There it was, tracks of a cart, underbrush flattened. He moved on, even more slowly now. After a time he called a halt, listening. ‘What was the last you heard the cart?’ he asked.
‘A while ago,’ said Michaelo. ‘A rattling and groaning that bespoke a rough patch of track.’
Stephen agreed.
‘Ride as quietly as you can now,’ said Owen. ‘Ears pricked. They might be off the track. We do not want to miss them.’
‘Captain,’ Michaelo called softly, pointing toward the trees on Owen’s blind side.
From the woods a large man limped out from the trees, holding the reins of a horse with his one hand. Crispin. Owen lifted his arm to call a halt. Crispin had offered to ride out before dawn and wait, meaning to follow if the cart came through. As he had an official interest in the woods, if seen he had a plausible reason to be there. Closer now, Owen saw a man slumped on Crispin’s horse.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘John. One of yours, I believe,’ said Crispin. ‘Wriggled his way out of Wolcott’s cart, trussed, and could do nothing to break his fall. He’s addled, but I believe he was taken while watching the Wolcott house.’
Alfred dismounted and approached, lifting the man’s chin. ‘Yes, this is John. He relieved Roland this morning.’
‘He’s a good man. His quick thinking was a big help to me yesterday. His escape from the cart went unnoticed?’ Owen asked.
‘Wolcott had dismounted and was arguing with the three men walking ahead. One was supposed to be leading the horse but kept wandering up to talk to his mates. Wolcott said they were slowing him down and he ordered the two to follow behind.’
‘Are they now?’
‘Yes, and having a time trying to walk fast enough. But John grew restive and I worried we would give ourselves away. I don’t think they are far ahead. The two women have been very quiet.’
‘Do you want to head back to the city with John?’ Owen asked.
‘No. I want to see this. I’ll follow behind.’ He looked up at the horse. ‘I could use help mounting.’
Alfred came to his aid.
Owen ordered Stephen to go first, keep a steady pace, quick enough, but not so quick they gave themselves away. He held his breath now as he listened for sounds of a cart. And there it was. Stephen lifted a hand, nodded. Michaelo whispered a prayer. Owen strung his bow.
14
Consequences
A customer stepped aside with a cry as a man rushed into the apothecary.
‘You must come! It’s the widow Wolcott!’ Breathing hard, the intruder leaned on the shop counter, gulping air. On his sleeves, bloodstains.
Luke, Emma Ferriby’s nephew. Lucie wiped her hands and drew him aside. ‘You said the widow Wolcott. But Dame Beatrice departed the city this morning.’
He shook his head. ‘No. Someone else.’
Jasper came out of the workroom. ‘I can watch the shop.’
Lucie motioned Luke to follow her out to the garden, depositing him on a bench. ‘Sit.’
‘No time. She is bleeding.’
But Lucie was already on her way to the kitchen, where she told Kate they were going out. ‘I think I will need your assistance.’
‘Mine?’
‘Jasper must tend the shop. Come.’ Lucie picked up the basket of supplies she kept by the door and hurried out.
The rumble and squeak grew louder, and the sound of boots striking the road in a brisk march. Close now. Alfred guided his horse to one side of the track.
‘Weapons?’ Owen asked Crispin.
‘If those two had bows I would have seen them. Knives and brawn, if we’re lucky, an axe if we’re not.’
Nodding, Owen whispered to his mount to calm it as they eased past Alfred. Ahead, the trees thinned, revealing the men hurrying to keep up with the laden cart. Three people were clearly visible on the seat, two veiled women and Gavin Wolcott. Owen notched an arrow and aimed at Wolcott’s shoulder, but before he let it fly a woman turned round and called out a warning. Wolcott raised his bow, an arrow notched, but had to rise and turn round to shoot.
In that pause Owen hit Gavin’s shoulder, the impact toppling him forward onto the horse, who skittered. The men in the rear began to charge Owen and his men, but halted at a woman’s scream.
‘The cart! Gavin has fallen beneath the cart!’
Alfred and Stephen surged past Owen to take the men.
‘Captain, down!’ Michaelo shouted behind Owen.
As he pressed himself to the horse’s neck something rushed past. Looking behind him he saw an axe lodge in a tree.
‘The man who was leading the cart,’ said Michaelo. ‘He has a knife now.’
Straightening with his arrow ready, Owen aimed at the arm holding the knife, then the man’s thigh. As the man fell he was pushed away by Gavin, who was crawling out from beneath the covered cart. One of the women clambered down to help him while her companion stumbled down off the cart and hobbled away.
‘I’ll stop her,’ Michaelo called out.
Owen, arrow notched and ready, walked his horse toward the woman leaning over Gavin. Rearing up, she bared her teeth at him. No veil covered her head now. Gemma Toller, her face and the front of her gown bloody. In her hand she held a substantial knife, and the way she wielded it, the discipline with which she raised her arm – she knew how to throw it. There was nothing for it but to immobilize her. As the arrow struck her upper arm her eyes widened in disbelief and she slipped down onto Gavin. That should keep him down for a moment.
Dismounting, Owen moved to the cart, untying a corner of the cover as Crispin rode up to him, John riding pillion.
‘The roll of bedding is on the other side,’ said John.
As Owen stepped over Gemma she reared up, grabbing for him.
Crispin raised his walking stick and struck her in the head. ‘I never did trust her.’
Stephen and Alfred dragged their two men toward the cart, both bound hand and foot, dumping them on the track and then dragging Gemma and Gavin out of the way. Michaelo followed them, leading a woman who stumbled along on a tether to his saddle. Not Dame Beatrice, but one of her maidservants.
‘Where is your mistress?’ Owen asked.
‘I do not know,’ she sobbed. ‘He told me to dress that woman in my mistress’s gown. He said we must protect my mistress, that she was accused of murdering the old master, so this woman was pretending to be her.’
‘Can anyone tell me where Beatrice Wolcott is?’ Owen growled.
One of the men who had followed the cart was sitting up now. ‘That whore? I tossed her in a shed where she’ll rot as she deserves.’
‘How dare you!’ the maidservant cried. ‘My mistress is no whore.’
‘No? She slept with his son to bear Wolcott brats. What would you call her?’
Stephen silenced him with a kick to his chin.
Gemma Toller struggled up to fall upon Gavin, pounding on him with her fists. ‘What have you done with her? What have you done?’
Crispin used his stick to push her off the man. ‘You might have asked after her earlier,’ he said.
‘I did. Gavin– He said Beatrice was leaving in a separate cart by Micklegate Bar. We will be hanged for this,’ Gemma whimpered.
‘Likely,’ said Crispin.
Owen shushed him, told Stephen and Alfred to tie up the prisoners, motioned to Michaelo to help him search for the man rolled in bedding. The monk dismounted, tying the reins to the cart.
The roll was where John had said. As he pulled it toward him Owen could feel that it did indeed contain a body, one that twitched, then jerked as he handled it. Once on the ground he cut the cords holding it together and opened it. Inside, Alan Rawcliff lay unconscious, bruised and battered, his shirt stiff with dried blood.