by Alys Clare
We still had some of the provisions Lord Edwin gave us, and I laid them out on the long board running along one side of the room. The meat had been well salted and would be good for some time yet. The apples were wrinkly now, their crisp juiciness slowly drying out, but they were still edible and retained some of their goodness. The onions would keep all winter … At the mouth-watering thought of the sharp, appetizing taste of onions flavouring a stew, I glanced round and spied a cooking pot, set on a set of shelves over on the far side of the hearth. As soon as Rollo had a good fire going and we’d fetched water, I’d make a start.
Beside the shelves there was a small door which I hadn’t noticed. Opening it, I discovered Mercure’s store cupboard. While there was of course no fresh food, there was plenty that we could use: good supplies of oats, rye and barley flour; salt, pepper and a variety of dried, powdered spices; dried yeast; poppy and flax seeds; honey; bunches of herbs. Dried peas. A string of onions. A couple of barrels of apples. Two barrels of apples? I checked, and discovered that the second barrel contained ale.
Mercure had contrived a little shelf set high up at the rear of the cupboard, close to a small window. Putting my hand up to it, I felt a cold draught. I paused to orientate myself, and realized the window, and indeed this wall, faced north. On what was in effect a cold shelf were stored a stone jar of butter, well salted and still good, and a hard-crusted cheese. I closed the cupboard door and, smiling, went to crouch beside Rollo, putting my hands to the blaze he’d encouraged to flare up in the hearth. I told him what I’d discovered, and, as I’d anticipated, he was particularly happy to hear about the ale.
‘Did you not think to take this good food away with you when you came here before?’ he asked.
‘We didn’t even find it,’ I admitted. ‘We were here, as I told you, for a very different purpose.’
I went out for water, filled the cooking pot and suspended it over the fire. ‘We’re not going to starve,’ I said, ‘but, all the same, I think I should go out foraging. The pools and the reed beds are full of fish, and I could probably find clams and even try to net some eels, although it’s late in the season.’
‘Yes, good,’ Rollo said absently. But I didn’t think he was really listening.
I waited, and after a while he looked up and said, ‘We have a stronghold here. A place where we can prepare ourselves for whoever comes hunting for me. Where we can stop running away and go on the attack.’
‘We can?’ I was dismayed, for if I’d thought about it at all – and I hadn’t very much – I’d assumed that, safely hidden, we’d simply wait here until the danger had passed. But then how could we say when that would be? Were we facing an enemy who would give up when he didn’t succeed, or one who would carry on relentlessly right till the end?
I had an unpleasant feeling that the man who was dogging our steps, the man who hadn’t hesitated to burn down a building knowing there were five people inside, of whom, or so he’d believed, only one was the man he was trying to kill, wasn’t going to stop.
As if he’d read my thoughts, Rollo said sharply, ‘You’d thought we’d just hide here? Until when, Lassair? Until the man hunting me down gives up and goes away, or we all die of old age?’
I’d have liked to say that simply waiting it out sounded like a fine idea to me, but I didn’t. I knew that Rollo was a fighter; used to taking the initiative, he must have hated this skulking in shadows, this endless running. I had to accept that I had a stark choice: either go along with what he wanted to do or else leave him to it.
The second wasn’t really an option at all.
‘So what do we do?’ I asked.
He shot me a grateful look.
Then, glancing at the water starting to steam in the pot, he said, ‘Let’s get some food cooking, then you and I shall sit here beside the hearth, broach that barrel of ale you so cleverly found and I’ll tell you all I know of our enemy and why he is so intent on claiming my life.’
About time, I thought. But, since he was on the point of responding to all the questions to which I’d so long wanted answers, I didn’t. Instead I got up, went to look over the remainder of our meat supply and, throwing a string of onions at Rollo, said, ‘Very well. You can peel and chop these.’
‘So,’ I said, when, with a salt meat, onion and herb stew bubbling fragrantly over the fire and mugs of ale in our hands, I could wait no longer, ‘who do you think it is who so badly wants to kill you?’
Rollo must have been preparing what he was going to say, for he immediately began to speak, and he was fluent and unhesitating.
‘I’m not sure how much you’ve put together from the little I’ve told you,’ he said, not meeting my eyes, ‘but during my very long absence, I was far away in the lands in the east. There’s no reason why you would know anything of the world beyond the fens, but—’
‘In fact I do know a little,’ I interrupted calmly. His head shot up and the amazed look in his eyes made me smile. ‘Don’t forget that I am Gurdyman’s pupil,’ I added. ‘He has a head full of knowledge and he is a very good teacher. But go on.’
Looking at me with a little more respect now, Rollo said, ‘There is going to be a war, quite soon, over who controls the Holy Places; the land where our lord Jesus Christ was born, lived, ministered, died and rose from the dead. The Christians believe it is their right to come and go as they please, but now that those whose lands surround and, indeed, include the Holy Places have discovered their own strength, they beg to differ. Already there have been fights, local battles, tales – probably exaggerated – of the torture, mutilation and murder of pilgrims wishing to walk where Jesus walked.’ He paused, then, too quickly for me to comment, went on, ‘The powerful ruler of Constantinople feels himself to be in the greatest danger, for his is, in effect, the last Christian kingdom that stands between the west and the Turks. As his enemy’s strength grows, he will look – is already looking – to the lords of the west for help. He will ask them to summon a vast army – the biggest ever seen – to march east and help him fight the infidel and reclaim the Holy Places for the Christian faith.’
‘But what about the lands surrounding these Holy Places?’ I asked. ‘Won’t this huge army overrun those, too? That doesn’t seem right.’
He was watching me, a wry smile on his face. ‘Yes it will, and no it doesn’t,’ he said quietly.
‘Maybe it won’t happen,’ I said. ‘It must cost a fortune to create an army and march it so far, so perhaps the western monarchs will do no more than agree how dreadful it is but do nothing.’
He shook his head. ‘I wish it were so. But it will happen, Lassair. For one thing’ – he lowered his eyes – ‘I’ve seen it, in a sort of dream, or vision. For another, I’ve been to Constantinople and I’m in no doubt that, sooner or later, Alexius Comnenus – that’s the name of the man who rules there – will be forced to summon help. And, before you protest again, it’ll be answered. Be in no doubt whatsoever about that.’ He paused, and I sensed we were coming to the secret heart of the matter. ‘I travelled east in order to find out for the king how matters stood,’ he said, so quietly that I had to strain to hear. ‘I returned, told him what I had discovered and was paid for it.’ He paused again. ‘Then I went to Normandy, to the court of Duke Robert – he and the king, of course, just happen to be both brothers and ferocious rivals – and sold the same information to him.’
My first reaction was disappointment.
I suppose I had built up an image of Rollo as a hero; a brave, solitary soldier utterly loyal to the king and fighting those secret, shadowy battles for him that required intelligence and sharp wits rather than might, muscle and a show of arms.
But in all my imaginings, it hadn’t really crossed my mind that he’d serve more than one master.
‘Why?’ I asked after quite a long silence. ‘Didn’t the king pay you well enough?’
He had the grace to look ashamed. ‘He is extremely generous. I have no complaints.’
‘Why, then?’
He met my eyes briefly, then shrugged, looking away. ‘Because it’s what I do, Lassair. I don’t think I can give you a better answer. It’s probably the one thing I can do, and I’m very good at it.’
‘Not that good, if you’re telling me what I think you are and some irate lord or whatever from Duke Robert’s court caught you at it and is now after your blood.’ The words were out before I could stop them, and, too late, I saw their effect.
He set down his mug of ale and put up both hands to his face, rubbing it. ‘I must be losing my touch,’ he muttered.
Silence fell once more. When he didn’t break it, I said, ‘Is that it, then? Is it someone from Normandy who is hunting you?’
He lowered his hands. ‘Yes. I can’t know for certain, but it’s the only logical answer.’ He paused, as if wondering if to go on. His eyes slid away from mine. Then he said quietly, ‘I don’t wish to boast, but I’ve been doing the work I do for a long time and I’m not easy to follow even for a day, let alone all the way from Rouen to the fens. Whoever has managed to do so is really not to be underestimated.’
I didn’t want to think about that but there was no choice. ‘So,’ I said, my mind working hard, ‘this man saw you with Duke Robert and knew why you were there, then, because somehow his suspicions were raised, he followed you when you left, suspecting that you were really working for King William and hoping to prove it by following you back to wherever the king is.’ It all sounded rather vague. ‘Is that right?’
He was smiling. ‘More or less, although I would assume that whichever of Duke Robert’s close circle suspects me in fact employed someone else to hunt me down.’
‘And Duke Robert paid you adequately too? Yes, of course he did.’ I answered the question before he had a chance to. Rollo, I understood, didn’t do anything unless he was going to be well paid. ‘Couldn’t you just give back the money? Hand it to the man who’s after you?’
He was looking at me with a wry smile. ‘No, Lassair. I don’t think that would really work.’
My mind was racing again. ‘So he must have followed you across the sea,’ I muttered, ‘or else he’s an agent for the duke on this side of the Channel and has taken over the pursuit on orders from Robert’s agents on the spot – do such men exist?’
‘Yes,’ he said briefly.
‘So, either in Normandy or else wherever it was you landed in England, he picked up your trail and you became aware of him. Where?’
‘Not until I was in Cambridge.’ He must have seen my surprise, for he quickly went on, ‘It was the first place where I stayed for more than the time it took to eat or sleep. The man on my trail is very good at following without being seen, but less good at keeping out of sight when his quarry remains in the same place.’
I nodded. ‘So you sought my help in order to change from a man alone to one accompanied by his wife. We set out over the fens, then laid a false trail for him by letting it be known at Landsay Castle that we were heading north. He picked it up and followed us north, and then noticed that we’d left the north road and turned south-west. He knew we were staying at the monastery and he burned it down with us inside. Or so he thought.’ I glanced at Rollo. ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’
‘He’s good.’
‘We saw him there – at the monastery – or rather you did!’ I exclaimed suddenly. ‘What did you observe? Did you recognize him?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think I’d ever seen him before, not as close as that. As to what I observed of him …’ He closed his eyes, as if bringing images to mind. ‘Dressed as if he was well used to travelling, in practical garments. His boots were obviously sturdy and sound as he didn’t hesitate to run through shallow water. He had a heavy cloak, although he wasn’t wearing it when he set fire to the monastery and I only noticed it when he went to fetch his horse. It was a good horse. The man moved freely and swiftly, with a certain elegance, and I’d say he was young rather than old, but I didn’t get a good enough look at his face to be certain. I have the impression he was dark, although that might have been because of a black or brown head covering of some sort – a hood or a scarf – than because he was dark-haired.’
‘He knows his way around,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘He’s had no problem following us, even though we’ve used lesser tracks and paths wherever we could. He managed to extract information about us from someone in Lord Edwin’s household. He’s’ – I hesitated – ‘he’s familiar with our ways,’ was the best I could do.
But Rollo was nodding. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly.
Something struck me. It wasn’t a welcome thought, but I thought I’d better share it. ‘Rollo, perhaps he is to Duke Robert what you are to King William. A spy, who has travelled in many lands, who knows his way about in them, who blends in with the local people.
He looked at me, a wry sort of look. ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I very much fear you’re right.’
‘So what do we do?’ I asked, hoping I sounded more confident and optimistic than I felt. In truth, I was beginning to fear this shadow of an enemy, who followed us despite our best efforts, whose skill in the mysterious, secret ways of the fens – and this was what really frightened me – equalled or exceeded my own.
‘We make our plans and we lay our defences,’ Rollo said firmly. ‘We amass our weapons, and we search this house and the outbuildings for everything that can be employed in attacking our enemy. We set a trip wire across the causeway so that we have warning if he tries to approach. An island joined to the mainland only by a narrow and usually flooded path is a fine place to defend,’ he added encouragingly.
‘But he might have a boat,’ I said softly.
He sighed. ‘Yes, he might.’ He was quiet for several moments. Then he said, ‘Which is why we must draw him to us. We will prepare, then we will let him know where we are. When he comes for me, which undoubtedly he will, we shall be ready, and he will be – disposed of.’
‘You’re going to kill him.’ I knew it; what other outcome was there than that one would kill the other? I didn’t even want to allow the possibility that it might be the other way round to enter my head.
And slowly Rollo nodded.
They were near.
He knew they were. It was as if he had grown a new sense; it seemed to operate via his skin, so that he felt a sort of light prickling when he knew he was on the man’s trail.
He was worried, although he tried to ignore it.
But, try as he might, he couldn’t quite tamp down his unease. It was the fens: he didn’t understand this region where water ruled, where firm land changed without warning into marsh, bog, quicksand; where you could look out at what appeared to be good green grass, only to find, when you were upon it and it was too late, that the green grass was brilliantly coloured weed, and that all there was beneath your feet was water.
And the man he was hunting, curse his craftiness, had gone into these fens. He had a woman with him who seemed to know her way, and, coward that he was, the man was depending on her for his safety.
‘It may appear that they may have vanished from the face of the earth,’ he said softly to himself, ‘but that cannot be so. They are there, somewhere out on the water, and where they have gone, I shall follow.’
As yet, he didn’t know how. But he would think of a way.
For now, though, there were other matters for his attention.
With great relief at the respite, for all that he knew it would only be temporary, he turned his back on the watery half-lands and headed for the town.
THIRTEEN
Leaving Gurdyman’s house and heading home, Jack took a detour and went up to the castle. As he flew up the steep side of the artificial mound on which it was built, it suddenly struck him that he was running: he was puffing and there was the beginning of a stitch knifing into his right side, but nevertheless the fact stuck him as something about which to be optimistic and even tentatively cheerful.
Perhaps it was a profound and almost subliminal awareness that he was recovering that was driving him, for, if he had stopped to think about it, this new determination to set things right, to step out of the shadows and sort out his life – his official status – would definitely have struck him as rash, if not downright foolhardy.
I am a lawman of this town and I am good at my job, he told himself as he strode up to the narrow walkway linking the top of the slope with the heavy, iron-strengthened main door of the castle. If I need proof of that, I have only to think of the many townspeople who were prepared to swear that Gaspard Picot struck first, and calculate just how many of them were committing perjury.
That made him smile briefly, but it was a good thought to keep in mind as he raised a fist and banged on the door.
The two armed men who admitted him were old friends. ‘The sheriff’s busy with something in his inner room, so you can slip into the guardroom unseen,’ one said quietly, ‘Ned, Ranald and some of the others are in there and they’ll be—’
‘I am not going to visit Ned,’ said Jack.
Aware of the guards’ astonished faces, he strode across the anteroom where people wishing to see, or, far more often, furiously summoned by, Sheriff Picot were always made to wait. On the far side was a solid oak door studded with iron, set in a low arch. With the most cursory of taps, he opened it and went inside.
Sheriff Picot, interrupted in the act of pacing to and fro across the creaking wooden floorboards of the ill-lit room, stopped dead and spun round. ‘Fuck off! Who gave you permission to come in here—’ Then Jack moved forward into the lamplight. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
‘It is,’ Jack agreed pleasantly.
Anticipating a battle – verbal if not physical, and probably both – Sheriff Picot’s reaction to his unexpected presence took him aback. Instead of the stream of foul-mouthed abuse, Picot fumbled behind him for his big wooden chair and sank into it. His plump and habitually red face had paled, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. The thinning gingery hair, Jack observed, was more sparse than he remembered, the few strands carefully arranged across the big bald dome failing to achieve the desired effect.
