Edward Marston - The Lions of the North

Golde was taken by the hips and swung gracefully to the ground.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“For a ride,” said Herleve. “Golde is a breath of fresh air to me. It is months since I left the castle for any reason and it might have been months before I left it again. Your dear Golde encouraged me to go and it has been a joy.”

“She is a persuasive lady,” said Ralph.

“I have found that out.”

“We visited the Abbey of St. Mary,” said Golde.

“Outside the city walls?”

“Yes. Little is yet built but the site is vast.”

“It will be a landmark in years to come,” said Herleve.

“Castles are better landmarks than abbeys,” argued Ralph with a provocative grin. “They impose a stability and tell you much more about the character of a place. Besides, why do you need an abbey in York when you already have a minster and too many churches?”

“No city can have too many churches,” said Herleve with a sweet smile. “An abbey performs other functions. It is for those who prefer the cloistered existence.”

“Brother Simon!”

“Each man serves God in his own way.”

“I could take issue with that remark.”

“But you will not,” said Golde tactfully. “Especially when you are talking to one of the patrons of the abbey.”

“Patrons?”

“Oh, I merely lent my name to the endowment,” said Herleve. “It is my husband who has supplied the money.”

Ralph raised an eyebrow. “Aubrey, a religious man?”

“I have enough interest for both of us.”

“You are certainly well informed about the abbey,” said Golde. “You knew as much as the masons working on it.”

“The project fascinates me, Golde. I have been involved from the start. My husband has been generous to a fault. Not only has he provided funds for the abbey, he has found other patrons to make endow-ments.”

“This is a side of Aubrey I have never seen,” said Ralph, “and I will tease him mightily about it. I did not know that he raised money for a monastic establishment.”

“At my prompting, I must confess.”

“Did you have to hold a dagger to his throat?”

“It was Aubrey who held the dagger,” replied Herleve. “In a manner of speaking, that is. When we had a banquet here at the castle some weeks ago, he bullied our two guests into pledging their support of the abbey.”

“Were they reluctant patrons?” said Golde.

“Very reluctant.”

“How did he talk them into it?”

“Aubrey knows how to get his own way.”

“Who were the two unfortunates?” said Ralph.

“Nigel Arbarbonel and his half-brother.”

“Robert Brossard?”

“Yes. You know him.”

“I know of him,” said Ralph, “and I have met Nigel Arbarbonel. He did not strike me as a man who would rush to endow an abbey several miles from where he lives.”

“Such is the power of my husband’s tongue.”

“Aubrey opens his mouth and an abbey rises up!”

The women laughed, then took their leaves and headed for the keep.

Ralph was about to collect his horse from the stables when he thought of something.

“One moment,” he called after them.

“Yes?” said Herleve, stopping to turn.

“I wondered if you knew Brother Francis.”

“Very well.”

“Has he ever been to the castle?”

“A number of times.”

When he came out of his daze, Gervase Bret pulled himself up into a sitting position to take his bearings. Inga and the two horses had vanished. He remembered the ambush but had only the haziest recollection of the men involved. One thing was obvious. They were not part of Olaf Evil Child’s band. The thought of what they might do to Inga made him rise quickly to his feet but he soon regretted the sudden movement.

His head pounded and he began to sway violently. His hat had taken the sting out of the blow, but the sword hilt had still opened his scalp and blood was streaming down the back of his neck. Folding his hat, he held it against the wound to stem the flow. His mind slowly cleared and his legs began to declare their loyalty. Straightening up, he tried to consider his options. They were not appealing.

It was too far to walk back and too dangerous to go forward. If he went in the direction of York, he would be abandoning Inga to the mercies of her captors and would have to face anguished questions from Sunnifa and Brunn the Priest. If he struggled on, he could get lost in the wilderness of the North Riding and fall prey to other outlaws. On foot, he had no chance of tracing Inga. He needed help and he needed a horse.

Gervase could not stay where he was. His first move was to get off the road and conceal himself in the bushes. He and Inga had been too visible a target as they rode along. When he decided to press on, therefore, he picked his way through cover to the side of the road, looking furtively in all directions and keeping his ears pricked for the sound of horses. Sword in one hand, he tended his wound with the other.

He had gone just over a mile when he heard the hoofbeats. He flung himself to the ground behind a bush, then raised his head gently to see who was coming, hoping that they might be soldiers or travellers.

Gervase was out of luck. A dozen riders in tunics and gartered trousers came galloping hell for leather along the track with their weapons drawn. He sensed hostility at once and threw himself face down once more, not daring even to breathe until they thundered past.

When he did try to get up, he found that he could not move. Something hard and decisive was pressing down on the small of his back.

Before he could swing his sword, a spear sunk into the ground inches from his face.

“Who are you?” said a voice.

“My name is Gervase Bret.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“York.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We were riding in search of someone.”

“Where is your horse?”

“We were ambushed,” said Gervase, one eye on the spear as it was pulled from the ground and used to flick his sword out of reach. “They took the horses. And my companion.”

“Two of you alone on the highway?”

“Yes.”

“You are lucky to be alive, Gervase Bret.”

“I know.”

“Who did you seek?”

“Olaf Evil Child.”

There was a startled pause, then a throaty laugh echoed through the trees. The foot that held him down was now used to turn him over onto his back. Gervase looked up into a rugged face with a beard of reddish tinge. His captor appraised him with amused interest.

“Why do you want to see Olaf?”

“To ask him about a friend of mine.”

“A friend?”

“Tanchelm of Ghent.”

Recognition dawned. “You are one of the commissioners.”

“That is right.”

“This is a dusty welcome to give you.” He helped Gervase up and peered at the blood on his head. “That wound will need dressing.” He took a step back and spread his arms wide. “Your search is over. I am Olaf Evil Child.” The expression on Gervase’s face made him grin.

“Are you so disappointed?”

“I expected you to be different somehow.”

“With horns, claws and cloven feet? Three eyes, perhaps? A forked tail? No, Master Bret. I am only human.” His spear pointed the way.

“Come to my camp and we will talk.”

“I must find Inga first.”

“Inga?”

“My companion. A young woman. She was abducted.”

Olaf was aghast. “You travelled alone through this countryside with a young woman beside you?”

“She insisted on coming,” said Gervase. “She believes that a friend of hers has joined your band and she is anxious to speak with him.

One Ragnar Longfoot.”