When I told Alan, he said we should kill her, but I was against the idea. I thought we had enough dead on our hands already, so I said I would have no part in her murder.
“He went and tried to threaten her. He wanted her to leave the area, but I think she had decided to stay as a constant reminder of our action at Acre. A living token of our guilt. She threatened to tell the Captal if anything happened to her. That was why Alan built his house up and had the castellations added. He was scared of being attacked by the Captal’s men.”
“So all she did was stay nearby? She only lived here, and that made Trevellyn go in fear of his life?”
“Yes! The Captal de Beaumont is a powerful man. If he wanted to attack us, we could hardly protect ourselves. Alan said we ought to have had her killed off years ago, it would have been easier, at least we’d have known where we stood. But it was too late after a while.
“Stephen got to hear about it somehow. He felt that she was a danger to us all. He wanted her gone, but what could we do? And then, when she was out of the way, he decided that our partnership was useless as well. He told me that Alan must be bought off. He said that Alan was a harmful partner, that he was destroying the business, that there would be nothing for Stephen to inherit if Alan remained. When I asked him what he meant, he told me to have Alan killed. At first all I could do was stare at him, and then I lashed out. That was where he got his bruise. It was after that I heard Alan had been killed.”
Just then they heard a horse approaching outside. The merchant looked up as if searching for sympathy, staring at Simon with a kind of desperate yearning, as if he was pleading for understanding.
He was surprised to hear the old woman’s dog begin to snarl and then growl and bark savagely out by the front door. There was a sudden flutter in the screens, and then they heard the front door thrown open. Almost before Simon could comprehend what was happening, Baldwin had uttered a most uncharacteristic curse and hurled himself at the door, and Edgar had followed, leaving the bailiff and the merchant sitting in astonishment.
“Don’t kill him, Bailiff. He’s a good son,” said the man softly, and then Simon’s senses recovered. Realising what was happening, he lurched to his feet and ran at full pelt.
Chapter Twenty-six
Outside, the mother was standing and staring at the disappearing figure of her son, riding fast for the road. Baldwin stood fuming, waiting for Edgar to return with his horse. When he did, there was only his own and Baldwin’s. Snatching the reins from him, Simon snarled, “Get inside! Keep the father there until we get back!” And, somewhat to his surprise, Edgar obeyed.
Whipping their mounts, they launched themselves down the road at a gallop. They had their target some hundreds of yards away and all they need do was catch him. They could see him riding over the snow-covered grass to the right of the lane, then turning north as he hit the road. Whipping their horses, they kept their speed, although every now and again the knight glanced down at the snow rushing past their horses’ hooves, wondering what would happen if they were to fall at this sort of pace. And it was likely that they would. While the snow was soft enough, he knew that a layer of ice could lie beneath its white covering, as slippery as oil on a metal breast-plate, and if they were to hit such a patch, they would be hurt.
And it was not long before he was proved correct. He felt his horse’s hindquarters slip, and felt the great creature falter as if nervous, knowing that he was losing grip.
It was only with care that he managed to stay in the saddle. When he heard the high whinny and gasp from his side, above the whistle of the wind in his ears, he knew that Simon had fallen, and turning and throwing an anxious glance behind, he saw the bailiff sitting in a drift and rubbing his head with a grimace of angry pain.
It was then that Baldwin felt the anger rising. Now this young fool had caused his friend to be hurt as well. With his jaw set and his eyes staring, he set spurs to his mount’s flanks and raced on.
They had entered the cold shade of the woods now, and Baldwin felt that the dark trunks rising on either side and flashing past looked almost like disapproving spectators. He set his teeth at the thought. Why should they approve? This was a race to the death, after all. The boy would die, whether during his flight or later, and the knight must catch him or die in the attempt, now that there was only him left.
Then the trees seemed to pull back from the track as if in dismay, and Baldwin drew in his breath. They were coming into the village. The open space by the inn came towards them, then they had flashed past, leaving two surprised men trying to calm their horses at the entrance, startled by the speed of the two riders.
Leaving the village, Baldwin became aware that his mount was beginning to tire. He could feel the breathing becoming more laboured, the steps starting to lose their rhythmic pattern, and the head was straining as it stared forward. Biting his lip, the knight frowned ahead. Could the boy escape? No, he mustn’t. He must be caught and made to pay for the murders.
The horse ahead was a blur against the white of the road, the youth a darker smudge on its back. All Baldwin could see was the snow whipped up by the hooves and the wind, flying upwards into a cloud like a trail of feathers in their wake. It was already becoming colder and the breath felt like it was freezing his lungs as he inhaled. It smoked as he breathed out, the cold damp mist being snatched away from his mouth by the wind as he rode. Every now and then he would catch a whiff of the dank breath of his horse as the grey exhalation was drawn past his nostrils, but he kept his eyes fixed now on the figure ahead: his prey.
He was aware of the light fading. The sun was gradually sinking behind the protective covering of clouds, and there was a pink and orange glow in the west, flecked with purple and blue, which he could glimpse on his left. But then they were suddenly out of the trees and into a clearing. Here the youth sensed he had an advantage, and Baldwin saw his arm rise and fall in a steady rhythm as he beat his horse’s flank. “Fool!” the knight thought. “All you’ll do is lose his concentration if you keep hitting him. Leave him be.”
But it worked, and the boy reentered the woods at the far end of the clearing with a greater advantage. It was obvious that the knight would not be able to catch him. The youth was smaller in body, his horse faster, while the knight’s mount was larger and slower. The contest was too unequal. He was about to rein in, when he saw a larger splash of snow, and then, when it settled, the horse and rider seemed to have disappeared. Uttering a quick prayer, Baldwin slowed to a canter, then a trot, and went forward hopefully to investigate.
“Get up! Get up!” he heard as he approached, and then he saw the boy. Stephen was kneeling and struggling in desperation to make the horse rise, but the horse was lying dazedly, both forelimbs outstretched, and whinnying softly, clearly in great pain. When he was close, Baldwin saw that one leg was bent at an impossible angle from the forelock. It was broken.
“Shut up, Stephen,” he said as he dropped from his saddle, and the youth rose, to stand anxiously, eyes wandering from the knight to the woods. “Don’t even think it,” Baldwin continued evenly. “If you try to run, I’ll catch you. And if you were wondering about taking my horse, don’t bother. He doesn’t like other riders. He’d throw you within yards. Sit down over there, while I see to your horse.”
While the boy stumbled to the patch of ground Baldwin had indicated, the knight studied the horse. There was nothing he could do. The leg was broken, and it was easy to see why. Riding in among the trees, the horse had been unlucky enough to put his leg into a rabbit hole hidden by the snow. There was nothing else for it. Baldwin drew his dagger and cut the horse’s throat with a single, quick slash that opened the artery. Leaping back, he could not avoid the fine spray and then thick gouts of blood that gushed. The knight was liberally spattered. It was soon over, and when the creature’s shivering death throes were done, he cleaned his knife on the horse’s flank before he stowed it away. Stephen de la Forte was still seated where he had been told, resting with his hands on the ground behind him, although now his panting had reduced. Baldwin kept an eye on him while he mounted, then cocked an eye back the way they had come. “I think it’s time we started back, don’t you?” he said affably.