Sir Geoffrey lifted his sword high over his head and brought it down on Robert’s head.
Nicholas le Poter ached all over. Sitting here at the side of the altar, his backside was sore, his arms had a loose, heavy sensation as though they were slowly being pulled from their sockets, and his neck was a mass of tense, corded muscles that felt as though they were going to snap at any time from the terrible weight of his head. On top of that, his back still seemed to be on fire, and now he had a headache from his dismal thoughts.
He hadn’t dared sleep. Not even here, not while the priest was here to protect him. No, he couldn’t, it was too dangerous. While Sir Geoffrey’s men were after him, he could be cut down or dragged from this place at any time. He had no false illusions about their abilities.
The first thing Matthew had done was take away his dagger. ‘I’ll not have you causing bloodshed in here,’ he had said.
‘What if they come to kill me?’
‘It’s a risk you’ll have to take. But you will not remain here with that knife about you.’
At least with the guards from Sir Odo’s here he was probably safe. They were all rough, powerful men. Plainly Sir Odo had himself thought that he was in danger and wanted to protect him — if only to irritate Sir Geoffrey.
Last night he had nodded for a few moments at a time, but never long enough to become refreshed. He was dog-tired now, like a man who’d been training for too long in one session. Before, when he’d felt like this, he’d been able to take a hot bath, but there was nowhere for him to go if he wanted to be safe. If he was found outside this place, he’d be killed in a moment.
He could abjure: tell the coroner that he would swear to leave the realm by whatever route the coroner dictated, and then head for the sea to find a ship to take him away. All his property was forfeit, of course, but at least he would live. The only alternative was to remain here until his time ran out and the coroner could legally remove him to be held ready for the justices of gaol delivery. And then he’d be hanged. There was little doubt of that.
There were some he could count on, perhaps. Some of the men in Sir Geoffrey’s camp were his mates. They wouldn’t want to see one of their own get topped just because of politics. Sweet Jesus, even if he had killed the girl, there was no need for him to be thrown to the likes of Sir Edward. And most of Sir Geoffrey’s men must realise that Sir Geoffrey was the man who’d done it. Not him; not Nicholas. If Sir Geoffrey could throw him to the wolves, who would be next?
No, there were some who would help him, like Adcock. Adcock had helped him up, had sent him on his way when Sir Geoffrey had told him he was going to be killed. There were others there like Adcock. They had told him that they’d support him if he tried to oust Sir Geoffrey, after all. Their loyalty must be worth something …
With a terrifying vision of the truth, he felt his bones freeze. His teeth chattered together, and his left arm gave a nervous twitch that made the cross shake.
Not one of them had done anything more than give him verbal support. Any of them could deny speaking to him. To cover their arses, they’d all act like his chief prosecutors, just to make sure that they were safe themselves.
He was so torn between rage and the sense of deep frustration that he had failed utterly at all he had attempted, that he felt he must burst. And then he felt the sobs welling up with the tears, and he abandoned himself to the numbing terror. He had no idea what he should do, to whom he could turn, or where he might run to. All he could think of was the marginal safety of this church, and the fact of the altar cloth in his hands. They were real, they were substantial. With the tears falling from his cheeks, he bent to the cloth to sniff it, and took in the clean odour of the fresh air from when it had been left to hang in the open to dry. It smelled like freedom to him, sitting uncomfortably there on the cold church floor.
A freedom he might never know again. He screwed the thin material in his hands with his returning grief, and to his horror heard a slight ripping sound. There was a moment of agonised suspense, and then he looked at the cloth.
He had torn it. He felt as though he had savaged his hopes of safety.
Baldwin rode into Fishleigh’s court with Simon and Edgar at either side.
The place was rather like a castle without the curtain wall. Set on top of a good-sized hillock, it had a ditch dug round it to make attack more difficult, and the entrance was reached by a small drawbridge. Once over it they were in among the bustle of the great house.
Servants were everywhere, fetching and carrying stores from one outer building to a large undercroft beneath what Baldwin took to be the great hall. A number of men-at-arms were present, all of them apparently set upon readying their weapons. Rasping could be heard from all sides as blades were whetted and honed, axes had their heads run over the great stones, and bills were taken from their short hedging handles and thrust upon long staves so that they could be used to slash at horses or their riders.
‘This is an encampment readying itself for war,’ Simon breathed.
‘I fear so,’ Baldwin said. He glanced about him with some anxiety. ‘I can see no sign of the master. Where is Sir Odo?’ he asked a man nearby.
A boy was sent scurrying to the stables, and after a few minutes the genial figure of Sir Odo was hobbling towards them, his scarred face twisted into a grin.
‘Sir Keeper, and Bailiff Simon as well? We are glad to see you, gentles. Would you take some wine with me?’
Once in the hall with him, Baldwin was able to tell him what they had learned up on the moor.
‘So you think that one of my men could have had something to do with this?’
‘We know that a man called Walter was up there with Ailward. A witness says he saw what looked like blood on the ground near the two, and later the same day when he went up there, he found Ailward’s body. This man Walter may know something of what was happening. It may be that there was a strip of red cloth on the ground, nothing more than that. But if it was the woman from Meeth …’
‘I quite understand. I shall have him called to me here and you shall question him.’
‘So you are his master?’
‘Yes.’
Baldwin walked towards the door and peered out at the compound. ‘You are expecting Sir Geoffrey to attack you and your lands?’
‘He knows he has to. If he wants to iron out matters with his lord, he’ll have to mollify the man somehow. One way to do that would be to take some extra lands. From anyone.’
‘The land on which his manor stands once belonged to Ailward’s family?’ Baldwin asked, returning to the seat where a cup of wine waited for him.
‘That’s right. Until Ailward’s grandfather died, his was a moderately wealthy family. The Irish campaign put paid to that — and then his father’s headstrong rush to join Mortimer again … he was killed up in the north, you know?’
‘We had heard. Some skirmish at Bridgnorth.’
‘That is right. A great waste. He was a good man.’ Sir Odo shook his head reflectively. ‘You know, I think that Ailward could have made a good, competent squire. He had the physique for it. Strong torso, heavily built, with good arms and legs. He could ride like a knight, and had the grace with a lance to charm a princess.’
‘His wife is a lovely woman,’ Simon commented.
‘Yes. He liked the better things in life. He was very badly affected by the loss of his manor. Very morose and dejected … and then to be forced to become a menial … it was a hard fate for a man who had hoped for so much.’
Simon said, ‘Did he resent you too?’
‘Why would he do that?’ Odo asked with frank surprise.
‘Because you had a part of his inheritance.’
Sir Odo laughed. ‘On the contrary, that was all he was able to salvage. I made an arrangement with Sir Geoffrey that we would share that part of the manor. It is fruitful, that area within the river, and half the money went to Ailward. I kept nothing. But Geoffrey thought that we were sharing the profits.’