‘I am at your disposal, Gervase.’
‘Your kindness is overwhelming.’
‘The thought of these young people troubles me,’ said Gerold.
‘They may have suffered a grievous loss. I am used to imparting dread tidings in a way which can lessen the blow. And until their parish priest can be found, Gytha and Beollan may welcome the consolation that I am able to provide.’
‘Assuredly.’
‘Then let us repair to the stables at once, Gervase, and collect our horses. This embassy brooks no delay. You can furnish me with more detail on the journey.’
‘I will.’
They left the chapel together. Gervase was delighted. He would not only have someone to lead him through the forest; he would have the opportunity to get to know Brother Gerold better.
Gytha filled the wooden pail with water then began the long trudge from the stream back to the cottage. It was tiring work but it had to be done. Since her mother’s death, the chore had fallen to Gytha and she did not complain. As she struggled back through the undergrowth, she tried to convince herself that her father and brother would soon return with a plausible explanation for their long and worrying absence. They may have gone hunting further afield, or been detained at the home of friends, or one of them might have been injured and forced to rest overnight before coming back. It was foolish to fear the worst when all might be well.
They never told her where they were going. Gytha was not supposed to know because they feared that she would fret. When they brought home food for the pot, she realised they had been poaching even though they invented tales of having found a dead rabbit or hare or game bird lying in their path. Gytha was aware of the risks that her father and brother were taking but they had evaded the foresters and verderers for so long that she assumed they would never be caught. They were too wily and skilful at their trade.
Their hovel was a mean dwelling. It was a small, squat building made of rough timber and roofed with thatch. Its single room was divided into two tiny bays by a wooden screen. Five of them had lived in its cramped interior until her mother’s untimely death from fever. It was not a home that allowed either privacy or secrets. They were a close family.
When she finally reached the cottage and rested the heavy pail on the ground, she found Beollan sitting on the grass, absent-mindedly whittling a piece of wood with the knife his father had made for him. The boy was sullen and withdrawn. Since the disappearance of the others, he had hardly spoken a word. Beollan was no longer the noisy younger brother whom Gytha had to control with a mixture of firmness and affection.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
He took a long time to answer and did not look up. ‘Nowhere,’
he grunted.
‘You wandered off earlier.’
‘Did I?’
‘There are chores, Beollan. I cannot do them all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s unfair.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Help.’
He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Later.’
‘We must pull together.’
‘Must we?’
‘How else will we get through?’
‘Get through?’
‘We need each other.’
The second shrug was a gesture of hopelessness. Gytha softened and went across to give him an involuntary hug. Beollan seemed embarrassed. He looked down at the piece of wood in his hand then tossed it away into the bushes. Rising to his feet, he walked to the door of the cottage but paused when he heard hoofbeats approaching. The knife was now a weapon of defence and he gripped it tightly. Gytha moved to stand beside him and waited for the riders to emerge.
Gervase Bret and Brother Gerold came round the angle of a beech tree on their horses, pleased that they had found their way to the cottage. Beollan remained on the defensive but Gytha ran impulsively towards Gervase.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do you have any tidings?’
‘All in good time,’ he promised, dismounting.
‘You would not have come otherwise.’
‘That is true, Gytha. But first let me introduce Brother Gerold.
He has been my guide through the Delamere Forest.’
Gervase made no mention of his companion’s position as chaplain at the castle lest she be frightened by his intimate association with Earl Hugh. As it was, she took a step backward and regarded the monk gravely. He was a Norman and that imposed the utmost caution upon Gytha. Notwithstanding his cowl, she viewed him as a natural enemy.
Brother Gerold promptly disarmed her with a soft smile and proof of the ease with which he had mastered her language. His voice was friendly and persuasive.
‘Do not be afraid, my child,’ he said gently. ‘I have come to help you and Beollan. Gervase has told me about your predicament and my heart reaches out to you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, moved by his concern.
‘We have come to aid the search for your father and brother, Gytha.’
‘We have some idea where they may be,’ explained Gervase.
‘Where?’
‘Tarvin Hollow.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Beollan start. ‘Do you know where that is?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Have you searched there already?’
‘Close by, but not in the hollow itself.’
‘Will you come there with us now, Gytha?’
‘What are we going to find?’ she said warily.
‘Clues,’ replied Gervase. ‘Clues as to the wherabouts of your father and brother. That is where the trail begins.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I kept my word. I made inquiries for you.’
Gytha needed only a second to make up her mind. ‘We will both come,’ she decided. ‘Beollan will lead the way because he knows the forest paths even better than me.’
The boy was a reluctant guide but his sister scolded him until he agreed to help. Expecting to walk all the way, Gytha was astonished when Gervase took her by the waist and hoisted her up on to the saddle of his mount, clambering back up behind her to hold the reins. She had never been on a horse before, still less had such courtesy shown to her by a royal agent. Her nervousness was matched by a strange feeling of privilege.
Beollan spurned the offer of riding with Brother Gerold and instead set off at a steady trot. It was like following a young dog.
The boy went scampering off through the forest and took them through its labyrinthine interior with sure-footed confidence.
Without him they would never have been able to find such a complicated route through the undergrowth.
Gytha said nothing but Gervase could feel the warmth of her body and sense her excitement. The ride on the horse might somehow help to distract her a little from the bad news which he suspected might lie ahead for her. Beollan, too, anticipated grim tidings. Fifty yards or so short of Tarvin Hollow, he came to a halt and refused to go any further.
‘Take us all the way,’ she ordered.
‘No, Gytha.’
‘What is wrong with you?’
‘I will stay here,’ he said.
‘Why? What are you afraid of?’
‘Leave this to us,’ advised Gervase.
He and Brother Gerold dismounted and went forward on foot.
They came to a large clearing, beyond which was the deep hollow which gave the place its name. But it was not the depression in the ground which caught their attention. Both noticed the marks on an overhanging bough where something had chafed the bark.
They exchanged a glance and moved in closer.
Dried blood covered the ground beneath the bough and there were signs of something being dragged off in the direction of a nearby ditch. The two men followed the trail with tentative steps.
They soon found what they sought and feared.
‘Dear God in heaven!’ said Gerold, crossing himself.
‘May the Lord have mercy on their souls!’
The bodies were lying in the ditch at unnatural angles. Both were covered with ugly wounds and sodden with blood. The faces were hideous masks, distorted by the manner of their deaths then attacked by forest vermin. One man’s eyes had been pecked out, the other’s nose had been nibbled off. They were less like human faces than pieces of raw meat.