The Love Knot (44 page)

'If I had the men, I would come and put an end to this,' Oliver said with cold fury, his fists opening and closing.

'Ah no, my son, it would only be the beginning of a time far worse.' A spark of alarm kindled in Father Alberic's eyes. 'When war comes to a territory, it is the ordinary people who suffer. Their crops are trampled, their homes burned. Pestilence and starvation follow.'

'So you would rather live beneath the fear and tyranny that you have now?' Oliver demanded incredulously.

'What choice do we have? Even if you did come with an army, they would destroy as they retreated so as to leave you with nothing. I beg you, let it be.' He took hold of Oliver's arm. 'The wind blows chill in the open. Come and break bread with me and sup a bowl of pottage before you go on your way.'

From which statement Oliver understood that the subject was closed and that his presence in Ashbury was perceived as dangerous to its occupants. For a moment he was tempted to thrust Alberic's offer aside and ride off in bitter anger, but he curbed the impulse. Setting fire to the river bank was not the way to build a bridge.

'One day I will return,' he said, 'but I swear that not a single ear of corn shall burn or a villager suffer because of it. That time will come, J promise.'

Father Alberic walked towards his dwelling. 'Folk hereabouts don't set much store by the Empress Mathilda,' he remarked by way of warning without actually saying that he doubted the fulfilment of Oliver's promise.

'I know that. I have no expectations on that score myself, but she does have a son and he bids fair to rival his grandfather and his great-grandfather in stature.'

'But a small child as I remember?'

'Growing swiftly. I can bide my time.' He grimaced. 'It's all I have these days.'

Oliver brought Hero into Alberic's compound and gave him hay and water. Then he sat down to dine at the priest's trestle, one eye on the lengthening shadows. He would have to leave soon.

'Tell me about your pilgrimage,' Alberic said. 'What was Jerusalem like?' Obviously the priest was determined to keep the conversation away from troubles in the village and the entire, distressing business of the war.

'Hot enough to roast a man inside his chain-mail, and thick with the dust of ages,' Oliver replied. 'Beauty and squalor such as you could not imagine. There are places that have not changed since before the time of Our Lord Jesus.'

The priest was enthralled and leaned across the table. 'Did you see the temple of . . .' He broke off as the sound of approaching hoofbeats joined the homely crackle of his hearth fire. For an instant the men stared at each other in silence, and then Alberic began urging Oliver to his feet.

'Like as not it's the soldiers from the keep,' he said. 'Someone must have reported your presence. They're wary of strangers just now because of poor little Gifu. Best not be caught. They seize first and ask questions later.'

Oliver spun from the trestle, grabbed his swordbelt and was already buckling it on as he strode to the door. He had no intention of being trapped inside a one-roomed cot by a band of mercenaries, and he knew if they caught him he was unlikely to live. He would be 'legitimately' executed as the Empress's spy or made a scapegoat for the girl's murder.

'God be with you, my son!' cried Father Alberic, as Oliver snatched his shield from beside the door and ran out to the shelter for his horse.

'He has need to be,' Oliver said grimly as he freed the reins and scrambled into the saddle. Hero gave a grunt of surprise and indignation as Oliver's heels slammed into his flanks. The stallion sprang forward, but the opening on to the village road was already blocked by four mounted soldiers.

The deep tones of late sunlight brightened the hide of the leading horse from bay to red and the rider's shield bore a device of crimson chevrons on a background of brilliant blue. The colours were sharp enough to cut and score themselves indelibly on the brain. Oliver and Randal de Mohun stared at each other in mutual shock, the moment stretching out as each man strove to recover his balance.

De Mohun affected to do so first, crossing his hands on the pommel of his saddle and grinning wolfishly. 'Our paths seem destined to cross, don't they?' he said. 'Have you come seeking employment from me this time?'

'You are on my land,' Oliver snarled as shock gave way to the enormity of rage.

'Your land?' De Mohun continued to grin. 'Passing strange, for I thought that this place belonged to Odinel the Fleming?' He looked round at his men, inviting them to share in the mockery. 'If you have not come as a recruit, I can only assume that you are trespassing.' He drew his sword, the low sun gilding the blade. 'Lord Odinel does not tolerate trespassers.'

'Wait, Sir Randal, wait!' cried Father Alberic, who had been watching the exchange with growing dismay. He hastened forward, tripping on the folds of his habit. 'I can vouch for this man. He has only come to pay his respects at his brother's grave.'

'You can vouch for him, can you?' de Mohun said silkily, and turned the sword in his hand.

'Go within your house, Father,' Oliver said quietly without taking his eyes off de Mohun. 'This is no concern of yours and I would not see any harm come to you because of me.'

The priest dithered.

'Go!' Oliver spat.

Chewing his lip, Father Alberic backed away and with great reluctance returned to his dwelling.

'Touching,' said de Mohun. 'But you give orders as if you are lord of this place, which you are not.'

'Then that puts me on a footing high above yours,' Oliver retorted, drawing his own sword. 'I would not even grace you with the title of "scum".'

De Mohun spurred his mount at Oliver, who quickly turned side-on and parried the blow on his shield. At least, blocking the opening as he was, the other three could not push in and surround him, but neither could he win free without overcoming all four men.

One of them rode his horse up to the sharpened stockade fence, stood on his saddle and leaped over to Oliver's side, a dagger in his hand. Oliver saw the danger and, slashing a blow at de Mohun, pivoted Hero and rode straight at the man on foot. The sword swung and chopped, and the mercenary fell without time to scream, his dagger flying from his hands. In leaving the entrance, Oliver had opened himself to attack by the other three men, but there had been no other choice. There was a way out if his speed and timing were right but both had gone spinning awry in the frantic game of kill or be killed. De Mohun came at him head-on and his companions went left and right. As Oliver struck and parried, he knew that he faced certain death unless he could diminish the odds.

The soldier on his shield side was wearing a padded gambeson but no mail. Oliver wrenched on the bridle and, as Hero pivoted, he slashed at the garment. The linen burst, disgorging its lining of felted wool. Oliver's sword bit deeper, opening up the man's ribs to the bone.

The soldier screamed and pulled back, clutching at the wound in his side. But in taking his man, Oliver had left himself dangerously open to the weapons of de Mohun and the other mercenary. Even as he turned to face them, he too was struck in the ribs. Unlike his victim, he was wearing a mail hauberk. De Mohun's blade skidded on the steel rings but, although it failed to cut, the blow was made with bone-shattering force. Pain that was both numb and agonising tore through Oliver's chest. A second blow followed the first, then a third and a fourth as the other mercenary joined in with gusto. Oliver warded the assault on his shield, but it quickly became splintered and battered, and his arm began to tire.

'I should have killed you on the Jerusalem road years ago!' panted de Mohun. He was incandescent with the fury and joy of battle. Oliver had no breath to answer. All he knew was that it was now or accept the grave. For all that he had contemplated the oblivion of death, he had no desire to embrace it at the hands of Randal de Mohun.

His shield high, he spurred Hero at the other soldier's chestnut and cut low, aiming at the man's unprotected legs. The sword bit flesh down to bone, and the man bellowed with rage and pain. A space opened up between the mercenaries and Oliver urged Hero through it. Then he slapped the reins down on the stallion's neck.

At a dead gallop, the grey shot out of the priest's yard, through the church gate, and on to the greensward in front of the bell tower. De Mohun's bay ploughed after them at breakneck speed, caught up and confronted. The horses pushed together, hooves flailing, teeth snapping. The men hacked at each other. De Mohun had the advantage of being fresher and without injury. Oliver's shield wavered as he grew increasingly tired, and de Mohun launched a vicious, overarm blow. Oliver felt, rather than heard, his collarbone crack, and in that same instant lost all strength in his shield arm. De Mohun came in again like a wolf. His sword point lodged in the bend of Oliver's elbow and he began to prise the bones apart.

Through blinding pain, Oliver chopped across and down. De Mohun snatched his hand away to avoid losing his fingers, and once again Oliver turned Hero and dug in his heels. He had no coherent idea of where he was going. All that was left was the hazy instinct to flee.

Showering turf, Hero spun round the side of the church and galloped towards the graves beneath the yew trees. Oliver could not determine whether the roaring in his ears was the sound of de Mohun's pursuit or his own heartbeat. One was as close as the other. The gravestone flashed past and the stockade fence loomed. Oliver lashed the reins down on Hero's neck. The stallion took a short, choppy stride, bunched his muscles and, ears back, took a flying leap.

The horse sailed over the posts, landed on the slope of the bank with a jarring thud, and stumbled and pecked all the way down to the ditch at the bottom. But he kept his feet and, with a tremendous surge, lunged up and out on to the far side.

Barely conscious, Oliver clung to mane and bridle. Through blurring vision, he watched de Mohun's bay take the stockade, drag a hindleg and come down hard on the bank. Man and horse somersaulted over and over, finishing in a tangled heap in the ditch. The bay threshed to its feet but, in the act, rolled and trampled upon its rider, mashing the chain mail into his body. The horse stood trembling and shuddering, bloody froth blowing from one nostril.

'Jesu,' Oliver whispered and, despite his agony, rode Hero over to look at de Mohun. He was face down in the ditch. If not dead, then he soon would be, for his nose and mouth were immersed in the churned, muddy water, but Oliver suspected that his soul was already on its way to hell.

Turning Hero, he headed towards the road and felt the wetness of blood sliding down his arm and webbing his hand.

The day that Godard passed at the alehouse was one of the most pleasant he could remember. It was not that he did anything out of the ordinary. He spent the morning hewing wood for Edith and, after a substantial midday meal of bacon stew and savoury griddle cakes, occupied the afternoon by mending her spade and her wooden rake. The delight was in living as he had lived before the war had torn the land apart; the delight was in looking at Edith as she went about her chores with quiet efficiency. She looked a good, buxom armful; a comfort when a man needed comfort, but she had strength too, and beautiful butter-coloured braids beneath her kerchief.

'Suppose you and your lord will be moving on tomorrow,' she said, and looked at him from her eye corner while preparing a broth with chicken dumplings.

Godard sighed and rose from his stool. 'Like as not,' he said, and went moodily to look out of the door, his arms folded, his massive frame propped against the opening. The light was shifting and slanting as the sun dipped westwards and a chill perked the air.

He heard the slosh of water as she stirred the cauldron. "Tis a pity,' she said after a moment. 'I did not realise how much I missed male company until I had one to myself again.'

Godard unfolded his arms and looked round. 'What about your customers?'

'Oh, them.' She sniffed and waved her ladle. 'They all have wives waiting at home, and those that don't are only worth a skillet round the head to send them away before bedtime.'

'I've never been married,' Godard said. 'When you're the youngest of eight, you don't expect to.'

Their eyes held for a moment longer. Then Edith made a show of bustle and Godard cleared his throat. 'Mind you, that's not saying I wouldn't like to be.'

She was silent, but he was strongly aware of her presence. One more step, one more push was all it would take. Being a cautious man he held back. Equally cautious, she avoided his gaze and went studiously about her business until the moment had passed.

Godard resumed watching the road. A child came with a quart pitcher and a request from his mother that it be filled with ale. He was followed by two men, thirsty after a day's toil in the fields. Godard drank a mug with them, then went to check on his horse. Shadows lengthened and dusk began to soften the world with shades of blue. The moon rose, luminous and cream-silver. The smell of chicken broth floated on the air in delicious wafts. Godard gnawed his thumb knuckle and willed Oliver to appear on the road, but except for villagers beating a path to the alehouse, it remained empty.

The stars twinkled out and the final strands of sunset vanished over the horizon. Finally Godard strode inside and swept on his cloak and hood. It was one matter for Oliver to tell him to ride on and seek another master, a different one for him to do it.