‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘scores of bandits, scoundrels by the dozen. I don’t know why Duke Leopold does not scour them from the land, the way they trouble God-fearing folk, devout pilgrims such as yourselves. We are famous hereabouts for our wine, our sausages, our women — and our bandits. Ha ha!’
Robertsbridge and Boxley, who were standing side by side, both smiled encouragingly at him and each took a small sip of wine at the same time.
‘Forgive me for asking’ — the German abbot peered closely at his two fellow prelates — ‘are you brothers, by any chance? Perhaps twins?’
‘We are all brothers in the sight of our Lord Jesus Christ,’ said Boxley with a pious smile. ‘But, no, we are not from the same earthly family.’
‘Ah, yes, I see, brothers in Christ — of course we are, of course we are.’
It seemed that we had confused the good man again.
While Boxley and Robertsbridge were given a fine chamber to share for the night, Hanno and I were told rather brusquely that we should make our beds in the stable. And that suited my plans very well.
The monastery was laid out in the shape of a hollow square around a big grassy court, with the big church at its eastern end. The stable stood at the western end of the square against the outer wall of the monastery, a long, warm building with a red-tiled roof and bays for a dozen animals. It was filled with the familiar homely smells of horse sweat and hay and oiled leather and, had I intended to sleep there, it would have made a very comfortable place to rest my head.
Instead, after we had eaten in the refectory with the canons and the other pilgrims and attended the service of Compline in the big abbey church, Hanno and I crossed the grassy court and, bidding a courteous goodnight to several white-robed canons that we passed, we retired to the stable. We pulled shut the wooden door and, checking that we were alone apart from half a dozen horses and the awkward old mule, began to examine the inside of the building by the light of a single candle stub. Hanno soon found the patch of damp straw on the ground at the far end of the stable that we were looking for, and staring up into the dim rafters above his head he noted that one or two tiles were missing from the roof, which had allowed rain water to leak in and wet the straw. He muttered ‘Perfect!’ and began to look for a way to climb the rear wall. Soon Hanno was balanced precariously on a manger, which was affixed to the stable wall at about shoulder height, while he worked to widen the hole in the roof, shoving the loose tiles aside and cursing at the loud scraping noise that they made in the quiet night.
I, meanwhile, was making my own arrangements for the mission ahead. I dressed myself in dark clothes — two tunics for the night was chilly — warm hose, stout boots and a dark cloak and hood, and smeared a mixture of candle soot and goose fat over my face and hands. It reminded me of my preparations for the attack on Kirkton: could that have been only six months ago? It seemed like a lifetime. Though I hoped that I would not have to murder anyone tonight, I made sure that the misericorde was snug in my boot — and murmured a quick prayer to St Michael, too.
Hanno had wanted to come with me on my nocturnal jaunt, but I had said no. He might have been useful, for he was a master of silent movement at night, but I felt that what I wanted to accomplish would be better done by me alone. I did not want to worry about him, or for him to worry about me, if we became separated in the darkness. And, more importantly, I needed someone to remain behind to make some excuse for my absence if one of the monks should come into the stable or if Abbot Joachim should for some strange reason summon us. In truth, I also wanted to be alone for a while. After being cooped up on board the sailing barge for a couple of weeks, the prospect of being alone in the cool purity of the night, dependent on no one, responsible for no one but myself, held a great if unusual appeal for me.
And, I confess, I was also feeling that familiar pleasurable buzzing sensation of impending action: a tightness in my stomach and a heightened glow behind my eyes. I clasped Hanno’s hand warmly before he boosted me up, then, putting one foot on the manger, I cautiously popped my head through the gap in the roof that my Bavarian friend had opened. The rising peaked roof made it impossible to see anything inside the monastery, but I listened intently until I was satisfied that the whole community was asleep. Finally I levered myself up and out until I was lying face down on the sloping tiles beside the hole and, peering into the dark interior, I whispered ‘Hanno!’ into the space below. The shaven-headed huntsman was only just visible as a darker mass in the gloom, but I could make out enough of him by the moonlight to grasp the bulky bundle that he handed up to me. It was a large sack, with two long loops of padded cloth spaced shoulder width apart that enabled it to be slung from the back. Hanno told me that in southern Bavaria the mountain men used to wear these things when they had to carry heavy loads up and down the steep hillsides of the Alps there. Reaching into this ‘back-sack’, as they are known by the Bavarians, I pulled out a coil of rope in which Hanno had carefully tied fat knots every foot and, loosening one end, tied it securely to one of the beams inside the stable roof. The rest of the coil I tossed over the outer wall of the canonry. To the sound of a barely whispered ‘Go with God!’ from my friend below, I began, very carefully and quietly, to climb down the rope, the back-sack looped over my shoulders, my muscles creaking under the strain of my weight, walking carefully down the ten-foot wall to the ground below.
All was quiet as I found myself standing in a muddy patch of tilled earth, some sort of vegetable garden from the look of it. Leaving the knotted rope hanging against the outer wall, I set out to the south, following the wall until I came to the corner of the monastery, and then sprinting fifty yards or so into the cover of a copse that ran east-west to the south of Tuckelhausen. As my panting breath subsided, I took stock of my situation: the rain had stopped but the sky was still filled with scudding clouds and a three-quarter moon, which provided ample light to navigate by. Too much light, if the truth be told; I had hoped for a little more cloud cover, as I did not want to be too easy to spot as I went about my business.
It was perhaps an hour or so before midnight, I judged, as I adjusted the straps on my back-sack to allow it to sit more comfortably. Checking once again that the misericorde was still in my boot, I pulled the hood on my cloak far forward and began to march eastward, towards Ochsenfurt; towards the heavily fortified town in which my King was being held prisoner.
Chapter Nine
It took me no more than an hour to cross the three miles of farmland from Tuckelhausen to the high walls of Ochsenfurt. I stayed under the cover of woods and spinneys wherever possible, or walked along the lines of hedgerows or fences to minimize the silhouette that a walking man might make on a bright, moon-filled night. At about midnight, I found myself crouched at the foot of a tree in a scrubby stand of alders, not far from the River Main, chewing on a stick of dried meat that Hanno had thoughtfully placed in the back-sack for me, and looking over at the defences of the north-western corner of Ochsenfurt, which were no more than thirty yards away.
The town was protected by a deep ditch, about three-quarters filled with rainwater, which lay in front of a thick stone wall, some twenty foot in height. At this corner of the western and northern walls, as at every other corner of this square town, was a high, round tower with arrow slits at different heights on three sides. I imagined the arrow slits coming off a spiral stone staircase running around the inside of the tower and leading to a secure room at the top. I was fairly certain that King Richard must be imprisoned in one of these towers. There was one chance in four that I was now looking at the very prison that held my King.