Maureen Ash - Death of a Squire

Finally, a low word of warning from Tostig gave Bascot the signal to bring his mount to a halt. The forester moved his horse close to the Templar and pointed through the mist of rain. There, a few score yards distant, was the river and, at the water’s edge, a large oak tree, its branches bare of leaves.

“That is the place, Sir Bascot,” the forester said. “I should leave you here. The instruction was for you to be alone when you brought the brigand.” Tostig gave a furtive glance over his shoulder. Behind them the trees were thin, with a stand of coppiced hazel crouching like a hunkered dwarf at their base. Nearby, a few desiccated red berries still clung to the branches of a rowan tree, providing the only splash of colour on an otherwise desolate landscape. Downstream, beyond the oak, a willow tree curved gracefully on the eastern bank of the Trent as it wriggled slightly in its course to the Humber estuary. No horses or riders could be seen. Across the river the thick mass of forest was silent.

“I am sure the sheriff is not far behind and will put men both above and below the spot where the oak grows,” the forester said. “Give him a little time to get them into position, then move up. I will go and join them. May God grant you good fortune.”

With these abrupt words the forester turned his horse and within a moment was gone, the rain-darkened flank of his horse disappearing like a wraith into the curtain of mist.

Fulcher, who had finally tumbled from the pony when they halted, knelt motionless on the ground, head hung on his chest and breath coming in great shuddering gulps. He got reluctantly to his feet when Bascot prodded him with his sword. The Templar felt no pity for the man; his whole being was intent on freeing Gianni, on discovering if the boy was safe and well. His mind dare not dwell on the possibility that the lad could be injured or dead and might perhaps be lying deep in Sherwood for the wolves to find. He thought only of the boy as he had last seen him, alive and happy, and concentrated on keeping that image in front of him.

As they neared the tree, Fulcher stumbled forward on his feet, leaving the pony behind. Bascot scanned the forest on the other side of the river as best he could, cursing the loss of half his vision. The oak was dripping moisture onto the sodden mass of fallen leaves at its base; the very air was drenched with wetness. The river itself was in full spate, water rushing in tiny wavelets against the drooping grasses and reeds at its edge as the flow in midstream eddied into small currents that broke and ran before they were fully formed. Bascot knew that the Trent was a river that had a tidal bore which had the capability of becoming frightening at full intensity. When it rose to its peak it was called the Aegir, after a Norse sea giant, and he had been told of the damage it could do. Although the bore usually only swelled to full power in the spring, it had been known to happen after a heavy rainfall, and he prayed that it would not let loose such a monster today, not if he was to get Gianni across from the other side.

When they reached the base of the tree, Fulcher once again fell to his knees, then rolled over onto his side and lay like a man dead. He had not spoken one word throughout the journey, had not seemed interested in his fate then, nor did he now, with closed eyes and scant regard for the water that streamed down upon his bruised and ragged figure. Bascot eased his horse away from the brigand, the better to see around the trunk of the huge tree, and flexed the fingers of his left hand before easing the strap on his shoulder that bore the weight of his shield. Water dripped from the end of the nose guard on his helm, running in streams from the rim of the conical steel cap he wore over his hood of mail. He felt the dampness of moisture that had gathered under his eyepatch and shook his head to free it and his sighted eye from obstruction. His surcoat was wet through, only the padded leather gambeson he wore underneath his hauberk saving his skin from the dankness, and raindrops glistened on the hilt of his sword and the mane of his horse. The animal also shook its head, and emitted a loud snort in protest at the weather, but it made no other movement except for an impatient lift and kick of a hind leg, after which it stood still, seeming as wretched as its surroundings.

For nearly half the part of an hour Bascot stood there, watching and listening. The river was narrow at this point, perhaps thirty or forty yards across, and looked shallow. Bascot thought it was likely to be fordable here, the place having perhaps been used in the past for toll passage and so was the reason it had been called a crossing in the note sent by the brigands who had Gianni. His thought was prompted by the remains of a raft-like construction standing near the river’s edge, a collapsed pile of broken planks from which a short hank of rope, ancient and rotting, lay coiled in the reeds. Nonetheless, traversing the narrow expanse of water might soon prove difficult for, as time passed, the roar of the river grew in magnitude and the rush of the current swifter, as though it was in turmoil. Then, through the growl of angry water, the Templar heard what sounded like a shout and he saw a movement among the trees opposite him.

“Ho! Templar!” The call came from a man standing at the edge of the screen of trees. He was dressed in murky brown and had a bow strung and at the ready in his hands.

Bascot raised his arm to show that he had heard and edged his horse closer to the bank.

“Bring Fulcher over,” the outlaw called to him. “We will give you the boy once our comrade is safe on this side.”

Bascot took his time in answering. Behind the lone man he could discern what seemed to be the shapes of one or two other men, but they were well concealed in the trees and he could not be sure that what he saw was anything more than the blurring of tangled bushes distorted by the screen of rain.

Finally he made an answer. “Where is my servant? I will do nothing until I see him alive and well.”

A few moments of silence passed before there was some stirring in the undergrowth and two figures appeared at the edge of the clear space where the archer stood. Bascot recognised one as Edward, the nephew of the reeve at the village where he had questioned the dairymaid. The other was Gianni, his hands tied in front of him and his arm firmly held in the grasp of the reeve’s nephew. It appeared his feet had been hobbled also, for he stumbled as he came into sight and moved forward with small hesitant steps.

Bascot felt his stomach contract at the sight of the boy. He looked so small and slight beside the bulk of his captor, his head bare, curls a dark wet rumpled mass and eyes peering intently in Bascot’s direction, as though he could send him a message with his mind.

Bascot nodded once, then tugged on the rope that was tied to the brigand lying on the ground. Fulcher groaned and struggled to his feet, then spoke softly.

“Templar, it is not me that Green Jack wants; it is you and the fine ransom you will bring. Do not trust him. Once I am on the other side, he will slit my throat and take you captive. Have a care.”

Bascot looked down at the outlaw. “Green Jack? Is he the leader of these men? The one who sent me the note?”

Fulcher nodded. “It can be no one else. This is his stretch of forest.”

“I do not understand. You say he will kill you. Are you not a compagno to this Green Jack? Why else would he risk such a venture as stealing my servant if he did not value your life?”

Fulcher grinned, his mouth distorted by the lumps and bruises that littered his face. “I do not know how it came about, but I do know that Green Jack values no life but his own. If he lets me live, he knows I will kill him.”