“Good man,” William said. “That is the way we will go. And we will have to hurry. It will be dusk soon and I would lief have these outlaws secure in our hands before darkness falls. Lead on, Eadric.”
Bascot gazed once more across the river at Gianni. The boy was still staring at him intently, his gaze locked to the place where Bascot stood. The Templar let his eye stay on the boy a moment and, as he did so, he saw Gianni raise his shoulders in a peculiar hunching motion, then let them drop. As Bascot watched, the boy did it again. The reeve’s nephew, Edward, who still had hold of Gianni’s arm, shook him for the movement, but the boy defiantly did it again, earning himself a cuff on the ear from his captor. Bascot saw Edward’s lips move in what must have been an admonishment to stand still.
Gianni was trying to convey something, Bascot thought. Because the boy was mute, they had long conversed by means of hand or body signals, even after Bascot had taught Gianni to read and write. But this movement was one which he had not used for a long time, not since those early days when the Templar had first come across the boy. It had been an instinctive gesture, both as a measure to sum up courage and, at the same time, a tensing of the muscles to withstand any blow that may have been aimed at him. It had always presaged the lad’s intention to run, to flee whatever threatening situation he found himself in. He had done it often in the first days of being in Bascot’s company, and it had slowly lessened as the Templar had earned his trust. Afterwards, many weeks later, Bascot had teased him about it, especially when he had given the boy some task that was disagreeable, such as the painstaking job of polishing his mail with an abrasive mixture of sand and vinegar. It had been a long time since he had seen Gianni hunch his shoulders in that particular way, preparing for flight. But he was doing it now, trying to tell his master something. Bascot hoped he was interpreting it correctly.
Bascot hauled on the rope still attached to Fulcher and pulled the outlaw upright. “Can you swim, poacher?” he asked.
The brigand looked up in surprise and nodded.
“How well?” Bascot asked.
“My father was an eeler. I could swim before I could walk.”
“And do you know this stretch of the river?”
“As well as the palm of my own hand.”
Bascot leaned down. “I will give you your chance to take this Green Jack to hell with you, or to escape, if that is what you prefer.” At the look of distrust that appeared on Fulcher’s lacerated face, the Templar went on. “I do not give a damn if you were responsible for the squire’s death, nor do I care if you take deer that belong to the sheriff, the king, or even God. I care only to get back my servant, unharmed.”
Under cover of his shield Bascot withdrew the short dagger he had at his belt and held it up. “This is yours if you do as I say. I will put it in my boot and you may take it when the time is right. Betray me and you will find it in your throat.”
Fulcher looked at the face above him, the leather eyepatch glistening with water, the one sighted eye so pale a blue it seemed transparent. Slowly the outlaw nodded in assent. “For a chance to see Green Jack sent to his grave I would face the jaws of hell twice over.”
Bascot straightened, a grim smile on his face. “Then tell me the lie of the riverbed as it passes here.”
In the forest on the eastern bank of the Trent, Gerard Camville and his men waited. The sheriff was impatient; he had two of his archers stationed near the river’s edge, staggered one behind the other, to relay to him what was passing at the spot where the Templar and Fulcher stood, but so far he had only been told of an exchange of words and the appearance of the boy and some of his captors on the far side of the water. Beside him, his son, Richard, felt his father’s mood, but he knew his sire’s temper. No matter how restless he seemed, he would wait until he gauged the moment right. It was one of Gerard Camville’s greatest assets. The powerful coil of anger that seemed to be ever present in his personality was always in danger of erupting, and often did, but on the battlefield he controlled it, having an innate perception of timing and an almost eerie knowledge of the moment when an enemy was weakest.
Suddenly one of the bowmen from the riverbank appeared silently through the trees and made his way to the sheriff’s horse. “My lord, the Templar is preparing to take the brigand across the water. He has lashed the outlaw’s wrist to his saddlebow and is riding his horse down into the water.”
“Hell’s teeth,” Camville swore under his breath. “Once he is on the other side, we cannot reach him quickly. I told him to make them bring the boy to him.”
“They would not, lord. I heard them refuse.” The archer looked up, a slightly puzzled frown on his face. “Lord, I think the Templar must have a plan.”
“Why do you think so, man? For the sake of Christ, spit it out.” Camville’s face had flushed a dangerous red.
The archer remained unperturbed at the harsh words, used as he was to the sheriff’s temper. “Because he only made a pretense of tying the outlaw’s wrist,” he replied. “I could see clearly. He wrapped it, made as if tying a knot, but did not do so. Fulcher can slide himself free at any time.”
“The bastard,” Camville swore. “If he loses me my captive and does not recover the boy, I’ll hang him instead, Templar or no.”
“Easy, father,” Richard counselled. “De Marins is not a foolish man, nor a cowardly one. We must see what it is he means to do, then assist when it is needed.”
“Aye,” the sheriff agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “We will wait, but not too long, and from a nearer perch than this.” He urged the powerful stallion he rode nearer into the trees along the riverbank, and signalled Ernulf and the band of men-at-arms behind him to follow as quietly as they could. When the sheriff called a halt, they were near enough to the river for a quick charge to bring them through the trees and to the waterside in moments.
The other archer who had been watching at the river’s edge came sliding back through the trees. “My lord sheriff, the Templar is well out into the river now. Almost halfway across.”
“Then let us pray to God that my brother is there to help him when he reaches the other side, for our horses would need to sprout wings to come to his aid.”
The water was cold and writhed like a snake. Fulcher felt the shock of it, like red-hot iron on the welts and bruises on his body, as he slipped into the water at the Templar’s side. He had felt the shudder that Bascot’s mount had given and the need for its rider to urge the horse forward with a dig of spurs. On the other bank, the trio holding Gianni watched intently, the boy seeming to shrink as he reached his hands down between his knees and crouched, waiting. Other shapes were appearing in the trees behind them, along with the outlines of bows, held nocked and at the ready. Above, the sky was darkening, seeming to lour in elemental disapproval. The rain continued to fall.
“How much farther?” Bascot asked Fulcher.
“Not yet. We must go just a few more paces.” The outlaw had to pull himself up out of the water to make himself heard by the Templar. Once he had spoken, he dropped back down, easing his shoulders.
They were in the middle of the river now. The water was surging up around the chest of Bascot’s horse, streaming alongside in waves, soaking Bascot to the thighs and cresting in Fulcher’s face like the flap of a curtain. The brigand could feel the slip of the rope at his wrist, the Templar’s boot and stirrup digging into his side, and the rough uneven bed of the river as his feet touched it lightly and bounced away, letting himself be carried forward by the horse’s strength, not his own.
Bascot’s horse suddenly stumbled, its hooves hitting the hard ridge of gravel that ran down the river just a little off the middle of its course. The grey lifted one foreleg, then the offside hind, as it prepared to scramble up the obstacle it could only feel, not see. At that moment, Fulcher pulled on the rope around his wrist, sliding it free, and said the one word, “Now.” Almost immediately he dove under the animal’s belly, coming out on the other side. Bascot felt him grab at his stirrup, the hand snake up his boot and grasp the dagger, then Fulcher pushed away, sliding into the current and cutting through the water with powerful strokes. Bascot let out a shout, wheeled his horse in the water and drew his sword. The outlaws on the bank ran forward, shouting at each other and pointing to where Fulcher’s dark head could be seen just above the surface of the water as he cleaved a path away from them.