Chapter Nine

YVES STARTED AWAKE OUT OF AN involuntary doze, instantly aware of movement and sound, though both seemed so distant and faint that they might have been no more than the fading shreds of a dream. Under his arm Brother Elyas lay in exhausted sleep, sunk far too deep for dreaming, and briefly at peace. His breathing was quiet and steady. The boy felt rather than heard by its rhythm how strongly Elyas had survived the night that might well have killed him, tenacious even of a life that tormented him.

Yet something, Yves was sure, he had heard, some human sound. Not the wind, for that had dropped, and as he sat very still, listening with ears stretched, he was sensible of absolute silence. There is nothing more silent than deep snow, until men break the spell. And there it came again, small and distant but no illusion, the faint murmuring of voices, a mere snatch, gone in an instant. And again, some strained moments later, the tiny jingle of metal, a horse’s harness clashing. Yves got to his feet stiffly, careful not to disturb the sleeper, and fumbled his way to the door. It was still only the deep twilight that comes before the promise of dawn, but the waste of snow before him cast up an eerie pallor. The night was well advanced, and already there were men abroad. Men with horses! Yves left the door of the hut closed but unbarred, and struggled out into the drifts, in haste lest the promise of help should pass by before he could intercept it.

Somewhere down the slope, out of sight beyond a thicket of snow-heaped bushes and a clump of trees bowed down and turned white like the heads of tired old men, someone laughed, and again a bridle rang. The travellers, as he had hoped, were coming from the direction of Ludlow and Bromfield. Fearful that they might pass by, and never notice the hut at all, Yves plunged downhill, stumbling and wading, found a ridge which the wind had partially stripped, and broke into an eager run. Skirting the bushes, he began to thread the copse, fending his way through the darkness of the close-set trees with hands outstretched. The voices were drawing nearer, loud, unsubdued voices, still wordless, but a most welcome sound. Someone raised a snatch of song, someone broke in with a loud remark, and there was more laughter. Yves was somewhat disconcerted to hear it, even indignant. If these were a party searching for the wanderers, they did not sound too anxious about their errand. But even if he was mistaken in thinking them Hugh Beringar’s men, what did that matter? They were men, at any rate, and they could help him.

Nearing the far edge of the copse, and with eyes now growing more accustomed to the eerie twilight, he caught glimpses of movement between the trees. He burst out into the open with their line strung before him, more of them than he had thought, ten or a dozen at least. Three horses, and four pack-ponies, well-loaded, blew forth pale clouds of frosty breath. Even in the dimness he knew the shapes of sword and axe and bow. These men went heavily armed through the ending of the night, but not in the disciplined order of Hugh Beringar’s men-at-arms, rather raggedly and merrily, and soiled with smoke. Faintly but unmistakably, the stink of burning wafted from them, and the pack-ponies were loaded high with grain-sacks, wine-skins, pots, bundled clothing, the carcases of two slaughtered sheep.

His heart misgave him. Hastily he made to draw back into cover, but he had been seen, and one of the men afoot loosed a mock hunting-call, and darted into the trees to cut off his retreat. Another took up the cry, and there were the pair of them, with spread arms and broad grins, between him and return. A moment more, and half a dozen were all around him. He tried to slip between them and make off in the opposite direction from the hut, instinctively aware that whatever happened he must not betray the presence close by of Brother Elyas. But a long arm reached for him almost lazily, took him by the liripipe of his capuchon and a fistful of his hair, and hauled him painfully out to the open ride.

“Well, well!” crowed his captor, turning him about by the grip on his hair. “What’s such a small nightbird doing abroad at this hour?”

Yves struggled, but was quick to sense that he achieved nothing. Dignity forbade that he should wriggle or beg. He grew still under the large hand that held him, and said with creditable steadiness: “Let me go! You’re hurting me. I’m doing no harm.”

“Unwary nightbirds get their necks wrung,” said one, and went through the motions of wringing, with lean and dirty hands. “Especially if they peck.”

The mounted man who led the column had halted and was looking back. A high, peremptory voice demanded: “What game have you caught there? Bring him, let me see. I want no spies bearing tales back to the town.”

They laid hands willingly on Yves and hauled him forward to where the tallest of the three horses stood. The horse, being mainly white, was plainly visible, the man on his back loomed only as a great shadow against the sky. When he shifted a little in the saddle to stare down at the captive, some stray gleam of lambent light flowed over the links of chain mail, and flickered out like spent lightning. Afoot, he might not be a very tall man, but the breadth of his shoulders and breast, and the lion’s mane of thick hair that covered his head and flowed down on to his chest in a bushy beard made him look immense. He sat his horse as if they made one powerful body between them. He was all the more frightening because his face was but a shadow, and there was nothing to be read in it.

“Hale him close,” he ordered impatiently. “Here to my knee. Let me see him.”

Yves felt his head yanked back by the hair, to lift his face to view. He stiffened his back and his lips, and stared up in silence.

“Who are your, boy? What’s your name?” It was no common country voice, but one accustomed to lordship and to being obeyed.

“They call me Jehan,” lied Yves, and did his best to avoid having his own manner of speech so easily recognized.

“What are you doing here at this hour? Are you here alone?”

“Yes, my lord. My father folds his sheep up yonder.” He pointed firmly in the opposite direction from the hut where Elyas, he hoped, still lay asleep. “Yesterday some of them strayed, and we cane out early looking for them. Father went t’other way there, and sent me this. I’m no spy, what should I be spying on? We’re only bothered for the sheep.”

“So! A shepherd, eh? And a very pretty little shepherd, too,” said the voice above him dryly. “In good broadcloth that cost enough when it was new. Now take breath and tell me again: who are you?”

“My lord, I’ve told you true! I’m only Jehan, the shepherd’s lad from Whitbache...” It was the only manor he could remember to the west and on the near side of Corve. He had no idea why it should raise a bellow of rough laughter from all the listening crew, and his blood chilled at hearing the short, harsh bark of mirth that came from the man above him. His own fright angered him. He set his jaw and glared up into the shadowy face. “You have no right to question me when I am about lawful business and do no wrong. Tell your man to loose hold of me.”

Instead, the voice, interested but unmoved, said shortly: “Hand me up that toy he wears at his belt. Let me see what our shepherds are sporting against wolves this year.”

Rough handling had plucked aside the fullness of Yves’s cloak, and left his belt exposed to view, the little dagger dangling. Willing hands unbuckled it and handed it up.

“So they favour silver,” said their lord musingly, “and precious pebbles set in their hilts. Very fine!” He looked up, aware of the first lightening of the sky to eastward. “Time’s too short for starting his tongue wagging here, and my feet grow cold. Bring him! Alive! Amuse yourselves if you must, but stop short of damaging him. He may be valuable.”

He turned at once and spurred forward, his two mounted companions bearing him company. Yves was left to the mercies of the underlings. There was never a moment when he had the remotest chance of breaking away. They valued him, or their lord’s orders, so highly that at every turn three of them had a grip on him. They took his own belt, and strapped it round him just above the elbows, to deny him the use of his arms, and though it had a foot to spare about his waist, to close it thus they drew it painfully tight. They found a short cord to tie his wrists before him, palms together, and a long rope to attach him, by a running noose around his neck, to the pack-saddle of the hindmost pony. If he lagged, the noose would tighten. If he hurried he could raise his bound hands high enough to grasp the rope and slacken it enough to breathe, but he could not raise them high enough to get hold of the noose itself and keep it slack. He was shrewd enough to realize that if he fell they would stop to pick him up. They had been told to deliver him wherever their lord was bound, alive and repairable. But short of killing, they were pleased to avail themselves of the permission they had been given to use him for their amusement.

He tried to shrug a fold of his cloak into the noose when they slung it over his head, and someone laughed aloud and clouted him on the ear and dragged the obstruction loose. It was at that moment that Yves remembered that under the collar of that same cloak lay hidden the ring brooch that fastened it. It was very old, a Saxon piece with a formidable pin, the only weapon he had about him now, and they had not discovered it.

“Now, little bird, fly!” said his first captor, wheezing with laughter. “But bear in mind you’re flown on a creance. No making off into the sky for you.” And he strode away to set the column moving again after its master. Between sleep, fright and anger, Yves stood shivering and in a daze so long that the first jerk on his tether half-choked him. He had to grasp and scurry and clutch at his leash to recover, and a wave of raucous laughter washed back over him in recompense.

But after that he soon found that their jest could be made as amusing or as tame as he chose. For they had to move so modestly with their booty that he had no real difficulty in keeping up. Their loads were heavy and unwieldy, his was very light, and once fully awake, very agile. For the first few minutes he took care to give them some occasion for laughter, falling behind and then rushing to preserve his neck. These repeated recoveries brought him well acquainted with the pony to which he was tied, and its load, which was two great sacks of grain, slung in balance, and two equally vast goatskins, surely of wine, behind the grain, with an erection of bundled cloth and slung pots on top. When he scuttled up close he was moving with his cheek almost against the hair of the goatskin on his side. It bulged and undulated with the liquid within. Moreover, when he came thus close he was at the very end of this ponderous procession, and hidden by the lofty load from those who went before. And the way, though clearly they knew it too well to be much aggrieved at its drifts, still put delays enough in their path, they soon forgot to look behind.

Under the lurching load, Yves stretched up his bound hands as far as they would go, and felt under the collar of his cloak for the brooch. No one could see him here, he shrank close to the pony’s patient, labouring quarter. Fumbling fingers found the edge of the metal, and felt for the ring of the pin, to draw it forth. His arms, bound cruelly tight, ached with tension, and his finger-ends were growing numb. Doggedly he kept his hold, and began to coax the brooch loose, terrified that he might drop it, from pure strain, when it came out from the folds of cloth. If he could free it and retain his hold with arms lowered, until the use and the blood returned to his hands, he knew he could manipulate it thereafter.

The point of the pin sprang loose, and the round brooch almost slipped from his hold. He closed both hands upon it in desperation, and the point pierced his finger. He bore the prick gratefully, drew his hands down still impaled, let the blood flow freely down his aching arms and into his hands, and the thin ooze from the wound slide unregarded down his finger until he could feel power there again. He had the precious thing, sharp as a dagger. He took some minutes before he dared try to make use of it, nursing it between his locked palms, flexing his fingertips against it until they felt nimble and supple as ever.

The full goatskin wallowed beside his cheek, the morning twilight hid him. The leather, though rubbed bare of hair in places, and soft and portly with age, was tough, but the pin of the brooch was strong, and protruded the length of his little finger beyond the ring. It took him some moments to work it through the hide at the lowest part of the swaying bag, the yielding folds slithered away from him so vexingly, but he leaned a shoulder hard against it to hold it still, and the pin slid through.

A satisfying spurt of dark red followed as he drew the pin out again, and he looked down in hope, even in elation, to see the sudden red splash like blood in the whiteness of the snow beneath his feet. After the first gush the hole contracted again, but the weight of the wine kept it open, and trickled a thin drip along the way, and he thought it would do. It would not sink into the snow and be lost, for the frost was hard enough to seal it as it fell. And that way, dripping so meagrely, the load would last a long way. He hoped, long enough. But in case it should become too fine to be followed, from time to time he punched the skin, and found he could force out a brief jet, a tiny pool of wine to confirm what had gone before.

The dawn, grey and still and turning now to white mist that cut off all distances, was well upon them. A cold dawn, in which a few starved birds wheeled hopelessly. They had timed their return to the lair to be safe within before full light. If they were now near, Yves thought the depletion in the leaky wineskin might pass for a natural loss. They had been climbing for a long time. Lofty, bleak and inhospitable, the uplands of Titterstone Clee received them. Even in thick mist they knew where they were going, and knew when they drew near; they had begun to prod the pack-beasts and hurry the line along, scenting refuge, food and rest.

Yves took thought for his precious brooch, and managed to thread it inside the hem of his short tunic, out of sight. That freed his bound hands to grasp the rope that had begun to tighten uncomfortably round his neck when he tired, and haul himself along by it. It could not be far now. They had smelled their nest.

From barren, misty desert, without features within the short distance the eye could see, but always climbing, suddenly they were moving between close, low-growing trees, with rising rocks just discernible behind. Then it seemed that they emerged again upon an open summit, and there before them rose a high stockade, with a narrow gate in it, and over it showed a dark, squat, broad tower. There were men on watch, the gate opened as they approached.

Within, there were low, rough lean-to buildings all round the stockade, and men in plenty moving about between them. Below the tower a long hall extended. Yves heard cattle lowing and sheep calling plaintively. All was timber, all was new, raw and crude, but solid and formidably manned. No wonder they moved at ease in the night, insolently aware of their numbers, and of the strength of their secret fortress.

Before they entered the gate Yves had the wit to draw back the length of his leash, well away from the punctured wine-skin, and blunder in droopingly, like one exhausted and cowed. Since sighting the stockade he had let the leaky skin alone, so that it dripped only a meagre droplet by the time they halted in the snowy bailey. A leaky skin was no great marvel, and the pair to it, at least, was sound. And he had luck, for his first captor made haste to undo him and haul him away by the scruff of the neck, before anyone had noticed the thin red drip, and cursed at half a wineskin lost on the journey.

Yves went where he was dragged, scrambling meekly up the steps into the hall, and through the seething warmth and smokiness and stunning noise within. Torches burned along the walls, well primed out from the timber, a great fire blazed on a stone-laid hearth in the midst, and twenty voices at least plaited a lattice of noise though the haze, loud, merry and secure. Of furniture there was little, a few hewn benches, great tables on trestles of rough logs. Men teemed and many turned to stare and grin at the passage of this small prisoner.

At the far end of the hall there was a low dais, and here there were candles in tall sconces, hangings of tapestry, and carved chairs round a table spread with food and drinking horns and pitchers of ale, where three men sat. Yves felt himself hoisted unceremoniously by a fistful of his garments at the neck, heaved bodily to the dais, and flung down on his knees at the feet of the man who sat at the end of the table. Almost he fell flat on his face, but fended himself off with his still bound hands, and hung for a moment knocked clean out of breath.

“My lord, here’s your shepherd as you ordered, safe and sound. We’re unloading the goods, and all’s well. Not a soul stirring on the way.”

Yves gathered himself sturdily and got to his feet. He took time to draw a deep breath and steady the shaking of his knees before he looked up into the face of the chief of these night-birds.

Mounted and looming in the twilight, the man had seemed immense. Easy now in his great chair, he was seen to be no more than common tall, but very powerfully built, wide-shouldered, deep-chested. After a savage fashion he was very comely. Now with the candlelight to show him clearly he was more like a lion than ever, for the thick mane of curling hair and the glossy, untrimmed beard were tawny, and the large eyes, narrowed but sharp as a cat’s beneath heavy lids, were of the same colouring. His lips, left naked among all that profusion of dull gold, were full and curled and proud. He eyed Yves in silence from head to foot, while Yves stared as doughtily back at him, and kept his mouth shut rather out of discretion than fright. There could be worse moments to come. At least now they were back from another successful raid, laden with booty, eating and drinking and in high content with themselves. And the lion seemed in good humour. If his slow smile was mocking, it was at least a smile.

“Loose him,” he said.

The belt was unbuckled from Yves’s cramped arms, the cord untied from his wrists. He stood rubbing the blood back into aching arms, kept his eyes warily on the lion’s face, and waited. A number of the henchmen in the hall had drawn in at his back, grinning, to watch.

“You’ve bitten out your tongue on the way?” asked the bearded man amiably.

“No, my lord. I can speak when I have something to say.”

“You might be well advised to think of something to say now, at once. Something nearer truth than you told me under the copse there.”

Yves could not see that boldness was going to do him any harm here, or the discretion of fear very much good. He said bluntly: “I am hungry, my lord. You would hardly find a truer word than that. And I take it as between gentlemen that you feed your guests.”

The lion threw back his tawny head and loosed a shout of laughter that was echoed down the hall. “And I take that to be a confession. Gentle, are you? Now tell me more, and you shall eat. No more hunting for lost sheep. Who are you?”

He meant to know. And for all his present easy mood, if he was balked he would not mind by what means he got what he wanted. Yves spent a few seconds too long considering what he had better say, and got an earnest of what might follow obduracy. A long arm reached out, gripped him by the forearm, and with a casual twist dropped him wincing to his knees. The other hand clenched in his hair and forced his head back, to stare up into a face still calmly smiling.

“When I ask, wise men answer. Who are you?”

“Let me up and I’ll tell you,” said Yves through his teeth.

“Tell, brat, and I may let you up. I may even feed you. A strutting little cockerel of the nobility you may be, but many a cock has got his neck wrung for crowing too loud.”

Yves shifted a little to ease his pain, drew deep breath to have his voice steady, and got out his name. This was no time for the stupidity of heroism, not even for obstinate insistence on his dignity.

“My name is Yves Hugonin. My family is noble.”

The hands released him. The bearded man leaned back in his chair at ease. His face had not changed, he had not been at all angry; anger had little part in his proceedings, which were entirely cold. Predatory beasts feel no animosity against their prey, and no compunction, either.

“A Hugonin, eh? And what were you doing, Yves Hugonin, where we found you, alone in the early morning of such a winter day?”

“I was trying to find my way to Ludlow,” said Yves. He rose from his knees and shook his disordered hair back from his face. Not a word must be said of anyone but himself; he picked his way delicately between truth and falsehood. “I was at school with the monks in Worcester. When the town was attacked they sent me away to escape the fighting and slaughter there. I was with some other people, trying to reach any safe town, but in the storms we were separated. Country people have fed and sheltered me, and I was making my way to Ludlow as best I could.”

He hoped it sounded convincing. He did not want to have to invent details. He still recalled with misgivings the shout of laughter it had provoked when he mentioned the manor of Whitbache, and claimed residence there, and wondered uneasily why.

“Where did you spend last night, then? Not in the open!”

“In a hut in the fields. I thought I should get to Ludlow before night, but when the snow came on, and I lost my way. When the wind dropped and it stopped snowing,” he said, talking to evade further probing, “I set out again. And then I heard you, and thought you might set me right.”

The bearded man considered, eyeing him with the disturbing smile that contained merriment without warmth. “And here you are, with a stout roof over your head, a good fire at your back, and food and drink for you if you behave yourself seemly. There’s a price, of course, to pay for your bed and board. Hugonin! And Worcester... Are you son to that Geoffrey Hugonin who died a few years back? The most of his lands, I recall, lay in that shire.”

“I’m his son and his heir, if ever I come to it.”

“Ah! There should be no difficulty, then, in paying for your entertainment.” The narrowed eyes gleamed satisfaction. “Who stands guardian to your lordship now? And why did he let you go stravaging off into the winter so poorly provided, and alone?”

“He was only newly arrived in England from the Holy Land, he knew nothing of it. If you send now, you may hear of him in Gloucester, he is of the empress’s party.” The lion shrugged that off indifferently. In the civil war he belonged to neither side, and cared nothing which side others chose. He had set up his own party, and acknowledged no other. But certainly he would extort ransom as cheerfully from one as from the other. “His name is Laurence d’Angers,” said Yves, “my mother’s brother.” That name was known, and welcomed with satisfaction. “He will pay handsomely to have me back,” said Yves.

“So sure?” The bearded man laughed. “Uncles are not always to anxious to ransom nephews who will one day come into great estates. Some have been known to prefer to leave them unredeemed, to be hustled out of the world as unprofitable, and come into the inheritance themselves.”

“He would not come into my inheritance,” said Yves. “I have a sister, and she is not here in this extreme.” It pierced him with sudden renewed dismay that he did not know where she was at this moment, and her situation might be just as dire as his own, but he kept his voice steady and his countenance wooden. “And my uncle is an honourable man,” he said stiffly. “He will ransom me and never grudge it. So he gets me back alive and undamaged,” he added emphatically.

“Complete to every hair,” said the lion, laughing, “if the price is right.” He gestured to the fellow who stood at Yves’s shoulder. “I put him in your charge. Feed him, let him warm himself by the fire, but if you let him slip through your fingers, your own neck pays for it. When he has eaten, lock him away safe in the tower. He’ll be worth far more than all the plunder we’ve brought from Whitbache.”

Brother Elyas awoke from the dreamless peace of sleep to the agonizing dream of waking life. It was daylight, lines of pale morning slid between the boards of the hut, cold and white. He was alone. But there had been someone else, that he remembered. There had been a boy, a boy who had kept him company sturdily, and lain by him in the hay, a warmth by his side. Now there was no one. Brother Elyas missed him. In the snow they had clung together in mutual kindness, trying to alleviate more than the cold and the cruelty of the wind. Whatever became of him, he must find the boy, and make sure that no harm should come to him. Children have a right to life, a right so many of their elders have forfeited by follies, by failures, by sins. He was outcast, but the boy was innocent and pure, and must not be surrendered to danger and death.

Elyas rose, and went to open the door. Under the eaves, where the wind had driven the snow away, leaving only a thin layer, the small footmarks showed clearly, only the powdering of a late squall clouding them. They turned right, down the slope, and there in the deeper snow a short, vigourous body had ploughed a jagged furrow, round the bank of bushes, down into the coppice of trees.

Elyas followed where the boy had led. Beyond the belt of trees there was a beaten track that crossed on an almost level course, climbing gently towards the east. Horses had passed this way, and men afoot with them, enough men to carve out a flattened road. They had come from the west. Had they taken the boy away with them towards the east? There would be no tracing one child’s passage here, but surely he had run and struggled down the slope to join them.

In his dream, which neither cold nor pain could penetrate, and only the memory of the boy could influence, Brother Elyas turned towards the east, and set out along the track the unknown company had taken. The furrow they had ploughed through barren level, even fall and drift was simple to follow, the weaving route was surely older than all the pathways here, made to render the climb equable and easy. It wound along the hillside in a long curve. Elyas had gone some three hundred paces when he saw beneath him the first splash of dark red in the white.

Someone had shed blood. Only a little blood, but a dotted line of ruby beads continued from it, and in a few moments he found another blossom of blood at his feet. The sun was rising now, pale through the mist, which lifted with the day. The red gleamed, frozen on the surface of the snow. Not even the brief noon sun would thaw it away, though the wind might spread blown snow over it. Brother Elyas followed, drop by drop along the way where someone had bled. Blood can requite blood. If someone had taken and hurt the boy, then a man already fingered by despair and death might still die to some purpose.

Immune from any further onslaughts of cold, pain and fear, on sandalled feet through frozen drifts, Brother Elyas went in search of Yves.