Epic Historial Collection (29 page)

His fantasy was disturbed by hoofbeats on the winter-hard mud of the road. He drew his knife and hefted it, reminding himself of its weight and balance. At the point, it was sharpened on both sides, for better penetration. He stood upright, flattened his back against the tree that concealed him, held the knife by the blade, and waited, hardly breathing. He was nervous. He was afraid he might miss with the knife, or the horse might not fall, or the rider might kill Walter with a lucky stroke, so that William would have to fight him alone…. Something bothered him about the hoofbeats as they came closer. He saw Walter peering at him through the vegetation with a worried frown: he had heard it too. Then William realized what it was. There was more than one horse. He had to make a quick decision. Would they attack two people? That might be too much like a fair fight. He decided to let them go, and wait for a lone rider. It was disappointing, but this was the wisest course. He waved a hand at Walter in a wiping-out gesture. Walter nodded understanding and sank back under cover.

A moment later two horses came into view. William saw a flash of red silk: Ralph of Lyme. Then he saw the bald head of Ralph's companion. The two men trotted past and disappeared from view.

Despite the sense of anticlimax, William was gratified to have confirmation of his theory that the earl was sending these men out on errands. However, he wondered anxiously whether Bartholomew might have a policy of sending them in pairs. It would be a natural precaution. Everyone traveled in groups when possible, for safety. On the other hand, Bartholomew had a lot of messages and a limited number of men, and he might see it as an extravagance to use two knights to take one message. Furthermore, the knights were violent men who could be relied upon to give the average outlaw a hard fight—a fight from which the outlaw would gain little, because a knight did not have much worth stealing, other than his sword, which was hard to sell without answering awkward questions, and his horse, which was liable to be crippled in the ambush. A knight was safer than most people in the forest.

William scratched his head with the hilt of his knife. It could go either way.

He settled down to wait. The forest was quiet. A feeble winter sun came out, shone fitfully through the dense greenery for a while, and then disappeared. William's belly reminded him that it was past dinnertime. A deer crossed the path a few yards away, unaware that she was watched by a hungry man. William became impatient.

If another pair of riders came along, he decided, he would have to attack. It was risky, but he had the advantage of surprise, and he had Walter, who was a formidable fighter. Besides, it might be his last chance. He knew he could get killed, and he was afraid, but that might be better than living on in constant humiliation. At least it was an honorable end to die in a fight.

What would be best of all, he thought, would be for Aliena to appear, all alone, cantering on a white pony. She would come crashing off the horse, bruising her arms and legs, and tumble into a bramble thicket. The thorns would scratch her soft skin, drawing blood. William would jump on top of her and pin her to the ground. She would be mortified.

He played with that idea, elaborating her injuries, relishing the way her chest heaved up and down as he sat astride her, and imagining the expression of abject terror on her face when she realized she was completely in his power; and then he heard hoofbeats again.

This time there was only one horse.

He straightened up, took out his knife, pressed his back against the tree, and listened again.

It was a good, fast horse, not a war-horse but probably a solid courser. It was carrying a moderate weight, such as a man with no armor, and coming at a steady all-day trot, not even breathing hard. William caught Walter's eye and nodded: this was the one, here was the evidence. He raised his right arm, holding the knife by the tip of the blade.

In the distance, William's own horse whinnied.

The sound carried clearly through the still forest and was perfectly audible over the light tattoo of the approaching horse. The horse heard it, and broke its stride. Its rider said “Whoa,” and slowed it to a walk. William cursed under his breath. The rider would be wary now, and that would make everything more difficult. Too late, William wished he had taken his own horse farther away.

He could not tell how far away the approaching horse was now that it was walking. Everything was going wrong. He resisted the temptation to look out from behind his tree. He listened hard, taut with strain. Suddenly he heard the horse snort, shockingly close, and then it appeared a yard from where he stood. It saw him a moment after he saw it. It shied, and the rider let out a grunt of surprise.

William cursed. He realized instantly that the horse might turn and bolt the wrong way. He ducked back behind the tree and came out on the other side, behind the horse, with his throwing arm raised. He caught a glimpse of the rider, bearded and frowning as he tugged at the reins: it was tough old Gilbert Catface. William threw the knife.

It was a perfect throw. The knife struck the horse's rump point-first and sank an inch or more into its flesh.

The horse seemed to start, as a man does when shocked; then, before Gilbert could react, it broke into a panic-stricken gallop and took off at top speed—heading straight for Walter's ambush.

William ran after it. The horse covered the distance to where Walter was in a few moments. Gilbert was making no effort to control his mount—he was too busy trying to stay in the saddle. They drew level with Walter's position, and William thought: Now, Walter, now!

Walter timed his move so finely that William never actually saw the pole shoot out from behind the tree. He just saw the horse's forelegs crumple, as if all the strength had left them suddenly. Then its hind legs seemed to catch up with its forelegs, so that they all became entangled. Finally its head went down, its hindquarters went up, and it fell heavily.

Gilbert flew through the air. Going after him, William was brought up short by the fallen horse.

Gilbert landed well, rolled over and got to his knees. For a moment William was afraid he might run off and escape. Then Walter came out of the undergrowth, launched himself through the air, and cannoned into Gilbert's back, knocking him flat.

Both men hit the ground hard. They recovered their balance at the same time, and William saw to his horror that the wily Gilbert had come up with a knife in his hand. William leaped over the fallen horse and swung the oak club at Gilbert just as Gilbert raised his knife. The club hit the side of Gilbert's head.

Gilbert staggered but got to his feet. William damned him for being so
tough
. William drew back the club for another swing but Gilbert was faster, and lunged at William with the knife. William was dressed for courting, not fighting, and the sharp blade sliced through his fine wool cloak; but he jumped back quickly enough to save his skin. Gilbert continued coming at him, keeping him off balance so that he could not wield the club. Each time Gilbert lunged, William jumped back; but William never had quite enough time to recover, and Gilbert rapidly closed on him. Suddenly William was afraid for his life. Then Walter came up behind Gilbert and kicked his legs from under him.

William sagged with relief. For a moment there he had thought he was going to die. He thanked God for Walter.

Gilbert tried to get up but Walter kicked him in the face. William hit him with the club twice for good measure, and after that Gilbert lay still.

They rolled him onto his front, and Walter sat on his head while William tied his hands behind his back. Then William took off Gilbert's long black boots and bound his bare ankles together with a strong piece of leather harness.

He stood up. He grinned at Walter, and Walter smiled. It was a relief to have this slippery old fighter securely tied up.

The next step was to make Gilbert confess.

He was coming round. Walter turned him over. When Gilbert saw William he registered recognition, then surprise, then fear. William was gratified. Gilbert was already regretting his laughter, William thought. In a while he was going to regret it even more.

Gilbert's horse was on its feet, remarkably. It had run a few yards off, but had stopped and was now looking back, breathing hard and starting every time the wind rustled in the trees. William's knife had fallen out of its rump. William picked up his knife and Walter went to catch the horse.

William was listening for the sound of riders. Another messenger might come along at any moment. If that happened Gilbert would have to be dragged out of sight and kept quiet. But no riders came, and Walter was able to catch Gilbert's horse without too much difficulty.

They slung Gilbert across the back of his horse, then led it through the forest to where William had left their own mounts. The other horses became agitated when they smelled the blood seeping from the wound in Gilbert's horse's rump, so William tethered it a little way off.

He looked around for a tree suitable to his purpose. He located an elm with a stout branch protruding at a height of eight or nine feet off the ground. He pointed it out to Walter. “I want to suspend Gilbert from this bough,” he said.

Walter grinned sadistically. “What are you going to do to him, lord?”

“You'll see.”

Gilbert's leathery face was white with fear. William passed a rope under the man's armpits, tied it behind his back, and looped it over the branch.

“Lift him,” he said to Walter.

Walter hoisted Gilbert. Gilbert wriggled and got free of Walter's grasp, falling on the ground. Walter picked up William's club and beat Gilbert about the head until he was groggy, then picked him up again. William threw the loose end of the rope over the branch several times and pulled it tight. Walter released Gilbert and he swung gently from the branch with his feet a yard off the ground.

“Collect some firewood,” William said.

They built a fire under Gilbert, and William lit it with a spark from a flint. After a few moments the flames began to rise. The heat brought Gilbert out of his daze.

When he realized what was happening to him he began to moan in terror. “Please,” he said. “Please let me down. I'm sorry I laughed at you, please have mercy.”

William was silent. Gilbert's groveling was very satisfying, but it was not what William was after.

When the heat began to hurt Gilbert's bare toes, he bent his legs at the knee to take his feet out of the fire. His face was running with sweat, and there was a faint smell of scorching as his clothes got hot. William judged it was time to start the interrogation. He said: “Why did you go to the castle today?”

Gilbert stared wide-eyed at him. “To pay my respects,” he said. “Does it matter?”

“Why did you go to pay your respects?”

“The earl has just returned from Normandy.”

“You weren't summoned especially?”

“No.”

It might be true, William reflected. Interrogating a prisoner was not as straightforward as he had imagined. He thought again. “What did the earl say to you when you went up to his chamber?”

“He greeted me, and thanked me for coming to welcome him home.”

Was there a look of wary comprehension in Gilbert's eyes? William was not sure. He said: “What else?”

“He asked after my family and my village.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing. Why do you care what he said?”

“What did he say to you about King Stephen and the Empress Maud?”

“Nothing, I tell you!”

Gilbert could not keep his knees bent any longer, and his feet fell back into the growing flames. After a second, a yell of agony burst from him, and his body convulsed. The spasm took his feet out of the flames momentarily. He realized then that he could ease the pain by swinging to and fro. With each swing, however, he passed through the flames and cried out again.

Once more William wondered whether Gilbert might be telling the truth. There was no way of knowing. At some point, presumably, he would be in so much agony that he would say whatever he thought William wanted him to say, in a desperate attempt to get some relief; so it was important not to give him too clear an idea of what was wanted, William thought worriedly. Who would have thought that torturing people could be so difficult?

He made his voice calm and almost conversational. “Where are you going now?”

Gilbert screamed in pain and frustration: “What does it matter?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home!”

The man was losing his grip. William knew where he lived, and it was north of here. He had been heading in the wrong direction.

“Where are you going?” William said again.

“What do you want from me?”

“I know when you're lying,” William said. “Just tell me the truth.” He heard Walter give a low grunt of approval, and he thought: I'm getting better at this. “Where are you going?” he said for the fourth time.

Gilbert became too exhausted to swing himself anymore. Groaning in pain, he came to a stop over the fire, and once more bent his legs to take his feet out of the flames. But now the fire was burning high enough to singe his knees. William noticed a smell, vaguely familiar but also slightly sickening; and after a moment he realized it was the smell of burning flesh, and it was familiar because it was like the smell of dinner. The skin of Gilbert's legs and feet was turning brown and cracking, the hairs on his shins going black; and fat from his flesh dripped into the fire and sizzled. Watching his agony mesmerized William. Every time Gilbert cried out, William felt a profound thrill. He had the power of pain over a man, and it made him feel good. It was a bit like the way he felt when he got a girl alone, in a place where nobody could hear her protest, and pinned her to the ground, pulling her skirts up around her waist, and knew that nothing could now stop him from having her.