Bibbo winced.
‘What?’ I asked.
John Hughes sucked in his cheeks and spat. ‘There’s a watch post to cover the rear of the one you heroes just stalked,’ he said. ‘It’s empty or we’d all be dead.’
We walked up the hill and looked at it. It had a hut, a pair of watch posts with woven branches and screens of brush, a firepit and the corpses of a young girl and a young boy.
‘Christ,’ Bibbo said. ‘I missed all this?’ He shook his head.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ John said. The corpses spooked him more than our poor scouting.
I followed some tracks outside and came to another clearing, this one with hoof prints.
I shook my head. I went back and put my hand on the ashes of the firepit.
‘They were just here.’ I scratched under my chin in thought, and Jesus my saviour vanished. ‘They’ve gone for the convoy, with every man they have,’ I said.
Bibbo nodded. ‘That’s it,’ he agreed.
‘Let’s ride,’ I said.
Hughes paused. ‘Give me two Ave Marias,’ he said, and disappeared into the woods.
I knew he was gone to fire the huts and the corpses. I was tempted to stop him, because it would warn the Bourc, but I also realized that if the Bourc turned back from his attack on the convoy, Richard would be safe.
We made the gate of our town alive and untouched, and I got to the inn to find that Richard had marched.
I got a nag for a riding horse, to spare my war horse, such as he was, the brute. Sam and John followed me as we rode at day’s end with three horses apiece, searching east along the valley for the convoy and our friends.
Perkin was at the inn. He said that Richard had gathered almost sixty men — thirty lances, almost two dozen Gascon spearmen, and a pair of English archers who belonged to Sir Robert Knolles but didn’t have anything better to do. Sixty men should have been easy to find.
We rode hard until the moon set, and then made a cold camp. A camp on the edge of November in the Auxerre highlands is cold indeed. No fire, no warmth except your horse. And it is brutal on horses, even horses like ours. We drank wine and rubbed our steeds down — even the nags.
An hour after the last horse was picketed, there was a noise. We jumped up to the maddened chaos of our horses and saw wolves. They were gone before we could kill one.
Sam shook his head. ‘I’m going to watch,’ he said. ‘I ain’t sleeping anyway.’
John and I pressed as close as we could. I slept for an hour, I think.
Sam woke us. He dismounted and gave his horse to Perkin, who had disobeyed me and started a very small fire and heated wine. God praise such a man.
Sam pulled the saddle off his poor hack. He set it on the ground, threw his three-quarter cloak over it and sat back with a groan.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘The Bourc’s men are out there. I spotted them down by the river — black and white banners.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s one device I know in the dark, eh? I’m guessing he’s going to stop the convoy and charge them a toll.’
‘Any idea where?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But John needs to get going and keep an eye on Camus.’ He nodded at Perkin, who handed him a beaker of hot wine. ‘Benidictee, lad. Master Gold, this is my last fight. I mean to do my part, but when we divide the spoil, I’m done.’
What could I say?
Sam Bibbo was a more famous man than me. He’d been at all the fights. He’d been down and up — famous, a criminal, a royal archer. He didn’t need to follow the likes of me, but his presence meant that other men took me seriously.
‘I’ll miss you, Sam,’ I said.
He nodded, looking into the fire. ‘John Hughes will stay, won’t you, lad?’ he asked.
Hughes, already rolling his cloak on his saddle, grunted.
‘He likes the life,’ Sam said.
‘Bollocks to you, Sam Bibbo,’ Hughes called softly.
Bibbo ignored him. ‘My bones hurt every morn, and my back — by the saviour, Will, I’d rather spend a night in the saddle than a night lying out on the ground.’ He looked at me. ‘And the Bourc — when men like that come to the fore, it’s bad. I served with Chandos and the Prince. Remember the man you killed in the tavern? He liked to hurt people. I should never have fallen in with him, either.’
I nodded, the way young men do when older men talk about pain. It’s the same way boys nod when men talk about sex. I had no idea what pains he meant.
Of course, now I do, eh?
But I was cut by his words. ‘Are you comparing me to the Bourc?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I was glad you helped yon priest,’ he said. ‘You’re ten times the man the Bourc is. But will you be in ten years of this?’
We rose while there was still mist in the streambeds and we rode hard. John was gone before first light, off to watch the Bourc’s banners, and Sam, Perkin and I rode north and west, looking to find Richard.
But the Black Squire had moved at first light, too.
Bibbo sat on his horse, looking at the tramped ground and drowned fire, and cursed. ‘I should ha’ just ridden in and told him.’ He shook his head. ‘But, Plague take me, I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want a spear in my gizzard in the dark.’
‘Nothing for it,’ I said, and changed horses. So did Sam and Perkin.
We rode into the fog.
An hour after the fog began to lighten, we heard movement — quite a lot of movement. The brilliant fog was so thick that we couldn’t see much beyond our horse’s noses, and dripping wet. I reined in, and Sam rode forward.
He came back and shook his head. ‘Unbelievable they’ve made it as far as they have,’ he said. ‘There’s gold tack on some of the mules. It’s two fucking cardinals. Twenty men-at-arms. He shook his head.
‘The three of us aren’t likely to take them. We need to find Richard,’ I said. My nerves were getting to me. The fog, the Bourc, the church convoy.
I could see the disaster coming. Even Sam’s determination to leave.
I dismounted from my horse in the dripping fog, knelt on the wet grass and prayed.
And then I rose and took three deep breaths. In my head, just as I could see, however dimly, the virgin Mary, so I could see the lay of this valley, with its broad flats at the base, its sharp angle halfway to the town of Guye, and the road along the flat. I could see the hedges along the heights, and the stone walls that crisscrossed the ruined fields.
If it was me, I’d hit the column where the Bourc was. At the narrowing of the flats.
If I was Richard, I’d be on the other side of the ridge, waiting for the fog to clear so that my Gascons and archers would be effective.
Bless Fra Peter. Looking at things inside my head is a habit I received from him, for good or ill.
‘I believe that the Black squire is on the other side of the ridge, above the fog, shadowing the convoy,’ I said.
Bibbo nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Yes!’ he added with a little more excitement. ‘I see sense in that. We ha’n’t crossed their tracks — that much I’d swear to.’
‘On me,’ I said, and mounted with an effort. My hips didn’t love a night on cold ground, even at the age of nineteen.
We rode carefully. The fog carried noise oddly — snatches of Avignon gossip, the shrill voice of a man who clearly thought himself in charge, an angry imprecation and a squeaky wagon wheel.
Then, as suddenly as the parting of a curtain, we rode clear of the fog. We moved as swiftly up the ridge as we could. Sam was ahead of me — he came to a gap in the hedge and stopped.
So did my heart.
Then he waved, and a broad smile crossed his face.
And in fifty paces, I was with Richard. He grinned and pounded my armoured back.
‘They’re right below us!’ he said. ‘What?’
‘The Bourc is just to the south, at the Narrows,’ I said. ‘With half a hundred men, or more.’