The Martinmas Plot by Robert Broomall

Author:Robert Broomall [Broomall, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BlueStone Media
Published: 2023-07-19T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 35

October 28

THE TWO-WHEELED cart trundled out the gate of Brightwood’s manor house. The cart was piled with hay, covered with a protective tarp. The horse pulling it was led by the young groom Mody. The glowering beadle Simon walked alongside him for protection, carrying a carved hawthorn club. They were watched from the gate by Wada and Hersent, who had come to Brightwood to help Lady Blanche settle in.

The cart was no sooner across the bridge than it was stopped by two of the men the sheriff had left to guard the manor and see to it that Blanche did not escape.

The guards were beefy Flemings. “Does Flanders produce anything but mercenaries?” Hersent whispered to her husband.

“Shhh,” said Wada.

“What have you there?” the first guard asked Mody.

Mody peered over his shoulder and scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “ ‘Pears to be hay.”

The guard did not find this funny. “And where do you go with this hay?” he said.

“It’s under contract to St. Mary’s Lodge,” Mody said. “You know, where the earl of Trent is staying?”

“Hmmph,” said the guard.

He walked round to the back of the cart. He looked the cart over, then thrust his spear into the hay.

“Stop that!” cried Mody.

“Just making sure hay is all that’s here,” said the guard.

Hersent started forward, but Wada put a hand on her arm.

The guard thrust his spear into the hay again. Some of the hay spilled from the back of the cart. Again. Yet again.

Simon the beadle stepped between the guard and the cart. “That’s enough, Frenchy. Are you trying to ruin the hay? Because I don’t think Earl Galon would like that. Or are you just playing with your little pig sticker?”

“Watch your mouth,” the guard said.

Simon tapped the club in the palm of his hand. “Make me.”

“Enough! Enough!” Wada cried, hurrying toward the group. “We want no trouble here. Not over a cart load of hay.”

The second guard did not want trouble, either, especially if Galon of Trent was likely to get involved. He pulled the first guard back. “Let them go,” he said. He motioned to Mody with his free hand. “Proceed.”

Mody touched the horse’s rump with his goad, and the animal moved forward. Simon glared at the first guard and fell in behind Mody.

The cart left the manor house and rumbled through the fields. “You all right, my lady?” said Mody over his shoulder.

No answer.

“My lady?”

Still no answer.

Mody and Simon shared a glance.

“Hurry,” Simon said.

They entered the forest. They turned off the path and down a pre-selected side track—the woods were busy at this time of year, and they didn’t want to be seen. Satisfied that no one was around, Mody and Simon rushed to the cart’s rear. “My lady?” Mody called, while Simon looked underneath the cart for blood dripping through the boards.

There was a muffled sputtering, then the hay twitched from inside. Simon and Mody scooped handfuls of it aside. More was pushed away from the inside, and soon the outline of a woman was revealed.

Blanche emerged, spitting pieces of hay from her mouth, her clothing and headdress stubbled with it.

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