Distant hoofbeats approached the house. Nobody moved until the horse came to a halt outside the front door. The leader then broke the circle by stepping out of it. A long, graceful stride took him out of the room and into a passageway where he saw the rider being admitted into the house. He gave him a welcoming nod. The latecomer was deferential.
“I am sorry to that I was delayed.”
“We knew you would come.”
“There are problems, I fear.”
“Still?”
“They have picked up a trail and sniff it like hounds.”
“Throw them off the scent.”
“That is not easy. They are very persistent. They are getting closer all the time.”
“We will deal with them,” said the other easily.
“They worry me.”
“Leave them to me, my friend. All will be well.”
“Good.”
“And the other problem? Alwin the Sailor?”
The newcomer smiled. “He will not trouble us again.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ralph Delchard was shocked at the state in which he found the man. Alwin the Sailor was a hideous mass of bruises and swellings. One arm was in a splint, one leg heavily bound up.
Bandages covered part of his face and head but the swollen eyes and the shattered nose were dramatic reminders of the ruthless beating he had taken. They had brought him home from Fordwich in a cart, wrapped in old sacks which were now crimson with blood. At one point they thought he had died.
Helto the Doctor cleaned him off and tended his wounds. The patient revived slightly but was far too weak to protest when his arm was reset. The pain rendered him unconscious again. By the time that Ralph arrived, the doctor had gone and Alwin was being cared for by the old woman who lived in the adjacent house. She sat beside the bed, watching her neighbour in frightened silence, wondering why a new calamity had befallen a household which had already suffered the death of a wife and the murder of a beloved daughter.
After letting Ralph in, she withdrew to the kitchen to leave him alone in the bedroom with Alwin. There was nowhere to sit and the low ceiling obliged the visitor to duck his head but he ignored the discomfort. In the presence of such extensive injuries, it was churlish to complain about a crick in his neck. As Ralph’s shadow fell across him, Alwin half opened his eyes and made a gurgling sound in his throat. Ralph knelt down beside him and gave him time to come fully awake.
“Who did this to you?” he said at length.
“I … don’t … Know.”
Each word was a separate effort, forced out between lips that had been split open by teeth which were now knocked out of his mouth. Alwin experimented with the same answer until he found a way to speak without moving his lips at all.
“I don’t know.”
“How many were there?”
“Two.”
“Here?”
“Fordwich. On my boat.”
“In broad daylight?” said Ralph. “Were there not witnesses at the quayside? Did nobody come to your aid?”
“No.”
“What about your friends?”
“Nobody.”
The pain of recollection sent him into a long bruised silence but Ralph waited. Alwin could not be rushed. Judging the moment, the visitor tried again.
“This is something to do with him, is it not?” he said.
“Him?”
“The man you are after.” Alwin closed his eyes. “Do not pretend to fall asleep,” warned Ralph with soft jocularity. “I know that you can hear me perfectly well. When I saw you in Fordwich, you were lurking in the harbour, hoping to catch news of a certain person. You were saving him for yourself. That was your plan, was it not?” He gestured at the injuries. “You are in no state to crawl out of this bed, let alone to conduct a search. You need me, Alwin. We must work together.”
The eyes opened to regard him with a suspicion that was tempered with a reluctant admiration. Alwin could never bring himself wholly to trust a Norman but Ralph had earned his respect. The murder investigation was nominally headed by the sheriff. His officers had been diligent in their inquiries but they had so far achieved little success. With no reason to be personally involved, Ralph Delchard had taken it upon himself to pursue the killer and to brave the dangers that that would obviously entail.
Harsh truths had to be faced. Alwin could never wreak revenge on his own. He would not be fit to intercept a passenger on a boat the following Wednesday. Helto had talked about keeping the splint on his arm for a month at least and warned him that the damage might leave him with a permanent limp. The way he felt at that moment, Alwin began to wonder if he would ever recover.
“He killed Bertha,” Ralph reminded him. “Are you going to let him get away with it?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then let me help. Who is he?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I think you are.”
“It could be him. There is nobody else. She liked him.”
“Bertha?”
“Yes.”
“How did she meet him?”
“On my boat. In Normandy.”
“You were collecting more stone from Caen?” Alwin gave a perceptible nod. “Who was this man?”
“A stranger. He wanted to cross the Channel.”
“In that old boat of yours?” said Ralph in surprise. “Why did he wish to sail with a cargo of stone when he could have taken a bigger and faster vessel that would have offered more comfort?”
“I did not ask. He paid well.”
“You brought him to Fordwich?”
“He had business in the area.”
“What kind of business?”
“He did not say.”
“Can you describe him?”
A rueful sigh. “Tall, fine-looking, dark beard.”
“A Frenchman, I hear.”
“And well-dressed. In the French fashion.”
“What did you learn from him?”
“Very little. He hardly spoke.”
“He talked to Bertha. You said she liked him.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Pulled her from him. Spoke sharply.”
“Why?” said Ralph. “Did you not trust her?”
“Him. The passenger.”
“Was he too attentive?”
“Bertha was young, innocent.”
“What happened when you landed at Fordwich? Did he pay you his money and come ashore?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you never saw him again?”
“No.”
“What about Bertha?” The swollen eyes closed in agony. “You assumed that she had never seen him again, either, but now you think differently. Is that it?” Alwin’s pain was answer enough.
“He must have been a remarkable man if he had such an effect on her. A brief meeting. Few words. Only smiles and glances passing between them. Yet he somehow persuaded her to defy her own father.”
“No!”
Anger made the sailor roar and squirm for a few moments but he soon subsided once more, wracked by physical anguish and tortured by remorse. Ralph had pushed him to the limit of his strength and endurance. It would be a cruelty to continue. When he asked a final question, Ralph felt as if he were jabbing the man with a sword but it had to be done.
“What was his name, Alwin?”
The sailor was sobbing quietly. He turned his head away to escape. Ralph leaned over to him to whisper in his ear.
“Give me his name, man. His name. ”
It came out through the shredded lips as a distorted grunt.
“Philippe.”
“Philippe Berbizier,” said Lanfranc. “Have you heard the name?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“It is one they have cause to loathe in Orleans.”
“Who is he?”
“A renegade priest. A notorious felon. A heretic.”
“And this man is here in England?”