Jeanne showed her teeth in a smile and before he could say more, she applied her switch to the Arab’s rump and felt the animal explode into action beneath her.
It was startling whenever she allowed the beast to run at her own speed. Jeanne felt the muscles bunch and jarr as they propelled the animal forward into a rough, unbalanced gallop, but then the roughness was gone and in its place there was a smooth, steady regularity to the mare’s movement. The wind was in Jeanne’s face, tugging at her wimple, and suddenly it was gone, torn away, and she felt her braided hair whip loose. Unconsciously she crouched over the mare’s neck; the sense of motion, of speed, of onrushing bushes which were before her, level, and then gone in a moment, was so exhilarating Jeanne had an urge to scream with an almost pagan delight.
As she approached the tree she glanced over her shoulder to see where her husband was. He was taking a longer route, and she gave a brief frown wondering why – but then her mare turned. Startled, Jeanne tried to wrench the horse back, but she refused to obey and continued up the hill a way before heading back towards the tree.
When they arrived, Baldwin was there already, innocently picking at his teeth with his fingernail, a knee crooked over his horse’s withers. ‘You took a while.’
She glared at him before studying the ground carefully. ‘You cheated! That’s a bog.’
‘It can get damp,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘But it’s not deep, only wet.’
‘And I could have gone straight through it!’
‘Not with your mare, my love,’ he laughed. ‘She fell into it once before, and never goes near it now. I think you owe me a penny.’
She lifted her chin in imitation of disdain and looked down her nose at him. ‘Certainly, Sir Knight. If you think the wager that important, I shall be glad to pay you when we return.’
Catching hold of her bridle, he grinned, glancing all about them with a meaningful air. ‘If you can’t pay, I shall be forced to demand payment in kind.’
‘And how could a poor woman pay?’ she demanded, then squealed with delight when he tickled her ribs and pulled her towards him.
‘Only a kiss, my Lady, for now. In a moment, we could leave the horses to feed while we take some wine and rest in the grass.’
‘What do you think I am, a milkmaid?’ she asked, but could not maintain the pretence of indifference and began to chuckle.
He dismounted and stood at her side, holding out his hands. She took a quick look about her, checking that they were alone, before letting herself drop down, feeling his arms encircle her. Soon she was lying on her back, her husband above, smiling down at her, his hand on her belly, stroking and teasing, his face coming closer.
At that moment they heard the loud, tortured bellow of agony.
Uther had wandered idly away from Baldwin and Jeanne. He was used to occupying himself when his master dithered and there were plenty of odours to entrance him here: rabbits, a hare, foxes, and dogs, plenty of dogs. And when he saw the burst of movement nearby – a swirling of dust in the sunlight and a shimmer of green silk – he shoved his short nose closer to the viper…
When the old priest coughed, he brought up blood. Squeezing his eyes tight shut with the pain, he prayed for a speedy release.
He had sent the boy from the nearest farm to fetch Father Abraham from Tiverton, but neither had returned yet. Father Benedict found it hurtful that Abraham should not have responded more urgently to his summons, for after all they were brothers in God’s service.
The Father lifted his head at the sound of hooves clattering down the track, an exhausted man old before his time. He sipped water from his bowl and unsteadily rose to his feet, feeling the phlegm in his lungs threatening to choke him, and hobbled to the doorway to see who it was, but when he squinted into the daylight he felt as if he was seeing a ghost.
‘Merciful and gracious God! Is it really him?’
Sir Gilbert dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, removing a saddlebag before he realised he was being watched. Whirling around he glowered fiercely, his hand flashing to his sword.
‘Brother Gilbert, there’s no need for that!’ Father Benedict exclaimed with a low chuckle. As it degenerated into a hacking cough, he saw the knight’s face fill with solicitous concern.
Spitting out a gobbet of blood, he waved a hand. ‘Do not fear for me, Brother Gilbert. I’m dead. It’s just that this old body of mine refuses to topple over.’
The Father allowed his visitor to help him inside, and once there Sir Gilbert insisted on Father Benedict lying on his palliasse. He curled his lip at the rank-smelling water and instead went and fetched a wineskin from his horse, holding it to the priest’s mouth until he sipped a little.
Father Benedict tried to reject his ministrations, but Sir Gilbert refused to leave his side until the priest from Tiverton had come to listen to his confession. ‘If I don’t wait here, you might die unshriven,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Where else would an old fool like me go? Here there is water and the locals are kind to me. None of them believe the nonsense told about us.’
‘You have stayed here at Templeton all this time?’
‘I did think about leaving – but who would then look to the interests of the parishioners here? I doubt whether Father Abraham could be bothered to come so far, and although Witheridge should be in charge of this chapel, the priest there prefers his wine and food to travel. The folk about here are used to me, they remember me from my time as the chaplain to the chapel for the Order, and while I was seeing to their souls, I felt I was doing God’s work.’
Sir Gilbert rested with the elderly and dying cleric. He daren’t leave. If no one else came along he must listen to Father Benedict’s confession as was his duty as a Christian. It was good to see the chaplain from his past, but it was also a relief to hear hoofbeats approaching. Going to the door Sir Gilbert saw a cleric and a young lad riding down the lane. It reminded him why he was here, but first he knelt at Father Benedict’s side. ‘I must go, Father. Please, could you bless me?’
Father Benedict choked, but the tears in his eyes had nothing to do with the illness which held him in its grip. He smiled, muttering in Latin, finishing with the sign of the cross. ‘Go with my blessing, my son.’
‘First, where is the reliquary, Father?’
The surprised priest told him, and Sir Gilbert took his hand and kissed it reverently. Rising, he took up his bags and strode off. A short while later Father Abraham appeared.
‘I am sorry to take so long. A man was in my sanctuary and I was witnessing his abjuration. Who was that?’
Father Benedict would have been more cautious if he hadn’t felt so ill but his pain made him careless. ‘Sir Gilbert of Carlisle. He used to be here with me when I was chaplain for the Order.’
It was hot in the heavy fustian tunic in which a pilgrim should be clad, and Philip Dyne was taken by an itch that he couldn’t clear. His sweat was soaking into the cloth, and each drip seemed to attract a number of hairs, each of which prickled and irritated.
The road was thankfully flat now. Left was the slow, meandering river, while on his right the hill rose up, covered with tall, ancient trees. The road itself was a mere slash through the trees and grass, although wild plants fought for prominence at the roadside: gorse, valerian, foxglove, buttercups and daisies. Occasionally he inhaled their strong, sweet scents. There was a constant gurgling from the river here and another, less welcome sound. At first he thought he had mistaken it, but as he continued, gripping his little wooden cross firmly in his left hand, head lowered devoutly, he heard it again: horses.