Chapter Six

Raymond’s optimism continued into the next morning. He and Strongbow had talked long into the night about their plans and how they could bring them about. Ireland was all but unknown to either man, but what Strongbow had learned from his uncle Hervey de Montmorency led both men to agree that an army of no less than a thousand men would be needed, and that would take time to bring about.

He had risen before daybreak to begin organising the earl’s household to leave Westminster, but even that had not been early enough to see the departure of King Henry from the town. The only thing left to indicate the presence of the royal court was a large dust cloud to the east, kicked up by the transit of the huge number of servants, warriors, councillors and other hangers-on, as they made their way towards London Bridge. With King Henry gone, Strongbow’s folk, like everyone gathered at Westminster, could relax and make their own preparations to depart.

The earl’s horses and carts collected in the street, still warming in the summer sunshine, while pages and esquires ran to and fro to with their masters’ possessions. Westminster awoke while they worked and soon all the noises and smells of urban trade surrounded Strongbow’s men. Stalls selling all manner of wares had arrived; a honking flock of geese, a fruit stand manned by oblates from the nearby monastery, and a long avenue of fishmongers already rivalling the geese in the noise they made to advertise the freshness of their produce. English and French tongues battled for supremacy in the ears of potential clientele.

‘This fellow said he wanted to talk to you,’ Borard announced as he approached Raymond. The captain was sat on the stone step of the burnt-down inn cleaning his tack. He followed the direction of Borard’s dirty thumb as it indicated towards a young man at his side.

‘Fulk?’ Raymond recognised the boy who had helped him bring down the house during the fire the day before.

‘Sir,’ Fulk replied as he retreated from an awkward bow.

‘How can I help?’

‘Well, sir, I was out early this morning, before first light, making deliveries to the royal court for my master the butcher, and I saw a ship under oar making for the sea.’ He flapped an arm towards the Thames which sparkled in the morning sunshine.

‘And?’

‘It was a Danish vessel, sir. Irish-built or so it looked to my eye.’

‘Go on,’ he told Fulk.

‘Everyone in town has been saying that it was Danes who attacked the inn, sir. They are angry that someone would attack our town, so I made my delivery and then followed on foot up the London Road. Up at the Dane’s Street,’ he pointed downriver, ‘I got to talking with a shopkeeper. The captain of the ship had stopped and bought some supplies before making for the bridge at London. The man was able to tell me the name of the captain and their destination.’ Fulk looked expectantly at Raymond.

The Norman fumbled at a pocket for a coin, placing it in Fulk’s hand. ‘Tell me.’

‘Their leader is called Sigtrygg, a Dane from Ireland, sir. He was raiding in Wales when he was hired find your master, the archer…’

‘Strongbow.’

‘Yes sir. One of the crewmen told the shopkeeper that Jarl Sigtrygg was making for Bramber Castle to get his payment, but that they had also sent a company overland, I don’t know why, sir. They bought three goats and a sheep…’ He counted upon his fingers as he listed by foreigners’ purchases.

Raymond dropped a hand onto the boy’s shoulder. He now had a name for the man who had killed Nicholas de Lyvet during the attack on Strongbow at the Thorney Inn. He promised that should the opportunity present itself, he would kill Jarl Sigtrygg, the sword-Dane from Ireland with the red-braided beard and the charging boar standard.

‘You’ve done well, Fulk,’ he told the boy.

‘Lord, I would like to go with you to Wales,’ Fulk told him, an eager look on his face. ‘I can cut meat and did a lot of droving for the master butcher. You could use me in your country.’

‘Would your master not miss you?’

‘He has five sons, sir, and all will learn the trade. I won’t get rich being a butcher in another man’s business.’

Raymond smiled at the ambition of the young freeman of Westminster. ‘Alright, lad, go and say goodbye to your family and then you can start by helping Borard get the earl’s belongings onto those packhorses.’ He pointed at several animals, tied to the side the house that Raymond had appropriated for Strongbow.

Fulk nodded quickly and excitedly at the ease of Raymond’s agreement. ‘Can I tell my father that I am in the pay of the Lord Strongbow?’

‘No, no. You work for Raymond de Carew,’ he told Fulk, who looked less impressed. ‘And that means a lot of hard work. So be back soon.’ His new servant ran off towards the white wattle-walled houses leaving Raymond to ponder Fulk’s words. Why, he wondered, would William de Braose’s mercenary Danes be travelling to Bramber to collect payment when, as far as he knew, they had failed in their mission: to kill Alice and Geoffrey of Abergavenny. Before he could consider the question fully he was interrupted by a shout from amidst Strongbow’s noisy horse train.

‘That boy has just told me that he is your servant now,’ Borard demanded. ‘Exactly how are you going to pay for him? You said that you are poorer than King Henry on Maundy Thursday afternoon.’

‘Sir James FitzJames came through last night with half his ransom,’ Raymond told him. ‘He bought back his armour and horse. That, and the other ransoms I took during the tourney, will allow me to have a hundred servants!’

‘And what about your poor warriors?’ asked Borard. ‘How will they fare from your sudden windfall?’

Raymond laughed, producing a purse from his jacket and tossing it to his friend. ‘Make sure everyone gets their share and buy them a drink on top of it from me.’

Borard caught the money and tested its weight. ‘A small cup each might do no harm,’ he replied, secreting the purse amongst his clothes. ‘I will not partake, of course.’

Raymond nodded at his lieutenant, but he still could not shake the feeling of unease brought on by Fulk’s words. ‘Any news from William Marshal?’ he asked.

‘None,’ Borard replied, realising instantly that Raymond actually wished for news of Alice of Abergavenny. ‘I am sure that is because Little King Harry kept him up late with his drinking and gambling.’

‘The Young King gambles?’

‘According to one of his household cooks,’ he said with a wink. ‘She told me that he owes half of Maine to Sir Bertran de Born. Could you convince him to give me a game of dice?’ he asked as he tapped his pocket. The purse of coin clinked cheerfully.

Raymond de Carew did not laugh; the wound caused by Alice’s departure with the Young King was still too raw for merriment.

‘Oh look, our brave new recruit is back,’ Borard said and nodded in Fulk’s direction. ‘I will make sure he has something to do. The sooner we get the horses ready the sooner we can get out of this stinking rat hole.’ Borard had made it clear that he and the rest of the conrois were keen to get back to Wales. While their captain had plotted with Hubert Walter, played war with William Marshal, and conducted his romance with Alice of Abergavenny, they had become bored and idle in Westminster, missing their families and the routine of the Welsh frontier. The summer was upon them and whereas in fat, lazy England it was a time for peace before the harvest, on the March it was a time when men went raiding. The Striguil warriors were desperate to get back to their homeland before all the best plunder was taken and the best treasures hidden. Raymond understood their desire, but his aim was a land beyond the frontier. For many minutes he stared north towards where the river turned back in the direction of London. That was the route that the Young King would travel on his way to Normandy. That was the road that would take Alice from his life for ever.

‘Raymond!’ Sir William Marshal’s animated voice pierced his daydream and the noise of the bustling marketplace. The captain smiled cheerily as his friend trotted his horse between the little tented shop fronts, but immediately he could see that the green and yellow surcoated knight was bearing bad news and he braced himself to receive it.

‘What is it?’ he asked as he grabbed Marshal’s bridle.

‘Geoffrey of Abergavenny and his sister  they have been taken by William de Braose.’

Raymond struggled to comprehend the news he had received and shook his head. ‘They were under the protection of the Young King. Sir William would not dare attack them!’

‘You are right,’ Marshal replied. ‘But King Henry had no such qualms. He sent a message late last night demanding his son hand the pair over to him. Henry must have realised that the prince was enamoured with Alice and, to get him back for his remarks at the feast, promised Alice and Geoffrey to Lord Bramber. The Prince refused, even when the Old King threatened to cut off his income, so, while Harry was gambling with Bertran de Born in the early hours, Henry had them kidnapped by his routiers. I am sorry Raymond, but I could not do anything to stop it. They were gone before I knew what was happening.’

‘The Old King still has them?’

Marshal shook his head. ‘Lord Bramber bought them from the king and gave them over to his son.’

‘They will make for Abergavenny?’ Raymond asked as he began belting his sword to his side, his eyes dark and his brow creased in concentration. He knew what would befall Geoffrey and Alice if Sir William de Braose had his way. He would not repeat his mistake of keeping them alive as he had when Raymond had caught up with him in Wentland.

‘Unlikely,’ Marshal answered. ‘I gather that Sir William and six knights left Westminster under cover of darkness with the two siblings. They were going east, making for London Bridge. Bramber Castle is their destination.’

Raymond cursed. For all he knew, Sir William could be across the Thames already. With King Henry’s court already between him and London Bridge, there was little hope that he would be able to catch up. And even if he could, how could he be certain that Alice and Geoffrey had not been transferred into the Danish chieftain Sigtrygg’s ship? Thanks to Fulk’s discoveries, he knew that the longship had been headed in the same direction. He dismissed the idea almost immediately. Sir William wouldn’t risk having his captives in anyone else’s custody, not after all he had gone through to again have them in his hands.

‘I have to go after them. Will you ride with me?’ he asked Marshal.

‘The Young King wants to be in Kingston by this evening. His ship awaits us at Wareham,’ he replied with pursed lips and a slight shake of his head. ‘I think you should consider what you are about to do, Raymond. If King Henry discovers that you have attacked his court favourite, you will be declared outlaw…’

‘And Strongbow can say goodbye to Striguil,’ Raymond finished the sentence and shook his head. ‘Damn it! Though she abandoned me, I cannot do the same to her. I must go after her.’

‘She is lucky to have you,’ replied Marshal. ‘May fortune smile upon you, my friend,’ he said as he leant down to grip his friend’s forearm.

‘God be with you. I hope we shall meet again. Borard!’ he yelled. ‘Forget those packhorses and get our coursers saddled. We have a mission.’

‘A mission?’ Borard replied. ‘What about Striguil?’

‘Twelve riders will come with me, the rest to stay with Earl Richard and Walter de Bloet.’ Raymond stated as he secured a mace to his belt and began searching for his shield amongst the contents of the nearest wagon.

‘So where are we going?’

‘To save a damsel in distress,’ Raymond grimaced as he hoisted his chainmail coif onto his head. ‘We ride to defeat a tyrant and do deeds worth singing about. We ride to –’

Borard held up a hand to stop Raymond from saying anything further. ‘Save your breath. You listen to the troubadours far too much,’ he finished with a despairing roll of his eyes. ‘God, but I do detest chivalry. What is the plan then, Sir Lancelot? Charge up the road and kill King Henry?’

Raymond smiled at Borard’s remark and called Fulk of Westminster to his side. ‘Do you know where the ferryman lands on the southern shore?’ he asked the younger man.

‘At Lambeth,’ Fulk replied and pointed an outstretched hand towards the distant bank opposite Westminster. Raymond had to shield his eyes because of the sunshine pouring over England from the east. He could see a small wharf amongst the rushes, and a few thatched rooftops. Several sheep roamed around the fields above the dancing marshland and there were villeins in the fields.

‘Are you sure they have a horse ferry?’ Raymond asked his new servant.

‘Of course, Lord,’ Fulk exclaimed, shocked that he would ask such a thing. ‘My uncle is one of the ferrymen for the archbishop.’

‘Signal him then. We need to get to across the river as soon as possible.’ Already a plan was enfolding in his mind, one of daring and mischief. ‘Borard, take the money we received from Sir James FitzJames and go with Fulk. Pay the ferryman for shipping men and horses across. Give him whatever he wants.’

Borard stared down at the pouch of money in his hand like it was a kitten he was being forced to drown. ‘You want me to give it away again?’

‘Fulk, show him the way,’ Raymond told the boy as Borard gave his captain one last despairing look. Both turned and walked towards the water’s edge. Raymond turned to find Strongbow at his side.

‘Is there a problem with the baggage?’ the earl asked.

‘I have a pressing matter that requires my attention across the river, Lord,’ he told his master as he checked the length of his stirrups on Dreigiau. He put them up three notches. In battle he liked them to be longer to provide extra balance, but the ride ahead would be tough and the saddle all the comfier for the change.

‘A pressing matter across the river?’ asked a confused Strongbow. ‘But we are bound for Oxford, Raymond, and then on to Striguil.’

‘I am sorry, Lord, but for your own sake please do not ask any more questions.’

‘Oh dear,’ Strongbow shook his head and studied Raymond de Carew. ‘Another adventure,’ he sighed. ‘Would this involve a certain girl from Abergavenny?’

‘Yes, Lord,’ Raymond admitted.

‘You are not going to attack the Young King, are you?’ Strongbow seemed genuinely concerned that his liegeman would take on the might of the Angevin monarchy.

‘No, but my enemy is no less well protected.’ Strongbow did not answer and Raymond sighed as he unbuckled his sword and pulled off his surcoat emblazoned with the crimson and gold Clare arms in one swift movement. He held out the colourful garment to Strongbow. ‘I will not let your name be attached to this act, Earl Richard. So I ask that you release me from my oath. Your nephew, Walter de Bloet, will see you safely back to Striguil.’ He shook the surcoat and urged Strongbow to take it, but the old Earl simply stared at the colourful folds. ‘You know that he has always wished to command your conrois, Lord.’

‘I will keep this for you, Raymond,’ the earl said as he accepted the surcoat. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘You are still my captain, Raymond de Carew, even though I do release you from my service. I have need of you and all these men. So accomplish this deed, whatever it is, quietly if you can, and then hurry home to Striguil. We have bigger prizes to claim than petty revenge in England.’

Raymond smiled and pulled on a tatty green surcoat with no heraldic device. ‘I will race you back to Striguil, Lord Strongbow.’

The earl grimaced. Turning his back on his captain, he signalled towards Walter de Bloet. ‘I want us ready to leave Westminster in the hour, nephew.’

Raymond felt a sudden surge of pity and affection for the earl, so desperate to claim the esteem of kingship across the sea, yet trusting enough to let his warlord dash off on the eve of that feat.

‘Raymond,’ Borard interrupted his thoughts. ‘The conrois is ready to move out.’

He nodded in answer and leapt into his saddle with a single bound. His riders looked at him expectantly.

‘So what is going on, Raymond?’ asked William de Vale, the esquire.

‘Yeah, what’s the plan?’ enquired Denis d’Auton. ‘I thought we were for home?’

‘I am going after Geoffrey of Abergavenny and his sister Alice,’ Raymond replied, loud enough for all his companions to hear. ‘They have been taken prisoner and will not survive long. I won’t order you to come with me. Our enemy rides at the head of a strong force of horsemen supported by those Danish devils who attacked us at the Thorney Inn.’ A number of the milites growled angrily, swearing vengeance against the men who had killed their friend, Lyvet. ‘But also because William de Braose has the ear of the king and should we fail to get away without being recognised, then we run the risk of being declared outlaw.’

‘Lady Alice saved our horses,’ Bertram d’Alton’s voice barked from amongst his men, ‘so I say we owe her our help.’

‘What difference would it make if I was to be made outlaw?’ asked William de Vale.

Borard climbed into the saddle beside him. ‘Where you go, Raymond, we go,’ he stated. ‘Who knows, there may even be a bit of profit in it?’

Raymond smiled and turned his horse southwards so that his men would not see him blush.

‘Well then,’ he said with determination, ‘let’s ride.’

The forested glade was the perfect place for a murder. Steep wooded sides sloped away from the path on both sides; one uphill and the other down into the heavily forested valley where the River Mole wound its way towards Buckland, and piping birdsong of redshanks echoed.

‘Perfect,’ Sir William de Braose hummed happily. He was not talking about the beautiful surroundings, where yellow kingcups mixed with ivy-laden trees in the soft summer sunshine. He and his small company had passed Mickleham earlier in the day but had left Stane Street below Boxhill to follow a tiny path along the Mole Valley rather than continuing on the same path towards the big town of Dorchester. For the first time since leaving London they found themselves free of fellow travellers.

‘You men,’ Sir William flapped a hand at the twenty hired Danes. ‘Go forward and scout those trees,’ he ordered with no idea if the vicious-looking warriors understood a single word that he spoken. ‘Forward,’ he insisted at the leader of his mercenaries, pointing ahead and downhill.

The foreigner slowly nodded and shouted something in his coarse language which made his crewmen laugh. As the foreign mercenaries walked forward, Sir William felt his lip sneer. He had been forced to accept twenty of Sigtrygg’s men into his company as they travelled back to Bramber Castle. The jarl had sought him out as he and his knights had attempted to flee Westminster with the two bastards of Abergavenny. Jarl Sigtrygg had demanded his payment or threatened that he would inform the sheriff of Sir William’s part in the fire and the murder of one of Strongbow’s mesnie household. Penniless after bribing the king, William could not pay but he had convinced Jarl Sigtrygg that he had silver at Bramber. The jarl had been suspicious and had ordered his men to remain with the Norman knight until the debt was paid. Sigtrygg and the remaining members of his crew had taken the sea route with the warning that he would be waiting for Sir William in Sussex. That had forced the young knight to make all haste on the road southwards ere the jarl thought to take his payment from within Bramber’s walls while both Sir William and his father were absent. He knew that he had to be rid of the Danes’ company before they did any lasting damage to his reputation, but for now he could not free himself of their presence.

The foreigners had, however, proven a welcome security against attack. He had no real reason to fear ambush on the road south, of course  no band of outlaws or highwaymen was likely to mistake the troop of horsemen and infantry for the pilgrims and merchants who frequented the road, but he still felt jittery. Even with the Old King’s help in the kidnapping of Geoffrey and Alice, he could not shake the worry that Prince Harry would pursue him and take back his new mistress.

William called to the most senior knight in his conrois. As he watched the Danes disappear around a corner ahead, grizzled old Guy Wiston joined him from the back of the column.

‘Is it time?’ Wiston asked.

Sir William did not turn around to look at him. ‘This is as good a place as any.’

‘Yes,’ Wiston said absentmindedly. He took a dagger from his belt and examined its edge.

‘Make it quick,’ Sir William said as his eyes flicked around to look at Geoffrey and Alice of Abergavenny, tied at the knees and hands, in the cart. ‘Take one man with you to dig their graves. I’ll lead the rest of the company back up the road a bit to make sure no one is coming this way. Understand?’

‘Whatever you think,’ Wiston replied. ‘Abergavenny is your inheritance, not mine.’

The younger man turned his horse towards the cart which carried Alice and Geoffrey. Against his will, Sir William felt the pang of desire as he looked at his beautiful cousin. She had given herself to him in the wilderness of Wentwood and an image of her body in the firelight leapt into his mind. She had thought to save her brother after the priest had died by Wiston’s hand. Sir William consoled himself that it had been a sin and Alice’s death was justice. The thought sat comfortably on his ambitious shoulders.

‘Cousins,’ Sir William greeted them. Geoffrey wilted under his words.

Alice was undaunted. ‘Where are you taking us?’

‘To Bramber, of course,’ William lied. ‘There you will be kept safe and secure. Geoffrey will go to the monks of Battle Abbey and you, cousin, to a nunnery.’

‘The Young King will come for me,’ Alice replied, ‘and he will make you cower before him.’

Geoffrey looked up, expecting violence, but William de Braose smiled sweetly at the siblings. ‘No, he will not come, Alice. He is enamoured with the sound of his own voice, that one. I wager that he had already forgotten you.’

‘You worm,’ whimpered the girl as tears began to show.

Sir William laughed, stopping only when shouting erupted in the distance. His eyes narrowed and his pupils danced in their sockets as he listened for more tell-tale signs of combat in the valley where the Danes had disappeared. There! The distant clash of weaponry emanated from the depth of the glade and was followed by the briefest shouts of alarm.

‘Harry!’ Alice of Abergavenny exclaimed breathlessly, a smile of victory beaming from beneath her tear-stained face as she turned back to stare at her captor.

‘Be quiet,’ Sir William snapped as he considered the situation. Certainly the sounds indicated that the foreigners down in the valley were under attack, but what did he care if they died? They cost nothing if they were dead. More important was finding out who was attacking them. Before he could react, three Danes burst from the tree line and, spotting Sir William, sprinted towards him.

‘Lord,’ their leader panted. ‘We have come upon bandits in the forest.’ The foreigner kept his head bowed in subservience to the powerful young knight.

‘Are they the Young King’s men?’ asked Sir William, momentarily shocked at the Dane’s grasp of the French tongue. Then he remembered that Jarl Sigtrygg had been able to speak the language.

‘They are not mounted, Lord,’ the foreigner answered in his strange lilting accent.

‘How many?’ he demanded.

‘Ten at most, armed with bows. We should send cavalry, Lord, to help chase them off.’

Sir William ignored him and considered the situation. An idea quickly began to take form in his mind. He turned his back on the Danes.

‘Guy!’ he shouted in Wiston’s direction. ‘Get my conrois ready. We are going to drive away those bandits.’ The man nodded his helmeted head in assent and began issuing orders to the other warriors.

‘You are from Ireland?’ he asked of the mercenary leader.

‘Yes, Lord,’ the Dane answered, keeping his head bowed in deference to the noble heir to Bramber. ‘My name is Ulf.’

Sir William noticed that the foreigner had a Norman horn at his side. Probably plunder from some poor murdered soul, William decided. ‘I have another job for you, Ulf.’ He urged his horse away from the cart. ‘Follow me.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the man answered and walked away from where the Abergavenny siblings were chained.

Sir William searched among his clothes and produced two coins. ‘That,’ he said as he threw the first of the coins into Ulf’s hands, ‘is for the boy’s soul. And that,’ he flicked another in the Dane’s direction, ‘is for that of the girl.’ The second coin shimmered in the air before falling into Ulf’s hands. ‘And this,’ Sir William continued, shaking the little money remaining in the worn leather purse, ‘is for your silence.’ He held the purse by the ties at the top, swinging it gently between his thumb and forefinger. Ulf’s face was shadowed by the wide nasal guard, and his chin covered in chainmail, but his eyes shone at the sound of the money. ‘Do you understand what I am asking of you? I do not wish for you to pray for them.’

‘Yes, Lord,’ the man replied in his strange accent. ‘We will take them somewhere secluded and make it look like the bandits killed them?’

William de Braose smiled and tossed the purse on the ground beside the man’s feet. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Keep this to yourself and you will have my favour and more silver than you could ever imagine. Open your mouth to anyone, including your jarl, and it will be the last thing you do.’

‘Yes, Lord,’ the man replied as he gathered the coins into his pockets.

‘Good. Get it done then,’ Sir William said as he trotted back towards Geoffrey and Alice. His horse barely broke stride as he passed the bastard cousins whose deaths he had bought.

‘These goodly Danes will take you somewhere safe while I chase off these outlaws,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘Goodbye.’

‘King Harry will come for me,’ Alice spat at him but Sir William merely laughed and kicked his horse into a canter which took him past the group of cavalry awaiting his orders.

‘Follow me,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s get rid of these scum,’ he ordered. He pulled his chainmail coif up onto his head and drew his sword from his red scabbard. Sir William could not help but let a smile spread across his face. Finally, after so many weeks of fretting, his cousins would be gone and his rich Welsh inheritance secure. First he had to deal with the outlaws who had unwittingly provided him with the perfect cover for Geoffrey and Alice’s murder. Their heads would be presented to the Sheriff of Surrey, as would their blame for his cousins’ deaths. His troop of horsemen trotted over the brow of a hill and down into the belly of the valley where the ambush had occurred. As he slid his war helm onto his head, William de Braose noted that it was strangely silent in the glade, but for the rustle of leaves, the tinkle of running water and the clip of horses’ hooves.

‘Fan out,’ he told the men who followed him. Locked inside his great helm, William could see almost nothing except that which came from directly ahead. The stillness in the valley worried him and he gripped and re-gripped his sword hilt nervously.

Then he saw the Danes. Each had at least four or five arrow shafts protruding from his chest or face. They were all dead.

‘Where are the outlaws?’ he shouted at his men who, like he, searched the trees on either side of the road for any sign of the bandits. ‘Fan out!’

Why woodsmen would think to attack heavily armed warriors, Sir William did not know. Normally they relied on hunting down travellers, tradesmen and pilgrims. This attack was not in keeping with what he knew of outlaws and Sir William’s eye drifted back over the bodies. For the first time noticed that some of the Danes were missing armour and weapons. Often the dead were stripped of their arms by their enemy, but Sir William wondered why only a few of the mercenaries had been foraged for equipment. Closer investigation showed that the stripped men, alone of the dead Danes, had not been killed by arrows. Instead they had been brought down by shots to their legs, and then their throats had been cut. Sir William shook his head in confusion.

‘No sign of the bowmen,’ Guy Wiston shouted from further up the road. ‘They must have scarpered as soon as they saw us coming.’

‘No,’ he replied, his eyes screwed up in concentration, ‘there is something else going on.’ Sir William dismounted and knelt at the side of one of the Danes who had been stripped of his leather armour and weaponry. There were two arrow wounds in the man’s legs  one in the ankle and a second in his left thigh. ‘They were trying to capture these ones without killing them,’ he said quietly.

‘Looks like they killed him anyway,’ Wiston said as he dropped down beside his lord. A pool of blood gathered from a gaping wound on the dead man’s throat.

‘But why bother?’ Sir William asked. ‘They took him down with arrows as he ran away, stripped him and then cut his throat. Why?’ he asked.

‘They liked his armour too much to ruin it,’ Wiston answered with a smile. ‘I wonder why they didn’t take the same from these other fashionable wretches? Twenty coats of good armour would fetch a pretty price at market.’

William froze as a thought entered his head. ‘How many bodies are there?’

‘Twenty in total,’ Wiston answered, sweeping a hand over the dead and counting them one at a time. ‘This fellow and nineteen others. Why do you ask?’

‘If there are twenty bodies here, and we only had twenty in our company, then who were the three that came back to the top of the glade?’ Sir William quizzically swept around and looked back through the trees to where he had last seen Geoffrey and Alice of Abergavenny. ‘Who the hell was that Dane I spoke to?’

Without another word he threw his leg over his horse’s back and thundered back up the hill.

The Dane untied Alice’s hands delicately. He did not speak and nor did he raise his helmeted head to look at those who he had been paid to murder. His five crewmen gathered around him.

‘Where are you taking us?’ the girl asked as she watched her hated cousin and his conrois disappear through the trees to flush out his enemy. She had watched Sir William’s conversation with the Dane intently, and prayed that she had misread what had gone between the men. Her wrists were raw where she had clawed at the ropes in an attempt to free herself and her brother. ‘Why are you taking us away?’ she demanded.

The foreign mercenary said nothing in reply to the girl but, keeping a hold on Alice’s hand, slashed the ropes which bound Geoffrey of Abergavenny to the cart. A shadow cast by the mercenary’s tall helmet kept his face and any human emotion hidden from Alice.

‘Why did he give you money?’ Alice questioned the foreigner again. When he didn’t answer she tried a different tack. ‘The Young King would pay a fine ransom for the lives of my brother and me,’ she said as sweetly as possible. ‘He will be here presently, and will reward those who protect his loved ones.’

‘No,’ was all that the Dane replied.

‘Do not do this to us,’ Alice screamed and attempted to loosen the Dane’s grip on her arm. The warrior’s hold was immovable as he hauled both to their feet and dragged them up hill away from William de Braose remaining column of servants and soldiers.

‘Come,’ the Dane mumbled as he hauled Alice up hill and into the trees. Geoffrey’s arm was taken by one of his cohorts. Both siblings fought against the mercenaries’ great strength, but loose soil provided no foothold and though they passed many trees, neither sibling could grab any hold to stop the march that inevitably took them towards a shallow grave in the woods.

‘I have a friend with money!’ Alice squealed as she fought.

‘The Young King?’ the Dane asked, his voice laden with scorn.

‘No, Raymond de Carew,’ she pleaded. ‘You have heard of him? He won the tourney at Westminster...’

‘Bloody typical,’ the Dane replied and angrily hauled the girl upwards with a sudden jolt and a scathing laugh. Moments later they reached the tree-lined ridge and they picked up pace as they hurried over the hollow roots which punctuated the ground beneath them. As they reached a small hollow, the Dane stopped and looked around him. He dropped Alice’s arms and put his fingers to his mouth, blowing a short, sharp whistle which reverberated around the trees. Alice of Abergavenny, despite her exhaustion, charged the Dane in a last effort to free her brother.

‘Wait,’ the man managed to say before Alice leapt on his back and began wrestling with him. She screamed and scrabbled at the armour wrapped around her would-be murderer’s face until she, the Dane and Geoffrey fell into a writhing pile in the belly of the hollow. The rest tried to pull the girl off their crewman until laughter pealed from their left.

‘How is it, Lady Alice, that every time we deliver you from death you thank us by threatening or attacking one of my warriors?’ asked Raymond de Carew calmly from a few paces away. He was surrounded on all sides by fighting men, all armed lightly with bows in hand and arrows nocked and ready to fly. ‘How about you two stop fighting and we all get out of here?’ he added with a laugh. All his men were amused at the sight of the girl straddling her captor, attempting to throttle him.

‘Raymond?’ the girl asked without removing her hands from the face of the man below her.

‘Get off me,’ the Dane commanded, rolling onto his back and launching Alice off him and onto the ground. Getting to his feet, he threw away the Danish helm and pulled the chainmail hood from his chin and head, revealing his face. She recognised him immediately as Borard, though his beard and most of his hair had been hacked off to disguise him. The other Danes began stripping away armour to reveal more of Raymond’s men: Asclettin FitzEustaceand Thurstin Hore.

‘Well, that was easier than I thought it would be,’ Borard told Raymond as he brushed twigs from his shirt. ‘Are we ready?’

Raymond nodded and turned towards Alice, still sitting on the forest floor, disgruntled and untidy. ‘Yes, back to the horses,’ he said. ‘We have what we came for.’