stone and the whinnying of horses being sharply reined in. Raffe
was already bounding back down the steps when a thunderous hammering sounded at
the huge wooden door. The manor's hounds all began barking and howling together.
Walter,
the gateman, alerted by the sound of the riders, had opened the small grill set
into the iron-bossed door to enquire of their business, and whatever reply he
received made him race to wrench the great doors open. He scarcely had time to
get them wide enough before five mounted men trotted into the courtyard.
Walter, bellowing for the stable lads, ran forward to take the reins which the
leading rider tossed to him as he swung from the saddle.
The
horse pawed the ground nervously, rolling its eyes back. Raffe at once saw the
cause of its restlessness. Something was tied behind the beast, being dragged
along the ground. For a moment he thought it was a pair of poles with a bundle
fastened between them, such as might be used to carry a bale of dried fish or
hay. But as the beast shifted sideways, pulling the bundle over the ground,
Raffe saw the smear of scarlet blood on the white frosted cobbles.
It
was not a bundle of stock-fish. It was a man, tied by his wrists to a long rope
fastened to a horse's tail, or rather, what is left of a man after he has been
dragged face-down over a frozen stony track. What few clothes the poor wretch
had been wearing clung in shreds to his battered limbs. Every inch of visible
skin had been grazed and ripped, till his flesh resembled a slab of fresh raw
meat on a butcher's block.
Old
Walter stared down at the seemingly lifeless man, his toothless mouth gaping
wide in horror, then he looked helplessly up at Raffe, silently asking what he
should do. Raffe gestured to Walter to back away. Until they knew the men's
business it was prudent not to interfere. Most likely the man was a wolf's
head, an outlaw or a murderer, and had been captured by these men who were
taking his body to a sheriff to claim the bounty. Whoever the man had been, he
was beyond help now.
The
stranger who had dismounted first strolled towards the steps of the Great Hall,
beating the dust of a long hard ride from his dark blue tabard. He came to a
halt at the front of the steps and stood squarely, gazing up at Raffe. Raffe
descended the last few steps with caution, his gaze, like any trained
soldier's, assessing not the man's face but the position of his hands relative
to the hilt of the sword slung about his waist. But the man's fingers were not
creeping towards his blade, nor to the knife dangling from his belt. Instead,
the stranger was pulling off his gold-trimmed leather gloves, slowly and
casually, like a man standing at his own fireside.
He
was not as tall as Raffe — few men were — but what he lacked in height, he made
up for in the broadness of his frame, strong square shoulders, and a bull's
neck, thick and corded from years of wielding the massive weight of a sword and
jousting lance. A razor-straight scar pulled at the side of his mouth, carving
a fat white line through the clipped, grizzled beard, grown in a futile effort
to hide it.
The
memory is slower than the eye, but Raffe felt a convulsion of loathing shudder
through his frame even before his mind could put a name to the face before him.
The man had gained weight since Raffe had last seen him, and lost what little
hair had still clung to his pate, but there could be no forgetting the
expression of mockery in those cold grey eyes, as pale as slug slime against
the sun-ravaged skin.
'Osborn
of Roxham. My lord.'
A bow
or, at the very least, an incline of the head should have accompanied these
words — it was only courtesy after all to any visitor of rank - but Raffe's
back had locked rigid.
'What
brings you to our hall, m'lord? If you've come to call upon my master, I fear
you are too late. Have you not heard —'
'That
Gerard is dead.
was already bounding back down the steps when a thunderous hammering sounded at
the huge wooden door. The manor's hounds all began barking and howling together.
Walter,
the gateman, alerted by the sound of the riders, had opened the small grill set
into the iron-bossed door to enquire of their business, and whatever reply he
received made him race to wrench the great doors open. He scarcely had time to
get them wide enough before five mounted men trotted into the courtyard.
Walter, bellowing for the stable lads, ran forward to take the reins which the
leading rider tossed to him as he swung from the saddle.
The
horse pawed the ground nervously, rolling its eyes back. Raffe at once saw the
cause of its restlessness. Something was tied behind the beast, being dragged
along the ground. For a moment he thought it was a pair of poles with a bundle
fastened between them, such as might be used to carry a bale of dried fish or
hay. But as the beast shifted sideways, pulling the bundle over the ground,
Raffe saw the smear of scarlet blood on the white frosted cobbles.
It
was not a bundle of stock-fish. It was a man, tied by his wrists to a long rope
fastened to a horse's tail, or rather, what is left of a man after he has been
dragged face-down over a frozen stony track. What few clothes the poor wretch
had been wearing clung in shreds to his battered limbs. Every inch of visible
skin had been grazed and ripped, till his flesh resembled a slab of fresh raw
meat on a butcher's block.
Old
Walter stared down at the seemingly lifeless man, his toothless mouth gaping
wide in horror, then he looked helplessly up at Raffe, silently asking what he
should do. Raffe gestured to Walter to back away. Until they knew the men's
business it was prudent not to interfere. Most likely the man was a wolf's
head, an outlaw or a murderer, and had been captured by these men who were
taking his body to a sheriff to claim the bounty. Whoever the man had been, he
was beyond help now.
The
stranger who had dismounted first strolled towards the steps of the Great Hall,
beating the dust of a long hard ride from his dark blue tabard. He came to a
halt at the front of the steps and stood squarely, gazing up at Raffe. Raffe
descended the last few steps with caution, his gaze, like any trained
soldier's, assessing not the man's face but the position of his hands relative
to the hilt of the sword slung about his waist. But the man's fingers were not
creeping towards his blade, nor to the knife dangling from his belt. Instead,
the stranger was pulling off his gold-trimmed leather gloves, slowly and
casually, like a man standing at his own fireside.
He
was not as tall as Raffe — few men were — but what he lacked in height, he made
up for in the broadness of his frame, strong square shoulders, and a bull's
neck, thick and corded from years of wielding the massive weight of a sword and
jousting lance. A razor-straight scar pulled at the side of his mouth, carving
a fat white line through the clipped, grizzled beard, grown in a futile effort
to hide it.
The
memory is slower than the eye, but Raffe felt a convulsion of loathing shudder
through his frame even before his mind could put a name to the face before him.
The man had gained weight since Raffe had last seen him, and lost what little
hair had still clung to his pate, but there could be no forgetting the
expression of mockery in those cold grey eyes, as pale as slug slime against
the sun-ravaged skin.
'Osborn
of Roxham. My lord.'
A bow
or, at the very least, an incline of the head should have accompanied these
words — it was only courtesy after all to any visitor of rank - but Raffe's
back had locked rigid.
'What
brings you to our hall, m'lord? If you've come to call upon my master, I fear
you are too late. Have you not heard —'
'That
Gerard is dead.
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