A first task: he needed a weapon. Behind the door of the forge was a seax, the wounding knife that was the mark of a Saxon, made by his father for a friend who’d clung to the old ways but had passed away before claiming it. Now it would attain its consummation in the blood of a Norman.
The second was not so readily achieved. Where was he to lie in wait? The only way was to hide and watch, learn D’Amory’s movements and habits – and then lay his plans.
He knew the forest paths and swiftly made his way to the eastern edge of Wolfscote to a broad track that led into the interior where it was closest to Castle Ravenstock. Jared found a likely hiding place among the undergrowth and settled to wait.
With a terrible patience he let the hours pass, ignoring the occasional villager foraging for firewood, a swineherd exercising his right to pannage, the browsing of his pigs on acorns and the like.
It was late afternoon when he was jerked to a full alert by the subliminal thudding of hoofs through the ground.
It was a group of knights led by D’Amory, restless and ready for their sport.
With a fierce hunger Jared’s eyes took in his prey: caparisoned like a prince and on a magnificent beast worth many years of his own earnings; a spiteful leer on his face and an air of careless arrogance – this was the evil whoreson who …
He crushed the rising emotion with an inhuman strength. Patience! In a very short time that baron’s spawn would have the life torn from him by a Saxon knife and it would be enough.
At the edge of the deeper forest the horses came together, whinnying in impatience as their riders laughed and jested. He could hear them but couldn’t understand their French; it didn’t matter, it was plain they were debating a race and laying wagers.
He watched intently: a massive-thewed oak was in a fine position as the horses impatiently gyrated below it, well suited for his bloody task.
He had to get closer – around this bush and a crouched run to the next copse and—
A shout from one of them had all heads turning his way. Jared shrank back but with a joyous whoop first one then another drew their swords and urged their mounts to a mad gallop straight towards him.
He took to his heels, plunging further into the dense undergrowth, ignoring the sharp whipping stems and thorns. But it slowed him and the deeper he got, the nearer sounded the pursuit – it would have been madness to have fled down the open forest path.
A clearing and another coppice. The first horses reached the thicket with a crash and he heard the rider cursing and swinging his sword but coming up fast – and his thicket was thinning rapidly.
He had minutes to live unless … this copse converged on the previous one over to the left – it was a chance!
Hunched, he ran along the outside and doubled back to where he’d been. He dived to the ground, wiggled into the core of the brush and lay still, hardly daring to breathe.
He could hear them crashing about in the undergrowth and through to the far side and then their baffled shouts, their quarry gone to ground.
After some minutes there was an impatient hail and they trotted back, passing so close he could smell them.
More desultory discussion, a pause and then eager shouts and the wild drumming of hoofs fading into the distance. It was another mad race, and he’d been forgotten.
Jaried cautiously peered out. No one.
He crawled out and took a ragged breath.
One thing was certain. This was their usual trail to and from the castle. They’d be coming back this way and he’d been given a second chance.
Carefully choosing a thicket near the big oak tree he squatted down and waited.
After some time the easy cantering of horses and carefree banter floated towards him on the summer air, but unaccountably the horses stopped, even as the distant cries rose and faded.
Then he had it: this was where the River Dene entered the forest and no doubt they’d stopped to quench their thirst after the hard riding.
He waited but they did not resume. An occasional faint cry could still be heard but that was all. What was going on?
Cautiously he made his way toward the sounds.
The briskly flowing river had widened into a broad stretch before disappearing around a bend. And the riders were swimming there, naked.
About to withdraw he saw a fallen tree, dark and rotten, that lay near submerged and at an angle from the bank. Edging towards it he felt that he’d been granted a miracle.
Preparations would be simple and he had only to be in position for the next time and he stood fair to snatching back the reality of his fantasy.
Jared crouched in the undergrowth the following day and the one after that, the seax in its scabbard strapped to his back and gleaming sharp after hours of attention.
Then on the next day the horses came panting up. He peered out and there, in blazing reality, was the vile cur who this very day would meet justice by his own hand.
With deadly concentration he watched them strip off and plunge in.
He slipped soundlessly into the water by the dead tree and made his way to the snug little pool that lay hidden in its lee. There he remained and watched.
Hoots and mock screams came from all over the wide expanse as the youths frolicked and splashed in the deeper water, but he had eyes for only one, upstream a little and lazily paddling down in the shallows – past him.
With infinite care Jared took note of the positions of the others and their heedless sporting. In savage elation he knew that he was going to succeed.
D’Amory drew nearer and nearer; Jared tensed, a loop of rough cordage gripped tightly in his hands.
For the baron’s son the next instant was violent and incomprehensible as a rope suddenly clamped about his neck and wrenched him underwater. Dragged sideways helplessly he surfaced again, choking and heaving in the little pool and into a nightmare – the figure of a tattered, hairy demon with eyes of a hideous intensity … who held both the rope and a knife pricking at his throat.
‘A sound, and you’re spitted!’
The scream died in his throat and he began trembling in terror. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘Shut your mouth!’
Beyond them the gleeful shouts continued, but after a time they fell away and cries of alarm rang out. There was aimless splashing about before one had the wit to realise that if D’Amory was in difficulties it were better to go downstream to find him.
The sounds faded as they left but Jared didn’t stir, keeping a merciless grip on the rope and the point of the blade unwavering at the soft white throat.
The cries returned, a note of panic in them and the nervous whickering of horses – then Jared heard them riding off in a body to get help.
At last!
‘Out, you foul monster. Face down – over there!’
Quickly he sat across the naked body and bound the hands securely, as with a trussed pig to market.
‘Up!’
For the captive it was a brutal march, stumbling through undergrowth that whipped and tore at his nakedness under the burden of the terror of the unknown, but Jared knew only the surging of a fierce resolution.
At the ruin he threw back the cellar hatch and prodded the whimpering D’Amory down, careful to keep his rope tether taut.
It was a Stygian darkness below but he’d laid his plans well. A steel against flint, and the punkwood tinder took flame. Two candles were lit, which turned the vast space into an evilly illuminated echoing hell, catching the terror-stricken eyes and rendering perfect the stage for what he was about to do.