‘Taillefer’s probably sheltering from the storm.’
‘Even so, he should stick to our plan. What do you think the miners did when they left here?’
‘It’s anybody’s guess. Maybe they went by boat as far as they could, if they could get anyone to take them in all this. They might even have changed their minds and decided to travel right up to Calais by barge and miss out Aquitaine altogether.’
‘Too risky, surely? River traffic moves so slowly. And barges can easily be stopped and searched.’
Hildegard nodded. That was her view as well but with no news they could only second-guess the movements of the two miners. At least they had not been arrested by Fitzjohn’s search party.
**
Just as she could not second guess the escape route the miners had chosen so neither could she second guess what Fitzjohn’s reaction would be to his loss. Rage, yes. Enough flames to light the Avignon market place bonfire from ten miles away. But what would he do?
His mission to the pope was a disastrous failure.
Woodstock’s gift, whatever its purpose, had vanished into the morning mist. Woodstock himself was not noted for his peaceful and reasonable nature. Anything but. He was known as a vile brute of a man, a bully, loaded with resentments, never willing to relinquish past slights whether real or imaginary.
And Fitzjohn would have to face him at some point. He would have a lot of explaining to do. It was difficult to see how he could talk his way out of a thorough thrashing, real and metaphorical. His lands would be confiscated. He could finish up as a beggar with a doubly broken nose.
The pope too, in expectation of some augmentation to his personal wealth - by whatever strange plan had been devised by means of such a gift - would be less than pleased at receiving nothing for his trouble.
Hildegard would not be in John Fitzjohn’s shoes at any price.
‘Keep out of his way,’ she advised Edmund.
‘It’s impossible, domina. Would that I could. I have the duties of an esquire to fulfil. But fear not, I grow in rage every day and rage makes giants of us all and giants have the strength and fortitude of ten.’
‘You cannot strike your lord without facing a grisly punishment.’
Edmund gazed steadily into her face for a moment but did not respond to her warning.
**
The rain let up at last but the river was twice as wide as usual except where it was forced like a mill race through the arches of St Benezet’s bridge. A crowd had gathered and everybody was staring down into the water.
By the time Hildegard reached the brow of the slope that led down to the half- submerged landing stage she noticed that they were pointing excitedly at something below the parapet and one or two men were beginning to scramble down the bank. Even from a distance she could make out the familiar faces of palace servants, a handful of retainers in the colours of Thomas Woodstock, several friars and a nun or two. Three burly servants from the kitchens were just now walking up onto the bridge to join the group further along and were obviously expected. They carried grappling hooks.
The onlookers stepped aside to let them have a look into the water and a discussion ensued.
With her morning walk interrupted Hildegard changed direction and started towards the crowd that was gathering.
As she drew near the onlookers were clustering against the parapet, staring down into the water. Several started to shout instructions to somebody below. She went up onto the bridge past the sentry but, unable to get much closer because of the press of onlookers, leaned over where she was to see what they were staring at.
Further along, near the bank, a mound of debris had become jammed between one of the arches. Made up of broken saplings, torn out by the flood waters, a tangle of branches, a log or two, and other flotsam from upstream it formed a temporary dam and with the water surging against it more debris was being piled up as they watched.
The river was runnning in spate in the deep channels between the many arches in mid river but closer to the bank the current was weaker and was unable to dislodge the fragile platform of flotsam that had become stuck. What everybody was pointing at was what looked like a heap of old clothes on this log-jam. They were half hidden by the rubbish that was continually being dragged along and cast onto it by the current.
A man she recognised as the ferryman was standing on the bank under the first arch of the bridge with a line attached to his boat. He was trying to drag it closer to the dam, pulling hard against the force of the current, the craft straining against the water as the river threw its full force against it. His muscles bulged as he pitted his strength on holding the line so as not to lose it altogether. The river made a din like a herd of bolting horses, above it his shouts to the men standing on the bridge were intensified by the echo underneath the stone arch. She watched him haul on the line without result. It looked as if he was trying to drag the boat close enough to the bank to use it as a bridge so he could step across to the log-jam. But it was held fast in the grip of the current.
Hildegard turned her attention to the thing that was lying on the raft of flotsam, the aim of his efforts and with a jolt she realised that what looked like a pile of rags was, in fact, a body lying askew among the wreckage.
She glimpsed a hand as it rose, lifted by the waves. It looked like a sign of life. Next minute she saw that it was just the surge of water causing an involuntary movement as the waves bubbled under the raft. Eventually she managed to make out the edge of a cloak, ballooning in the swirl of the current. It was definitely someone lying there, no doubt of that.
The ferryman was still straining on the line. He glanced up at the people on the bridge then shouted for one or two men to help him. ‘More beef!’ he yelled above the roar of the river. ‘I can’t hold her!’
Several men, already sliding down the muddy bank, rushed to grab the line. The ones with the grappling hooks slithered after them. Some of those leaning over the parapet ran back along the bridge as well and began to scramble down to add their own strength to the task.
‘That line’ll break if he’s not careful,’ somebody murmured next to Hildegard.
‘Gently does it!’ his companion muttered as the added muscle slowly began to haul the boat closer.
Little by little the men managed to draw it into a position such that it was broadside on to the river with the tail end of the line looped through a metal ring on the path and thrown to somebody standing on the bridge. They managed to steady it enough to enable a couple of volunteers to climb across to the raft where the body lay. The force of the current was forcing a continual overfall of white water to lick at the twisted debris and the men were soaked to the waists by the time they managed to risk their weight on it and jump across. All eyes were fixed on them as they tried to disentangle the body from the net of branches that held it.
‘Drowned,’ a fellow standing next to Hildegard exclaimed. ‘Must’ve fell in upstream. What do you make of that?’
‘Poor sod.’ His companion crossed himself.
A palace official stood at the top of the bank, discussing the matter with the people standing nearest. The men were still struggling with the lines and one of them, balancing on the swaying raft, was already in water up to his knees as the log jam began to break up under his weight. There were shouts from the bridge to save himself but he ignored them and began to reach out towards the body. Everybody saw him grasp hold of a bundle of fabric and begin to drag it towards the boat. Somehow, with the help of willing hands, he managed to lift the body into the boat.