LV

 

 

THE PARTY OF mounted knights and serjeants thundered out of the castle gate – the knights in the white surcoats of the Templars emblazoned with the red cross, the serjeants in their blood-red livery.

Fulke had been quick to volunteer himself as their captain. He needed to win back some favour from his master, and riding down this wretch – bringing back his head this time, so there could be absolutely no doubt – seemed the best way to do it. They would flush him out, surround him and pin him with lances. It would be just like hunting boar. Except, of course, that a boar didn’t come back at you with a bow or sword. But Fulke had thought of that. Before their precipitous departure from Castel Mercheval, he had spoken privately with the crossbowmen among the serjeants – all of whom were trained to fire from horseback, and at a gallop if necessary – and promised five deniers to the one who could bring down the miscreant without killing him. With their quarry disabled, Fulke would run him through until his lance was red with his blood. Then he’d have one of them perform the messy task of decapitating the corpse, and would ride back triumphant, Gisburne’s head held aloft. In his mind, he could already hear the cheers of the jubilant garrison. He would get them to like him if it was the last thing he did.

Soon after Gisburne’s dramatic resurrection and disappearance, they’d noticed a thin column of smoke rising from the forest, to the southeast. One of the foresters was certain he could tell the location of the source. When pressed by Fulke, he admitted he had not passed that way in months, and could not vouch for the state of the paths, but a glance suggested it was the place they called the “wolf glade”, not far off the road. He knew these woods, as he put it, “better than he knew his brother’s wife” – a quip he would not have made within Tancred’s hearing, if he valued his testicles.

And so, with a great clatter of arms, armour glinting, Fulke had ridden out onto the forest road at the head of nine knights and six serjeants, helm thrown back, red hair and beard flying. Of course, Fulke’s version of “riding at the head” included two serjeants as outriders just ahead of him. He was a knight, not a fool.

They had not ridden far along the tree-hemmed road when a cry went up from one of the serjeants. A horse, riderless, and apparently rooting for sustenance in the verge. As they drew close, they could see it was a cart horse. In the next moment, as the road curved, the serjeant at the head – a stocky fellow named Theobald, or Theobard or some such name – spotted another part of the puzzle, and called back to Fulke. Up ahead was a wagon, seemingly abandoned by the side of the road.

It could only be the enginer’s wagon. Fulke urged them on with a triumphant curse, and they flew towards it at a gallop. As they neared, they could see some of its load was scattered, and parts of the wagon itself apparently missing or destroyed. Fulke was just trying to understand what had wrought such destruction upon the cart when Theobald’s head snapped back. His whole body flipped up in the air and was flung backwards off his mount, smashing upside down into the side of the other serjeant’s horse, which he was desperately trying draw to a halt before it struck. It looked to Fulke as if a great hand had plucked at Theobald as he rode, pinching him about the neck and tossing him in a somersault. His body crunched to the ground, head first, then rolled over, head lolling limply. Fulke drew up suddenly behind his serjeant, several of the men behind him careering into each other with much protest.

Fulke had not paused to allow the crossbowmen to ready their bows – something they could not do whilst riding. Effectively defenceless against a man with a bow, they now struggled to prime them as they pulled their horses in a circle and scanned the trees for targets. But they found none.

Then Fulke saw it. It was almost invisible against the backdrop of dark trees, but stretched across the path between two adjacent trunks – the exact height of a man’s neck, if the man were on the back of a courser – was a rope.

That Theobald was dead was beyond doubt. Fulke – furious that first blood had been to his adversary – wheeled his horse around in tight circles, his sword drawn, shouting obscenities at the mute ranks of trees.

Just then, one of the serjeants – Fulke didn’t know his name – called out. In the dead foliage at the side of the road, close to where the wagon had been abandoned, was a gap – the opening to an old path. This, he said, was the old path the forester had meant – he was sure of it. The wisps of smoke, still just visible above the trees, lay directly beyond. Around the opening lay freshly-broken twigs. Fulke bravely permitted the serjeant to dismount and investigate on his behalf. He peered along the path, and called back to report that he could make out bits of the ill-fated enginer’s cargo scattered along it.

The path was far too enclosed for horse and rider – barely wide enough for those on foot to go more than single file. But Fulke roared in triumph nonetheless, sheathed his sword and leapt off his horse, dragging a poleaxe from the side of his saddle and tucking a mace into his wide belt. He had his man. He knew where he was, and which way he had gone. And he had fifteen armed men to this one. Those were the kind of odds he liked. This was going to be a slaughter – one he would relish.

“You and you – stay with the horses!” barked Fulke. “The rest, with me...” All but two dismounted, and loaded themselves with every kind of weapon. One of the mounted men addressed Fulke then, asking if it was not wise to remain mounted, and perhaps find a different route in. Fulke glared at him, and spat on the floor in contempt. He would deal with that one later. Now, without hesitation, he turned and plunged into the forest.

Once inside, Fulke ordered two of his serjeants to scout ahead. The path was eerily quiet – no birds, just the creak of shifting boughs in the wind and the steady drip-drip of rain and meltwater from the leafless branches. Along it, strewn with apparent carelessness, were all manner of strange, discarded objects – soaked scraps of cloth, a small hammer, a leather belt, several iron rivets in a pile, a freshly broken jar with stinking, acrid contents.

One of the serjeants hissed back to Fulke, pointing ahead. All tensed and readied their weapons. As they drew closer, Fulke could see the path opening up into a clearing. And he could hear a sound – muffled, indistinct, but unmistakably human.

Fulke, advancing slower now, joined the serjeants who had stopped at the edge of the open glade. He saw what they saw, and froze.

It was just as the forester had described – an almost perfect circle that had, at some time in the distant past, been painstakingly cleared, and was now surrounded by a ring of ancient oak trees, each one of huge size. Almost dead centre of the clearing, a fire burned, smoke spiralling up into the grey sky, some of the logs as yet unmarked by the flames. They could only have been placed there minutes before. About it were scattered various objects – some, simple tradesmen’s tools that Fulke recognised even at a distance; others enigmatic, glinting with metal and glass.

And beyond, tied upright to one of the largest of the trees, was a man.

Fulke had not expected to find such a thing. For a fleeting, irrational moment, squinting at the gagged, partly obscured features in the low light, Fulke thought it was Gisburne himself; that he had been cheated of his prize by some mysterious interloper, who had, perhaps, captured the villain in the hope of reward. In the next moment, he was castigating himself for his stupidity. This could not be the same man. He was stocky, short, his clothing common. He was also the source of the sounds, the wailing and whimpering. His eyes widened as he saw the knights and serjeants, and his volume and urgency rose.

Fulke urged the nearest of his serjeants on. The man took one step, then did not move, apparently reluctant to come out from cover. “Pathetic coward!” breathed Fulke, shoving him forward with the point of his poleaxe.

The serjeants advanced slowly, warily into the open.

All looked about them, senses keen, weapons drawn, loaded, ready – the only sounds the crack of the fire in the damp, the whimper of the bound man, and the constant creak and drip-drip-drip of the surrounding trees. Fulke did not like it here. There was an almost unearthly stillness which made even those sounds seem weirdly muted. He gripped the poleaxe tighter, and wondered at this glade’s ancient purpose. Perhaps once some pagan place, he thought, trying to suppress the shudder he felt pass through him.

Beneath the sharp tang of woodsmoke, the place smelled of damp and mould and rot. Then, as the wind gusted, something else hit his nostrils: tar or pitch. The wind changed, whipping the smell away again. Then there was something else – faint, but distinctly there, at the back of it all, wafting now and then. Something he had only smelled on the hunt, or in battle. Blood. Fresh blood.

There was death here, he was sure of it.

It was not the man against the tree. He was very much alive. Fulke realised, slowly but surely, as they advanced step by step across the damp and spongy floor, that this could only be the fabled enginer from Amiens. If he got Gisburne and brought back the enginer in one piece so the box coud be opened, that would be triumph indeed. He felt a surge of confidence. Gisburne had not killed the enginer after all – had not even maimed him, as far as he could see. He was not as ruthless or invincible as he had made out. And the enginer must know from their garb that he was now saved.

So, why was he whimpering harder, and shaking his head at their approach, his eyes wider than ever? Fulke drew up level with the crackling fire and paused. On the ground now, half hidden, he could just make out a large circle of tiny stakes in the ground. He vaguely wondered if a tent had been pitched there, when one of his knights nudged him, and gestured towards something else on the ground, just beyond the fire. A thick, dark plank of wood, about the length of a man’s arm and a forearm in width. It bore a simple carved design, and on one side were broken, black iron hinges. The lid of a box. Fulke recognised the design. The mark of Lucatz, the enginer. He even believed, now he thought about it, that he might have seen this very piece of wood before. It was the lid of the box that contained Lucatz’s tools. Except now, it had a loop of string attached to one end, like an apron. And embedded in it were two crossbow bolts. Crossbow bolts bearing the fletching of Castel Mercheval.

So that was how the pig did it. He was no demon, not invincible. Fulke gave a gruff laugh of satisfaction and took a step forward. The enginer whimpered louder through his gag, trying to speak, shaking his head with ever greater urgency. Fulke stopped and stared, his meaty forehead creased in a deepening frown as realisation began to dawn.

There was a creak behind them. A snap. Fulke turned, just as something big and bloody – some creature – came rushing at them through the air.

His men reeled about, threw up their arms and drew back to avoid being struck by the thing, shoving and trampling each other in their panic. Those now at the back – Fulke and his serjeants – were barged roughly. They staggered back, fighting to maintain their balance. The earth gave way beneath their feet.

Fulke plunged into darkness, bouncing off a flailing figure. His head grazed against wood. A hand clawed against his face. His body jammed against something, fell again awkwardly, then suddenly stopped. Disorientated and confused, it took him a moment to understand what had happened.

He was in a pit of spikes. A bear trap. The realisation almost made him laugh. He had set out on the hunt, and had instead become the hunted. The trapped beast.

He did not know if he was injured. He only knew he was somehow hanging sideways, unable to turn, his legs trapped, his beard and hair full of twigs and mouldering leaves, the taste of blood in his mouth, the reek of pitch in his nostrils. About him, half glimpsed in the dark – and closer than he would have liked – was the writhing and groaning of the dying, the hot smell of torn flesh.

With supreme effort he heaved against the stakes – they would not move – and twisted around as far as he could. It wasn’t much – just enough to see daylight, once he’d blinked away the blood and loam in his eyes. There was shouting above. At the edge of the pit, one of his knights knelt, reaching a hand towards him. “Here!” he cried. “Quickly!”

It was Rogier de Grosbois. Thank God... He’d always liked Rogier. Not like the others, giving him the evil eye behind his back. He would reward him richly for this. They would drink together, and reminisce about it for years to come. He strained to reach out his free arm. Somehow, he reached the hand, and clasped it tight. Rogier smiled.

Then – barely audible – came a high-pitched whistle. A thunk of impact. Rogier de Grosbois gave a strangled cry, and fell dead into the pit, eyes bulging, an arrow in his ribs.

Shouts. Another whistle. Another impact. The cry was shrill and piercing this time.

Fulke roared in anguish to any who would listen. To show them he was still alive. To give them a chance to show their loyalty.

From above he heard only the pounding of feet as the remaining knights and serjeants fled back into the forest.