“Watch and pray,” suggested Osbern, tentatively.
“I have watched too long and prayer has never gained me anything more than a crick in my neck and a pain in my knees.
Hell’s teeth, man. My wife is in danger! How would you feel in that situation?”
“I know only too well, my lord.”
Ralph’s anger was checked. While bemoaning his personal quandary, he had completely forgotten the reeve’s own suffering.
Osbern, too, was a husband whose wife had mysteriously disappeared and left him on tenterhooks. Eadgyth was still unwell and their son was also seriously ill. Osbern’s anxiety was divided between his wife and child. The fact that Helto had already made two visits to the house that morning showed how concerned he was at the condition of the baby. The child was in jeopardy.
“My apologies, Osbern,” said Ralph. “I am too full of self-affairs.
You will understand why.”
“I share your worries, my lord.”
“If only I knew that Golde was safe!”
He paused at the window to peer out yet again. Ralph had been surveying the street at regular intervals, waiting for word to come from Philippe Berbizier and hoping to pounce on the messenger to beat information out of him. All he saw was the normal human traffic of the day, moving past on its way to and from the main thoroughfare of Burh Street. Ralph stamped his foot to relieve his tension, then stalked away from the window. He was beginning to believe that no further message would arrive. His wife’s gown had been an explicit-enough missive in itself.
There was a soft tap on the door and Osbern opened it to admit his manservant. When Ralph saw what he was carrying in his hand, he snatched the item at once to examine it. Golde’s wimple was slit to ribbons.
“Where did you find this?” he demanded.
“In the stables, my lord.”
“When?”
“Even now,” said the man nervously. “I saddled Master Bret’s horse for him, then saw him off. As I was cleaning out the stables, I discovered the wimple.” He held up a scroll. “This was wrapped inside it, my lord.”
Ralph grabbed the letter from his hand and unfolded it. The message it contained was short and unequivocal.
Call your men off and your wife will stay alive.
While Ralph assimilated the warning with glowering rage, Osbern dismissed the servant. The reeve waited in silence until Ralph had scrunched the letter up, hurled it at the wall, then paced restlessly up and down.
“Why did nobody see this delivered?” he asked.
“I do not mount a guard on my stables, my lord,” said Osbern.
“Seeing you standing at that window, they knew that it was dangerous to come to the front door. That is why the message was delivered unseen to the rear of the house. You are up against a clever adversary here.”
“Yes,” conceded Ralph. “He is one step ahead of me.”
“May I know the contents of the letter?”
When Ralph nodded, the reeve picked up the missive and carefully unrolled it. He saw the crumb of comfort at once.
“Your wife is still alive, my lord.”
“But for how long?”
“Until this man has made his escape,” said Osbern. “But he cannot do that if your men are breathing down his neck.”
“No,” said Ralph grimly. “They are clearly searching in the right area. Do I call them off and let this villain go?”
“What is the alternative?”
Ralph took the letter from him and read it once more.
“Two things are clear,” he concluded. “Golde is alive and Philippe Berbizier himself is still inside the city. A cordon of steel has been thrown around it. There is no way that he will be able to get out of Canterbury.”
The troop of soldiers trotted along the High Street and went over Eastbridge in ragged formation. The citizens were so used to the swaggering presence of Norman soldiers that they simply stepped out of their way and swore under their breaths. When they reached Westgate, the soldiers were allowed through at once by the armed guards. They swung left and headed toward the castle.
Nobody stopped to notice that one of the men in helm and hauberk detached himself cleverly from his fellows and rode in a different direction.
Philippe Berbizier was soon ascending Harbledown Hill.
The lepers at the hospital of St. Nicholas were puzzled and alarmed at the sight which confronted them. Led by Prior Henry and Gervase Bret, a dozen monks came riding up to the church with six men-at-arms in their wake. A deputation of that size could only betoken something of great importance and the lepers watched apprehensively from their huts. Brother Bartholomew and Brother Vitalis, who had taken over the running of the hospital, showed a proper deference to their prior and conducted him to the nave.
As soon as he stepped into the church, Henry felt the throbbing presence of evil and he identified its source just as Canon Hubert had done before him. Every monk was ordered into the church and the door was locked from inside. While the soldiers stood on guard outside and the lepers waited in trepidation, the service began. Prior Henry set about the task of reclaiming the house for God. Exorcism took place.
Gervase went in search of Alain and found him some distance away, perched on a tree stump as he fed crumbs from a hunk of bread to a bold robin. Alain’s hood was down and his veil drawn back so that he could feel the play of the cool breeze on his face.
Leprosy did not deter the bird. A source of food brought him within inches of Alain. When Gervase approached, the robin did not even look up from its meal.
Alain showed a degree of animation for once, standing up from the tree and raising a hand in greeting. When the leper went to pull up his hood, Gervase shook his head to indicate that it was not necessary. Alain did not have to hide his affliction.
“I hoped you would come,” said the leper.
“Why?”
“I wanted to see you. I went down to the city but he stopped me at the gate and drove me away.”
“Who did?”
“A soldier. One of the guards.”
“A big search has been mounted for the killer.”
“I gathered that.”
“They are trying to pen him within the city.”
“If he is there,” said Alain.
“Nobody can be sure of that,” said Gervase. “But why did you wish to see me, Alain?”
“I brought something to give you.”
He took the piece of blue material from his sleeve and went to place it on the log beside the bread. Gervase moved in to take it directly from his hand, unafraid of the contact. He studied the material and felt its texture.
“I think it came from Bertha’s attire,” said Alain.
“Where did you find it?”
“A mile away. Caught on a twig.”
“Would Bertha have had cause to be in that vicinity?”
“I do not know, Master Bret. She would not have been collecting herbs there, I am certain, because there were none. That torn material was in the orchard of a manor house.”
“Who owns it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could you direct me there?”
“Yes.” He looked at the blue threads. “You will need to match it against her kirtle. What happened to her attire?”
“It was given to her father.”
“Will he let you see it?”
“If he is still alive.”
Alain looked shaken. “He is ill?”
“Two men assaulted him at Fordwich and left him for dead. He lies abed. The doctor is not sure that Alwin the Sailor will survive the injuries.”
Alain said nothing. He continued to stare at the tiny piece of blue material, reluctant to part with another keepsake and yet desperate to help Gervase trace the man who had murdered Bertha. Gervase examined the material again.
“Describe this manor house and orchard to me.”
“It lies due north of here.”
Alain gave rough directions and described everything that he could remember about his brief visit to the place. Gervase heard enough to warrant further investigation but first he had to establish whether the material had indeed been torn from Bertha’s apparel. His gaze travelled in the direction of Canterbury.