Suddenly Baldwin felt a tingle creep up his spine to his neck: the knight had surely died on his feet; not on horseback.
When Harlewin had seen him, Sir Gilbert was still riding about in the woods. For some reason his dog was not with him. Baldwin was suddenly sure that the dog was already dead. When he had seen Uther dying it was natural to crouch at his side to comfort him. Surely Sir Gilbert would have done the same. Was it possible that someone could have killed the dog beforehand, as a trap, and that Sir Gilbert had seen the hound’s body and gone to help it?
Sir Peregrine had been there. He had ridden off as if the hounds of Hell were after him. Perhaps that was right and a hound was after him, Baldwin reasoned – if Sir Peregrine was the mysterious man in the woods who had been watching William and Sir Gilbert that day. When the dog was released, it must have chased after the man it had noticed before: the man whose scent it had caught on the wind. Everyone who had seen Sir Peregrine said that he was riding at speed.
And behind him, Sir Gilbert saw his dog. Riding in Sir Peregrine’s wake, he had come across his hound’s dead body, perhaps. Like Sir Baldwin, Sir Gilbert would probably have dropped from his horse – not that it would have helped the dog. What then? Did Sir Gilbert remount and chase after the killer of his dog? Could Sir Peregrine have been attacked by Sir Gilbert and killed him in defence? No. Sir Gilbert was struck in the back. Could he have been stabbed that way while on horseback?
His horse! A great heavy creature – a destrier. It still hadn’t appeared. Suddenly Baldwin was sure that he had found a crucial clue. The mount should have turned up by now, unless it had been stolen or…
He turned sharply to his friend. ‘Simon – that horsedealer we went to. Didn’t he have one mount which stood out?’
Simon gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Sherman was less subtle. ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’
‘Think!’ Baldwin urged his friend, ignoring the spicer. ‘When we went in to talk to that man about horses, there was one decent mount in there, wasn’t there? A large animal, just like a destrier.’
‘I suppose so,’ Simon agreed. ‘But it looked a mess, just like all the others.’
‘Simon, we are fools. If stupidity was a felony we would deserve to be thrown into gaol. Come with me!’
Jeanne sipped her wine as Baldwin gripped Simon’s elbow and half-dragged the bailiff from the hall, giving his wife a brief wave as they went.
‘Is he mad?’ Sherman asked, bewildered.
Jeanne smiled, but coldly. ‘I find him perfect,’ she said, but as soon as she saw the hurt in his eyes, and the way he guiltily cast a look at his wife, chatting so easily and happily with her circle of male friends, Jeanne felt embarrassed for him and ashamed of talking so curtly. ‘Would you like more wine?’ she asked gently, and he nodded gratefully.
Chapter Thirty
Toker was sitting in the undercroft listening to the babble of all the people in the room overhead when Perkin, who was at the door, hissed and beckoned. ‘It’s them!’
On his feet instantly, Toker joined him in time to see two men walking swiftly past under the gatehouse. ‘You sure?’ he demanded, but he so wanted Perkin to be right that he already had a hand reaching out for his sword to test the blade in the sheath.
In answer Perkin grabbed his favourite weapon, a staff some six and a half feet long, and set off at a jog. Toker waved at the others and they climbed to their feet grabbing their weapons and following Toker.
All but Owen. He hung back in the doorway.
He was content to attack an enemy in battle or raid, but ambushing the innocent felt wrong. The very thought gave him a queasiness in the bowels. Even two or three men fighting against one was all right, to his way of thinking, but trapping men like this was wrong. It was no better than the behaviour of a felon and Owen was no felon. He was Sir Peregrine’s man, not Toker’s. He had had enough.
The girl was still tossing stones at a target. Owen was sickened by the band – especially by Toker. All he wanted to do was to sit and talk with this pretty, fair woman. Toker was standing at the far end of the gateway watching, and Owen felt a twinge of anxiety curling in his belly. The other man had scarred him for life for missing with an arrow – what would he do if Owen neglected to take part in this? The knight had made the gang look like a bunch of amateurs and Toker wanted to punish him.
Catching the Welshman’s eye, Toker meaningfully drew his dagger and kissed the blade. Owen shivered at the sight. He knew what that meant: Toker would come to find him. Toker would kill him. But Owen was no footpad. He watched their leader turn and stride from the yard, and as he looked about him, Owen saw a figure he recognised. He walked over to Edgar. ‘Are you the knight’s man?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Edgar said, peering after Toker and his men distractedly.
‘You must go after them. They intend catching your master and killing him. He’s got their gold – and Perkin wants revenge for the kick the bailiff gave him.’
Edgar didn’t say a word: he was already halfway to the gate. Owen saw him halt at the porter and point back. Two guards glanced at each other and came to arrest Owen, but before they got to him, Edgar had disappeared.
‘Here it is!’ Baldwin declared and pounded on the door. It was wide and tall enough to allow a wagon to enter or a man on horseback, and the timbers rattled as he banged.
‘Hoy! Stop that row!’
Baldwin turned to see a woman glaring at him from a window on the opposite side of the street. ‘I want to speak to the groom running this place,’ he shouted.
‘Well, you can’t – he’s not there.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but you start that banging again and I’ll get the Constable onto you.’
‘You fool! I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace, so tell me where this damned horse-trader has gone.’
‘If you were a Keeper you’d be up at the castle in your finery instead of rattling people’s doors at this time of night, so go on, bugger off!’ She banged the window shut.
‘That damned… What are you laughing at?’
Simon shook his head in innocent denial. ‘Nothing, Baldwin. But since the man isn’t here, why don’t we go to the nearest alehouse and see if he’s there having a drink?’
‘All right, but when we get back I’ll rattle that miserable old besom’s doors too,’ Baldwin muttered vindictively as they walked up the road to where a bush bound to a pole over a doorway showed that drinks could be bought.
It was a poor woman’s hoveclass="underline" there was hardly space inside for the seven men who sat at a table staring at the dice with bleared eyes and supping ale, while the alewife squatted on the floor. She looked up when Baldwin entered, ducking under the low lintel.
The hackneyman was at the table. He recognised their faces and instantly a smile transfigured his features. ‘Sirs! You require more mounts? I have the very ones for you. Good, comfortable and biddable beasts. Perfect for a short run into the country or a longer ride if you need. Excellent turn of speed, too.’
He stood with little apparent regret. Simon was convinced he had lost heavily. The bailiff pulled a coin from his purse and passed it to the man, who glanced at it, smiled more widely, finished off his ale and led the way up the street to his stable.
The light was fading swiftly now. Twilight was darkening the streets, and in the shadow of the tall buildings Baldwin thought he caught a glimpse of movement. At first he thought that a rat had scuttled away – a common enough sight at the best of times – but then he heard a scrape and recognised the sound of metal being pulled from a scabbard.
All at once he realised that his message of giving up the hoard, mentioned so confidently in the hall, might not have filtered down to the felons who had tried to attack him and Simon earlier. He cleared his throat to warn Simon, but before he could say anything the attack was underway.