to have to find the means of earning a living.
The search for Ramon ended at Cainhoe. The village itself had been razed, but a string of corpses hanging from the battlements of a castle overlooking it from a Bedfordshire hilltop were not those of massacred inhabitants.
Gwil spent so long looking upwards that the castle gatekeeper peered out through the grille in the door at him. ‘Friends of yourn?’
Gwil pointed. ‘I’m hoping as that black-haired bastard there is the one as stole a bloody crossbow off me.’
‘Crossbow, eh? Lucky that’s all he stole. Want a closer look?’
Up on the ramparts, Gwil was able to peer down at the heads below. The eyes had been pecked out by crows and the flesh of the faces was in strips, but the long, raven-black hair of Ramon was unmistakable.
‘Thought we was easy pickings, they did,’ the gatekeeper said with satisfaction. He was a jolly man, made jollier by the rotting bunting strung along the walls.
The castle, it appeared, was one of several owned by the D’Albini family. Usually it was unoccupied except for a few servants, but on the day of Ramon’s raid old Sir Nigel D’Albini and some of his men had just arrived in it from putting down a rebellion against Stephen, intending to rest and recoup before setting out again. ‘We didn’t even have time to raise the flag to show Sir Nigel was in residence, see, so them bastards must’ve thought the castle wasn’t manned. ’N fact our lads hadn’t proper got out of their armour before we heard screams from the village and saw it was afire.’
With D’Albini’s bowmen letting fly from the allure and his men-at-arms pouring through the gates, Ramon with his fewer mercenaries had been routed, captured and hanged. ‘But not afore we had some fun with ’em.’ The gatekeeper’s grin was evil.
‘Was there a monk with ’em?’ Gwil wanted to know.
‘Monk? Never saw no monk. What’d a monk be doing with a gang like that? Never saw no crossbow, neither.’
‘What about booty? I heard they’d been robbing churches.’
‘Some. Not much, couple of chalices, bit of gold plate. Nothing to say where they come from, so I reckon as his lordship’ll regard ’em as treasure trove.’
There’d been more than that carried by the gang’s pack mules when they’d left Ely. Either Ramon had stashed the treasure somewhere, or the monk had got away with it. Gwil’s money was on the monk; Ramon had been no match for that crafty bastard.
News of arrivals in the castle had got around, and Gwil and Penda were taken to the hall to be interviewed by Sir Nigel D’Albini, a man with a face seamed like ancient leather. ‘Crossbowman, eh? I could do with you in my service.’
‘Kind of you, my lord,’ Gwil said, ‘but the lad and me, we’re on a quest, like.’ The last thing he needed was to rejoin the war; he had to think of an excuse. ‘There was a monk with those as stole from me. He was with the renegades, but he ain’t one of them hanging out there, so we still need to find him.’ He glanced anxiously at Penda; would she remember that a monk had been one of her rapists? Apparently not; the girl was looking around her with interest, as if she’d never been in a knight’s hall before. Which, Gwil supposed, she hadn’t.
The explanation was accepted, even approved; Sir Nigel was an eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth man. Nor had he a liking for the monastic system. ‘Monks.’ He spat. ‘Bloody leeches, even the best of ’em. God aid you in finding him, then. Send him to Hell from me.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
They were invited to spend the night. The next morning, because there were archery butts in the castle tiltyard, Gwil took the opportunity to give himself and Penda some practice before they left. He’d given in and let the girl try the new crossbow with which she was becoming as adept as with the standard yew bow he’d made for her.
D’Albini came out to watch. ‘That’s fancy shooting,’ he
The search for Ramon ended at Cainhoe. The village itself had been razed, but a string of corpses hanging from the battlements of a castle overlooking it from a Bedfordshire hilltop were not those of massacred inhabitants.
Gwil spent so long looking upwards that the castle gatekeeper peered out through the grille in the door at him. ‘Friends of yourn?’
Gwil pointed. ‘I’m hoping as that black-haired bastard there is the one as stole a bloody crossbow off me.’
‘Crossbow, eh? Lucky that’s all he stole. Want a closer look?’
Up on the ramparts, Gwil was able to peer down at the heads below. The eyes had been pecked out by crows and the flesh of the faces was in strips, but the long, raven-black hair of Ramon was unmistakable.
‘Thought we was easy pickings, they did,’ the gatekeeper said with satisfaction. He was a jolly man, made jollier by the rotting bunting strung along the walls.
The castle, it appeared, was one of several owned by the D’Albini family. Usually it was unoccupied except for a few servants, but on the day of Ramon’s raid old Sir Nigel D’Albini and some of his men had just arrived in it from putting down a rebellion against Stephen, intending to rest and recoup before setting out again. ‘We didn’t even have time to raise the flag to show Sir Nigel was in residence, see, so them bastards must’ve thought the castle wasn’t manned. ’N fact our lads hadn’t proper got out of their armour before we heard screams from the village and saw it was afire.’
With D’Albini’s bowmen letting fly from the allure and his men-at-arms pouring through the gates, Ramon with his fewer mercenaries had been routed, captured and hanged. ‘But not afore we had some fun with ’em.’ The gatekeeper’s grin was evil.
‘Was there a monk with ’em?’ Gwil wanted to know.
‘Monk? Never saw no monk. What’d a monk be doing with a gang like that? Never saw no crossbow, neither.’
‘What about booty? I heard they’d been robbing churches.’
‘Some. Not much, couple of chalices, bit of gold plate. Nothing to say where they come from, so I reckon as his lordship’ll regard ’em as treasure trove.’
There’d been more than that carried by the gang’s pack mules when they’d left Ely. Either Ramon had stashed the treasure somewhere, or the monk had got away with it. Gwil’s money was on the monk; Ramon had been no match for that crafty bastard.
News of arrivals in the castle had got around, and Gwil and Penda were taken to the hall to be interviewed by Sir Nigel D’Albini, a man with a face seamed like ancient leather. ‘Crossbowman, eh? I could do with you in my service.’
‘Kind of you, my lord,’ Gwil said, ‘but the lad and me, we’re on a quest, like.’ The last thing he needed was to rejoin the war; he had to think of an excuse. ‘There was a monk with those as stole from me. He was with the renegades, but he ain’t one of them hanging out there, so we still need to find him.’ He glanced anxiously at Penda; would she remember that a monk had been one of her rapists? Apparently not; the girl was looking around her with interest, as if she’d never been in a knight’s hall before. Which, Gwil supposed, she hadn’t.
The explanation was accepted, even approved; Sir Nigel was an eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth man. Nor had he a liking for the monastic system. ‘Monks.’ He spat. ‘Bloody leeches, even the best of ’em. God aid you in finding him, then. Send him to Hell from me.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
They were invited to spend the night. The next morning, because there were archery butts in the castle tiltyard, Gwil took the opportunity to give himself and Penda some practice before they left. He’d given in and let the girl try the new crossbow with which she was becoming as adept as with the standard yew bow he’d made for her.
D’Albini came out to watch. ‘That’s fancy shooting,’ he
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