‘It came closer –
scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch
. I began to walk faster, then faster still, but it just kept its own sweet pace a few feet behind me. Captain, I’ve fought in many a battle and I swear I never run from the enemy, but that thing at my heels scared me more than any mortal man with sword or lance. My nerve cracked, I don’t mind admitting it, and I broke into a flat-out run. But fast as I ran, there was no getting away from it. I could hear it catching up, getting closer, hissing with rage and breathing down my neck.
‘Just when I thought it would sink its claws into me, I saw a flame in the trees ahead. A woodcutter’s camp. I ran for it as if Old Nick himself was after me, which for all I knew he was, and threw myself down by the fire gibbering like a loony. The old woodcutter, bless his soul, he looked down at me, and then he looked behind me and a very peculiar expression came over his face.
‘“What is it?”’ I cried.
‘Slowly he put out his bony hand and pointed. I scrambled round. And then I saw it.’
‘Saw what?’ Vallon said, keeping his eyes on the trees.
Raul halted, wheezing with laughter. ‘A length of rope that had worked loose from my pack and was dragging behind me.’
Vallon didn’t laugh, didn’t break step. ‘Raul, you’re a drunken blowhard.’
‘Wait. I ain’t finished.’
Vallon grabbed him. ‘I heard a cry.’
Raul’s eyes patrolled. ‘Probably a fox.’
Vallon turned. ‘Wayland’s not coming. We’ll find a path through the forest.’
‘Without Wayland, we’ll go round in circles. Let’s make camp and move on at first light.’
Vallon felt a spurt of fury. ‘What does the wretch think he’s doing? If this was a regular company, I’d have him hanged for desertion.’
Raul took his arm. ‘Come on, Captain, I’ll find us a place to rest.’
‘Sir,’ Hero said, pointing down the ride.
Vallon made out a flicker of movement. He drew his sword. ‘Everybody into the trees.’
They ran for cover. Raul went down on one knee and took aim. Vallon watched the advancing shape take on human outline. ‘It’s Wayland,’ he said. ‘Wayland and his dog.’
Raul slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I don’t deny it, Captain. I feel happier with him back. If anyone thinks they can spring a surprise on us, they’d have to get up a lot earlier than Wayland.’
‘There’s someone with him,’ said Hero.
‘It’s the boy from the tavern,’ said Vallon. He looked the other way. ‘Stay hidden.’
Wayland swayed to a standstill in front of them. He’d roped the boy to the dog’s collar. Looped over his shoulder was some kind of ragged and leafy garment.
‘Raul, find out what’s happening.’
Vallon scanned the road while the German questioned Wayland.
When Raul rejoined him, he was as solemn as an owl. ‘You were right, Captain. There are seven cut-throats waiting up ahead by an old oak. There were two others, but Wayland dealt with them.’
‘Killed them?’
‘The dog killed one. He tied the other up.’
‘He should have killed him.’
‘I know, but there’s a tender streak in the lad.’
‘What’s the boy’s part in this?’
‘He was tracking us in case we slept in the forest. His father’s the leader. The outlaws start them young in these parts.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Hero whispered.
‘Wayland knows where they’re lurking,’ Raul told him. ‘We’ll be long gone by the time they discover we’ve taken a different path.’
Vallon looked at the falconer. ‘Can you guide us around the ambush?’
Wayland looked uncertainly at Hero and Richard.
‘They ain’t up to it,’ said Raul. ‘They’re dead for lack of sleep.’
‘They’ll be dead all right. We have to get out of the forest before daylight.’
Wayland pointed at the boy, then at the dog, then made a sweeping gesture down the ride. He pointed at the fugitives and made the same gesture.
Vallon frowned. ‘I think he’s saying we should go on down the track, using the boy as a hostage.’
Wayland pointed at himself, then across the ride, and moved his hand in a half circle, indicating that he would make his way back until he was behind the outlaws’ position.
Vallon looked at the boy. ‘Find out his father’s name.’
At Raul’s approach, the boy backed to the end of his tether, breathing in and out through his nose. Raul wrapped one hand around the boy’s collar and hoisted him off the ground. ‘Give us your father’s name, you little shit.’
The boy uttered a choked syllable.
‘What was that? Ash, did you say?’
The boy jerked his head up and down. Raul dropped him. ‘Sounded like Ash.’
Wayland nodded.
Vallon’s eyes patrolled the dark avenue. ‘Imagine how many travellers have met their deaths along this road.’ He turned to Raul. ‘I think we should put back into Ash’s life some of the terror he’s dealt out.’
To the waiting outlaws it must have seemed like a cavalcade from fairyland, the boy lolling astride the giant dog, Vallon’s sword glinting across his shoulder, the other fugitives in close attendance.
The procession halted a bowshot short of the oak.
‘Ash?’ Raul shouted. ‘Ash? Your eyes don’t deceive you. That’s your son on the dog, and it will rip the life from him just as cruelly as it tore out Siward’s throat. Leofric’s dead, too. Wolfboy killed him. Do you want to know where Wolfboy is? He’s closer than you think. He’s watching you. He’s cloaked and hooded in your own uniform. Look at your neighbour. Look close. Are you sure he’s the man you take him for? Are you sure it’s a man at all? Wolfboy can change form. Listen.’
Stark silence, and then a sound that made the hairs on Vallon’s neck
stand up. The dog that everyone thought was mute lifted its head and joined in. The mournful howling of hunting wolves rose up until it enveloped the forest, and then it fell away, leaving a tingling hush.
‘The show’s over,’ Raul cried. ‘Don’t follow us if you want to see your boy again. Do as I say and you’ll find him unharmed at the next village.’
The procession moved on. A mile beyond the ambush site, the trees gave way to open common. Raul puffed out his cheeks. ‘Captain, that was the longest walk of my life. My back felt as wide as a barn.’
Vallon frowned at him. ‘How did you know I fought alongside Rodrigo Diaz?’
‘The Cid? I didn’t. It was just showman’s patter.’ He missed a step. ‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Go on with the others.’
Raul’s footsteps faded. The road behind stretched away like a ribbon of blackened silver. Up ahead, a dog began to yap. Vallon touched his brow with the back of his hand. He felt as if he’d walked through a bad dream.
On a mild overcast afternoon at the beginning of April, the runagates gathered by a busy crossroads on the Ermine Way, a few miles south of Stamford. In the surrounding fields, peasants were sowing and harrowing, the same scene repeated all the way to the flat horizons, as though the peasants themselves were a crop.
The company lounged back on their elbows, legs outstretched, heels propped on toes, watching the passing traffic. Nobody bothered them. After three weeks sleeping rough, they looked a thoroughly villainous crew. So did many of the other itinerants on that highway. Carters, drovers, vagabonds and refugees criss-crossed the junction, where a makeshift bazaar of stalls and booths offered refreshments, charms and horoscopes. A squadron of Norman cavalry rode by looking neither left nor right and went highstepping south, towards London. Raul farted.
‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Hero.
Vallon stood and squinted north to the highway’s vanishing point where a small but important outline had appeared against the milky sky. It advanced slowly, slower than a man walks, gradually shaping itself into a wagon train of four great carts, each drawn by six oxen and piled so high with bales and kegs that they resembled lurching siege engines. Whips snaked and cracked. Two thuggish outriders flanked the convoy and crop-eared mastiffs stalked between the wheels. A feral-looking boy darted from wagon to wagon, greasing the axles with lard. The driver of the leading vehicle was whippet-thin with a face like a shrivelled wineskin. Beside him sat the train captain, an immensely fat merchant with dewlaps spilling over his fur muff.
Vallon walked into the road with Raul and held up a hand. The teamster drove back the mastiffs with whiplashes of stinging precision. Vallon leaned on the drawbar while Raul translated. When Hero saw the merchant turn his piggy eyes towards him, he had a premonition of ill fate.
Money changed hands. Vallon walked back, took Hero’s elbow and led him aside.
‘Are we going to London?’
‘You are. This is where we part company.’
Hero felt hot and cold at the same time. ‘How have I offended you?’
‘You haven’t. The truth is, we’re stepping deeper into danger, and you’re not cut out for it.’
‘I’m tougher than Richard.’
‘Richard has no choice but to flee these shores. You have better things to do with your life.’
‘But I vowed to serve you.’
‘I release you from that vow,’ Vallon said. He kissed Hero on both cheeks and stood back. ‘Don’t think I won’t miss your company. Evenings around the hearth won’t be the same without your stories and speculations.’
It was happening too fast for Hero to muster an argument. The teamster rolled his whip. Vallon raised his arm. ‘The fare’s been paid. The merchant’s a rogue, but he won’t harm you. I told him I’d be joining you in London.’ He pressed money into Hero’s hand. ‘I’m sorry I can’t spare more. I know you’ll reach home, though. Apply yourself to
your studies. Write to me in Byzantium. Astonish me with news of your achievements. God speed you and keep you.’ He squeezed Hero’s shoulder and turned away.
One by one, the others came up to make their farewells. Richard sobbed openly. Raul grasped him in a bear hug. Wayland regarded him with cool blue eyes, looked like he might shake his hand, then nodded and turned.
The wagon train trundled into motion. Hero watched his companions walk away down the highway, travelling east. Vallon didn’t look back. Didn’t turn his head once.
Hero wept. All his life the men he loved had disappointed him. His father had dandled all five of his sisters and died three months before the birth of his only son. Cosmas, the man who could have taught him everything, had been with him for less than a month. And now Vallon, the captain whom he’d vowed to follow until death, had discarded him without a backward glance.
He really was all alone. His companions had crossed the horizon in one direction; the wagon train had disappeared in the other. Only the serfs remained, stooped and wretched in the clotted light. Hero dragged himself up and shuffled towards London.
Around the campfire that night, Vallon told the remaining fugitives that the first leg of their journey was nearly over: in two days they would reach Norwich.
‘Tomorrow we’ll hire three mules and buy new clothes. Next day we’ll enter Norwich separately. Richard, you’ll ride ahead and find lodgings and make contact with the moneylender. Wayland will escort you as far as the city walls. Go in by yourself. It will be safer. Use a false name and say that you’re travelling on family business.’
‘One of the soldiers might recognise me. If news of our crimes has reached Norwich …’
‘If the worst happens, tell them the truth about the ransom and the moneylender. Remember you’re Olbec’s son. You don’t take shit from common soldiers. Wayland, if Richard runs into trouble, wait for us outside the west gate. Raul and I will join you by sunset. We’ll be travelling as military engineer and engineer’s assistant.’
‘All the gates will be watched,’ Raul said. ‘The guards will ask for papers.’
‘Lady Margaret gave me documents carrying the royal seal. No soldier would dare open them.’ Vallon laced his hands behind his head. ‘Well,’ he said through a yawn, ‘the night after next we’ll eat like lords and sleep under goose down.’
His assurances fell into a queasy silence. Everyone knew that Norwich was one of the most formidable Norman strongholds in England. Three hundred soldiers manned its castle, and they would be alert. Less than a year ago the garrison had helped capture the Isle of Ely, the last redoubt of English resistance, only a day’s ride to the south. The rebel leader called Hereward had escaped the encirclement and was still at large, rebuilding his forces, it was rumoured.
Richard and Wayland left for Norwich at cockcrow. Vallon and Raul followed at noon, riding across the levels under a huge blue sky. Vallon wore his hair cropped short, Norman style, and was clothed in clerical grey. Miles before they reached Norwich, they could see the castle dominating the skyline.
They halted at a drinking trough well short of the west gate and mingled with other travellers watering their animals. Wooden walls surrounded the city and a guard tower bridged the gate. Curfew was approaching and the road was busy.
‘No sign of Wayland,’ Vallon said. ‘Let’s hope the Normans haven’t arrested him.’
Raul spat. ‘They’d have more chance of catching the wind.’
Vallon led his mule back to the road. They eased into the stream of travellers. The sergeant of the guard, a hard-bitten veteran, watched them approach.
‘That one’s trouble,’ said Raul.
The sergeant crooked a finger. ‘You two. Move to one side. Get down.’
Vallon stayed mounted. The sergeant strutted up to him. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘I heard,’ Vallon said in a clipped voice, ‘and I’ve a good mind to repay your insolence with the flat of my sword. I’m Ralph of Dijon, military engineer, travelling on the King’s commission. As for my business, that’s not for you to know.’
‘Papers.’
The sergeant returned them after examining the seal. He hailed a
soldier who was rubbing down a horse outside the tower. ‘Hey, Fitz, escort these two to the castle.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Vallon. ‘I want to take a look at the city’s outer fortifications while there’s still light.’
The sergeant’s jaw jutted. ‘The castellan doesn’t like visitors dropping in unannounced. I’ll send Fitz to let him know you’re on your way.’
‘No, you won’t. My job is to inspect the King’s defences any way I see fit. This is a surprise inspection. That’s why the castellan isn’t expecting me.’ He flicked the documents. ‘Understood?’