stern quartet of the abbot, Baldwin, Simon, and Mark; the latter wore the most savage expression of them all, as though, Peter thought privately, he was determined to outdo all the others in righteous indignation.
‘My Lord Abbot, you asked for me?’ Peter asked, with apparent surprise. He had been warned, but their expressions were fearsome.
Augerus entered behind him, and now stood contemplating him with some surprise, a tray of cups and wine in his hands.
‘Wake up, Steward!’ the abbot snapped. ‘Serve us. Brother Peter, I have had some alarming news. It is said that you knew who was stealing from me; that you have known for some time.’
Peter sniffed, his brows lifted. ‘It is true that I guessed, as you know, but I couldn’t swear to know for certain.’
‘How did you guess?’ the abbot demanded, his face darkening.
‘My Lord Abbot, as I told you before, I saw Gerard and also Wally, taking goods. Thus when I spoke to
