Baldwin was looking about him, but there was no hope of assistance. There were no buildings in sight, not even a small plume of smoke to betray a tin-miner’s camp. Reluctantly he accepted that they must either watch the man die, or try at least to reach him somehow.
He dropped from his horse. They were more than fifty yards from Gervase here, and Baldwin had no idea where the mire began. Gervase had managed to cross from here, so it must be relatively safe. He pulled off his cloak and untied his belt. With luck, the two together would give him the reach to rescue the steward if he could get close enough. He looked up at Simon, and Simon nodded, pulling his own belt free and joining Baldwin.
‘Simon, I’ll go over there, and try to reach him with my cloak. It’s five feet long, and if he catches it, I can perhaps haul him free.’
‘You’re too heavy. I’d best go,’ Simon said shortly.
Baldwin was going to argue, but Simon was serious, and Baldwin had to agree that he had right on his side. He was lighter, and could go farther on the rippling thatch than Baldwin. The knight nodded. ‘Be careful, Simon.’
‘That has to rate as one of the most pointless comments you’ve ever made,’ Simon said thinly.
This was the aspect of the moors which he found most frightening. There was something about mires which brought out dread in any man with sense. They shifted and moved every year, like animals seeking fresh prey, and even when they dried up in the summer’s heat, they were dangerous. A patch of firm grass could become a lethal trap for the unwary as a man fell into a hole that could be yards deep, from which the water had drained.
But the water was not drained from this one. This was at its most lethal, full to the brim, and working with that strange ability of mires, pulling on a man’s feet to suck him beneath the surface. Gervase’s expression was waxen, corpse-like. His eyes, terrified, stared at Simon with the full knowledge of his doom, should Simon fail.
If there was one breed Simon hated, it was murderers who hurt women. This man, he knew, might have killed Athelina and cut her children’s throats. But he might be innocent, and Simon was no judge. Swearing under his breath, he eyed the land between him and Gervase. He could walk a certain distance, and continued until he felt the telltale springiness underfoot and saw the tussocks of grass and rushes bouncing with each of his footsteps. Then he cautiously crouched down and inched his way forward.
It was painstaking work. The ground so close to his nose reeked of foul exhalations. Every movement reminded him of his own danger, as a shift of his knee made the carpet under his chest move. He swore under his breath and moved again, trying to unsettle the ground as little as possible. Then, when he was within a couple of yards of Gervase, there was a belch of gas from where the steward’s horse had been swallowed, and Simon felt the ripples expand outwards, jigging him up and down. Gervase was more obviously affected. The tears streamed down his cheeks, both now at water-level. His expression was one of simple anguish. He was convinced of his impending death, certain that nothing Simon could do might save him.
‘Take the fucking thing!’ Simon swore.
Gervase looked at him and lunged at the belt that lay within his grasp. He overbalanced and then almost drowned. His face sank below the water, and it was only by a lucky chance that he caught the belt.
‘God save us from sodding stewards,’ Simon muttered to himself as he began to haul on the belt, moving backwards, then pulling, then moving back again. Gradually, the sodden figure of Gervase emerged from the bog, gasping for breath and sobbing in relief.
‘So why did he come back to scare me?’ Julia asked again.
Ivo shrugged comfortably. They were in Adam’s hall, seated on rugs and skins by the fire, still naked after their pleasing lovemaking, and the youth didn’t much care for the reasons. No wandering spectre of the night was going to spoil his day. ‘I expect someone heard that the priest was stuck in the gaol, and reckoned to steal a little of the church’s silver, that’s all.’
‘But why did he come to my room, then?’ she asked again.
Ivo considered. ‘Probably knew there was a gorgeous wench in here and wanted to have his wicked way with you.’
She thumped him, smiling, and he grabbed her, pulling her up and over him, then clasped her to him, both arms about her torso. She tilted her head back to peer down her nose at him, and then her expression changed. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? You wouldn’t have scared me like that just to climb into my bed?’
‘Sweetheart, no,’ he said, genuinely shocked. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that. No. And I think I saw a man at the back of the place when I walked in, though I didn’t reckon anything about it at the time. Wasn’t until I heard you scream and you let me in that I realised there could be something odd going on. No, I didn’t do it, I swear.’
She subsided against him, turning her head and resting her cheek on his chest. ‘I don’t know what he’d have done if he’d got in. I think he was going to kill me.’
Ivo stroked her head happily. He did me a favour, he thought to himself, scaring you into my arms. ‘He’ll be caught by now, anyway.’
There was a moment’s consternation when he wondered whether the man at Julia’s door had actually been Gervase, but then Julia began to distract him, and he gave up all thoughts of the stranger.
Gervase was sprawled spread-eagled, taking in great gulps of air, unsure that he was truly safe at last. ‘My God! Thank you! Oh, thank you!’
‘Don’t be too glad yet,’ Simon said shortly. ‘You’re still deep in the shit.’
Gervase ignored the coldness in his voice, ignored everything but the thrill of being alive. A shiver ran down his body, from the tip of his skull to his feet, a shudder of voluptuous refreshment. God! Alive!
There was the tramp of hooves, and a harness squeaked and jingled. Then he heard the voice of the man who had once been his best friend. ‘Get up, Steward. You have a long, weary walk ahead of you. Best get started.’
Baldwin insisted on allowing the steward to share his mount. The poor fellow was stumbling and falling every few paces. It was plain that his near death had all but emasculated him, and he was as shaky and gangling as a child. With him in this state, they would be fortunate ever to reach Cardinham.
‘I don’t care if he dies here!’ Nicholas rasped when Baldwin raised his concerns.
‘Well, you should. If he dies through your negligence, people will wonder why you didn’t save him. Perhaps because you were the murderer yourself?’
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Why in God’s name should I have killed Serlo or the widow?’
‘Because, Nicholas, if you knew of Gervase’s affair with your wife, might you not seek to punish him by setting him up as a murderer? Might you not kill his own past lovers so as to make them appear like his victims? Athelina, for example: you could have killed her because everyone in the vill knew she kept pestering Gervase about money. And then there was Serlo, killed because of the death of his apprentice, Dan. Everyone guessed Matty had her boy Dan by Gervase. Thus, a man wishing to make Gervase look guilty might kill him too.’
Gervase heard this and looked up. He was slumped on Sir Baldwin’s horse while the knight walked at the rounsey’s side. ‘What do you mean, Matty and her boy?’
‘Your son, Danny.’
Gervase’s mouth dropped. ‘He wasn’t my son!’
Nicolas swung his fist and Gervase almost fell from his horse. ‘Don’t lie to us, man! You killed Serlo because he let your son die,’ Nicholas sneered. ‘The whole vill knew that. It was a miracle you didn’t kill the murderous oaf beforehand. I would have done.’
‘Urgh!’ Gervase wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve, snorted, then spat out a gobbet of blood. ‘I didn’t kill anyone. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of Athelina’s head, and I certainly didn’t take revenge for Matty’s son’s death. Why should I? Dan wasn’t mine.’