‘Easy, boy,’ Alan steadied Firebrand. If the whore had looked at Alan and not the courser, she would have seen that his spurs were plain steel, and not gilded like a knight’s.
He was relieved to see the gate ahead of them, with La Rue Richmont running away from Vannes. He planned to conclude his business at Kermaria before going on to find his brother. Firebrand pranced under the teeth of the portcullis and no sooner had his hoofs hit the highway than he was fighting to be given his head. Alan kept the reins close to his chest until the road was clear. Then he slackened his grip, and with a whinny of delight Firebrand lengthened his stride.
***
Taking a handful of men with him, Otto prowled round St Clair’s tower till he found the cesspits. One of them stank, and needed clearing. The other was empty.
‘This is the one, Captain,’ a mercenary said, holding up some muddied linen. A zealous lad, he had a cast in one eye, but his other was bright. ‘Those prints were made recently.’
‘I have two perfectly good eyes of my own,’ Otto murmured, cruelly, for he had a private and quite illogical aversion to physical deformities. His trooper’s sharp eye clouded.
Two sets of footprints, clear as noonday, travelled in a straight line across the dew-drenched grass to a gate in the boundary wall. As Otto had anticipated, they were widely spaced, indicating that his quarry had been running. The gate led to the woods, and its lock had been smashed, either by the Count when breaking in, or by Fletcher when leaving.
‘Get horses,’ he demanded of another soldier.
‘Horses, sir? From where?’
Their mounts had been tethered half a mile away, the better to approach St Clair’s guards unheard. ‘From St Clair’s stables, dolt, and move your legs.’
The mercenary bit his lip. ‘One of St Clair’s grooms was sleeping in the stable, Captain. He loosed the horses before anyone marked his presence.’
Behind the corn-coloured beard, the red blood surged. ‘By St Olaf–’
‘The groom’s been dealt with, Captain.’
‘Captain?’ The trooper with the cast in his eye edged forward.
Otto drummed his fingers on the ivory haft of his axe. ‘Yes?’
‘It will be no bad thing to trail them on foot, sir.’
‘How do you work that one out?’
‘I know this forest, it’s pretty dense in places.’
‘Local man are you?’ Malait asked.
‘Aye.’
‘Odin be praised. You can be of use.’
The mercenary’s eye picked up some of the brightness which it had lost earlier. ‘Aye, Captain. And I think I know where they might take refuge.’
‘Why are you standing about jawing, then? Lead on.’ Otto gave a brusque signal, and his troop moved towards the gate.
In the forecourt of Kermaria manor, the dust was settling. And though it was broad day, a thick, midnight quiet had fallen over the tower. The cockerel, who had taken refuge on a cross-beam in the empty stable, flapped down from his perch, pecked indignantly at the body of a stableboy, and hopped into the courtyard. It was not the time for sleeping. The groom might have lost his senses, but the cockerel knew day from night. And to prove it, he lifted his head, and crowed as loudly as he ever had. The sound floated out over the tranquil marsh where the climbing sun was melting the frost from the reeds. Frogs croaked. Wildfowl padded placidly across lily pads.
***
Brother Dominig was whistling happily as he made his way down the narrow boar-run in the Bois des Soupirs, the Forest of Sighs.
As Brother Dominig was a novice and had yet to take his vows, the title Brother was an honorary one. The young man was confident that none of his brothers could hear him. It had been said to him on more than one occasion that a novice on the point of taking his vows should take life seriously, and although Brother Dominig did not disagree, at times he caught himself thinking that God might love some of his more serious-minded brethren a little more if they learned to laugh. He strode energetically to the river which ran past the edge of the monastery. A large shovel was slung over one shoulder, and a hazel basket swung from the other. Nearby a mule was braying.
That morning, the novice’s rota had come full circle, and Brother Dominig had been given his favourite chore. Today he must empty the eel traps and clear the fishponds of weeds and silt. It was a chore which his superiors in their wisdom had decided required only one pair of hands, and as Brother Dominig loved the river and was of a solitary disposition, this was the job he looked forward to most. He enjoyed outdoor work, and was determined to make hay while the sun shone, for the prior had ordained that his profession, and that of his fellow novice, Marzin, was to be on the Feast of Pentecost tomorrow.
The novice’s rota was a means whereby Brother Dominig’s superiors gauged where a new brother’s talents might lie. Once his vows had been taken, Bother Dominig would be allocated a permanent chore. He doubted that he would be given the privilege of maintaining the traps and fish tanks once he was professed; for while doing his stint in the kitchens, he had miscalculated...
During the Prior’s last fish fast, Dominig had cooked a beaver’s tail for him – as beavers spent their lives in water and had hairless tails, their tails were counted by churchmen as fish. Prior Hubert had enjoyed the dish, so much so that he had sent for Dominig to congratulate him on his cooking of it. Brother Dominig wished now that he had burnt that wretched beaver’s tail. His culinary success probably meant that he would be employed in the monastery kitchen rather than by the river.
Feeling a pang of jealousy for his fellow novice, Marzin, Brother Dominig frowned. Marzin, who had been christened William but was adopting the name of that saintly protector of beggars at his profession, was a lucky man. Brother Marzin was an artist of no mean ability, sent to them from the main house of their order to finish a mural in the chapel. Marzin had brought with him a letter from the Abbot of St Gildas on the distant Rhuys peninsular, singing his praises. Prior Hubert had been cautious – Marzin was only a novice and there was a danger of his head being turned by too much praise. But when Prior Hubert had seen Marzin at work, he had changed his tune and had showered the novice with praise. Brother Marzin’s future doing what he loved was secure.
Brother Dominig shook his muscled shoulders. He did not admire jealousy and was not about to sour today worrying about tomorrow. Sufficient unto the day, he told himself. He smiled. He could spend all of today by his beloved river. He felt nearer to God by the river, and loved it in all seasons. This May had brought with it a flurry of late rainstorms; the river was now so full its banks were brimming. The swollen waters swept past the fish tanks, a dark, gleaming rush of water heading inexorably for the marshes and finally for the Small Sea. The river was clouded with mud which it had snatched from somewhere deep in the Argoat. It looked as thick as Brother Peter’s best bone broth. Noah’s flood, Brother Dominig thought, must have started like this.
Drooping willows planted by an earlier generation of monks trailed delicate, greening fingers in the swollen river. Behind the willows, bushy hazels and slender birches reached for the sky. Behind these, rank on rank of giant oaks marched deep into the heart of the forest, shading the woodlands with a spring-fresh canopy of leaves. The brothers still harvested the willows and hazels, and the fish tanks were edged with coppiced trees whose roots held the banks together at times like this when the river was in full spate.
Dominig slipped off his sandals, tucked his habit into his belt and stooped over the riverbank. With his toes gripping the edge, he hauled on one of the lines. His smile broadened. The net was heavy. He heaved it out. It was gratifyingly full of wet, wriggling eels. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the arching trees, silvering the water which dripped from the eels’ slippery bodies.