Arnulf and Alexius had been given sturdy ponies and a larger horse had been found for Benedetto. Josse was just wondering how Utta would ride when she approached him and asked shyly if she might ride with him. She was, it transpired, none too easy with horses.
So once again he helped her up behind him on Horace’s back. Then, with Morcar in the lead on his own chestnut gelding and Josse bringing up the rear, the party prepared to ride out of Saxonbury. The Lord and his family came out to see them on their way and, for the first time, Josse caught a glimpse of the Lord’s wife. She was tiny and bent with the inflammation of the bones from which so many of the elderly suffered. But her dark eyes beneath her filmy veil were bright, and there was affection in her face as she waved her visitors away.
The group fell silent as they went down the long sunken track from the hilltop. Then Arnulf said something to them, and as one they began to pray. Josse heard Utta, seated just behind him, join in and, to his surprise, he recognised the words of the Paternoster.
When the prayers were over — they seemed to take a very long time — he remarked tentatively, ‘You said the Paternoster.’
‘Of course!’ she replied. Then, before he could ask another question, she added, ‘We pray for a safe journey.’
With more fervour than he had thought he felt, Josse said, ‘Amen to that.’
Considering that they were a party of whom the majority of the members were not used to riding long distances, they made good progress. Morcar appeared to know exactly where he was going and he led them along secret, hidden tracks up on the ridges with quiet confidence. He seemed to be aware of the frailty of the women and made frequent short stops. Often he would ask briefly if everybody was all right and, when they said yes, lead them off again straight away.
They stopped some time in the early afternoon to eat and drink. Josse estimated that they had covered about nine or ten miles, which he thought good going. Approaching Morcar, who was sitting by himself tearing with strong white teeth into a piece of dried meat, he said, ‘How long till we reach the coast?’
Morcar squinted, shaded his eyes with his hand and stared briefly up at the sun. ‘We’ll be at Pevensey by nightfall, provided we meet with no mischance. We’re about halfway, maybe a little less.’
‘Good.’ Josse was staring at the group, studying each one in turn. He saw Utta with an arm around Aurelia’s shoulders, supporting her while she drank something out of Utta’s flask. He wondered whether Utta’s supply would last them all the way to the Midi and the relative safety of the Languedoc. ‘You think we can get them a boat?’ he asked Morcar.
‘It should be possible.’ He touched a small leather pouch that hung from his belt. ‘Many a man will ferry people across the water without asking too many questions if he is sufficiently well paid.’
They sat for a while longer. Then, as Benedetto and Alexius gathered up the remains of the food and drink, Morcar asked them to remount so that they could be on their way.
It happened as they were crossing the Cuckmere valley.
The swell of the South Downs was rising up ahead of them and Morcar had taken a track that led south-east, around the end of the Downs and to the sea. The Cathars were in good heart; they knew that it was not far now to the coast and that soon they would be on their way across the Channel.
Thanks to Morcar’s knowledge of the hidden tracks, they had passed not a soul on the way. But now, in the long grassy valley, they were much more exposed; somebody watching out for them would have been able to spot them from several miles away.
Josse felt his earlier unease return. Now the sensation was much stronger; he put a hand down to the hilt of his sword and then checked that his dagger was in his belt.
The Downs were huge now and right in front of them. Josse thought he could make out the ancient beacon on top of the Caburn, away to his right. Please, he found himself silently praying, please take care of them, for just a little longer. .
The he heard the sound of a galloping horse.
It was faint as yet but, even as he stopped to listen, the sound grew rapidly louder. The others had noticed it too; Morcar had drawn rein and was twisting round in the saddle, a frown on his face.
The Cathars, every one of them, had blanched in fear. Benedetto had already slipped off his horse and was standing, arms out, in front of Arnulf, Guiscard and the drowsy Aurelia, as if preparing to defend them.
Josse had turned Horace and was staring up the road that came out of the north. From the direction of Hawkenlye Abbey.
Had she given away the secret? Had the Abbess’s religious duty won out over her compassion?
Narrowing his eyes, he watched as the lone horseman came closer. A man. . but dressed not in clerical black but in bright burgundy. And he was laughing, calling out happily, ‘Sir Josse! Sir Josse! I have caught you up at last!’
It was Gervase de Gifford.
Dismounting, Josse stood waiting while de Gifford reached the group. He was so relieved to see the man that he did not think to check on how the others were reacting. Reining in his sweating horse — he had obviously been riding hard — de Gifford slipped from the animal’s back and ran towards Josse.
Sensing sudden movement behind him, Josse had only just begun to turn to see what it was when a blurred shape rushed past him. Crying out in his own tongue, Benedetto was on to de Gifford before the sheriff had a chance to raise as much as a hand to defend himself.
He thinks we are apprehended! Josse realised in anguish. With his very limited command of the language, Benedetto must have heard only the word caught and believed that his beloved group had just met with disaster. And, simpleton that he was, he did not perceive the significance of de Gifford’s smiling face nor of Josse’s obvious pleasure and welcome.
Josse threw himself on to Benedetto’s back. The big man had already felled de Gifford and had his hands on the sheriff ’s throat. Josse put a hand around each huge wrist and pulled as hard as he could. He managed to dislodge Benedetto’s right hand with his own right hand — his stronger hand — but could make no impression on Benedetto’s left. And, in an image out of the recent past, he saw the throat of the dead prison guard and the deep impressions of Benedetto’s hand. His left hand.
De Gifford, immediately feeling the slight lessening of the fatal pressure on his windpipe, twisted his head and pressed upward with his left shoulder. Catching Benedetto unprepared, he managed to knock him slightly off balance. Josse tried to grab at the big man but was thrown off as easily as a farmer tosses a hay bale. He fell heavily, banging the back of his head on the hard ground. Getting groggily to his knees, shaking his head to clear the starbursts of brilliant light from his vision, he raised his head to the struggling men. .
. . and saw that Benedetto was kneeling astride the prostrate de Gifford, pinning him with his huge thighs. He had pulled a long, thin blade from somewhere under his robe and was about to thrust it into de Gifford’s chest.
With a great cry — ‘NO!’ — Josse lunged at Benedetto. He was still dazed, still acting on his fighting instincts, and he drew his dagger without thinking. Throwing his left arm around Benedetto’s neck, he dragged him backwards. With a roar, Benedetto put up his right hand and grabbed Josse’s wrist in a grip that felt like an iron clamp.
In Benedetto’s other hand, the thin blade was still poised over de Gifford’s heart. As Josse watched, its point went into the rich brocade of the burgundy tunic. The man was about to die.