Brother Cadfael 06: A Virgin In The Ice

them Hugh Beringar's men, what did that matter? They were men, at any rate, and they could help him.
    Nearing the far edge of the copse, and with eyes now growing more accustomed to the eerie twilight, he caught glimpses of movement between the trees. He burst out into the open with their line strung before him, more of them than he had thought, ten or a dozen at least. Three horses, and four pack-ponies, well-loaded, blew forth pale clouds of frosty breath. Even in the dimness he knew the shapes of sword and axe and bow. These men went heavily armed through the ending of the night, but not in the disciplined order of Hugh Beringar's men-at-arms, rather raggedly and merrily, and soiled with smoke. Faintly but unmistakably, the stink of burning wafted from them, and the pack-ponies were loaded high with grain-sacks, wine-skins, pots, bundled clothing, the carcases of two slaughtered sheep.
    His heart misgave him. Hastily he made to draw back into cover, but he had been seen, and one of the men afoot loosed a mock hunting-call, and darted into the trees to cut off his retreat. Another took up the cry, and there were the pair of them, with spread arms and broad grins, between him and return. A moment more, and half a dozen were all around him. He tried to slip between them and make off in the opposite direction from the hut, instinctively aware that whatever happened he must not betray the presence close by of Brother Elyas. But a long arm reached for him almost lazily, took him by the liripipe of his capuchon and a fistful of his hair, and hauled him painfully out to the open ride.
    "Well, well!" crowed his captor, turning him about by the grip on his hair. "What's such a small nightbird doing abroad at this hour?"
    Yves struggled, but was quick to sense that he achieved nothing. Dignity forbade that he should wriggle or beg. He grew still under the large hand that held him, and said with creditable steadiness: "Let me go! You're hurting me. I'm doing no harm."
    "Unwary nightbirds get their necks wrung," said one, and went through the motions of wringing, with lean and dirty hands. "Especially if they peck."
    The mounted man who led the column had halted and was looking back. A high, peremptory voice demanded: "What game have you caught there? Bring him, let me see. I want no spies bearing tales back to the town."
    They laid hands willingly on Yves and hauled him forward to where the tallest of the three horses stood. The horse, being mainly white, was plainly visible, the man on his back loomed only as a great shadow against the sky. When he shifted a little in the saddle to stare down at the captive, some stray gleam of lambent light flowed over the links of chain mail, and flickered out like spent lightning. Afoot, he might not be a very tall man, but the breadth of his shoulders and breast, and the lion's mane of thick hair that covered his head and flowed down on to his chest in a bushy beard made him look immense. He sat his horse as if they made one powerful body between them. He was all the more frightening because his face was but a shadow, and there was nothing to be read in it.
    "Hale him close," he ordered impatiently. "Here to my knee. Let me see him."
    Yves felt his head yanked back by the hair, to lift his face to view. He stiffened his back and his lips, and stared up in silence.
    "Who are your, boy? What's your name?" It was no common country voice, but one accustomed to lordship and to being obeyed.
    "They call me Jehan," lied Yves, and did his best to avoid having his own manner of speech so easily recognized.
    "What are you doing here at this hour? Are you here alone?"
    "Yes, my lord. My father folds his sheep up yonder." He pointed firmly in the opposite direction from the hut where Elyas, he hoped, still lay asleep. "Yesterday some of them strayed, and we cane out early looking for them. Father went t'other way there, and sent me this. I'm no spy, what should I be spying on? We're only bothered for the sheep."
    "So! A shepherd, eh? And a very pretty little shepherd, too," said the voice above him dryly. "In good broadcloth that cost enough when it was new. Now take breath and tell me again: who are you?"
    "My lord, I've told you true! I'm only Jehan, the shepherd's lad from Whitbache ..." It was the only manor he could remember to the west and on the near side of Corve. He had no idea why it should raise a bellow of rough laughter from all the listening crew, and his blood chilled at hearing the