by Alys Clare
But something was nagging and poking at him … something to do with reaction, and the unmistakable sights and sounds of a truly genuine emotion …
He realized after a while that he was only going to frustrate himself further if he went on trying to pin down what he sensed was amiss.
Instead he turned to the equally perplexing question of who wanted the sons – and the widow Picot – dead.
When Henry arrived early the next day, Jack left him to resume his guard duty and set off into the fine drizzle of the morning. He had worried at the problem of how to find the killer for much of the night. He had come up with nothing. He had decided, shortly before dawn, to find out more about Batsheva, and now he was on his way to the remains of the destroyed village beneath the Picot house, to see if he could locate her hiding place.
He reached it swiftly, and a part of his mind was pleased at how his strength and fitness were continuing to grow. He followed the ruined wall until he came to a gap. From its position relative to the Picot house, and to the bench where he had been accustomed to sit and watch, he guessed it was through here that he had chased Batsheva on the night of the fire.
The maze of narrow little alleys, broken walls, jumbled stones and the general detritus of destroyed homes struck him much harder now, in daylight. He stopped and simply stared. Fury rose in him: fierce and hot, at the casual cruelty of a man who broke up a poor and modest community simply because he wished to clear space for his own dwelling; simply because he was the man with the power and he could.
Since his conversation with Gurdyman the day after the widow Picot was killed, thinking about the death of Gaspard Picot and his own part in it no longer brought a stab of remorse. Now, standing where a cruel and greedy man had ruthlessly imposed his will and got his own way, Jack knew that the guilt had gone for good.
He wandered on through the ruins of what, not so long ago, had been people’s homes.
He found nothing.
Returning to his house, he thought about calling in on Gurdyman. But, he thought morosely, to say what? He had spent much of the night turning everything over in his mind and got nowhere. It was a failure that he was reluctant to share with the old man.
He opened the door to see Henry fast asleep beside the dying fire.
Knowing already what he would find, he leapt across the floor, and Henry’s sleeping body, and into the rear room.
It was empty.
Batsheva, her small pack, her heavy cloak, were gone.
He went back to the hearth, made up the fire and then began shaking Henry until, after a very long time, he woke.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking round, his face dazed. He looked at Jack, then peered into the empty room. ‘Oh, no,’ he breathed.
Jack let him suffer for a few moments. Then, picking up the coarse pottery mug lying on its side beside the hearth, he said, ‘She made you a drink.’
‘Yes, she did,’ Henry agreed. ‘And very tasty and welcome it was, too, as I’d been coughing – it’s these chilly, damp mornings – and she said she’d make something that’d help, and she put honey in it, and although I found it a bit bitter at first, I soon got used to it and she encouraged me to drink it all down.’
‘I’m sure she did,’ Jack said ironically.
He glanced up at the shelves where he stored his foodstuffs. Lassair had left him a supply of her draughts. Batsheva knew more than enough about them, he remembered, since she’d queried the one he’d given her.
Henry had worked it out for himself. ‘She drugged me, didn’t she, chief?’ he muttered. His face was dark with anger. ‘I thought she was just being kind and motherly!’
And what would you know about motherliness? Jack thought.
He knew some of Henry’s story. He’d been found, abandoned, as a very small chid, almost dead from starvation, naked, foul with his own filth, covered in lice and open sores. The monks had taken him in and as soon as he could walk again, put him to work in the yard shovelling dung. Discovering he was intelligent, they had cleaned him up and taught him to read and write, although any hopes they might have entertained about him becoming one of their number were to be frustrated when he ran away.
Jack wondered fleetingly if Batsheva had picked up on Henry’s deep and probably unacknowledged yearning for the mother he had never known. He surprised himself with the realization that he thought it was perfectly possible …
‘Oh, dear, good Lord, I’m sorry, chief,’ Henry was saying, scarlet with shame.
Jack reached out and slapped his shoulder. ‘Not to worry, Henry,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit I’m furious that she’s gone, but I don’t hold you entirely to blame. She’s a clever and very determined woman and she’d have worked out in a matter of moments how to get round you.’
Amused, he watched several expressions cross Henry’s pleasant open face. At first he looked relieved because he wasn’t in the trouble he’d anticipated, and the relief turned to the beginnings of a swagger, as if he was thinking, I got away with that one! Finally, sliding a swift look at Jack, his grin faded as he understood that he’d just been dismissed as naive and easily fooled.
‘Learn from this, Henry,’ he urged the lad. ‘People aren’t always what you hope they are, and a prisoner under guard will try everything and anything they can to persuade you to like them and to be their friend. Without exception, it’ll be to their advantage and never to yours.’
Henry nodded. ‘I’ll remember that, chief.’ Then, a more honest smile returning now, he added, ‘Thanks.’
SEVENTEEN
I slept deeply and dreamlessly and then suddenly I was wide awake.
I knew that our enemy was close.
Trying not to wake Rollo, I slipped out from the bedding and over to the hearth. The fire was still glowing. Rollo must have banked it up well before sleeping. I added some small pieces of wood and poked up a bit of a blaze, then I got out the shining stone.
He was there again, just as I’d known he would be.
The dark figure with the crossbow was much clearer now, and I’d been right, he was nearby. Sometimes the shining stone is very easy to interpret: tiny, vague images mean that the person or the event is far away, in distance and on occasions also in time; and sharp, large images mean the warning concerns something imminent.
Then I heard again the sound that had probably woken me up.
It was a splash.
I crept over to the door and opened it a crack. I sniffed at the air. It was damp, with drops of moisture floating down. Not exactly rain, more like a tangible cloud. Everything was still. There didn’t seem to be a whisper of breeze.
I waited. I stood there so long, face pressed into the narrow gap between the door and its frame, until all my being seemed to have become focused in my eyes, nose and mouth – for I was trying to taste for danger as well as look and listen for it – while the rest of me went ignored, unnoticed. But then I tried to move and realized my feet and lower legs were numb.
I was also very cold. I warmed myself by the hearth, then crept in beside Rollo.
Had I really heard the man who hunted us, out there across the dark water? Or had it been no more than a night creature after its prey?
There was nothing more I could do now, for it was still night. In the morning I would tell Rollo of my suspicions, and together we would decide what to do.
But, just to be on the safe side, I would make quite sure I didn’t sleep again.
Dawn brought the misty, damp day that the middle of the night had promised.
‘He’s close,’ I said to Rollo as we ate our oat and water porridge.
‘How do you know?’
It was gratifying that he didn’t question whether I was right, only how I came by the knowledge.
But I’d never told him about the shining stone. I almost took it from my satchel there and then, but something stopped me. Perhaps it was my awareness that Rollo was not a man likely to put his faith in whatever world of spirits and arcane matter
s the shining stone’s powers emanated from.
So I just said, ‘I heard a noise in the night. It sounded as if somebody was throwing stones into the water.’
It was thin evidence, and I understood the dubious look he gave me. ‘Is that all?’
‘No, Rollo, it’s not all,’ I said impatiently. ‘I know in ways that you wouldn’t begin to understand, that you’d find highly questionable and that I can’t really explain anyway. You’ll just have to take my word for it.’
He nodded. ‘Is it something akin to your ability to see the safe paths that, to everyone else’s eyes, are invisible beneath the water?’
I didn’t think it was, really, but both could roughly be ascribed to what people refer to as magic. ‘Yes, in a way.’
‘In that case’ – he was smiling now – ‘I don’t need to ask anything more.’
I watched as excitement brightened his expression. He was eager, restless and twitchy, wanting to get going, to do something. I realized what the days of flight, of hiding, of trying to draw our enemy to us while still sensing ourselves to be at his mercy, and the unpleasant feeling that it was him who was in control, had cost him. He was a fighter. He liked to lead the assault.
And now he was going to.
Or, rather, I was.
‘Now is the moment!’ he said, picking up his sword and testing the edge. ‘Our enemy wants to find us, and you tell me he’s near, so go out and lead him to me.’
I was out on the fens for the greater part of the day. The mist cleared a little around midday, but there was barely a breath of wind to blow it right away. As daylight began to fade, it closed in again. Now it grew cold. I felt damp all over, and I couldn’t stop shivering.
And I was frightened.
I’m used to the fens. I’m at home there, and it’s rare for any of its natural phenomena to spook me. I know the sounds of the birds, and even the strange, eerie cries of bittern and nightjar I recognize for what they are. I’ve been jumping little streams and splashing through ones too wide to leap over since I could walk. I know how to keep myself safe when the thickest of mists descends and I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I can find my way across the water, as Rollo had earlier reminded me.
But rarely had I gone out deliberately to attract an enemy with murder on his mind.
I kept hearing things. A soft rustle as almost-bare branches were pushed aside by a careful hand. The sharp crack of a breaking twig beneath a soft footfall. A tiny splash as a displaced pebble fell into the water. And then the unmistakable sound of quiet breathing, so close that my flesh cringed in anticipation of the touch of chilly fingers.
When I heard that, I resisted the urgent cry of my body to run, run, as fast as I could. Instead I forced myself to move slowly on.
Was I right? Had he been standing right behind me?
If so, I mustn’t let him know I’d heard him. I must go on as I had been doing all day, wandering the fens as if collecting nuts and berries. Because if he believed I was deliberately trying to attract his attention and lead him where I wanted him to go, his suspicions would be instantly aroused and he’d be on his guard.
So I made my steps slow and dragging, as if, weary and cold, I was nearing exhaustion and finally, with the fading of daylight, giving up my foraging and going home.
I thought I heard him following along behind.
I froze.
I was nearing the little stretch of shore opposite the island. I couldn’t move. I stood leaning against a young alder, panting for breath, my heart racing.
And out of nowhere a crossbow bolt flew right past my face and, with a loud thump, embedded itself in the trunk of the tree. Terrified, I wanted to run, to throw myself down in the bracken and the brambles, to hide where he’d never find me.
But I couldn’t.
I said very softly, for my own ears only, ‘Now.’
And I led him on towards Mercure’s island.
He hated the fens.
Time seemed to pass at an unnatural, creeping pace out in this horrible, pestilential, secretive and accursed region that seemed to be both water and land and he had been on the point of giving up.
Would it matter? he wondered.
But he had set himself a task and he was not a man who stopped until he had achieved his end. He had taken it upon himself to take the revenge that was due. Perhaps nobody would ever know, for he was a long way from home and sometimes he doubted whether he would make it back. But his heart was still full of the fire that had set him on this journey. Even if he didn’t live to tell the tale, even if nobody ever knew what he had done and gave him the praise he would have earned, he would know.
And that might have to be enough.
But he was so cold.
And, although he didn’t like to admit it, he was afraid.
At times it seemed that some of his skills had deserted him. He was disgusted at this failure, because he prided himself on being able to track his quarry in all types of terrain, relentlessly, infallibly. But this place was something different, and he’d never encountered its like before. He thought sometimes that maybe the gossip he had overheard in inns and on the road was right, and you have to be born in the fens to understand them.
He had spent his first night on top of a bank. It had been dry – the only relatively dry ground he could find – but being on even such a meagre height had meant his chilled body in its damp garments caught every breath of the wind out of the east. It wasn’t even much of a wind, but in the cold, lonely watches of the long night, it had felt like a gale.
The whole of the next day had been fruitless.
He had slept briefly soon after sunset, then got up again long before dawn in the hope that those he sought were disguising their movements by travelling in the hours of darkness.
And then he had come across that weird little island.
He hadn’t understood why, having found it, he couldn’t tear himself away. They weren’t there, and the fascination it held wasn’t that he believed they were. For it was completely detached from the land, separated by a stretch of black, sinister and undoubtedly very deep water overhung with low-bending branches, the whole area dark and forbidding. And the island itself, with what appeared to be some sort of low, well-concealed building, gave off a sort of bristling hostility. He knew from the prickling sensation on the skin of his face and hands that there was peril there. Magic, perhaps. The island seemed to call out, Keep away.
Besides, there was no boat.
Nevertheless he had stood on the fen edge for some time staring out at the island. What small breeze there had been had ceased and all was utterly still. The black water at his feet was like a sheet of glass. Suddenly frightened – of what he had no idea – he picked up a piece of dead, densely tangled root and hurled it out into the water. It ought to have made a big, noisy splash, for it had been the size of his two clenched fists. But it didn’t; it sank down into the water with barely a sound. After a time, confused, worried, he tried again. The splash was slightly louder this time, but still quite disproportionate to the size of the root.
It was as if some power beneath the surface, not wanting to be disturbed, had halted it in its flight and gently drawn it in.
His terror burst out and, in a heartbeat, rose to screaming pitch. Before a sound could escape from him, he fled.
He was not a man who liked to admit to fear. In the morning, he planned to return and see how the island looked in daylight. He had little doubt that its strange power would have dissipated.
Or, at least, that was what he told himself.
But he didn’t manage to put it to the test, because he couldn’t find it.
His frustration turned to anger as the day went on.
He’d planned only to kill the man. Now, with the heat burning in his blood, he asked himself why the woman should be allowed to live. She was with the man; she’d chosen him. Why not kill her too?
And then, as the image of her he kept in his head steadily clarif
ied with his resolve to take her life, all at once he saw her.
It was quite late in the day, the short autumn light beginning to fade.
He smiled to himself.
What was she doing? She seemed to be hunting for food. Probably she and the man had set out ill-equipped, and she was forced to find whatever she could to assuage their hunger.
He set himself on her trail. Sometimes he hung back. Then, as the mist thickened, he drew close. Taking advantage of a sudden white patch that was all but impenetrable, he went right up to her and softly breathed out.
He could so easily have grabbed her.
But she was not his primary target. He slipped back and, as once more she set off, resumed his position a few paces behind.
Then she stopped.
Go on, he urged her silently. Go on, back to wherever you and your man are hiding.
She didn’t move.
Fury surged up through him, burning away caution and sense. His mind filled with nothing more than the urge to make her do what he wanted, he raised his crossbow, drew back the string, placed a bolt and let fly.
Not to kill her, for even in his rage he remembered that before she died she must take him to the man. But to scare her; to make her run for safety.
Run to him.
He watched her. She froze, then she stared all around her and he could see the panic in her eyes. It made him smile.
Then she set off, plunging through the undergrowth, and he went after her.
I reached the shore opposite the island. I knew now where the safe way was and I leapt onto it with barely a pause. The causeway was well under the surface, however, and my need for haste was frustrated by water up to my thighs, sometimes to my waist. As I got to the far end and waded out onto dry land, I turned.
There was no sign of the hunter.
I didn’t know what to do.
I’d thought he was right behind me. I’d imagined he’d see where and how I got across to the island and would follow. I was clenching my back muscles against the crossbow bolt.
I wanted more than anything to fling myself inside the house and bar the door.
