His horse caught the rope at the mouth, and it tore through the beast’s lips, catching on his teeth and jerking his mouth down to his breast, almost breaking his neck. There was a crack like a small cannon as the rope parted, and one end whipped around, cutting through muscle and tendons on the creature’s left shoulder like a razor and then ripping through Stephen’s thigh.
The pain made them mistime their leap, and instead of the beast’s forefeet landing square, both were angled away. There was a crack as a leg snapped, and suddenly Stephen was hurtling through the air. He had the foresight to drop his sword as he went, just before throwing his arms over his head. He landed in a pool of thick mud, which was at least soft, but winded and stunned, he remained there, panting, for a moment or two before he realised the danger.
‘Oh, Christ in chains!’ he muttered, and tried to stand. His head was sore, but it was the dull-wittedness from shock that slowed him. He could scarcely gather his thoughts as he forced himself to all fours. That was when he grew aware of the laughter.
Looking about him, he saw that his horse was thrashing about on his back, his foreleg flailing uselessly, whinnying in agony. The mud was flying up in all directions as he threw his hoofs about, and Stephen had to push himself away to be safe. And then, as he stared about him, he quickly fumbled in his message pouch. There were two, he knew, that should remain protected. He glanced down to check, and saw that he had the right ones. These he slipped under his shirt. These fools wouldn’t think to look there, he thought. There was no bitterness in his head, only a cold, firm resolve. He would die soon, he knew. His only conviction was that he would try to mark them beforehand.
It wasn’t the horse’s agony that was making the men laugh. It was Basil, who was trying to pick his way through the mud without smothering himself in it. In one hand he held a sword. Fortunately their attention was all on him, and none had seen Stephen’s quick extraction of the messages.
Better to die on his feet, he thought. He tried to stand, even tried to crawl to his own sword, but it was too far away, and his legs would not support him. He turned to face his opponent, pulling at his dagger as he did so, but Basil’s sword was already at his throat.
‘Go on then, you murdering prickle!’ Stephen hissed from clenched teeth. He had to clench them to stop them chattering.
‘We ain’t goin’ to kill you like that,’ Basil said. He leaned down, and suddenly slammed the pommel of his sword into Stephen’s temple. ‘No, you’re dying from an accident, master!’
The messenger was alive still, but his ability to resist was gone. As he was turned over and pressed face first into the mud, he could do nothing at first, and then, as the horror blazed in his mind and hideous pain started to sear his ravaged lungs, he was already too weak to fight back. He tried to kick, to punch, to pinch, anything, but the weight on his head was unrelenting, and his struggles gradually became more staccato as the life fled from him.
Fourth Monday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Furnshill
Baldwin knew something was wrong even as he slept. He was aware of a looming danger, a hideous and overwhelming presence. He dreamed that there was a menacing figure over him, and that although his sword was just to the side of his bed, he couldn’t reach it: he dared not. To move would be to alert the creature to his presence just as surely as calling out. The sweat was running from his body as he lay still, petrified with horror.
And then it was not him. This was not some wraith seeking him. It was looking for younger flesh. Baldwin realised it sought Edith, and with that the spell was broken.
He rolled from the bed, shivering with the chill as the cool morning air caught his damp flesh. The sweat had been no dream, and he was drenched, as was his bedding. At the farther extent of his hearing he could swear that there was a horse riding away, fast.
‘Darling …’ Jeanne mumbled, but he was already pulling a chemise over his head, thrusting his arms into the sleeves and hurrying to the chamber below, where Edith was supposed to be sleeping.
Jeanne was at the top of the stairs. ‘Baldwin?’
‘She is gone. The bed has been slept in, but the bedclothes are already cold to the touch. She must have risen long before dawn.’
‘The foolish child,’ Jeanne groaned. ‘Will she have gone to Simon’s house?’
‘I don’t know. I think I hope so. Better that than that she should have taken the Exeter road,’ he said.
‘At least the Exeter road will be quiet at this time of morning,’ Jeanne said reasonably.
‘Yes. But she will still need to get through the city gates. Ach! I was a cretin to trust her!’
‘Don’t berate yourself, Baldwin. Get yourself dressed, and I will fetch food for you to take. You will need to go to Simon’s before anything else.’
‘She may have gone to Exeter, though,’ he said pensively. ‘I shall have to send Edgar to Simon’s, while I go after her to the city, just in case she is in danger. It will hasten matters if I can see Bishop Walter and petition the sheriff too. Very well!’
Turning, Baldwin went up the stairs as quickly as he could, and began to dress in a hurry.
He would never forgive himself if harm came to that young woman.
Thorverton
Edith had known the roads all about this part of the country from an early age, and she had no fears about finding her way. From the age of eight she had been riding about these lanes with her parents when they visited Sir Baldwin, and often they would continue on from his house to go to the market at Exeter or to see their friend Bishop Walter Stapledon. Just as she had been able to ride to Baldwin’s the previous day, she was confident that she could get home again.
She had wanted only two things: to make sure that her father knew her plight, and to enlist the help of Baldwin too. There was no need for her to go to her old home at Sandford just now, though. She knew that Baldwin would send a man there. No, it was more crucial that she went to her own home in Exeter to begin to plan how to ensure the escape of her husband from gaol.
Peter was such a sensitive fellow, so mild of nature, so gentle and kind. She was convinced that he would find the experience of gaol absolutely horrific, and the only thought in her mind was how to get him out and free again.
There was a light mist over the ground as she dropped down towards the Exe, and she felt a chill. It had been a bitterly cold night, but then she always did feel the cold. It was so strange to experience that again now, after the last months of sleeping with her husband always at her side to warm her. In Baldwin’s house she had felt dreadfully uncomfortable, but that was only because her husband was not with her. Now she was cold and tired, but that was no surprise. How could she sleep while poor Peter was in Rougemont Castle, suffering from the freezing temperatures, wet, hungry and uncomfortable? It would be unthinkable that she should remain in Baldwin’s bed while Peter was there.
From somewhere there came a clatter, and she stopped to peer behind her. The mist was thicker here, and it was impossible to see anything, but she felt sure that she had heard a hoof striking stones. There shouldn’t be anybody out at this time of the morning, though. The city gates wouldn’t open for ages yet. She was only up this early because she was desperate to be closer to her husband. There was no reason for anyone else to be out on horseback, surely.
She felt a sudden sensation of absolute coldness and wondrous fear. It was hard even to turn back to face the road ahead, she was so nervous of whoever might be behind her, but she stiffened her resolve with the thought of Peter, and urged her horse onwards.