Gervase was moved by the story. Two separate strands of Alwin’s life had become inextricably bound up together. He realised now why Alain and Bertha had been drawn together into a relationship that was deeper and more resonant than ordinary friendship. They shared the same father. Neither had brought him any real pleasure yet they found glimpses of joy in their time alone with each other. Bertha had gone to Harbledown in spite of strenuous objections from her father. She and Alain had an affinity which transcended everything else. They were blood kin.
“Father Colswein was right,” mused Alwin.
“The old priest?”
“I know no Latin but he taught me one phrase that has stuck in mind like a spike. Stipendium peccati mors est.”
“The reward of sin is death,” translated Gervase.
“My daughter murdered, my son a leper.”
“Neither can be laid at your door.”
“Both afflictions can.”
“No, Alwin.”
“I have known death in life,” said the other. “And I have deserved it.” He wheezed again. “There is nothing to keep me in this world save the wish to see that murderous villain caught.
Philippe, with his knowing smile. When that is done, I will follow Bertha to a quieter place.” One hand flickered in a gesture of great pathos. “Please, Master Bret. Avenge my daughter. And you will ease my son’s mind.”
Canon Hubert rode slowly along the busy street on his donkey.
The animal was in a fractious mood and kept trying to turn down lanes and alleyways. He had to pull hard on its reins to control its wayward impulses. He swung right into King Street and studied the houses carefully until he came to the one he wanted. It was a timber-framed dwelling of medium size in an excellent state of repair and with fresh thatch on its low roof. The neighbouring houses looked almost neglected by comparison.
Hauling his donkey to a halt, Canon Hubert dismounted and tethered the creature to an iron ring set in the wall of the house.
He tapped meekly on the door, then put both hands inside the opposite sleeves. When the servant answered the door, all he saw was the inclined head of a hooded monk.
“I wish to speak with Helto the Doctor,” said Hubert.
“He is not at home.”
“I will wait within.”
“He will not be back for a long time.”
“However long, I will still wait. Stand aside.”
“No,” said the servant, barring the way. “I cannot let you in.”
“Then I will let myself in!”
The hood was flipped back and Canon Hubert was transformed into Ralph Delchard. One hand came out to push the servant hard in the chest while the other appeared with a long dagger in it. Ralph darted into the house and shut the door behind him.
The servant was sturdy and he launched himself at the newcomer but his visitor was far too skilled in the arts of combat.
Ralph chopped him across the throat with a forearm and brought a knee up into the man’s stomach. All the fight was taken out of him. Before he could slump to the ground, Ralph caught him with one hand and heaved him hard against the wall. There was a thunderous crack as a skull met a thick oak beam. The servant dropped to the floor with a thud. Not even his master would be able to revive him for a while.
The commotion had alerted another man and he was a more dangerous opponent. When he came down to the stairs to investigate the noise, he was carrying a dagger himself. Ralph stepped into the parlour to give himself more room for manoeuvre.
Encumbered by the cowl, he circled his man warily.
“Who are you?” growled the other.
“Canon Hubert,” said Ralph. “I’ve come to shrive you.”
“Then I confess I’ll have to kill you!”
The man lunged at him with the dagger but Ralph parried him with ease. A second lunge was parried with equal adroitness.
The man feinted and caught Ralph unawares. The dagger sliced through the arm of the cowl but made no contact with Ralph himself. His attacker did not know that. When Ralph mimed a wound and staggered back, the man was after him in a flash, only to find his own weapon slashed from his grasp by a downward stroke of Ralph’s blade across his wrist. A kick sent the man to the ground where he lay howling, one hand trying to stem the flow of blood from his injured wrist.
Ralph was astride him with a dagger at his throat.
“Where is my wife?” he demanded.
“Who?”
“Golde. My wife. I know she is here.”
“No!”
“Where is she?”
“Not here!” said the man. “You are mistaken. This is the house of Helto the Doctor.”
“Are his patients always welcomed with a dagger?”
“You attacked first.”
“Where is she?” yelled Ralph, using the point of his weapon to draw blood from the man’s neck. “Speak or I’ll cut your throat out.”
“Stop!” pleaded the other, giving in. “I’ll tell you.”
Ralph grabbed his hair to bang his head on the floor.
“Where?”
“Down the cellar. In the kitchen.”
The man was too frightened to lie. Ralph pounded his head on the hard wood again, then got up. He searched the ground floor until he found the kitchen, then saw the trap door in the corner.
Before he could slide back the bolt, he heard a rustling noise and turned to see his adversary coming at him with the dagger in his other hand.
Ralph’s reaction was instinctive. He moved sharply to the left, parried the blow, swung in a circle and brought his own dagger around with deadly force to slide in between the man’s ribs. After clinging to the cowl for a moment, the man slid to the ground with blood pouring out of the wound. Ralph retrieved his weapon and opened the trap door. It shed enough light for him to see her.
“Golde! What have they done to you!”
Unable to answer, she struggled from side to side.
He leaped down into the cellar and sliced through her bonds at once, clasping her in his arms and holding her to him. The sheer relief of being together again brought tears cascading down his face. Golde clutched at the blindfold then tore off the gag.
“Thank God you’ve come!” she sobbed. “They were going to kill me. It was terrifying.”
He held her tight and they kissed away a long and frightening absence. Then he guided her gently up the stairs. It was only when they came up into full light that she saw what he was wearing. Her sudden laugh broke the tension.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“From Canon Hubert.”
“He loaned it to you?”
“Cowl and donkey,” said Ralph, grinning. “Not without a lot of argument, mark you, but the disguise worked. If he can pass as a monk, then so can I.”
“He?”
“Philippe Berbizier, my love. The man we are after.”
“I think I met him.”
The memory sent a shiver through her. Golde then noticed the dead man on the ground and let out a cry.
“Is that him?” she asked.
“No, my love. My guess is that he is one of the men who kidnapped you. The other is lying through there with a lump on his head.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“By talking to Eadgyth.”
“She told you?”
“No, Golde. But when I stepped out of her room, I heard Canon Hubert speaking with Osbern in the solar. Their words were as clear as a bell. Someone on that staircase could spy on the whole house.”
“But why should they?”
“To know what steps Gervase and I were taking.”
“I do not follow, Ralph.”
“How did Berbizier know you were in that house? How did he know what my movements were? Who helped him to outwit me at every turn? Helto.”
“The doctor?”
“No wonder he called so often without need,” said Ralph. “On his last visit, he even left your wimple in the stables with a letter for me. It had to be him. Nobody else came to Osbern’s abode on a horse.”
Golde began to understand. “Is that where we are now?”