“We have already questioned him.” “I will speak to him now.”
Fulk rode off with two of his men while Hamo dismounted and walked into the middle of what had once been a hovel. He kicked the ashes viciously then looked up towards the town.
“Did they bury him up there?” he yelled. “I’ll dig his foul body up and bring it down here to roast it!”
The steward soon returned with the prisoner. The man was another
slave on the estate and he was being dragged along by the two soldiers with ropes. He could barely keep his feet and fell headlong to the ground when he reached Hamo. A kick made him moan and writhe. The soldiers jerked their ropes and the man was hauled upright. He already bore the marks of a beating but Hamo did not even notice them. He took out his sword and used the flat of the blade to strike the prisoner across his chest. The man doubled up in agony.
“Where is the boy?” demanded Hamo. “I do not know, my lord …”
“Where is Wistan!”
The sword hit his thighs this time and brought him to his knees. He swore that he knew nothing but Hamo did not relent for a second. The
pain was excruciating and the man gabbled for mercy. Wistan had fled in the night and nobody had any idea where. Hamo kept striking him until a stray remark finally brought the savage assault to an end.
“Wistan was a strong swimmer, my lord …” “Swimmer?”
Hamo turned to look at the estuary with brooding ire. “Fulk …”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Have you searched Northey?” “No, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“Jocelyn did not think the boy could have-” “He may be wrong.”
Hamo snapped his fingers and the two soldiers released their ropes. The prisoner collapsed to the ground and lay there in a twitching heap. Unaware of the truth, he had unwittingly given them a clue, which might lead them to Wistan. His pain was now mixed with remorse. Hamo put a foot in the stirrup and mounted his horse.
“When is the next low tide?” he said.
Oslac the Priest was a reliable friend. When Gervase Bret walked across to the Church of All Souls’ to remind him of his promise, the man went off with him at once to the Hythe. The fishermen had been back hours ago to unload the day’s catch but many loitered throughout the afternoon to talk with the crews of any trading vessels or to make running repairs to their own boats. There was a chance that Brunloc was among them. Since it was Brunloc who had found the body of Guy FitzCorbucion in the water, Ralph Delchard had declined the opportunity of making his acquaintance. Fishermen and sailors made him queasy. Therefore, when Gervase went off, he stayed at the shire hall to question the town reeve more about the problems of collecting taxes in the community. Canon Hubert had been separated from food for far too long and was riding back to Champeney Hall on his donkey with Brother Simon and an escort They felt it had been a profitable day. While Hubert revolved on a spit of self-congratulation, Simon basted him with flattery.
Gervase was in luck. Among the boats that crowded into the harbour was the one that belonged to Brunloc. It did not take the priest long to find the man and to introduce him to Gervase, but he was an unwilling witness. Authority of any kind unsettled him and the sight of a royal officer made him doubly wary. Brunloc, a dark, wiry man in his thirties, possessed the ruddy face of his occupation as well as its unambiguous stink. He was a simple soul who made a simple calculation. Gervase was only in town for a short while. When the young man left, Hamo FitzCorbucion would still be there and the father of the murder victim might not be pleased if Brunloc had passed on too much information to this stranger.
“I have my work,” he grunted.
“We will not keep you long, Brunloc,” said the priest. “We just wish to know how and where you found the body.”
“I’ve already told you.” “Tell me again, please.”
“It could help,” said Gervase.
The man looked at him with suspicion, then gave a very brief account of what had happened. Even when Oslac tried to coax more out of him, the fisherman remained laconic. Gervase tried his own form of persuasion and seemed to be winning the man’s confidence, but he extracted no more information. He thanked Brunloc and walked away with the priest towards the place where the body was actually found. The fisherman’s directions had been exact but it still took them some time to locate the correct part of the marshes. Oslac watched with amazement while Gervase hitched up his gown and plunged into the filthy water, squelching along the muddy bottom of the river and pushing his way through the reeds. It was a bold and dangerous method of research but it told him precisely what he wished to know. When Gervase had examined the area carefully, he came back to the bank to be hauled ashore by Oslac’s outstretched hand. He squeezed the worst of the water out of the hem of his gown and rubbed the mud off his shoes in the long grass. He was cold and sodden but he felt that the experiment had been worthwhile. Gervase was still trying to tidy himself up a little when a figure suddenly jumped out of the bushes. A wizened, white-haired man had been watching him from cover and now hopped up to him with a vacuous grin on his face. At the sight of the sword and shield, Gervase backed away but the newcomer clearly intended him no harm. He simply came in close so that he could whisper a secret that was giving him an intense pleasure.
“I saw who killed him!” he said with a cackle.
Before Gervase could reply, the old man let out a whoop and scuttled off quickly before vanishing into the bushes. His mad laughter could be heard mingling with the cries of the birds.
“Who on earth was that?” asked Gervase. “Ignore him,” said Oslac. “He talks in riddles.” “But he said he witnessed the murder.”
“He says lots of things, I fear. Pay no heed.” “Why not?”
“Because the poor man has lost his wits.”
“Who is he?”
Oslac smiled. “The friend you sought.” “Friend?”
“That was Tovild the Haunted.”
Chapter Six
As soon as he heard the noise, he knew that they had come for him. They were still half a mile away but the distant baying of the hounds sent a hideous message echoing across Northey Island. Wistan flew into a panic and took to his heels. He ran the fifty yards to his next lair and dived into it like an animal going to ground. Even there he did not feel safe and he soon abandoned the first burrow for another that he had picked out. Keeping low as he raced across a field, he flung himself down with panting gratitude as he reached his new hiding place. It was beneath the roots of a huge old elm. Nature had capriciously gouged a massive handful of earth out of the ground beside the tree and created an inviting refuge for someone who was prepared to crawl in under the exposed roots. Wistan caught his breath. He began to think clearly for the first time.
Know your enemy. Algar had taught him that. Before he dropped back to his next burrow, he ought to assess the strength of the pursuit. Only when he knew exactly what he was dodging could he best decide on his tactics. Wistan came slowly out of his cave beneath the tree and climbed up the side of the pit, putting his hands on the rim before raising his head with furtive care. When he got his first glimpse of them, his heart nearly stopped. There were dozens of them and they seemed impossibly closer. Their horses cantered gently at the heels of the hounds who were sniffing and yelping their way along in high excitement. Wistan was not looking at a solitary old man in Viking battle dress this time. These were Norman soldiers in full armour and he could even identify the FitzCorbucion crest of a raven. The might of Blackwater Hall had been unleashed against him.
Blind fear took over once more and he completely forgot about the little bundle that he had carried with him into the hollow beneath the elm. Instead, he crawled out of the pit and into the undergrowth before he dared to stand up again. Ignoring the other hiding places that he had found and made ready, he sprinted the few hundred yards towards the coastline. Wistan was now on the little promontory to the northwest of the island and water was on three sides of him. The thought gave him confidence. Even a pack of hounds could not find his scent in the sluggish movement of the river. He ran into the shallows then swam to a thick clump of reeds, which were diverting the current with their obstinate tenancy. Wistan went in amongst them, his body still submerged by water and his head concealed by the spikey reeds.