The stable boy had left a cresset lighted upon a stand, as is common, so he might see to deal with any beast which needed attention in the night. By its flame we saddled Bruce and the palfrey. I tossed my sack of instruments across Bruce’s rump, being unwilling to leave the sack with the innkeeper for even one day, and we set off down Ock Street guided by the light of a quarter moon.
The eastern sky was growing light when we approached the wood north of East Hanney. The path into the forest was yet dark, but we had traveled that way often enough that it was no trouble to find the clearing where we had before left the horses, then make our way to the nettle-crusted stone wall. I was heartily weary of the journey and this place, and breathed a prayer to the Lord Christ that I could soon put East Hanney forever behind me.
By the time we arrived at the wall the new day had grown light enough that we could see Sir Philip’s manor, its house and outbuildings, quite clearly. I was astonished at what else I saw.
Two shadowy figures stood beside the decaying hen coop where we had found Sybil Montagu. Someone was once again imprisoned in that shed. Was Sybil there again? If so, the men who were to take her to her father had rather come from Sir Philip. But how would he have known that she could be found at the abbey guest house?
Perhaps another prisoner was in the shed. Amice Thatcher? That seemed unlikely. Or perhaps Sir Philip, his scheme for ransoming Sybil Montagu a failure, had seized some other nobleman’s child, or the heir of some wealthy burgher.
The morn was cold, and my wounds, stiffened in the night, ached as we peered over the wall.
“Two men now,” Arthur said. “Sir Philip ain’t gonna chance ’is prisoner escapin’ again. But who could he have there now? Suppose it’s Sybil Montagu?”
“Mayhap.”
“We gonna free ’er again, then?”
“I have other concerns. If Sir Philip has retaken Sybil Montagu, he can keep her for a time. Serve him right.”
“Aye,” Arthur chuckled.
Only those with good reason may absent themselves from mass on All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. Would an assignment to keep vigil over Sir Philip’s prisoner be considered good reason?
It was. Less than an hour after Arthur and I took station behind the wall, the church bell called East Hanney’s residents to the church, where on this day would be said prayers for those dead but not yet released from purgatory. If such souls there be, prayers can do them no harm, and if no purgatory exists, prayer is generally a good thing anyway.
We heard the pealing of the bell and watched to see if the guards left their post. They did not.
“Reckon Sir Philip’s got the lass back in that shed?” Arthur asked.
“Or some other prisoner has been taken and is now held there. If it is Sybil in the shed, somehow Sir Philip learned that she was at the abbey guest hall.”
As I spoke the words I guessed how Sir Philip might have discovered Sybil. The abbot was Peter of Hanney. Was he a friend to Sir Philip Rede, and had he learned who was sheltered in his guest hall? This could be, but I would not concern myself now with the possibility. If Sybil was once again held in the shed, the experience could do her little harm. She might even learn humility, which discovery would greatly improve her disposition. When I could, I would send word to her father of where she might be found.
“How we gonna spy out them horses with men standin’ so near to the stable?” Arthur asked.
I had been considering the same problem, and thought I had an answer. The guards stationed at the shed were in stature much like Arthur: sturdy and squarely built, short-legged and made for strength, not speed. I could easily outrun Arthur, and even but a week removed from being pierced by an arrow I felt recovered enough that I could successfully flee the two men I saw across the meadow.
“If I distract one of those fellows,” I said, “can you take the other?”
“Believe so,” he grinned.
“Here is my plan. All others are at the church. We’ll have but those two to deal with. Walk with me on the road to the village. We’ll not cross the field. They’ll see us coming and be ready for mischief. No honest men would approach them through a wood and across a meadow rather than by the road.
“If they see us approach the village they will likely take us for two simple travelers, unconcerned about who might see them enter the village. We will be too far away to be recognized, I think, if they were among those who witnessed Osbert’s beating and our rescue.
“After we pass behind the first houses, you hold back. I will turn from the road just past the third house, and enter the gate to Sir Philip’s manor. I’ll try to get the guards to chase me. Few men can outrun me — surely not those fellows.
“If they both follow, you open the door to the shed and see who is there. Then go to the stable and inspect the right-rear hooves of the beasts there. You know what to look for.”
“If ’tis Sybil in the hencoop,” Arthur grimaced, “what am I to do with her?”
“Nothing. Tell her, or whoever is there, to flee to the church, and after the mass seek the priest and tell him of her plight. I wish to be done with her.”
“And if both them fellows don’t chase after you, what then?”
“You must overcome the one who remains behind. When you have done so, toss him in the shed in place of whoso may be there now. I’ll allow the one who pursues me to keep close, so he may believe he can catch me, until you have had time to inspect the stable. We will meet here in an hour or so, after I have shaken loose from pursuit.”
The events which followed went nearly according to my plan, which, later, when I thought back on the day, surprised me. Generally when I construe some design for catching felons, or seeking the truth of a matter, some unforeseen complication unhinges the scheme.
The gate before Sir Philip’s manor was constructed of rotting wood and rusting iron. He needed to spend more upon his manor and less upon French wine. But even though the hinges squealed, the guards did not know of my approach and so looked up, startled, as I strode around the corner of the house and approached them.
“Who’re you?” One of the guards found his tongue and challenged me.
“I come from Sir Henry Montagu, of South Marston. He has sent me to demand the return of his daughter. Where is Sir Philip? At mass, no doubt. You are left here to see that the lass does not escape? Must be in that hencoop, eh?”
“Dunno what yer talkin’ ’bout,” one said. “Sir Philip don’t like folk creepin’ about ’is manor.”
I would not have described my approach as “creeping,” but thought the moment inopportune for a discussion of word definitions. The guard who clarified Sir Philip’s likes and dislikes was reaching for his belt, where an unornamented but serviceable dagger was sheathed.
“Tell Sybil that her father knows of her capture, and if she is not released to me immediately, he will return with a dozen of his men to tear this manor to pieces!”
This I said loudly enough that Sybil, were she in the shed, might hear and would not need to be told again. I would have advised the guards to say the same to Sir Philip, but the more irascible of the two had by this time drawn his dagger and begun to approach me. Sir Philip would learn of my words soon enough even if I did not instruct the guards to repeat them to him.
I took to my heels, feigning fear of the approaching dagger. Actually, I did fear the blade. As I hoped, the guard lumbered after me, waving his dagger over his head and demanding that I halt. I had hoped that both would follow, but so long as one came after I was confident that Arthur could deal with the man left behind.
The guard was faster than I expected, or I was slower than before my wound. I had thought I would need to keep my pace to a trot so as not to leave the fellow so far behind that he gave up and returned to the manor. I did stay comfortably ahead of the fellow, but ’twas not so easy to do so as I had thought ’twould be. I resolved to seek no more foot-races until I had recovered fully from my wound.