The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (46 page)

‘Good,’ Nicholas said as Richer climbed back into the saddle. ‘In that case, I’ll go on ahead with some faster riders. Richer, do you follow on and keep an eye on the trail in case the bastard turns off. I’d guess that he continues in a straight line, though, over the moors to the east. With luck, we’ll catch him if we simply hurry in this direction.’

‘Sir, you’ll need good men with you,’ Warin said.

‘I’ll take you, then, and two more of my men,’ Nicholas said.

‘I’ll come too, and my friend,’ Baldwin said quickly.

‘There is no need. Your horses are not so fast as ours,’ Nicholas told him.

‘You do not need to have a charge of murder laid about you,’ Baldwin said.

‘There is no murder of an adulterer,’ Nicholas said, his horse wheeling.

‘There is when it’s committed in cold blood. I won’t see that,’ Baldwin said more sharply. ‘Simon and I will be with you, Nicholas, and if you try to outpace us and kill your steward, I shall
personally
appeal you for murder.’

Nicholas fixed a fierce eye upon him as he steadied his mount. ‘You’d protect the man who adulterously took my wife, Sir Baldwin?’

‘No! But we’re here to find and question Gervase about murder, and I won’t see him killed before he has his opportunity to have his say.’

‘Who else could have done the murders? He ran, that’s proof of his guilt. If not him, who?’

‘There are some who accuse
you,’
Baldwin said. ‘You were out on your horse the night Serlo died. If you kill Gervase now, you’ll leave many people wondering whether that was why you slew him, to distract people from your own guilt.’

Nicholas pursed his lips with fury. For one moment he looked as though he might launch himself at Baldwin but then he jerked his reins and bellowed a command. Baldwin set spurs to his mount as the castellan galloped away, Warin close behind him.

‘Thanks, Baldwin. Just what I needed – a fast ride,’ he heard Simon call out to him sarcastically, but then they were tearing off across the brightly-lit grasses after Nicholas and Warin.

It was past noon now, and Gervase felt frozen to the core. His horse was limping, if anything worse than before, and he could feel the sweat starting to form ice all down his back. It was being chilled by the breeze which had started up. Over the moor here, at the eastern fringe, there were thin patches of ice, and the wind was flaying the flesh from his face. He pulled a flap of his cowl over his mouth, but it helped only a little. This weather was too foul for a man. Oh, for a fire and a jug of warmed ale! He could have killed for a cheery flame and bowl of pottage.

The ground felt oddly springy, and every so often it gave way, as though it was merely a façade, a thin fabric stretched over emptiness. He paused, staring about him at the little tussocks of stuff, not grass alone, which moved gently in the wind. When he took another step, he saw that the nearer ones shivered. There was a pool of water nearby, and that too rippled as he moved.

In an icy terror, he realised that he was on the fringe of a bog, one of those terrible places into which animals often strayed, never to escape. Standing stock still, he threw an anxious look over his shoulder. The land was unremarkable, just another flat expanse, as it was ahead. But he daren’t go on forward, he must go back. He pulled at the reins, then dragged the mount’s head around until it was facing the way they had come. The horse snorted and nodded his head a few times to show his displeasure, and then started to limp back with Gervase.

It was then, when he had gone only a short way, that Gervase saw the tiny figures breasting the hill.

‘The bastard! There he is!’ Nicholas shouted, waving his hand, and then he clapped his spurs to his horse and sped away.

Baldwin kicked his own beast, but he was exhausted. They had covered at least ten leagues without pause, mostly at a good pace, and Baldwin’s and Simon’s rounseys were feeling the distance. It would be fortunate indeed if they could make the return without suffering strains.

‘Warin, keep with him, in God’s name!’ Baldwin bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Don’t let him kill the man!’

Warin gave him a negligent wave of his hand, and then snapped his reins and set off after the castellan. Baldwin patted his horse’s neck, and then tried to urge him on again. The horse was game, and after tossing his mane, he started at a loping pace down the long shallow incline towards the men at the bottom. Simon’s horse trailed after them.

Baldwin could see that Gervase was in no better condition than them. He was sore-footed, from the look of him, and he stepped towards them with a gingerish manner, as though he was testing his feet. Baldwin couldn’t make out what he was doing, until Simon pulled up alongside him and roared to Nicholas and Warin: ‘He’s on a bog! Beware the marshes!’

But Nicholas and Warin were too far away to hear. Baldwin feared that they might run headlong into the mire and be swallowed, but even as he and Simon thrashed at their mounts, Gervase suddenly slipped beneath the crust, his legs and belly sinking below the green thatch.

His horse panicked, and leaped back as he disappeared, and then, as the reeds and grasses wobbled about him, he tried to jump. His momentum carried him over one patch, and he gathered himself and flung himself into the air again. This time, his landing was in the midst of a pool, and he reared, his hindquarters already disappearing in the filth that sucked him down. He splashed with
his forelegs, but it could avail him nothing. All he achieved was a more speedy destruction. As he flailed, the mire’s grip grew more strong, and by the time Baldwin and Simon caught up with Warin and Nicholas, the horse was already so worn out that he could scarcely lift his forelegs. He looked at the men with eyes maddened with fear, and Baldwin could read the plea, but he had no bow to put him out of his misery.

‘Help!’

Nicholas glanced at Gervase with a sardonic expression. ‘It’s a shame you brought that mount. He was worth something. A good horse is hard to find, and you’ve thrown him away.’

‘Do you have a rope?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I wouldn’t let you use it if I did,’ Nicholas replied, his forearms crossed over his horse’s withers as he watched Gervase slipping relentlessly under the surface.

Baldwin glanced back at Gervase. He was petrified. This was surely one of the most hideous of deaths: slow suffocation as the body was taken down into the mire. It made Baldwin shudder to think of it, and as he did so, he saw Gervase’s horse rear one last time. The brave mount was fighting, but his efforts were doing him no good, and were even helping Gervase to die more swiftly. The ripples from his straining were lapping the mire ever higher on Gervase’s breast now, and the waters were almost up to his armpits.

‘Please!’ he begged.

It was piteous. The horse’s head alone was visible now, and the eyes, red with terror, stared at the men standing so still at the edge of the mire. He looked at them accusingly, as though they could do something to save him, and then his head disappeared quite suddenly. It burst upwards once, a black froth blowing from both nostrils, a jet of mud from his mouth, and then he sank down again, and the bog moved twice, thrice, and then was still.

‘Please! Sir Baldwin – Squire! Won’t you save me?’

‘Die, you bastard!’ Nicholas roared. ‘Why should we save a murderer and adulterer? Die there, and take your time. I want to enjoy this.’

Baldwin was looking about him, but there was no hope of assistance. There were no buildings in sight, not even a small plume of smoke to betray a tin-miner’s camp. Reluctantly he accepted that they must either watch the man die, or try at least to reach him somehow.

He dropped from his horse. They were more than fifty yards from Gervase here, and Baldwin had no idea where the mire began. Gervase had managed to cross from here, so it must be relatively safe. He pulled off his cloak and untied his belt. With luck, the two together would give him the reach to rescue the steward if he could get close enough. He looked up at Simon, and Simon nodded, pulling his own belt free and joining Baldwin.

‘Simon, I’ll go over there, and try to reach him with my cloak. It’s five feet long, and if he catches it, I can perhaps haul him free.’

‘You’re too heavy. I’d best go,’ Simon said shortly.

Baldwin was going to argue, but Simon was serious, and Baldwin had to agree that he had right on his side. He was lighter, and could go farther on the rippling thatch than Baldwin. The knight nodded. ‘Be careful, Simon.’

‘That has to rate as one of the most pointless comments you’ve ever made,’ Simon said thinly.

This was the aspect of the moors which he found most frightening. There was something about mires which brought out dread in any man with sense. They shifted and moved every year, like animals seeking fresh prey, and even when they dried up in the summer’s heat, they were dangerous. A patch of firm grass could become a lethal trap for the unwary as a man fell into a hole that could be yards deep, from which the water had drained.

But the water was not drained from this one. This was at its most lethal, full to the brim, and working with that strange ability of mires, pulling on a man’s feet to suck him beneath the surface. Gervase’s expression was waxen, corpse-like. His eyes, terrified, stared at Simon with the full knowledge of his doom, should Simon fail.

If there was one breed Simon hated, it was murderers who hurt women. This man, he knew, might have killed Athelina and cut her children’s throats. But he might be innocent, and Simon was no judge. Swearing under his breath, he eyed the land between him and Gervase. He could walk a certain distance, and continued until he felt the telltale springiness underfoot and saw the tussocks of grass and rushes bouncing with each of his footsteps. Then he cautiously crouched down and inched his way forward.

It was painstaking work. The ground so close to his nose reeked of foul exhalations. Every movement reminded him of his own danger, as a shift of his knee made the carpet under his chest move. He swore under his breath and moved again, trying to unsettle the ground as little as possible. Then, when he was within a couple of yards of Gervase, there was a belch of gas from where the steward’s horse had been swallowed, and Simon felt the ripples expand outwards, jigging him up and down. Gervase was more obviously affected. The tears streamed down his cheeks, both now at water-level. His expression was one of simple anguish. He was convinced of his impending death, certain that nothing Simon could do might save him.

‘Take the fucking thing!’ Simon swore.

Gervase looked at him and lunged at the belt that lay within his grasp. He overbalanced and then almost drowned. His face sank below the water, and it was only by a lucky chance that he caught the belt.

‘God save us from sodding stewards,’ Simon muttered to himself as he began to haul on the belt, moving backwards, then
pulling, then moving back again. Gradually, the sodden figure of Gervase emerged from the bog, gasping for breath and sobbing in relief.

‘So why did he come back to scare me?’ Julia asked again.

Ivo shrugged comfortably. They were in Adam’s hall, seated on rugs and skins by the fire, still naked after their pleasing lovemaking, and the youth didn’t much care for the reasons. No wandering spectre of the night was going to spoil his day. ‘I expect someone heard that the priest was stuck in the gaol, and reckoned to steal a little of the church’s silver, that’s all.’

‘But why did he come to my room, then?’ she asked again.

Ivo considered. ‘Probably knew there was a gorgeous wench in here and wanted to have his wicked way with you.’

She thumped him, smiling, and he grabbed her, pulling her up and over him, then clasped her to him, both arms about her torso. She tilted her head back to peer down her nose at him, and then her expression changed. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? You wouldn’t have scared me like that just to climb into my bed?’

‘Sweetheart, no,’ he said, genuinely shocked. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that. No. And I think I saw a man at the back of the place when I walked in, though I didn’t reckon anything about it at the time. Wasn’t until I heard you scream and you let me in that I realised there could be something odd going on. No, I didn’t do it, I swear.’

She subsided against him, turning her head and resting her cheek on his chest. ‘I don’t know what he’d have done if he’d got in. I think he was going to kill me.’

Ivo stroked her head happily. He did me a favour, he thought to himself, scaring you into my arms. ‘He’ll be caught by now, anyway.’

There was a moment’s consternation when he wondered whether the man at Julia’s door had actually been Gervase, but
then Julia began to distract him, and he gave up all thoughts of the stranger.

Gervase was sprawled spread-eagled, taking in great gulps of air, unsure that he was truly safe at last. ‘My God! Thank you! Oh, thank you!’

‘Don’t be too glad yet,’ Simon said shortly. ‘You’re still deep in the shit.’

Gervase ignored the coldness in his voice, ignored everything but the thrill of being alive. A shiver ran down his body, from the tip of his skull to his feet, a shudder of voluptuous refreshment. God! Alive!

There was the tramp of hooves, and a harness squeaked and jingled. Then he heard the voice of the man who had once been his best friend. ‘Get up, Steward. You have a long, weary walk ahead of you. Best get started.’