“In the way that I know best.”
Gervase took his arm and guided him slowly around the perimeter of the courtyard, hugging the darkest corners and using all the cover that the various buildings offered. The motte itself was guarded by a thick stone wall, but its gates were left open to allow free access between the two parts of the castle. Gervase and Omri slipped through and flattened themselves against the cold stone.
A mound of earth now climbed dramatically in front of them. It was topped by the high stone tower in which the castellan and his family resided. No door would be left obligingly open here. Guards and guests would be inside the tower. Gervase Bret was almost ready to concede defeat.
“Take me closer,” said Omri. “Up the mound.”
They scrambled up the incline with great difficulty. Omri’s age had taken its toll and his harp was an additional handicap. When they reached the base of the tower, the old man was panting. He needed a few minutes to get his breath back, then he tucked himself in against the stone. With deft fingers, he played a few chords on his harp.
“What are you doing?” hissed Gervase.
“Sending a message.”
“You’ll rouse the whole tower.”
A man’s head poked out of a window higher up, but soon withdrew.
Evidently they were invisible from above. It gave them more confidence. With Gervase’s help, Omri made his way around to the opposite side of the tower, flattening himself against its slabs before he plucked at the strings again.
This time there was more response. Two figures leaned out of one window, saw nothing, exchanged a joke, and took their laughter inside. A third figure appeared at a lower window and waved a hand.
Gervase described what he could see. Omri was thrilled.
“We’ve found him!”
“But how do we get him down?”
“My old harp can only call him,” admitted Omri. “You must do the rest, Gervase. How high is the window?”
“Twenty feet or more.”
“Too high for you to climb, too long for him to jump.”
“We need a rope.”
Omri chuckled. “I’ll wait while you fetch one.”
“From where?”
Even as he asked the question, Gervase answered it. Outside the stables he had noticed a small cart, obviously used to bring provisions into the castle. When it was loaded up, it might well need ropes to secure its cargo. Gervase lay on his side and rolled swiftly down the mound until the ground finally levelled out. Running to the gate, he peered through into the bailey then stayed low as he scurried towards the stables.
Raucous laughter was still coming from the gatehouse. Nobody had yet missed or heard the two gaolers. Gervase trotted on. There were no ropes on the cart itself, but he found a coil hanging on a nail inside the stables. It was stout hemp and more than long enough for their purpose. He was about to carry it away when his eye caught something else. It was an iron bar almost three feet in length. He snatched it up and bore his booty off to the tower.
Omri was still there and the figure was still at the tower window.
Gervase gestured with the rope and got a wave of acknowledgment from above. Omri was now in the way. Gervase took him gently back to the base of the mound and left him there with his harp. Ascending the incline once more, Gervase chose a point halfway up it to give himself an angle. He tied the end of the rope to the middle of the iron bar and had a few practice swings.
The figure above watched with fascination. Gervase signaled for him to withdraw into the chamber. When his target was ready, Gervase uncoiled the rope, took a firm grip on the bar, and tossed it upwards.
It reached the window, but bounced off the stone. The clang brought no enquiring eyes. A second attempt also failed and made more noise.
Figures appeared at two separate windows higher up the tower and looked down into the darkness for a few minutes before they finally vanished.
Gervase lay facedown on the mound until he felt it safe to look up again. The figure was back at the lower window. Something fluttered. Gervase guessed what it must be. Bedding was being placed across the stone base of the window to deaden the sound of the iron bar. It encouraged the marksman below. He waited until the space was again unoccupied before returning to his task. Holding the bar like a javelin, he hurled it straight and true. It went in through the window and landed with a muffled clink.
He was now perspiring freely with the effort and the excitement.
Gervase would still have to smuggle a blind man and a youth out of the castle yard, but he would meet that problem when he came to it.
Rescuing Omri’s companion from the tower was his immediate concern. He lay on the mound and waited, but the window remained empty. What was causing the delay? Had the noise aroused guards in the tower? Had they rushed into the chamber where the iron bar and rope now lay?
It was several minutes before relief came. The figure returned to the window and waved. The rope dropped slightly as the iron bar was fitted across the window to act as a brace for the descent. It was not a long climb, but the figure at the window hesitated. Gervase stood up and gestured his encouragement. Every second was vital if they were to get completely away. As the body finally emerged through the window, Gervase had some idea of the age and size of their companion.
The figure was hooded and clad in a cloak. He was of medium height and lithe movement. Holding the rope in firm young fingers, he began a slow and careful descent. The iron bar was a reliable accomplice. It held the weight easily. As the youth got lower, his confidence grew. Gervase reached up to help him, his outstretched hand brushing the heels above him. There was a sudden gasp as the climber lost his nerve and let go of the rope.
Gervase broke the fall, but he was knocked over in the process.
Lying across him was the sobbing figure of the youth they had come to rescue. Gervase sat up quickly to offer comfort and to still the noise, but the shock deprived him of all speech. The hood had fallen back to reveal long braided hair that fell down over one shoulder.
Omri’s companion was not a youth at all.
Gervase was looking into the face of a young woman.
Golde’s return to Hereford brought her sister consolation and alarm.
Delighted to see her, Aelgar was deeply upset by what she heard.
When the death of her betrothed was a distant event in Archenfield, it had somehow not seemed quite real. Golde’s visit brought it terrifyingly close. She had seen what little remained of the house in which Aelgar would have lived with her husband. Though she suppressed some facts out of kindness, Golde could not hide them all. Her sister shed many tears at the thought that the man she loved could provoke such hatred and brutality.
“Who were they, Golde?” she said.
“We will know in time.”
“Warnod was the kindest man on earth.”
“I thought him so.”
“Why did they have to kill him in that way?”
“It was revolting.”
“They destroyed everything that he owned.”
“Not quite.”
“And they destroyed me.”
Golde held her close and let her cry her fill. She had been right to come back home. Her heart told her to linger in Archenfield, but her head urged a return to Hereford. It was unfair to steal fleeting joy at the expense of her sister. Idwal’s advice had been unwelcome at the time, but she now accepted its soundness.
Regrets were inevitable, but her life had been strewn with them.
Ralph Delchard was merely the latest. Golde forced herself to believe that he would not, in any case, have had any time for her. With a lost companion to find, a murder to solve, and official business to trans-act, he could not be bothered with the widow of a Hereford brewer.
Golde had good reason to see him again, but it would be on a more formal basis. Those moments alone in the moonlight at Pencoed were the sum of their happiness together.