Chapter 8 #2
One track through Hey Hamlet led toward Brome and another toward Burstock, a half day's ride away. Burstock Castle belonged to Jehanne's uncle, Aline's father.
"I see," he said, as nonchalantly as he could. "I had best follow her, then. It is late for her to be on the road."
It took almost more willpower than he possessed, but he did not race to his horse. He even took time to accept a handful of bilberries from one shy woman and thank her. Then he led his troop at a trot along the wooded Burstock road, passing his hawk to one of his men as they rode.
Once out of sight of the village, he kicked the horse into a flat-out gallop. Jehanne was running off to her lover.
He'd kill her.
No.
But this time he would beat her, and keep her in close confinement.
He'd kill Lowick, though. He'd spit him before her eyes. But even that might not quench the rage in him.
He charged around a bend in the road to see the party far ahead, out of the trees and onto the open door. They, too, were riding flat out, doubtless having heard the beat of pursuing horses.
Galeran drew his sword.
Raoul raced up beside him. "Think, my friend!"
But Galeran just kicked his steaming horse into greater speed.
The crossbow bolt clipped his helmet, twisting his head back, jerking his rein hand so his horse reared, almost unseating him. The next thunked into his shield, passing a finger-length through the iron-reinforced wood.
His men immediately swung into a circle around him, shields high, but the assault stopped as abruptly as it had begun. An eerie stillness settled. No other projectile flew. No armed men charged out of the suddenly silent woods.
Galeran looked once at his distant, rapidly disappearing quarry, then broke the shield wall to drive through the scrub into the woodland.
Crashing noises marked his assailant, ahead and running for his life. Galeran chased after, being careful only not to ride his horse into a bog or crevice. His hounds gave voice and flew with him. He bellowed for his party to fan out, to stop the man from sneaking off to one side.
The next bolt might have found its mark had not his horse tossed up its head. The quarrel pierced it in the eye, killing it instantly.
Galeran kicked clear, but landed sprawling in fallen leaves, almost slashing himself on his drawn sword. He scrambled to his feet, discarded his shield, and ran straight at the bowman, who was fending off snarling dogs with his two bows.
A swing of Galeran's sword took off the man's hands. Before the bowman had time to scream, Galeran ran him through. Then he dragged the corpse up by the hair and hacked off the head.
Blood poured from it onto blood-soaked ground...
... as it had in Jerusalem, where the streets had flowed blood and the same metallic stench had risen to sicken him. Where his sword had killed because it was kill or be killed. Where he d killed women and children because they, too, had fought. Where he'd charged a group of German knights.
Raoul had dragged him back....
Raoul was dragging him back from the bloody mess, seizing his sword hand and twisting viciously.
Galeran dropped the sword, wondering why Raoul was doing such a thing. He blinked to clear misty vision. His friend looked angry, as he had in Jerusalem....
Were they in Jerusalem again?
He'd thought he was back in England, which was nice, but for some reason there was pleasure in the thought that he might be still overseas....
Raoul had knocked him out in Jerusalem, knocked him out of his mind. Was he still out of his mind...?
"Galeran, give it up. You don't want it."
Raoul seemed to be trying to pull something from his left hand. But he'd dropped his shield....
Galeran focused and saw he was holding a grimacing head by the hair, blood still trickling from the severed throat.
With a shudder he dropped it.
Raoul kicked it toward the corpse around which the hounds hovered uncertainly, drawn by blood, repelled by the human scent.
Taking in the mess that had been a man brief moments before, Galeran turned to retch. It was as if he spewed out madness, for when he straightened, he was sane. He knew he was in England, he knew about Jehanne, and he knew what he had just done.
Beginning to shiver, he wondered what would have happened if he'd caught Jehanne in that mad rage. Would he have attacked her with the same mindless violence? Snatched the babe from her arms to spit it on his sword?
Now it seemed unthinkable, but now it seemed unthinkable that he had slaughtered someone he could have taken prisoner. It was even more unthinkable that he had decapitated a corpse and clung to the head as a trophy.
Raoul passed Galeran a wineskin. "I assume that wasn't Raymond of Lowick."
"God, no." Galeran rinsed out his mouth, then drank deeply. "You'll know Raymond when you see him. He's tall as you, with golden hair and a noble demeanor. The sort women go silly over." He leaned against a tree, still shivering as if it were January.
"Then it would have been convenient to question the wretch."
"What point? It was clearly Lowick's plan."
And Jehanne's? Galeran's quivering mind was asking.
Had she led him into this trap? He could feel frantic sweat trickling cold down his back.
"A witness, at least, if it comes to law."
Galeran looked around at his men, who were beating back the dogs and pretending nothing much had happened. "We have witnesses if we need them. The man was abroad with two crossbows. What other purpose than to kill?"
Raoul looked down for a moment. "Perhaps he was just guarding your lady's back?"
"With two crossbows? He couldn't hold back a troop.
At the very least, an ordinary bow would be better because he could fire more arrows.
The crossbow is a murder weapon, as all know, and the only effective one against a mailed man.
" Galeran pushed away from the tree, passing the wineskin to a man.
"Bogo, Godfrey, dig a grave and put that in it. "
Then he walked back toward the road.
Raoul walked with him. "What are you going to do now?" he asked in a carefully neutral tone.
Galeran flashed him a look. "Don't worry. The blood lust has left me. I'm just curious to see whether anyone comes back to count corpses."
"Then you can have your sword back."
Galeran took it and cleaned it on some leaves before sheathing it.
"So you think it was a trap?" Raoul asked.
"The bait was attractive, and he was waiting."
"I don't think your lady—"
"Don't speak of it."
Galeran couldn't bear to hear his thoughts on another's lips, even to deny them. If it wasn't spoken, it would have less power.
As they halted at the edge of the trees to study the deserted road, birds began to sing again. After a while a rabbit cautiously hopped across the road. One of the dogs whined hopefully, but Galeran stayed it with a hand signal.
"Well?" asked Raoul sometime later. "The sun is starting to set. Are we to stay here all night?"
Galeran sighed, accepting that staying there was pointless. He was just reluctant to progress to the obvious step. "Of course not. We ride on to Burstock and visit my wife's uncle."
Galeran took Bogo's horse, sending the man back to Heywood, but under orders not to speak of this event. Then he led his troop along the road in the fading light. Recent rains had turned the dirt soft enough to hold hoofprints, so it was clear Jehanne's party had not stopped or turned off.
Could it just be an innocent trip to visit relatives? Galeran would like to believe it, but Jehanne's party had been traveling in haste, and had speeded when pursued. Moreover, he had left clear instructions that his wife was to stay in the castle.
And, of course, there was the bowman.
He didn't want to think about that bowman.
Night settled and the moon was clouded, so they slowed to a walk as they crossed the moors. Galeran heard the nearby convent bell sounding lauds as they came in sight of Burstock.
Burstock Castle was a simpler structure than Brome or Heywood, developed twenty years earlier around an old manor house that sat near a river.
A motte had been thrown up behind the house, but it was still crowned only by a simple wooden watchtower.
The family lived in the comfortable wood manor house within the palisade.
At this time of night, of course, the gates were firmly closed.
"Will they let us in?" Raoul asked when they drew up some distance away.
His friend's patience was beginning to wear on Galeran's nerves. "Probably, but I think we'll camp here for the night."
"Why?"
"I want to see what happens in the morning."
"We've no food and precious little wine."
"Pretend it's Lent. No fires."
The men weren't happy with the situation, but there were no complaints, which wasn't surprising after Galeran's berserker rage. They must wonder when next that kind of violence would erupt, and who would be on the receiving end.
Galeran wondered too.
He took care of his horse, cooling it, then leading it back a short distance to a stream to drink.
He unsaddled it and hobbled it so it could graze on the low moorland growth.
He drank some water himself, and washed the blood off his hands and face.
There was gore all over his mail and braies, but there wasn't much he could do about that.
He spotted some brambles and pointed out the fruit to his men so they could gather some if they wished. Then he allocated watch hours to each man, with special instructions to wake him if anyone entered or left Burstock.
Having run out of things to do, he rolled up in his cloak.
He could sleep this way if he had to, but doubted he would sleep tonight. He could have kept watch all night, but feared his mind would wander. And anyway; he didn't want to have to talk to Raoul.
One question tormented him: Was Lowick in Burstock, awaiting his leman? Were they even now in a bed, pumping together hot and sweatily, and lamenting that Jehanne had needed to whore with her husband to deflect his suspicions?