“True enough, my lord.”
“But if he gives you any cause for further suspicion, do not hesitate to act.”
Bartholomew bowed agreement. He eyed the men who milled around the cart, waiting while the squires harnessed the horses that would pull it forth.
He had to go with the wagon.
He had to take the place of one of those men.
Royce cleared his throat. “Gaultier?” he said, then gestured to the interior. “I granted you a command! First, you sleep late, then you ignore an order!”
Bartholomew mumbled an apology.
There was naught for it. If he revealed himself in this moment, there were too many men who could defend Royce.
“Of course, my lord.” Bartholomew bowed and headed for the chapel. He turned at the threshold to find Royce still watching him, then entered and pulled the door closed behind him.
Father Ignatius began to pray loudly over the coffin at the altar. Bartholomew waited only a moment before he opened the door an increment.
The gates were being opened and Royce stood peering out at the forest beyond. One of the knights by the wagon laughed with his fellows, then strode toward the sewer at the back of the stables, lifting the hem of his tabard as he walked.
Here was his chance.
*
“Nay,” Anna whispered when she saw the corpse hanging from Haynesdale’s curtain wall. Her throat tightened and her tears rose, for she would have recognized Bartholomew’s tabard in any place. He could not be dead!
They could not have arrived too late.
Her heart struggled against the notion that Bartholomew breathed no more. Would she not have known instinctively that he was gone? It seemed impossible that he was no longer of this earth.
Yet the corpse could be naught other than what it was. His tabard and boots were unmistakably his own. She might be a coward but she was glad of the hood, for she did not want to see his face after he had been hanged.
“Aye,” Duncan murmured and dropped his brow to his gloved hand.
They were hidden of the undergrowth of the forest opposite the gate of Haynesdale. The sun had barely risen from the horizon, yet Bartholomew had already been executed.
Anna felt the despair of the other villagers behind her and heard Percy sniffle.
The portcullis opened slowly, the rope creaking as the iron gate was drawn up. Anna nestled lower in the snow, wondering what transpired. Royce strode out of the gate and propped his hands upon his hips. He shouted in a booming voice. “Behold Luc Bartholomew, the only son of Baron Nicholas, hung until he was dead for possessing the audacity to assault my lady wife.” His voice became louder. “There will be no other Baron of Haynesdale, save me, from this day forward. Do not defy me again, or your lives will become worse than they already are. There will be no more mercy shown to vagabonds and outlaws. Return to the village this day and become loyal villeins—or die!”
He pivoted and returned to the keep as the villagers muttered to each other. “He never had any mercy,” Stewart grumbled.
“So, naught has changed,” agreed Edgar.
When Anna expected the portcullis to close again, a pair of horses rode beneath it. Knights in Royce’s colors rode the two stallions. A pair of palfreys pulled a wagon, one man-at-arms at the reins and two more riding at the back of the wagon. One of them might have been a squire, for he was smaller. Another pair of horses rode behind, warriors mounted on their saddles.
“The taxes,” Anna whispered.
Duncan rubbed his mouth. “Is the reliquary dispatched to the king or yet within the walls?” he murmured.
“Father Ignatius will claim it, I am certain.” Anna eased back into the undergrowth, edging away from the road. She knew what she had to do.
“Where do you go?” Edgar asked in an undertone.
She cast him a grim look. “To the bend in the road. That wagon will not arrive at its destination.”
“But without Bartholomew, we have no need of coin for the escheat,” Duncan protested. “We must find the reliquary.”
