Thankfully the sack had been passed over without incident, and John could stand out in the yard in the darkened shadow of a tree while it was hauled inside and stored. After a few whispered words, John had turned and set off home again, and it was then that he had heard that awful whistle.
While the owl had set his heart thudding with sudden fear, the whistle had made that organ attempt the opposite feat. He had uttered a shocked gasp, his head filled with every combination of ghoul, ghost, fairy, goblin and devilish story he had ever heard. Then they were superseded by the memory of the soldiers billeted at Coffyn’s house, and he took to his heels.
It was fortunate that he could remember the way back to his wall, especially as his path took him by the most circuitous route he could devise. Scorning the direct way, he had rushed toward the road, doubled back through some trees, squirmed his way under a thicket, cut his hands on brambles in the process, shoved himself between the bars at the window of the stables, making soothing noises to the intrigued horses within, and scuttled forth from the darkest opening at the furthest corner from the house, only to wait, desperately scanning the ground ahead for pursuers, before making his painstaking way back to his tree and safety.
He watched carefully, his eyes screwed to mere slits as he tried to observe the faintest hint of movement, but could see nothing, and at last he was satisfied. Stepping with a high gait, testing the ground before trusting his weight on it, he made his infinitely slow and cautious progress to the wall. His rope was quickly off his shoulder, and he took one last glance behind him. He had no wish to be snared as he had been the last time. Then he threw. It caught, he yanked twice, it held, and he scrambled up. On the wall, he unhooked it, and let himself fall at the other side, giving a sigh of relief.
Coiling the rope, he glanced up. The sky was filling quickly with fresh clouds, and he stared a moment in appreciation. Going to the stable door, he tossed the rope over its nail, patted the mare, and made his way to the house. After the excitement of the evening, he felt the need of a good two quarts of ale. Thrusting the door wide, he went to the little fire and kicked the embers together, throwing a handful of tinder on top, and setting a log over all, then crouched to blow it into life.
“So, Irishman, you feel the cold?”
He froze. “You wouldn’t hit a man on the ground, would you, sir?”
His answer was a blow on the side of his skull that felled him. He grunted, while the pain exploded, both in his head and at the top of his neck. It was as if he had fallen from a height and crunched the bones. It was agonizing, and he was so stunned he couldn’t shout or scream, but could only lie dully, unable to reach up and feel the wound.
He could see the second blow approach. It was a club, he noted, and he saw the heavy wood rise slowly, hesitate, and then sweep down.
“No, please-”
It struck, and his last conscious thought as the cudgel met his skull was how strange it was that he couldn’t hear it strike. But then the pain returned, and overwhelmed him. He was unaware of the hand gripping his leg, lifting it gently, while the club swooped down to shatter John’s knee. 17
E dgar winced at the sight of the fire in the hall. There was not enough dried timber to make a flame. It had burned through in the night, and no one had tended it yet this morning. He could fetch Wat, indeed he should kick the lazy devil from his palliasse in the kitchen, but when he glanced in, he guessed that waking the lad wouldn’t help much.
Instead, he marched to the logpile. Dropping an armful carelessly on the floor, he fetched the sack of kindling. Soon he was kneeling, flint and his dagger scritching and clattering together as he tried to bring a spark to the tinder. Blowing, he managed to produce a tiny whisp of smoke, and fed it with dried leaves and grasses before adding small twigs left over from the clearances of the previous summer. Each year as trees were felled for firewood or coppiced for fencing, furniture and charcoal, the smaller, useless branches were saved for this function.
When he had produced a healthy flame, and had set two logs side-by-side over it, he settled back on his heels to watch it suspiciously for a while.
“You could have been quieter, if you’d wanted.”
Edgar grinned at Hugh’s sullen tone. “True!”
Hugh was lying on a heavy bench, like two or three other guests of Baldwin’s from the night before, and he groaned to himself as he hauled himself upright to rest on an elbow, scowling at Edgar. He grabbed at his rough blanket before it could slip off. “Where’s Wat? I thought he had to make up the fire.”
“Someone got him drunk last night. I think he’ll be late to rise today.”
Hugh chuckled quietly. “He seemed to enjoy his beer.”
“You shouldn’t have kept feeding him that strong ale, though. He doesn’t know how much he can take.”
“It happened to us all when we were young. I thought he coped well.”
“Until he got outside,” Edgar agreed. As soon as the wobbling boy had got to the back door and taken in his first deep breath of cool night air, he had hiccuped once, then started walking up and down the yard with increasing speed. Edgar and another had gone to watch and make sure he was safe, for it was all too common for a youngster to fall asleep and drown in his own vomit, but Wat had seemed fine-except he had refused to acknowledge any of the pleasantries hurled in his direction. And then he had been sick. Edgar had been quite surprised at the volume emanating from such a slight figure.
Wat had been carried to the trough and forced to swill his mouth and wash before being sent off to his bed. There was a maid who usually slept by the fire in the kitchen, and she took it upon herself to watch over him for the night.
“He’ll have to clear up all his puke before anything else,” Edgar noted. “But he slept all right. He looks very pale, though. I thought it would be kinder to him to let him rest a little longer. Anyway, he looked as though he was liable to throw up again when I looked in on him just now. I didn’t fancy getting him to try to blow the fire into light, not if he was going to spew all over it.”
“I suppose we’d better wake our masters,” Hugh grunted, stretching luxuriously. He set his feet on the ground, then winced at the pain in his head.
Cocking an eyebrow at him, Edgar grinned. “Wat wasn’t the only one had too much last night.”
He set the pan, ready filled with water, over the flames, and wandered through to the solar where Baldwin lay sleeping. Opening the door quietly, he was welcomed by a low grumbling. When he clicked his tongue, the noise stopped and the tawny dog padded over the floor on his massive paws, his tail wagging berserkly. It caught at the top of a chest as he passed, and swept a dagger, Baldwin’s purse, and a goblet clattering onto the floor.
“Christ’s Blood!”
“Good morning, Sir Baldwin,” said Edgar suavely. “I am glad Chops managed to waken you so quickly.”