Twenty-four
Godfroi De Ournay had not accepted Richard Camville’s invitation to join the armed party that was following in Bascot’s wake. He had given the condition of his horse as an excuse for declining. The animal had indeed become slightly lame on the last leg of the journey from Boston, but Godfroi had checked on him earlier that day and had found the tenderness in his mount’s foreleg almost disappeared. He could, in any case, most probably have secured the loan of a horse from the Camville stables, but had left Richard before his friend could offer one.
The real reason he had refused to accompany the sheriff and his men had been that he had wanted some time alone, to think. Ever since he had spoken to the Templar and had been told of the suspicion that Hubert had been involved in, or had knowledge of, a plot against the king, his mind had been in a whirl. Although he had vociferously denied the charge to the Templar, and to Richard Camville when the sheriff’s son had asked about it, both denials had been a lie. Inwardly he cursed his dead half brother. Hubert had plagued them all his short life, always whining and complaining, and now, even in death, his well-remembered nasal voice threatened the peace of his family. Godfroi got up and replenished the wine cup from which he had been drinking with the contents of a flask kept beside the bed in the small cramped chamber he was sharing with Richard. As he took another swallow of the vintage, Godfroi thought back to the time, some months ago, when Hubert had been on a visit to his mother at the de Tournay manor house in Boston. William Camville had often given the boy leave to go home for a short space-most probably glad to be rid of him for a while-but this time neither he nor his brother Ralph had been aware of Hubert’s presence until it was too late.
They had been ensconced in an upstairs chamber when he had arrived and it was not until Ralph had gone outside to use the garderobe that they had discovered Hubert lingering outside the door. Their half brother had made out that he had just arrived and been preparing to knock when Ralph had opened the door, but both Godfroi and Ralph had wondered afterwards if he had been listening to their conversation. Hubert’s play of innocence had reassured them and they had thought of it no more. But Godfroi was thinking of it now, and cursed his half brother once again.
He got up and strode to the arrow slit high in the wall that served as a window for the chamber. His vantage point looked south, the direction from which King John would come. His thoughts raced, trying to untangle the reason for Hubert’s murder. Had the lad, as he and Ralph had at first suspected, eavesdropped on their conversation and discovered that they were privy to a plan being hatched in the northern part of the kingdom to overthrow John and place Arthur on the throne? If that conversation had been the basis for the barely concealed innuendos Hubert had apparently been so fond of spouting, it was likely that the murderer was someone who had also been party to the plot, and had killed their half brother to still his wagging tongue. If that was so, had Hubert been murdered soon enough, before he had revealed Godfroi and Ralph’s names to any who would betray them?
Godfroi felt cold sweat break out on his brow, from where it dripped and ran into his eyes, as he thought of what his fate would be if the king became aware of their treachery. That the proposed plot had come to nothing would matter little. John was not like his dead brother, King Richard. He did not have a forgiving nature, nor did he trust lightly. Godfroi swallowed the rest of his wine, then poured himself yet another cup. He must hope the de Tournay brothers’ secret had died with Hubert and prayed, with all his heart, that his half brother’s murderer would not be caught.
To the north of the oak where Bascot waited with Fulcher, Alain and Renault were crowded close behind William Camville on the western side of the river. Sherwood was a vast forest, spreading over a good portion of Nottinghamshire, but its eastern edge splayed out like an inkblot, touching the banks of the Trent in more than one place, as it did in the area they were now in, where the forest abutted the river for a stretch of roughly two miles. Its writ was in the province of the sheriff of Nottingham but it was unlikely he would complain about their trespass for, not only was he a friend of Gerard’s, he would also welcome the capture of any of the brigands that continually plagued his territory.
The small group led by the sheriff’s brother also included Roget, Tostig and the young forester Eadric; the woodsmen having been ordered to accompany them so that they could help guide William’s men through the forest. Tostig was mounted, with Eadric riding pillion behind him. Both men carried bows. They had all forded the river just moments before.
“We must try to work our way close to where the Templar is without signalling our presence to the outlaws,” William said. “We must catch them before they retreat into the forest. Our mounts will hamper us once we are amongst the trees and we will be sure targets for any arrows loosed from their cover. Are there any trails, Tostig, that we can use?”
“None that I know of, my lord,” Tostig answered.
William Camville shook his head in irritation and Renault, who had been studying the stretch of riverbank that wound to the south of where they stood, said, “My lord, the river is shallow as it runs close to the bank on this side. Could we not walk our horses in the water for a space? It would cover any sound of our approach and would get us nearer to the Templar.”
William considered this, then asked Tostig how far it was to the spot where Bascot was to take Fulcher.
“A little under half a league, my lord. But the river turns close to the place, and to the outlaws’ advantage, for it curves eastwards. If we are in the water, we cannot get too near before we will be seen. And the river deepens at the bank not far from here. It would be treacherous for the horses.”
William hunched forward to lean with both hands on the raised front of his saddle and gaze at the turbulent expanse of water. “A good thought, Renault, but unfortunately one we cannot use. We must make our way through the forest and lead our mounts; otherwise, their passage will be heard long before we are seen.”
“My lord Camville,” Eadric spoke up hesitantly, “I know the woods on this side a little better, perhaps, than Tostig, for I was in the employ of one of the king’s agisters for Nottingham before I came to Lincoln.”
William swung around to the young woodward. “If you know something that may help us, speak up,” he commanded.
Eadric’s fair face flushed with embarrassment, but he answered the baron without hesitation. “There is a path, lord, only a little way from where we stand. It is a deer track, but a well-used one. We would still have to lead the horses, but could make much better time than by a winding course through the trees.”