‘A horse has been here, and he stumbled in the dark, I’d guess. This colour, it’s steel. The hoof slipped down this side and tore out this hole in the turf. It didn’t break a leg, but I’d guess this mount is in pain now. You can see that the beast favours its hoof from here on. Look there, and there! You can see that the hoofprint is less distinct than before, less than other hooves. It’s favouring that hoof, and that means he’ll not have travelled far after this accident.’
‘Good,’ Nicholas said as Richer climbed back into the saddle. ‘In that case, I’ll go on ahead with some faster riders. Richer, do you follow on and keep an eye on the trail in case the bastard turns off. I’d guess that he continues in a straight line, though, over the moors to the east. With luck, we’ll catch him if we simply hurry in this direction.’
‘Sir, you’ll need good men with you,’ Warin said.
‘I’ll take you, then, and two more of my men,’ Nicholas said.
‘I’ll come too, and my friend,’ Baldwin said quickly.
‘There is no need. Your horses are not so fast as ours,’ Nicholas told him.
‘You do not need to have a charge of murder laid about you,’ Baldwin said.
‘There is no murder of an adulterer,’ Nicholas said, his horse wheeling.
‘There is when it’s committed in cold blood. I won’t see that,’ Baldwin said more sharply. ‘Simon and I will be with you, Nicholas, and if you try to outpace us and kill your steward, I shall personally appeal you for murder.’
Nicholas fixed a fierce eye upon him as he steadied his mount. ‘You’d protect the man who adulterously took my wife, Sir Baldwin?’
‘No! But we’re here to find and question Gervase about murder, and I won’t see him killed before he has his opportunity to have his say.’
‘Who else could have done the murders? He ran, that’s proof of his guilt. If not him, who?’
‘There are some who accuse you,’ Baldwin said. ‘You were out on your horse the night Serlo died. If you kill Gervase now, you’ll leave many people wondering whether that was why you slew him, to distract people from your own guilt.’
Nicholas pursed his lips with fury. For one moment he looked as though he might launch himself at Baldwin but then he jerked his reins and bellowed a command. Baldwin set spurs to his mount as the castellan galloped away, Warin close behind him.
‘Thanks, Baldwin. Just what I needed — a fast ride,’ he heard Simon call out to him sarcastically, but then they were tearing off across the brightly-lit grasses after Nicholas and Warin.
Chapter Thirty
It was past noon now, and Gervase felt frozen to the core. His horse was limping, if anything worse than before, and he could feel the sweat starting to form ice all down his back. It was being chilled by the breeze which had started up. Over the moor here, at the eastern fringe, there were thin patches of ice, and the wind was flaying the flesh from his face. He pulled a flap of his cowl over his mouth, but it helped only a little. This weather was too foul for a man. Oh, for a fire and a jug of warmed ale! He could have killed for a cheery flame and bowl of pottage.
The ground felt oddly springy, and every so often it gave way, as though it was merely a façade, a thin fabric stretched over emptiness. He paused, staring about him at the little tussocks of stuff, not grass alone, which moved gently in the wind. When he took another step, he saw that the nearer ones shivered. There was a pool of water nearby, and that too rippled as he moved.
In an icy terror, he realised that he was on the fringe of a bog, one of those terrible places into which animals often strayed, never to escape. Standing stock still, he threw an anxious look over his shoulder. The land was unremarkable, just another flat expanse, as it was ahead. But he daren’t go on forward, he must go back. He pulled at the reins, then dragged the mount’s head around until it was facing the way they had come. The horse snorted and nodded his head a few times to show his displeasure, and then started to limp back with Gervase.
It was then, when he had gone only a short way, that Gervase saw the tiny figures breasting the hill.
‘The bastard! There he is!’ Nicholas shouted, waving his hand, and then he clapped his spurs to his horse and sped away.
Baldwin kicked his own beast, but he was exhausted. They had covered at least ten leagues without pause, mostly at a good pace, and Baldwin’s and Simon’s rounseys were feeling the distance. It would be fortunate indeed if they could make the return without suffering strains.
‘Warin, keep with him, in God’s name!’ Baldwin bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Don’t let him kill the man!’
Warin gave him a negligent wave of his hand, and then snapped his reins and set off after the castellan. Baldwin patted his horse’s neck, and then tried to urge him on again. The horse was game, and after tossing his mane, he started at a loping pace down the long shallow incline towards the men at the bottom. Simon’s horse trailed after them.
Baldwin could see that Gervase was in no better condition than them. He was sore-footed, from the look of him, and he stepped towards them with a gingerish manner, as though he was testing his feet. Baldwin couldn’t make out what he was doing, until Simon pulled up alongside him and roared to Nicholas and Warin: ‘He’s on a bog! Beware the marshes!’
But Nicholas and Warin were too far away to hear. Baldwin feared that they might run headlong into the mire and be swallowed, but even as he and Simon thrashed at their mounts, Gervase suddenly slipped beneath the crust, his legs and belly sinking below the green thatch.
His horse panicked, and leaped back as he disappeared, and then, as the reeds and grasses wobbled about him, he tried to jump. His momentum carried him over one patch, and he gathered himself and flung himself into the air again. This time, his landing was in the midst of a pool, and he reared, his hindquarters already disappearing in the filth that sucked him down. He splashed with his forelegs, but it could avail him nothing. All he achieved was a more speedy destruction. As he flailed, the mire’s grip grew more strong, and by the time Baldwin and Simon caught up with Warin and Nicholas, the horse was already so worn out that he could scarcely lift his forelegs. He looked at the men with eyes maddened with fear, and Baldwin could read the plea, but he had no bow to put him out of his misery.
‘Help!’
Nicholas glanced at Gervase with a sardonic expression. ‘It’s a shame you brought that mount. He was worth something. A good horse is hard to find, and you’ve thrown him away.’
‘Do you have a rope?’ Baldwin asked.
‘I wouldn’t let you use it if I did,’ Nicholas replied, his forearms crossed over his horse’s withers as he watched Gervase slipping relentlessly under the surface.
Baldwin glanced back at Gervase. He was petrified. This was surely one of the most hideous of deaths: slow suffocation as the body was taken down into the mire. It made Baldwin shudder to think of it, and as he did so, he saw Gervase’s horse rear one last time. The brave mount was fighting, but his efforts were doing him no good, and were even helping Gervase to die more swiftly. The ripples from his straining were lapping the mire ever higher on Gervase’s breast now, and the waters were almost up to his armpits.
‘Please!’ he begged.
It was piteous. The horse’s head alone was visible now, and the eyes, red with terror, stared at the men standing so still at the edge of the mire. He looked at them accusingly, as though they could do something to save him, and then his head disappeared quite suddenly. It burst upwards once, a black froth blowing from both nostrils, a jet of mud from his mouth, and then he sank down again, and the bog moved twice, thrice, and then was still.
‘Please! Sir Baldwin — Squire! Won’t you save me?’
‘Die, you bastard!’ Nicholas roared. ‘Why should we save a murderer and adulterer? Die there, and take your time. I want to enjoy this.’