Humphrey winced. The voice was educated, and that could well bode badly for the future. ‘Um. We are all here in this miserable existence for our allotted time. We can all expect sadness and pain.’
There was a chuckle. ‘Ah, but a man who pretends to be a priest? He can be made to suffer dreadfully, can’t he?’
Humphrey tried to move his arms and found that he was effectively bound. A thong or cord tied him at the elbows, and his ankles were similarly restrained. He lifted his head and turned to face his gaoler. ‘I am a priest.’
‘No, I don’t think so. And nor do many others about here. Especially Matthew, who felt sure you were out to take advantage of poor Isaac. In fact he thought you were probably after the silver from the chapel. I’m surprised you didn’t bother to take all the altar trappings. The cloth would be worth a few shillings, and the cross too.’
‘I am no thief!’ Humphrey declared, managing to affect a tone of righteous indignation that he scarcely felt. He was glad now that he hadn’t tried to shove the chalice in his pack when he left. It had been tempting, God alone knew.
‘Oddly enough, you apparently are not.’ Friar John stood and walked to a small cauldron that sat over the fire. He stirred the pottage and sniffed at it appreciatively. ‘And yet you are not a priest, either, are you? So my interest in you is greater than it would normally be.’
‘Why do you say that? I can speak the Pater Noster as well as any, and I can …’
‘Oh, yes — so I have heard.’
‘Then there is no reason for you to keep me tied up like this, Brother. Release me and let me go on my way. If you’re so attached to your supper that you won’t share it with another poor sinner, then set me free so that I can pick up what I may from other people who are more gracious and charitable,’ Humphrey said with a note of indignation. He felt he had pitched the tone just right, and even this daft old sermon-gabbler would see the justification in his demand. There was no point in keeping an innocent man here. ‘Come, there is no harm done, apart from my broken head, and I won’t demand compensation for that. Clearly you thought that there was a draw-latch trying to break into your …’
He remembered where he was all of a sudden, and peered about him in the gloom.
‘Ah, you are perhaps wondering what a shod friar is doing down here?’ John asked amiably. He looked over at his prisoner and smiled gently. ‘That, you see, is the interesting point and the reason why you must remain here as my guest for a little while.’
‘I will not!’
‘Oh, you may shout all you want, Humphrey, but you won’t be released. Apart from anything else, I want to know what you are doing out here, so far from your little chapel. Did Father Isaac see you putting your hand into a pot of money that you should not have?’
‘Of course not! I told you, I am no thief!’
‘So you did.’ John turned his attention back to the pottage. ‘I do hope you are not, my friend, because if you are, I shall see it as my duty to turn you over to the secular authorities. I understand that they can be a little unkind so far from the city.’
‘Brother, no … please!’
‘I will wait. There is no hurry.’
‘But I cannot stay here like this, Brother! Please, set me loose so that I can continue on my way.’
‘I should like to — but I fear that my companion would become most upset if I released you.’
‘But why?’
‘Because he wishes to remain hidden for a little while. He must be unseen.’
‘I’ll not tell anyone!’ Humphrey gabbled quickly. He had suddenly realised who this friar must be: a member of an outlaw gang. This associate of his must be another outlaw, and perhaps the fellow would seek to silence anyone who saw his face, or who knew where they had their camp. Sweet Jesus! It was enough to make a man weep! He’d done nothing, and now his life was to be cast aside just because he had come here to a quiet building to seek shelter for a night.
‘Oh, no!’ John said affably. ‘How could we permit you to go without experiencing our hospitality?’
The Keeper was thoughtful as he climbed back on to his mount. He glanced across at Simon, who was watching Sir Geoffrey with a cold, flickering suspicion in his eyes. ‘Simon? Are you all right?’
‘It’s possible that he’s the man who got Hugh killed,’ Simon said.
He was calm enough, but Baldwin could feel the waves of rage. ‘Simon, do nothing foolish. You have no evidence. If we can find it, I swear, I shall see him in court myself.’
‘I don’t want him in court — I want him dead, if he killed Hugh.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘I can understand that. I swear to you, I shall help you if it is at all possible.’
Edgar joined them and sat easily on his horse with his customary half-grin. Simon shot a glance at him and looked away. He was aware that Edgar had been a close friend of Hugh’s, so he knew he must miss him, but just now the man’s expression was almost sardonic. Yes, there was a cold gleam in his eyes, and Simon was sure that he’d be the first to make Hugh’s killer pay, but just now he scarcely seemed to care that Hugh was dead.
When he turned away, he caught a glimpse of the hound master. The man was scowling at a pair of his brutes, who were sniffing and nuzzling at the ground. Simon jerked with his chin in the direction of the hounds, and Baldwin nodded. ‘They’ve got his scent.’
‘Sir Geoffrey! Sir Geoffrey!’
The knight came from the chapel and stood glaring about him, seeking the source of the call.
‘Sir, I think they have him again!’
Sir Geoffrey ran to his horse and climbed up as the first of the hounds began to bay. As the other beasts took up the call, Simon and Baldwin were soon caught up in a fresh chase. The mass of men and horses began to mill about the chapel’s yard, and then, as the hounds set off northwards, they leaped the low fence and set off in pursuit.
Over the fields they pounded, and Simon ignored a growing soreness on his left inner thigh from all the riding he’d done recently as he gave himself up to the pleasure of pursuit. The wind caught at his hair and it whipped about like a short mane, while his cloak tugged at his throat, snapping and cracking. There was another field, and a taller hedge this time, and he leaned forward as he felt the rounsey gather himself and surge as he rose over it; Simon just had time to force himself back before the beast’s legs struck the solid earth at the other side, slamming Simon back against the cantle. It caught him slightly askew, the top raking along his left buttock, and the pain flared for a moment, but then he was concentrating on the race again.
All was forgotten in the mad rush forward, because few if any of the men remembered what they were here for now — they were lost in the excitement of the gallop. Simon had a moment of sudden clarity: all the men here were the same felons and cut-throats whom Baldwin and he had been warned of by Malkin and Isabel. When they found the man they hunted he would stand no chance against them, even if Baldwin and Simon tried to stop them stringing him up forthwith.
Those who would have restrained the posse, the local villeins, were too few, and they would hardly dare to thwart Sir Geoffrey and his hirelings. Looking about him, Simon was aware of a quickening concern about what might shortly happen.
At a rough bellow, the horses left the straight path they had taken, and slipped right to the road again. A low fence and hedge, wait for the horse to bunch up his muscles … now! The rounsey soared up as lightly as a blackbird, and Simon felt a fleeting satisfaction before they came to earth again. This time he was better prepared and his backside didn’t suffer. His thigh was giving him grief, though, and he had to resettle himself in the saddle as they sped along.
The noise was deafening. In his ears was the constant swish and whoom of the wind, but even over that there was the clamour of a cavalry charge, the squeaking and rasping of leather against leather, the clashing of metal, the ringing of chains, the dreadful, persistent roaring of the hooves. No one hoofbeat could be distinguished; all was merged in a single, continuous, mind-numbing thud that seemed to last for ever. The only thing that mattered was staying on his horse, not falling and being crushed by the men and beasts behind him. More men died in fast horse races than in murders, he had heard once, and he could easily believe it.