'He was murdered in Tyre by two fanatics, dressed as Christian monks. Both of them were killed,' countered de Blois.
There were three, for I was waiting near by, in case the others failed. And in France this year, four more of your Frankish knights who were at Damascus — and two of their sons — died on our knives, like the rats they were!'
He gestured towards Abdul and Malik, but they stood impassively, unable to understand a word of what was going on.
'You cannot know that my father or le Calve or that Templar were involved in your tragedy in Damascus,' blustered Richard de Revelle, desperately.
'For years, our sect has sought information on who was present in that evil enterprise,' shouted Nizam. 'Gradually facts emerged, both in Palestine and in France. Those men were known to have been at the assault on Damascus and that is sufficient for us! They must die, and if death has already claimed them, then their sons and daughters must die, just as my father's sons and daughters died! After we have dealt with you, there are three more in your other counties who must be brought to account.'
Spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolled wildly as a fanatical ecstasy possessed him. 'You can never return to your homeland — or even to France — without my help!' shouted Raymond. 'You are trapped here!'
The Arab gave an almost hysterical laugh. 'Escape! What care we about escape? We are dedicated to our task and will die joyfully at its end and pass into paradise! It is only because there were so many other rats to exterminate that we have not died with our victims, as is the usual way with our sect.'
His mood suddenly changed and he swung round to call out to his servants in his native tongue. Abdul dropped his end of the neck cord and vanished into the next hut, reappearing with a great armful of hay, which was stored there as fodder for the horses. He threw this into the dining shack, strewing it about as tinder. Then he came out again, holding a burning pitch brand which he had lit at the cooking fire. He held this high, the light of the yellow flame dancing over the desperate group, adding a macabre glow to the last remaining light of the dying day.
It was this light which finally guided de Wolfe to the old castle. After leaving the wounded Fleming to stumble with the villager back towards Bigbury, John, Gwyn and the smith, with Thomas trailing behind, tramped onward, trying to steer in the direction that Jan had indicated to the best of his ability. The light was fading fast, but there was enough to see the trail of crushed weeds and ferns, though where the trees were thicker there was more bare soil than undergrowth.
Every few minutes, John would raise a hand for them to stop and they would listen intently for any sound of voices, but all was silence, save for a few birds squabbling over a perch for the night.
After some twenty minutes, the coroner began to feel desperate. Both Matilda and Hilda were out there somewhere, but unless they could find this place that the dumb fellow had mimed, they might as well be back in Exeter.
'Shall we split up, Crowner?' suggested Gwyn in a low voice. 'Then we could cover a wider area than if we stick in a bunch like this.'
De Wolfe shook his head. 'If we get separated this near to dusk, we'll never find each other again, without a lot of shouting, which will give us away. Give it a few more minutes, walking straight ahead.'
The trail of bruised weeds had now petered out — or was invisible in the failing light — but the movement of clouds glimpsed dimly through the half-bare tree-tops gave them some idea of direction. At least they could prevent themselves from walking in circles.
A few minutes later, John was beginning to reconsider Gwyn's idea of splitting up when Thomas hissed a warning. His younger eyes had caught something away to the right.
'I saw a flicker, Crowner! A yellow light, very faint.' They all stopped to stare where his finger was pointing. 'There it is again!'
This time the others glimpsed a moving flare through the trees.
'Must be a pitch brand,' growled Gwyn. 'Someone is waving it around.'
With John in the lead, they carefully crept forward, agonising when a foot snapped a dried twig. Two hundred paces brought them to the remains of a tumbled stone wall, heavily overgrown with ivy and other weeds. Now the flicker of the torch was easily visible, reflected from trees on the other side of a large clearing. They peered cautiously over the wall and in the last light of the day, augmented by the dancing flame of the burning pitch brand, a macabre scene met their eyes.
Before some half-ruined huts, a pair of large, scruffy men stood, one with a staff, the other holding a mace. Near them, a Saracen in a voluminous belted robe held a flaming torch above his head, while another stood clutching a cross-bow, the string of which was cranked back ready to fire. But the centrepiece was the line of captives, two men lashed together by a rope joining their necks — and two women, tied at the waist.
In front of them was a thickset Saracen, with a green head cloth, holding high a wide, curved dagger, like a priest using a cross to exorcise demons. His voice came clearly across the narrow castle yard.
'This was my father's knife! He gave it to me as he was dying and made me swear to avenge him and our family. It has never left me. I have slain a score of unbelievers with it, both for Sinan and myself!'
De Wolfe's brain had been paralysed for a few seconds by the shock of what he was witnessing, but now a deep rumble of pure anger rolled in his chest and he started to rise above the tattered wall, his hand already drawing his sword.
Gwyn urgently dragged him down, clutching the sleeve of his tunic.
'Not yet, Crowner! For Christ's sake, wait!' he hissed. 'They could knife your wife and Hilda before you could get halfway across the bailey. And that cross-bow could kill you, too.'
Even as he spoke, however, Gwyn was drawing his own sword.
'We must do something!' whispered John, desperately. 'Distract them somehow.'
'There are five of them to our three — and all we have are two swords and a blacksmith's hammer. That crossbow is the problem.'
Frustrated beyond measure, they waited and watched the drama below. Nizam screamed some orders to his henchmen and the one with the cross-bow leaned into the hut and dragged out Alexander of Leith. He was pushed aside and the leader raised a finger, pointing at the alchemist.
'You I am sparing! Get yourself gone and thank your God, if you have one, that I am merciful to those who played no part in shameful events!'
The little Scotsman, whose appearance was another surprise to the watchers hidden behind the wall, sidled off and then ran on his short legs towards the track that led out of the bailey. He vanished from the view of the Saracens, but from his vantage point the coroner could see that he had hidden in the undergrowth where he could observe what was going on near the huts.
'Who the hell is that?' muttered Gwyn into de Wolfe's ear.
'God knows! And who is that tall fellow roped to de Revelle?'
There was no time for an answer, as events began to move fast. Nizam rattled off more instructions to his men, who closed in on the captives. He gesticulated at the two Saxons, who were now looking more than a little anxious, but they started to pull the captives towards the door of the hut.
Richard de Revelle struggled to get nearer his sister, bellowing a mixture of prayers, obscenities and supplication, but a prod with the tip of Ulf's mace kept him moving. Then Hilda decided to come to a dead stop and refused to move, even though she was being hauled by the rope around her waist. Matilda cannoned into the back of her and then sank to her knees, sobbing on the ground.