“Never!” Camville growled. “Even if you give them what they want, they will kill the boy anyway, and you as well, if they can. It is a risk that cannot be taken.”
“Sir Gerard,” Bascot said, “I ask this as a boon from you. The boy is very important to me, more than a servant. He is like my own son.” The admission cost him dear, for although he had come to realise the depth of his feelings for Gianni, he had never before admitted it out loud, even to himself. “If you will grant me this favour, I pledge that I will leave the Templar Order and become your liegeman. It is all I have to offer; if you would have my life I would surrender that as well.” To reinforce his sincerity, Bascot dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
Nicolaa, knowing how much the words had cost this reticent and solitary man, stepped forward and laid her hand on Bascot’s shoulder. “There is no need to humble yourself, de Marins. You have already given my husband and myself more service than was required for your pallet and sustenance. While we would relish your joining our retinue permanently, neither Gerard nor I would wish you to do so under duress.”
She turned to her husband, who had stopped his restless pacing and was standing motionless beside her, a cup of wine forgotten in his hand. “Do you agree, husband?”
Slowly, Camville nodded. “I shall give you your boon, Templar, without restraints,” he said. “You shall have Fulcher as bait for this carrion, but you will not go alone. Ernulf and I will follow, with some of the castle guard.”
As Bascot made to protest, the sheriff held up his hand. “We will keep out of sight and wait to see what they do. If they have the boy and truly intend to exchange him for the outlaw…” Camville shrugged and did not finish the sentence. “Once your servant is safe we will take the brigand back and perhaps catch a few more of these wolf’s heads in the doing of it.” He looked up from under his heavy brows at Bascot. “If they do not have the boy, they will already have killed him, de Marins, and will attempt to kill you also, once they have their confederate. We will be there to see that does not happen.”
There was a resolution in the sheriff’s face that told Bascot he would brook no argument and the Templar had to admit that Camville’s reasoning was probably correct. He knew he would not get the imprisoned brigand to use as a ransom unless he agreed to the sheriff’s plan, and if Gianni was dead-he felt his breath squeeze in his chest at the thought-he would wish to kill as many of the outlaws as his sword could reach, Fulcher amongst them. He nodded in acquiescence to Gerard Camville.
It was not even the half part of an hour later when Bascot set out. The rain was now falling heavily, being driven in gusty sheets by a fitful wind that blew from the northeast. Fulcher, hands bound and a rope around his neck, was mounted on a sumpter pony, with Bascot astride the grey he was accustomed to use, and holding the end of the rope that secured the brigand. Beside the Templar, Tostig rode, bow slung across his shoulder and arrows in his waist quiver, to guide Bascot to the spot by the river that was to be the place of the meeting.
Behind, in the bailey, Gerard Camville was mounting the big black stallion that was his destrier. The sheriff was in full armour, as was his brother William, who was waiting for one of the grooms to lead out his own deep-chested roan. Another knot of riders was also gathering-Richard Camville, Ernulf, Roget, a handful of men-at-arms, and the squires Alain and Renault. Bascot gave Fulcher a prod in the back with the point of his unsheathed sword and the outlaw, still weak from the beating he had received from Roget’s men, kicked the pony into a shambling trot, preceding the Templar out of the west gate. The sheriff watched them go, waited until he heard the cathedral bells ring out the hour of Sext, then spurred his horse to follow.
Twenty-one
It had been almost dusk before the outlaws gathered around the man in the chair ceased talking. Gianni had watched them intently. He could not hear what they were saying but the days he had spent begging in Palermo had made him practiced in recognising people’s attitudes from the way they stood or gestured with their hands. From the manner in which a person walked, or held their head, it was possible to judge if they would be generous or not, if they would be angry at being importuned or merely ignore the outstretched hand with blank eyes, if they would look guilty for being without alms to give, or self-satisfied because they had more than the beggar. The same had been true of the other rag-wrapped urchins with whom he had shared the small piece of wharf where he had slept and taken shelter. Some had been fearless in their harassing of the merchants, ship owners and sailors that worked or came to trade at the wharf, knowing which ones would be pricked by shame and throw a coin and which ones would respond with a curse or the kick of a boot. But others, Gianni among them, had been too small and frightened to try such tactics, resorting to a helpless whine or cringing tears to wring the price of a piece of stale bread for their efforts. Even amongst themselves it had taken stealth and guile to hide any successful result of their begging. They were friends only when all were hungry. As soon as any alms were given, the recipient would quickly secrete the pittance he had been lucky enough to gain or, if not quick enough to hide it, to swallow it, whether bread or coin, knowing that, if it were the first, it would fill his stomach and if it were the second, it would be safe from the rough clutching hands of the others until he could void it in secret.
It had taken Gianni only a few moments to forget his fear of the dark circle of trees surrounding him and remember those days, and to realise that the outlaws here in the forest were no different from those he had known in the time before the Templar had come. Resolutely he pushed thoughts of wolves and other nameless terrors from his mind and concentrated on studying his captors.
It had been apparent from the first that the man seated on the chair was their leader, even as the burly miserable-tempered boy Alfredo had been the self-appointed captain of the band of urchins in Sicily. And this man was the same type as Alfredo, too, a bully, but clever with it, using sharp words and stinging blows to rule those whose mind and body were not as quick or as strong as his own. The reeve’s nephew, Edward, had called the man Jack, but Gianni thought of him in his mind as Diabolo, like the devil he had once seen painted on the wall of a small church where he and some of the other smaller boys had sometimes begged food from the priest in the chapel. The picture had imprinted itself on Gianni’s mind. It had been just inside the entrance, a painting of a huge figure grinning down at the writhing bodies of the unshriven souls at his feet while he poked them with the pitchfork he held in his hand. Curling spirals of flame had risen up around the satanic figure, enfolding the head and body in loops and whirls of hell-smoke, just as the man called Jack was wreathed in the strange winding of stems and dead leaves. And, just like the Diabolo in the mural, this Jack pushed and prodded at the people gathered round him with his heavy staff, chastising as he saw fit and commanding their obedience.
Finally one of the brigands had been summoned to come forward to where Jack was seated. Reverently the man had lifted up a little box and taken from it a small pot and quill, and a piece of dirty and much-scraped parchment. The paper and quill he handed to Jack, then laid the box carefully across the leader’s knees and held the pot ready while Jack dipped the pen and wrote on the parchment. The band of outlaws looked on admiringly as Jack penned some words on the paper. Gianni doubted whether any of them were literate, which was another means whereby Jack had them in his thrall. Then the paper was rolled up and given to one of the band. Jack pulled him close and whispered in his ear; the man had nodded and hurried off into the forest.