Chapter 10

By the time the town gates of Colchester were opened at dawn, at the sounding of the guardsmen’s trumpets, the hunter was quite prepared to make his departure out of the east gate, but he was yet in no great hurry. Sir Hugo and his small party of escorts, including the rogue now disguised as him, were among the first to leave on the northeastern road that lead to Ipswich but their pursuers would not immediately follow their passage. They would be cunning and would remain unobtrusive, camped in some nearby woods while waiting to see if the spymaster had taken either the northern gate and that road northwest, or this one to the northeast. A bored guardsman offered no objection to Robert climbing up to the gate guardhouse, on top the wall, to espy the road ahead from above, once a hearty swig of wine had been offered for the priviledge. As far as the East Bridge, over the river Colne, the road seemed clear, save for the early morning travelers now leaving the gate, but the hunter’s eyes were keen and he could faintly detect the movement of horses, just past the river watermill on the far side. It was here that the old Roman road would lead them into Suffolk, to Ipswich and Wickham.

The pursuers would need time to regroup their numbers briefly here, and then spread out once more to shadow Sir Hugo’s passage, he thought. This gave Robert some spare time to check out the early morning vendors displaying their wares in front of St. James church. There was also a few extra moments for him to see a bit of East Street, where the local spymistress kept her highbrow eatery and fancy knocking shop, the Crowing Cockrell, and appreciate a view of the local castle from several sides. Although made of sturdy stone and adequate for its task, Robert thought it compared poorly with the Tower, back in London.

Gaging that he’d now given the spymaster a good healthy lead ahead of their stalkers, the hunter now mounted Ombre, his great black mottled stallion Shadow, and joined the last of the early morning travelers on the road. Dressed in some of his older brown leathers, well weather-stained and rough at the trim, the hunter could be mistaken easily for a forester or other woodsman, such as a game keeper on business from one of the local manors or small holdings. His great bow, unstrung but at the ready by his left side, further disguised the clerk well as a petty retainer engaged in his former profession.

Just past the bridge crossing the Colne River, the hunter paused to slowly search the area for the tracks of the horsemen he had spotted from on-top the gatehouse and with a little concentrated effort he was able to trace their pathway up to the side of a small hillock overlooking the river. He then dismounted with his bow and made a quiet oblique search of the hilltop, staying constantly as hidden by cover as was possible until he reached the highest point. There he found traces of a recent camp, with spoor enough present to suggest that near a dozen horses had been present last night. The freshest tracks, not yet an hour old, showed that the encamped men had prepared a hasty meal and then saddled their horse and walked them slowly down the hill, toward the north. They paralleled the road then for the better part of the next two hours, about ten miles, all of them keeping to the woods, until reaching the village of Manningtree, and the bridge that crossed the River Stour.

Riding harder, the hunter made good time, bypassing the small manors of Ardleigh and Lawford on the road at a quick-pace that Shadow could keep up indefinitely. Much faster than a walk, but not quite either a slow gallop either. There were few other travelers on the road here, and none with such a large party of arms men, so that the hunter could gain two steps on them now for every one they took in slow, stealthy pursuit.

Here Robert caught sight of them perhaps a quarter-mile ahead of him, as they enmasse rejoined the main road and crossed the river together into Suffolk. Barely a village in size, there was naught to see or do but get a quick blackjack of ale gulped down at an inn next to the bridge, as he let Shadow drink his full outside. Of gossip, the hunter heard little of interest in the few moments he took refreshment there, tossing a small silver coin to the host for both the cleanest leather blackjack available and a few words of local rumor.

“Aye,” the Host stated, the wool trade from here, shipped to the continent had been good in late years, but times were getting unsettled and the overseas traders more nervous about making port here. They had also seen some foreign arms men here recently, but they had all gone south about a week before. Were they the same men that had just passed through going north? The innkeeper couldn’t say. One local bumpsy in the inn thought ‘yes’ ... another thought otherwise, and the hunter gave each of them a copper with his thanks.

By midday, the hunter was in close pursuit of his quarry when they passed through Ipswich and continued to follow Sir Hugo’s trail as he now took the more eastern road leading to Woodbridge and Melton where they would cross the Deben River. This, Sir Hugo had advised his hunter, was the ideal place to conduct his ambush. This road to eastern Suffolk was much less traveled and there only two manor villages along this way of any note, so the odds of finding unwanted observers was minimal. The old road here was also a poor one that much meandered around innumerable hills and low marsh fields, such that it would commonly take three hours to travel those ten lonely miles following this path, rather than directly crossing overland on a good horse. It was there, near Merlesham, on a small wooden bridge crossing a creek, about half way as the road turned north between two hillocks that the hunter sprang his trap.

Now that the French agents had once more split up into three shadowing groups, all slowly following in the spymaster’s wake, the hunter could rapidly make cover ground here, passing up the left-most riders quite to their west to lay his ambush ahead of them. From a small grove of trees just past the wooden bridge on the roadway, Robert could track both these left-flanking scouts and the central main party of riders somewhat further behind as they passed through the small hamlet. The village itself was paltry; a dozen or so mud and daub houses and a small church at the highest spot above the sloping farmlands surrounding it.

There were two riders currently on Sir Hugo’s left flank, about one hundred yards or so west of the bridge. Although the land here had been cleared of trees, there was much brush and irregular ground along this shallow river tributary to the nearby Deben, and the riverbank sunk right where those scouts forded this creek. Once near the water, they were also quite hidden by bends in the earthen embankment from being seen from the road, or anyone on or near the slender wooden bridge.

Two arrows swiftly fired from within a shallow hollow, felled both riders silently, once their horses started to cross the stream. The second shot, admittedly fired in some haste while the first arrow was still in flight, was not an instant kill, as the first one had been. It was good lung shot though, and the surprised rider joined his already dead companion face first into the shallow stream. With a lung filled with a mix of river water and blood, the gurgling gasps the wounded man could only barely be heard by Robert, as he rode his mount down into the stream and finished his task with his sword.

The hunter briefly thought about checking the two brigands-for-hire bodies for coin purses, but decided his own purse would be cleaner without their mercenary silvers, so he dragged both bodies up along the southern embankment to leave for the miserable local peasants to find and loot. Their garments certainly wouldn’t go to any waste. Grabbing the reins of the two horses, he guided them north, up into the tree cover of the nearest hill and tied them up, just as the central road party now made their appearance at the bridge. They had been delayed, apparently, perhaps stopping to query one of the local serfs about Sir Hugo’s passage through by this road, about ten minutes before. They were trying hard today to remain out of sight, keeping their distance at least five to ten minutes of travel time behind – and always out of view.

This was the main group of pursuers, fully seven in number. Two slender riders were up in front at point, and they rode side by side, until the narrow bridge was reached. When they split apart to transit, the hunter could see that the now lead rider was older, about Robert’s own age, so that the younger lad was likely to be someone’s squire or son learning the scouting trade, and likely far too young to grow a beard or be a threat with any weapon. The third rider in line to cross was clearly the leader, a man well-dressed on an above-average quality mount, with excellent silver-trimmed tack that as it caught the sun reflected brightly. The four towards the rear seemed the common cavalryman sort, with mature trim beards and average, but unexceptional quality mounts.

This alignment made the hunter’s choice of targets more complicated than he had originally envisioned, and he now needed to improvise on the mark.

Remaining mounted on Shadow behind some tree and brush cover on the hill nearest the bridge, sensing that he might need to flee for his life should his aim go astray, he carefully laid out six arrows bunched across his lap, so he could achieve his best speed when drawing and firing. Then, with a quick re-check of the current wind speed and its direction from the gently swaying willow rushes nearest the bridge, the hunter let loose the King’s justice against the Frenchmen and their hirelings.

He had decided that for Sir Hugo’s plan to best be completed, that the first three men across the bridge must suffer to remain living awhile long, and would be passed over by this harvest of fletched death. The lead scout was just that, clearly their best scout that the party leader, third in procession now, would need to follow the spymaster to his ultimate destination. The boy could become their messenger, sent soon elsewhere to gather the expected reinforcements, but not perhaps without a slight flesh wound to speed his travels along.

His first four arrows were shot in the reverse order of their bridge crossing, covering the four arms men at the rear. The first two shots to the rearmost fellows were mortal, but not immediately fatal, and they both hunched over their mounts and soon slid to the ground in agony. The second two arrows, connected lethally to the other two soldiers just in front, clean heart-shots each.

Forewarned, the two scouts near the northern edge of the bridge, whipped their horses sharply and gave their mounts the spurs, breaking off toward the right side of the roadway, furthest from the hunter. It took two careful shots to pin the younger rider with his honor wound, a second fired shaft that struck the young scout low on this left side, just above the saddle. Into the kidneys perhaps, or through the bladder or lower bowels, he suspected. Neither wound would be enjoyable, but at worst the lad could reach his assigned destination within a few (admittedly painful) days of hard riding after getting some minimal wound treatment first from one of the other two survivors. He’d aimed the first arrow to wound the arm or shoulder ... and had missed this feat at over 80 yards by a mere inch, he suspected. In fact, the hunter guessed that this near miss could have just barely grazed the skin.