A peasant squatted by our fire and his face had a vaguely familiar look. Finally, it came to me. He was from the holdings of Tournemine. There was a shifty look in his eyes, his hair matted and dirty.
As he had not noticed me, I walked quickly to where the Hansgraf sat over a glass of mulled wine. “Unless I mistake him, he is a spy. I suggest we have half a dozen of our men appear sick and appear careless. If so, we may draw an attack by Tournemine.”
The Hansgraf considered while he drank, then agreed.
Within minutes twenty of us were rolled in our beds, and we watched the peasant as he nosed about, then saw him slip silently away. Later, we heard a horse galloping into the night, a horse he must have left waiting for him.
My admiration for the Hansgraf was never greater than now, for he moved with swiftness. How far off the enemy awaited we did not know. We laid our bundles of goods out to appear as sleeping men, and the fires were supplied with wood to keep them burning.
Men were sent out to warn of Tournemine’s approach while several of us guarded the women, our goods, and men wounded in the fight with the Raubritter.
They came with a rush.
We heard the thunder of their hooves, coming with a suddenness intended to overwhelm at one stroke. All must have appeared serene and simple to them, for they charged pell-mell, thrusting swords or spears into what they thought were sleeping men. In that moment when all was confusion our men let fly a flight of arrows.
Tournemine, veteran fighter that he was, saw the trap at once, and even as the arrows were loosed he shouted for a withdrawal.
The arrows struck home, and we charged from a copse where we had been hiding. A huge man in armor loomed over me, swinging a battle-ax. His blow, enough to have cut me through side to side, missed. My swift Arab horse darted past him, and I swung a wicked backhand blow with my sword.
It caught him where intended, on the side of the neck where there was no armor. The ax dropped from his dead hand, and his horse galloped away, the man’s head dangling. The shouts of men and the clang of weapon upon weapon were loud in the night.
How long? A minute? Two minutes? In all this time I caught no glimpse of Tournemine. We gathered together as planned, thirty strong, and pursued, overtaking two stragglers whom we cut down, then fearing another attack, we circled back to our camp. We lost no men and had but four with minor wounds. The attackers lost four men at camp and two out on the plain. We captured three wounded prisoners, and five horses were taken.
The Hansgraf strode among them. He was a monumental figure of a man, and now he stared at the prisoners, glaring first at one and then another. “Now, thieves,” he said, “I have it in mind to hang you for the ravens. There are strong branches here, and we came provided with rope. It is hanging long delayed.
“Or shall it be fire? What think you, Lucca? Shall it be fire?” He pointed a finger. “The fat one yonder would make a merry blaze. Can you not see him frying in his own grease?”
“You might run a lance through him,” Johannes said seriously, “and turn him over the fire as on a spit. I saw it done in the Holy Land, and you have no idea how long it takes them to die.”
“Perchance they have something to tell,” Guido suggested. “No use to burn them if they talk.”
“Bah!” Lucca said. “They know nothing? Burn them!” The fat man stared from one to the other, his features twisted by fear and horror. The second kept shifting his eyes, glancing from side to side, licking his dry lips. The third was a sullen rascal who glared his contempt. We would have nothing from him.
“What could they tell? Tournemine’s castle is impregnable.”
“Hang them, or burn them and be done with it,” I said, “Tournemine’s castle is too far from here to be worth the riding. Open their bellies and leave them. They will die slow enough then.”
Our talk was having the effect we wished. Two of them were thoroughly frightened. The fat man kept swallowing as if he felt the noose tightening.
“There would be nothing at the castle worth the riding,” Lucca said, “and we haven’t time for a siege.”
“There’s loot!” the fat man said suddenly. “There’s the goods of two caravans taken last week and of a household raided. I tell you there is plenty!”
“Shut up, you fool!” The sullen one spoke in a fury. “I’ll smash your skull for this!”
“You will smash no skulls,” the Hansgraf said. “If you live out the hour, it will be because of my whim, and I am not given to whims.” He thrust a finger at the fat man. “Hang him!” he ordered.
“Please!” The fat man screamed, wetting himself in his terror. “I told you! And there’s the postern—”
The sullen one sprang at him, but the Hansgraf, with amazing speed, grasped him by the hair and flung him back into place. “If you move or speak, I shall run you through myself.” He drew his sword. “Now then”—he spoke to the fat man—”you mentioned the postern gate?”
There was a postern gate needing repair. It could not be closed properly, and it was on a dark side of the castle near the woods. The fat man talked freely, as did the other. When they were through we had a clear picture of what lay before us.
“How many are in the castle,” I said, “who plundered the manor of Kerbouchard?”
There was instant stillness, the eyes of all three were upon me. If frightened before, they were doubly so now.
“Kerbouchard is dead,” the fat man said.
“He lives,” I replied, “and soon he returns. Now an answer to my question.”
“It was long ago. Several years ago. It was before my time.”
The surly one was staring at me, his eyes alive with alarm for the first time. The second prisoner pointed at him. “He was there. Ask him.”
“You were not?”
“I was left behind at the castle.”
The sullen one was staring at the ground now, but sweat stood out on his neck and brow. “Kerbouchard is dead,” he muttered.
“He lives,” I said, “and I am his son.”
“Hah! The cub! The old wolf’s cub!”
“He was there when they murdered your mother,” the Hansgraf said. “Lucca, Guido, hang him!”
We left twenty men with the goods and the women. The rest of us, strong men all, mounted to ride. We rode swiftly through the night, striking a route I well knew that would take us through the dark forest of Huelgoat, a much faster way than that taken by Tournemine.
Forty men, we rode through the night, pausing for a quick meal and a nap in the dawn light. Our mounts, toughened by long marches, carried us swiftly. Each had brought an extra horse, and we changed mounts repeatedly. Our two prisoners rode with us.
Johannes had been riding behind, and on the third morning he caught up to us. “We are followed,” he warned. “Perhaps thirty riders.”
“Tournemine?”
“I think not. It looks like Peter.” We turned off the road to wait, weapons ready. Suddenly, the Hansgraf uttered a sharp exclamation and rode out of the trees.
The short, square man riding at the head of the column thrust out his hand. “Rupert! By all that is holy!” They clasped hands, and Peter said, “We met one of your men, and he guided us to the caravan. We left half our force there and have ridden to overtake you. If my brother wishes to take a castle, then I wish to take a castle.”
I was amazed. “They are brothers?” I asked Johannes. “Rupert would make three of him, would he not? But Peter is a first-class fighting man and a good trader. He learned from Rupert.”
We rode on, nearly seventy strong, and as evening came, we halted on the crest of a hill, looking across a brown-green valley at the Castle of Tournemine.
The site was a pleasant one, a low knoll in the midst of a valley protected from the sea winds and the chill of the high plains. It was an ancient site, rebuilt and occupied by the Tournemines.
Dismounting at the edge of the wood, we waited for the sun to go down. Around the castle there was no movement nor any sign that we had been discovered.
“If that postern gate can be opened,” Johannes said, “we shall be soon inside.”
“No matter,” I said, “I know the way. I can take us into the fortress tonight.”