‘What of Hamelin?’
‘I know nothing about his death.’
‘Even though you hated him?’ Baldwin pressed him.
‘I didn’t hate him, as you put it. He was an embarrassment, a reminder of the sinful life I once led, but that was all.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Art looked out from the cart’s back as it rattled and thumped over the moors.
‘Are you all right, boy?’ Rudolf asked.
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Don’t call me that, boy. We’re all freemen here. None of us is owned by a master. That was what we Swiss fought for at Morgarten. Now you are with us, you are safe.’
Art heard his words, but they were so momentous that he found it hard to believe Rudolf. ‘I can work my way, sir.’
He saw the flash of teeth, but there was no answer. Art was partly terrified of this calm, tanned foreigner, but he was also filled with admiration. The man seemed so confident and assured. So too was Joce, Art thought, but Joce was cruel, often for the sake of it, while this Rudolf with his funny accent and voice had shown no desire to beat him yet.
The man who had caught him brought him straight to this Rudolf, who questioned him carefully, but plainly decided that there was no harm in him, and passed Art to his woman, who undressed him and gave him a fresh, clean, overlarge tunic and gown while his own clothes were taken away and beaten in the waters of a stream. While the clothes were being dealt with, a youth gave him a big wooden bowl filled with large pieces of meat in a rich, peppery gravy. Art devoured it with gusto, running his fingers around the bowl to collect the last vestiges.
Then the Bailiff and the others arrived. Art cowered in terror, thinking that they had come to take him back, for all knew how powerful Joce was, but Anna had passed him in among the women with their children, pushing him down until he squatted, invisible, in their midst.
It was a miracle that he had not been found, but then he could hear most of the conversation, and it was plain that they weren’t after him as he feared, but instead were still trying to learn what had happened when Wally died. It almost made him want to cry out in relief.
He was safe, he thought. Joce would find another young servant boy to abuse and beat, and Art would take up his new life as a sailor. Soon, very soon, he must make his fortune. All sailors did, he understood. As he was considering the advantages of this, he heard a muttered curse from Rudolf, and looking back the way they had come, he saw the distant figure of a man walking quickly towards them.
For some reason a feeling of awe and hatred welled up in his breast, although he had no idea at this distance whom this walking man might be. There was just something, in his gait, or the set of his head, or simply the aggressive stance in which he stalked forwards, as though he was attacking the roadway in order to subjugate it, that gave his identity away.
‘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, emphasising 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.