murmuring so quietly that Osborn and Hugh had to lean forward to hear him.
A question, an answer, another question, another weary response. Raffe could
not hear what was being said, but he didn't have to, he knew. He'd been there.
The questioning continued, but then without warning Osborn laughed, a deep
belly-rumble of mirth, slapping his hand on the flimsy table so hard that it
almost collapsed beneath the blow. Gerard leapt to his feet, his hand darting
to his knife. The blade flashed in the torchlight. Just as swiftly Osborn
ducked, bringing his arm up to shield himself, but it was Hugh who had saved
his brother's life, grabbing Gerard's wrist and twisting it until the knife
clattered on to the table. For a moment none of the men moved. Gerard stared
down in horror at the knife, unable to believe how close he had come to murder.
Then, gabbling incoherent pleas for pardon, he staggered from the tent and ran
out into the night.
As if
his exit had been a signal, the howling began as first one starving dog threw
back its head, then another and another until the whole valley was echoing with
the raw, wretched grief of them. It was as if every poor beast in the world was
screaming out against what they had witnessed that day.
Even
now as he stood there on the steps of an English manor hundreds of miles from
that place and thousands of hours from that night, Raffe realized for the first
time that it was not the order which had been issued that he could not forgive,
nor even what they had been forced to do, it was that single bellow of
laughter. Raffe would never forgive Osborn for that.
Osborn's
leather gloves flicked hard across Raffe's chest. 'Come now, Master Raffaele,
must I start breaking in my new mule so soon? Don't keep us standing here with
our tongues lolling to our knees, show me to the Great Hall, and bring us wine,
and quickly, but the good wine, mind.'
Osborn
already had his foot on the steps, when an anguished wail from old Walter, the
gatekeeper, made him turn.
'Sir!
Sir! Please, m'lord, I know this man ...'
All
the horses had been led into the stables, except the one Osborn had ridden. A
terrified-looking stable lad held the reins of the horse, trying to prevent the
powerful beast from dragging the still-tethered body across the yard. Walter
was kneeling on the ground, cradling the man's bloodied head. Walter had turned
him over and the man was staring up into the pale pink sky, moaning and
shivering uncontrollably.
Raffe
strode over to him.
Walter
lifted his head, his rheumy eyes moist with tears. 'It's one of the crofter's
lads, from backend of Gastmere. He's hurt bad.'
Raffe
spun round to face Osborn. This is no outlaw. You've seized the wrong man. Any
one in these parts will swear to that.'
Osborn's
eyes narrowed. You've known me long enough, Master Raffaele to know that I do
not make mistakes. I caught this thief with a brace of rabbits from this
manor's warren. He was poaching and he didn't even trouble to lie about it.'
The
tall, whip-thin man Osborn had referred to as Raoul waved a languid hand in the
direction of the injured lad. 'Amazing stamina, these country-born villeins.
Ran behind the horse for far longer than I'd have wagered any man could before
he fell and had to be dragged. I warrant Hugh would have swapped him for one of
his own hunting hounds, if the knave's nose had been as keen as his speed.'
Raffe
could contain his temper no longer. Ignoring Raoul, he thundered at Osborn,
'What gives you the right to punish a villein from this manor? If... if a
man steals rabbits from a manor's warren, then that is no one's business but
the lord of that manor's. And if he needs to be punished, then it is up to the
lord of the manor or his steward to dispense justice.'
Osborn
and his brother, Hugh, glanced at each other, exchanging satisfied smiles.
'Exactly
so, Master Raffaele,'
A question, an answer, another question, another weary response. Raffe could
not hear what was being said, but he didn't have to, he knew. He'd been there.
The questioning continued, but then without warning Osborn laughed, a deep
belly-rumble of mirth, slapping his hand on the flimsy table so hard that it
almost collapsed beneath the blow. Gerard leapt to his feet, his hand darting
to his knife. The blade flashed in the torchlight. Just as swiftly Osborn
ducked, bringing his arm up to shield himself, but it was Hugh who had saved
his brother's life, grabbing Gerard's wrist and twisting it until the knife
clattered on to the table. For a moment none of the men moved. Gerard stared
down in horror at the knife, unable to believe how close he had come to murder.
Then, gabbling incoherent pleas for pardon, he staggered from the tent and ran
out into the night.
As if
his exit had been a signal, the howling began as first one starving dog threw
back its head, then another and another until the whole valley was echoing with
the raw, wretched grief of them. It was as if every poor beast in the world was
screaming out against what they had witnessed that day.
Even
now as he stood there on the steps of an English manor hundreds of miles from
that place and thousands of hours from that night, Raffe realized for the first
time that it was not the order which had been issued that he could not forgive,
nor even what they had been forced to do, it was that single bellow of
laughter. Raffe would never forgive Osborn for that.
Osborn's
leather gloves flicked hard across Raffe's chest. 'Come now, Master Raffaele,
must I start breaking in my new mule so soon? Don't keep us standing here with
our tongues lolling to our knees, show me to the Great Hall, and bring us wine,
and quickly, but the good wine, mind.'
Osborn
already had his foot on the steps, when an anguished wail from old Walter, the
gatekeeper, made him turn.
'Sir!
Sir! Please, m'lord, I know this man ...'
All
the horses had been led into the stables, except the one Osborn had ridden. A
terrified-looking stable lad held the reins of the horse, trying to prevent the
powerful beast from dragging the still-tethered body across the yard. Walter
was kneeling on the ground, cradling the man's bloodied head. Walter had turned
him over and the man was staring up into the pale pink sky, moaning and
shivering uncontrollably.
Raffe
strode over to him.
Walter
lifted his head, his rheumy eyes moist with tears. 'It's one of the crofter's
lads, from backend of Gastmere. He's hurt bad.'
Raffe
spun round to face Osborn. This is no outlaw. You've seized the wrong man. Any
one in these parts will swear to that.'
Osborn's
eyes narrowed. You've known me long enough, Master Raffaele to know that I do
not make mistakes. I caught this thief with a brace of rabbits from this
manor's warren. He was poaching and he didn't even trouble to lie about it.'
The
tall, whip-thin man Osborn had referred to as Raoul waved a languid hand in the
direction of the injured lad. 'Amazing stamina, these country-born villeins.
Ran behind the horse for far longer than I'd have wagered any man could before
he fell and had to be dragged. I warrant Hugh would have swapped him for one of
his own hunting hounds, if the knave's nose had been as keen as his speed.'
Raffe
could contain his temper no longer. Ignoring Raoul, he thundered at Osborn,
'What gives you the right to punish a villein from this manor? If... if a
man steals rabbits from a manor's warren, then that is no one's business but
the lord of that manor's. And if he needs to be punished, then it is up to the
lord of the manor or his steward to dispense justice.'
Osborn
and his brother, Hugh, glanced at each other, exchanging satisfied smiles.
'Exactly
so, Master Raffaele,'
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