by Alys Clare
‘Yes,’ I said.
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘It’s used to make quicksilver and it has certain applications in healing, although it’s poisonous and you have to know what you’re doing.’
‘So why is someone stealing it?’ Ginger asked. ‘The victims aren’t being poisoned, they’re dying because their throats are ripped out.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
I could have added, but I’m just beginning to have an idea. That idea, however, was so dim and cloudy in my mind that I didn’t.
We now knew, or believed we knew, what was at the root of the thefts, and in all likelihood of the murders, too. But why it should be, and what the killer was hoping to achieve by those brutal slayings, as yet we had absolutely no idea.
Full night had come on while we had been talking. Looking up and noticing this, swiftly Jack dispersed the men. He warned them to be careful, for the night watch would by now be out in force and he didn’t want any of them to be picked up and punished for being out after curfew. Studying his expression as he watched them leave, however, I didn’t think he was seriously worried; they were a canny bunch.
We gave them a little while to get well away, then we too slipped out of the tavern and into the darkness, heading off along the quay towards the Great Bridge, and the castle and the deserted village beyond. But before we had even got as far as the bridge, we heard the unmistakable sounds of a patrol. There were at least ten, maybe a dozen men, and they were crossing the bridge from the castle side. They were armed, booted – their marching feet rang out in unison as they went over the bridge – and with dismay we realized they were coming our way. Even as we drew back into the deep shadow of a warehouse, we saw the leading pair wheel off to their left and down on to the quay.
Jack took my hand and said very softly right into my ear, ‘Back away from the water. Be very quiet.’
He didn’t really need to tell me.
We crept down the narrow gap between the warehouse and its neighbour, edging steadily away from the light of the patrols’ flaring torches, bright as midday in the darkness. Presently I felt grass beneath my feet. We were out in the open, behind the buildings that line the quay, on the edge of the patch of pasture and woodland between town and river.
For a moment I thought we were safe. But then the lights told me otherwise: the men of the patrol were being thorough for once, investigating down between the quayside buildings to the open space beyond.
Jack grabbed my hand again and we ran. My satchel banged against my hip bone, and somehow it spurred me on.
We came to a stand of alder, and used the welcome shelter to pause and catch our breath. But it wasn’t much of a hiding place, and if the patrol ventured out across the fields they would very soon think to check among the trees.
Then I had an idea. Leaning close to Jack, I said, ‘We could hide by the sacred well.’
He looked at me, his expression quite cross. ‘There’s nowhere to hide there!’ he hissed. He was right, for, although the well is quite a special spot to me, it really is pretty much just a well; a hole in the ground with a slatted wooden cover and a small construction built over it like a little roof. It’s a rarely frequented spot, and only a few of the townsfolk bother much with it nowadays.
‘I know someone who lives just the other side of it,’ I whispered. ‘He’s a friend of Gurdyman’s and I’ve visited him once or twice. We could hide in his outhouse, and if the worst comes to the worst and the patrol follow us there, I’m sure he’ll take us in and swear we’ve been there all along.’
Swiftly Jack thought about it. Then he nodded, muttered, ‘I hope you’re right,’ and we were off again.
We passed the sacred well, with its lone oak tree spreading out sheltering, protective branches. I wished there was time to stop, for it’s a healthy, restorative place and always seems to make you feel better, even on a brief visit. I gave a dip of the head in its direction, and muttered some words under my breath. Then we were past, hurrying on.
Very soon, the lonely little dwelling of Gurdyman’s friend Morgan loomed up ahead. Like Gurdyman, Morgan is a magician; a strange old man who lives mostly in a world of his own, but who is kind and gentle. I’d always rather liked him. It was a small house, low to the ground, and gave the impression that it was doing its best to look inconspicuous. Beyond the house there was a smaller building constructed on the same lines, where Morgan stored his reserve supplies. Neither house nor store showed a light, but then it was late now, and more than likely that Morgan and his young assistant – a spotty, stuttering youth with nervous yellow eyes who goes by the name of Cat – had retired for the night.
I was planning to go round the house and creep into the store. ‘We’ll hide in there,’ I said, pointing. ‘He’ll never know.’
But as we drew level with the house, we saw that the door was partly open. There was a dark shape lying across the threshold, with something dumped down on top of it …
I thought I heard a high, eerie humming in the air.
I smelt a familiar metallic smell.
With a muttered exclamation, Jack stepped over whatever lay in the doorway and pushed open the further door, into the living quarters. Soft light spilled out from the hearth. It looked as if the fire hadn’t long been made up.
Two earthenware mugs stood beside the hearth, steam rising from their fragrant contents.
With huge reluctance, I looked down.
Morgan lay at my feet. Cat was splayed across his body, as if perhaps he had tried to protect him. Both were dead, their throats torn out.
The humming increased its intensity. It seemed that the air was stiff with chill.
I couldn’t move. I stood sick with horror, trembling.
Then Jack took hold of my arm. ‘Come inside the house,’ he said firmly. He pulled me with him. ‘We must check to see if anything is missing, and we must be quick.’
I had forgotten about the patrol. I looked up and saw their lights, still along the quayside. I nodded. ‘Very well.’ My mouth was almost too dry for speech.
Morgan kept many of his supplies inside the house, and hastily, frantically, my eyes raked along the neatly ordered shelves and worktops. Something on the broad stained workbench caught my eye: an experiment, I guessed, that Morgan had been working on. I was puzzled. Why on earth would he be doing that?
There was a sound from outside.
Someone – something – was out there but it wasn’t the patrol. I’d only just seen the lights of their torches, back on the quayside, and they couldn’t possibly have got here so quickly.
The high humming had risen to a pitch that hurt the ears. It was now accompanied by a sort of low, vibrating, drumming sound, as if the air was disturbed by huge blows struck by some unnatural, unknown means. Then, horribly, through those sounds there threaded a weird, inhuman laugh.
And instantly I remembered what old Adela had said about what Mistress Judith had done when she peered outside her house: she laughed.
Oh, oh, supposing it wasn’t Mistress Judith who had laughed? Supposing it was the Night Wanderer? And now he was right outside, his evil magic affecting the very air, his terrible laughter filtering inside like a poisonous miasma?
Then, from within my satchel, I felt an answering thrumming. My fingers suddenly strong and capable, I undid the straps and reached inside. Loosened the strings that hold the soft leather bag closed, I thrust my hand within.
The shining stone was hot to my touch, and, as if it felt the vast sense of threat and was fighting back, it too was throbbing. In the blink of an eye it showed me an image – a line of symbols, swirling and twisting, out of which a word formed which seemed to say animal, or perhaps anima. There was no time to decide, for the symbols vanished. I felt the waves of power coming off the stone and into my head came the wordless, furious, urgent message: we had to get out.
It was my turn to grab Jack. I did so, my fingers closing on his upper arm like a vice. Not caring wh
o or what heard me, I yelled, ‘We must go! Now!’
Perhaps the shining stone was working on him, too. Perhaps it was simply that he trusted me; or, more likely, recognized desperation when he heard it. Together we leapt over Morgan and Cat – I sent them a swift message asking their forgiveness for abandoning them, and I thought I heard Morgan’s gentle spirit murmur back, Hurry! Save yourselves! – and I made a silent promise to return when I could and see them safely into the ground in a way they would have wished.
Jack and I ran. Over the humpy, hillocky grass at first, tripping and stumbling, holding tightly to each other’s hands, my free hand always on the stone, feeding from it, heartened and strengthened by it. And oh, we needed all the help it could give: something awful seemed to press down on us, and I felt that at any moment that clawed hand with its long, sharp, cruel and bloody talons would reach out for us, wind itself around my neck, take out my throat.
Aghast with dread, I sobbed as I ran.
Then grass gave way to smoother ground, and our pace became more even. Ahead were the houses that lined the road leading up to the Great Bridge from the south-east: somehow, by pure luck, we had stumbled upon the old, half-forgotten track leading from the road out to the sacred well.
There was purity and deep, ancient goodness in the very stones of that track. Had it called out to us as we fled from evil? Had the shining stone guided us? I had no idea and, as we reached the first of the houses and both saw and heard the blessed signs of human presence, I didn’t care.
My hand was still clutched around the stone. It had gone still and quiet: I sensed it was telling me we were safe.
Safe, anyway, from the terror that stalked out in the fields.
Jack edged forward between two of the houses and peered out into the road. ‘All clear,’ he whispered. Light from a small high window fell on his face as he turned to me. He was as pale as I felt.
Treading softly, we emerged on to the road. Keeping as much as possible to the shadow of the houses, we hurried along to the Great Bridge. Looking over the parapet, we could see the lights of the patrol, at the far end of the quay. I was just thinking that they hadn’t got very far when I realized that time had become confused. Only a very short time had passed since we first saw the men of the night watch.
We reached the far side of the bridge and soon, with great relief, plunged off down the alley that wound round the castle rise and led to the deserted village. It seemed to embrace us; as I’d remarked to Jack, it was a good place.
His house, at the far end of the lane, was like a haven. He closed and barred the door, poked up the fire, fed it with small and then larger pieces of wood, and put water on to heat. He went through into the far room and came back with a thick, warm blanket, which he wrapped round me. I hadn’t realized that I was shivering so much that my teeth were rattling.
He made the drinks – hot, sweetened with honey, infinitely comforting – and we stood side by side, close to the hearth, revelling in its warmth. Then he said, ‘Tomorrow at first light, I shall take you back to Aelf Fen.’
I swallowed too fast, scalding my throat. ‘I’m not going.’
He looked at me, his green eyes steady. ‘I believe you must.’
‘I can’t!’ I snapped. ‘I have work to do here, I have people I need to treat, I must make sure Adela is all right, I need to ensure that Morgan and Cat are buried according to their own rites, and I must look after Gurdyman’s house. Or had you forgotten he’s missing?’
The last bit was uncalled-for, but I was very distressed, although I hadn’t worked out precisely why, and it is so often the human instinct to hit out under such circumstances.
Jack went on looking at me. ‘It’s not safe here,’ he said.
‘No, I know that!’ I cried. ‘People are scared, they’re in danger, there’s widespread panic looming because of the Night Wanderer, and I can help! I’m a healer, Jack, and it’s what I do, look after people when they need it!’
He cast down his mug and took hold of me, his big hands hard on my arms. ‘You’re not only a healer, you’re a wizard’s pupil!’ he yelled back. He shook me, and my teeth rattled all over again. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, you and I just discovered the bodies of another wizard and his pupil, recently dead, bloody, and missing their throats!’
A horrible image floated before my eyes, and I had no choice but to see it. I wanted to weep with pity, with dread, with fear. ‘I don’t want to leave you,’ I said in a tiny voice, but I think he was so agitated that he didn’t hear.
‘You have to leave!’ he shouted, shaking me again. ‘You, more than anybody, are in danger!’
‘I—’
‘Don’t you understand?’ he yelled. ‘I will not have you risk your life! I can’t bear it!’
I stared up at him, at the naked fear in his bright eyes. The fear wasn’t for himself, and suddenly I understood quite a lot of things.
I didn’t know what to do. ‘I can’t—’ I began.
He gave a sound of violent impatience, then he wrapped one strong arm around me, pulling me tightly to him. He took my jaw in his hand, turning my face up to his, and then he kissed me, long and hard, full on the mouth.
If I say it was a shock or even a surprise, I’d be lying. My passion rising as fast as his, I kissed him back. He broke off to nuzzle into my neck, under my hair, touching the skin with tender lips, then he kissed me again, his body hard against mine leaving me in no doubt of how much he wanted me. Oh, I wanted him, too, and I melded myself to him, arms round him as powerfully as his around me.
As suddenly as he had begun, he stopped.
Stepped away from me, confusion and a sort of shame in his face, hands stretched palm forward towards me as if warding me off.
‘I’m sorry, sorry,’ he muttered, turning away. ‘I have brought you here for sanctuary, and I have violated your trust, contaminated my duty.’
I was amazed. ‘No you haven’t!’ I said, almost laughing. ‘I was kissing you back, wasn’t I? I—’
But he wasn’t listening. He had picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor and was wrapping me up in it, covering my head and overshadowing my face, almost as if he was desperate to hide me from his passionate, desiring eyes. Before I could protest, he took hold of me by the shoulders, turned me round, away from him, and pushed me into the far room. ‘Go to bed, Lassair,’ he muttered. Then he hurried out again. I watched in amazement as he slid a bench across the opening; was he trying to keep me in, or himself out? I smiled, but only very briefly. It wasn’t really funny.
I sank down on to the bed. I realized all at once that I was totally exhausted. I took off my boots and my coif and loosened my hair, already tumbled and tangled by Jack’s fierce caresses. I lay down and drew up the covers.
I needed comfort. I needed him, but I knew I wasn’t going to have that need answered.
I noticed that he had put my satchel in the room. I opened it and took out the shining stone, taking it out of its bag and holding it tightly, close to my heart. ‘I’m sad,’ I whispered to it. ‘I need a friend.’
Strongly into my mind came the reply: You have a friend.
Was it referring to itself, I wondered, or to Jack?
And he’s just out there.
Now I really did smile. I’m sure it was only my overwrought imagination – I’d been through quite a lot, after all – but, even if it was, the remark was perfect. I turned on my side, the stone still clutched in my hands, and let myself relax into sleep.
ELEVEN
Rollo stood huddled in his cloak up in the bows of the small ship that was taking him across the Channel to England. Already he could see the distinctive line of high white cliffs ahead, over to the north-east. The captain said he expected to reach harbour in the late afternoon. Rollo hoped he was right. Being at sea again, even for the relatively short crossing from Dieppe to Hastings, had brought back vivid memories of Gullinbursti, and Rollo wasn’t ready to entertain them.
He had used the
time in Rouen profitably. He was too travel-worn now to mix in the circles frequented by the elite of society, and didn’t have the funds to rectify that condition. So he had spent his last available coins in the taverns and the inns, loosening tongues with wine and ale and asking carefully artless questions about life under Duke Robert’s rule.
In the eyes of the common man and woman, Robert Curthose had traditionally been viewed as a bit of a joke: a silly, muddle-headed boy who needed the help of older and wiser men to keep him on the path of good sense and prudence. Now, though, the joke had worn thin. Robert was weak; his barons warred among themselves with no admonishment from him; indeed, frequently he contrived some financial gain from the incessant wrangling and had been known to confiscate disputed castles and lands and then charge his vassals for their redemption.
Many, if not most, of Duke Robert’s people lamented the good old days of his powerful father. Robert, soft and careless, preferred indolence to action, and all that the vigorous, able Conqueror had achieved was falling into decay and confusion. And it wasn’t only the barons for whom life was difficult and the future uncertain, for the general lawlessness meant that marauding bands of brigands roamed the villages and the countryside, plundering the peasantry who had no strong system of law to defend them.
The talk in the taverns suggested that the person who Robert seemed to be expecting to come to his aid was his brother William. Which, from the point of view of Rollo and his master the king, was all to the good. Even more encouraging, perhaps, was that a duke who was not very popular, and regarded as weak and ineffectual by his people, might be the very man to be tempted by a grand, romantic, heroic, chivalric gesture such as setting off on crusade, should the call come.
And Rollo was quite sure it would.
The captain was as good as his word, and the ship docked an hour or so before sunset. Rollo was one of the first down the gangplank, and he waited while the crew brought his horse ashore. Then, with a nod of farewell, he mounted up and set off up the road to London, twenty miles or so beyond which lay Windsor.
