‘This is an ancient road,’ he breathed. Looking ahead, it was easier to see now. The road was so old that plants of all sorts had colonised it, but for all that the arrow-straight route was clear. It was a softer, yellower green than ordinary grass, and although the brambles had smothered it in places, there were yet more areas that were moderately clear.
They could move a little faster now. Although the branches and fallen trees hampered their movement, at least their path was better delineated, and they could see ahead for some way.
For Simon’s part, the idea that they should ride on at speed was taking hold. Although this man was not responsible for the capture of his daughter, nor for the threat of rape or death in the castle when Simon and Baldwin were trying to rescue her, yet he was aware of an overwhelming sense of hatred. Perhaps it was merely that Osbert was the last of the appalling group that had done so much to hurt the people of this area; perhaps it was the realisation that this man had killed and would do so again. It was not any desire to serve the Cardinal de Fargis, of that he was certain. No matter what the reason, he was determined to capture the man if possible. Osbert had participated in so many deaths, not only Anselm’s, and had tried to profit himself at the expense of all those he had seen murdered. It was enough to satisfy Simon.
And then he had another thought. This direction was leading back towards Jacobstowe.
‘What is he doing, going back to where he committed the crime?’ he wondered aloud.
‘It’s the only direction people won’t be looking for him,’ Roger said grimly. ‘And from there it’s not a long journey to Bude or some other coastal port, is it? He’s going to try to leave the country.’
Roman road near Jacobstowe
Hoppon was forced to hobble at speed to try to keep up with the man.
Since leaving the house, he had gone as fast as he could, his old dagger clattering at his side as he went. He had grabbed it at the last minute, hoping that he would not be forced to resort to it, but reluctant to go after Osbert without it.
If it was Osbert, of course. There was nothing he had seen so far that indicated that it was the man. It could as easily be some tinker or tranter who had happened across the old road and had decided to take the straight route. Except that now it was not an entirely straight route. A man trying that old path must negotiate the trees and roots that had churned the surface, as well as avoiding the great holes where men had dug up the dressed stones for their own use. And not many tranters would think of going by such a hidden route. Hidden routes meant hidden dangers. Men were happier to stay on the main roads.
He caught a glimpse, just a fleeting one, through the trees, and the sight made him set his jaw and hurry onward. Tab seemed to catch his mood, and stopped gambolling about his legs, instead moving with more purpose, as though he could see sheep to be rounded up and was keen not to fluster them.
The squeaking was loud now, and it was no surprise that Osbert couldn’t hear his approach. The noise was sharp and painful; then there was a loud crunch, and a curse.
‘The old git, he couldn’t even look after his barrow,’ Osbert said, and crouched low.
Hoppon could see that the wheel had dipped into a large hole, which had been concealed by the grass, and now, from the sound, part of the barrow was broken. It was enough to hold Osbert up. Hoppon moved forward cautiously, but even as he did so, Tab realised that his master felt that this was his enemy.
With a low snarl, the dog hurtled forward, determined to protect his master at all costs. He didn’t see Hoppon’s desperate signals. For his part, Hoppon saw only a monk in his robes, and urgently whistled and shouted to his dog. And then he realised that the monk had no tonsure.
Osbert heard the snarl and was up and facing the danger in an instant. It took him just a moment to see that there was only one dog, not, as he had feared, a whole pack of hounds on his trail. But one was enough. He drew his sword even as Tab launched himself at his leg. The dog’s teeth managed to grip his hosen, the canines ripping into his thigh, and then he brought the sword down, the point stabbing. It entered the dog’s back behind the shoulder blade and slipped down into his lungs, tearing through the ribs.
Tab gave a whimper and tried to pull away, but the terrible pain of the blade transfixed him. Try as he might, he couldn’t escape, and although he snapped up at the blade in a frenzy, it was to no avail. With the blood spraying from his nostrils as he desperately tried to get away, Tab began to shiver, and at last slumped, while Osbert set his boot on the dog’s back and tugged his sword free.
‘You old cretin. Did you think you could stop me?’ he snarled as he approached Hoppon.
Near Jacobstowe
Simon and Baldwin were both feeling the excitement mounting now. Simon instinctively drew a little nearer to Baldwin as they rode, their pace increasing as they found areas of brighter light, where the trees were thinner. All he could hear was the snap and crackle of his cloak in the rushing air.
The path was dangerous, he could see. There were stones dug up every now and again. No doubt it was the locals taking them in order to build houses and sheds. Dressed stone was not so easy to come by that a Devon farmer would turn his nose up at it. But it did mean that there were the twin risks of both potholes and loose rocks above the ground, either of which could break a horse’s leg. But for now, Simon did not consider the risks. He was concentrating on the capture of this last member of the castle’s team.
‘Simon! Hold!’
Baldwin’s urgent cry made him turn, and then he saw the two figures at the side of the road. He reined in, his horse digging long ruts where his hooves skidded on the soft grass, and was aware of Sir Richard and Roger pulling up to avoid him, then he was off his horse and running to the man.
Hoppon was breathing stertorously, his hands fixed over his belly as though trying to hold his blood in his body and let none escape. From the stains on his shirt and the gore that soaked the grasses at his side, he had not long to live, Simon thought. The man’s face was already grey and pasty from the cold as death took his warmth from him.
‘It’s Osbert. I heard him on the path. Thought to stop him. Speak with him. Tab wouldn’t wait; went for him. I tried. Tried to get him, but he was too quick.’
Simon saw the little dog’s twisted, bloody body and felt a wave of revulsion. This pair were no threat to anyone. There was surely no need to kill them. As he watched, Roger walked to the dog, and to Simon’s surprise crouched at the dead animal’s side, stroking Tab’s soft ears and the rounded head, while tears ran down his cheeks. There was no sobbing, no overt anger, but Simon could feel the man’s emotion. It was a slow, building rage.
‘Where did he go?’ Simon said quietly.
‘To the town. Jacobstowe. He’s clad in monk’s robes. Anselm’s robes.’
‘You will be avenged, Hoppon,’ Simon swore. ‘We’ll send a man to look to you.’
‘No. I’m … dead. Catch him. All I ask. Jacobstowe.’
Simon nodded and stood, but then he was struck with a wonderful terror. Edith was in Jacobstowe. She was in danger!
He ran to the horse, leapt into the saddle, snatched up his reins, and was off.
Jacobstowe
Osbert was sweating as he shoved the cursed barrow up the road. It had been hard work to make it so far, and now the swyving wheel was buggered, it was hard to keep the damned thing in a straight line. It wanted to waver off to the right all the time. At the first opportunity he would have to get rid of it and find another, one that was working. Or he could get this one mended, perhaps. It wasn’t as though he needed to worry about money, after all.