The Night Wanderer

by Alys Clare

  The house where Osmund had lodged with his fellow priests was near St Bene’t’s. It was composed of four long, low buildings set around a courtyard, and the lack of either visible activity or lights in the windows suggested that the young priests kept early hours. I followed Jack as he ran soft-footed along the covered cloisters, then slipped into the deep shadow of a narrow passage between one building and the next. We waited for a while, but there was no sign to say that anyone had seen or heard us.

  We emerged again and Jack led the way to the door to Osmund’s cell. It opened, and we went inside. Jack shut the door and checked that the shutter was securely fastened over the one small window, and then he struck a light, putting it to a cheap candle that stood on the floor beside the bed.

  Very meagre accommodation, and it smelt of dirty feet and musty damp.

  Jack and I stood close together in the middle of the cell. Then Jack reached inside the pouch at his belt and took out a small circular wooden token. He held it out to me, and I saw that it had a shape like the letter P carved into the surface, and inside the loop of the P there was a stylized image of a stubby little boat with a billowing square sail.

  ‘This will suggest Robert Powl to anyone who should find it,’ I whispered. The same device was on the real sails of his life-sized boats. ‘But will that link be enough to lead them to the little room at the end of the passage?’

  Jack nodded. ‘I believe so. Not them, necessarily, but the man for whom they work will know. He’s already searched Robert Powl’s house, barn and warehouse, and it should be fairly easy for him to find out what other property Powl owns.’

  Fairly easy. I thought about that. I also thought that the tentative idea I’d come up with concerning who was behind the crimes might be right.

  We inspected every inch of the little room, searching for a hiding place. It wasn’t easy, for while it had to be somewhere others could find, they shouldn’t do so with an ease that would raise their suspicious as to why it hadn’t been discovered before.

  Jack found a suitable place. He had been working right round the door frame, gently feeling the gap between wood and wall, when he came to a spot where the straw and muck daub gave to the touch. He beckoned me over.

  Holding the area of daub carefully away from the door frame, he said, ‘Put the token in here; your hands are smaller than mine. There’s a space behind here – careful!’ I had been too eager, and the loose flap of daub threatened to crack off. I spat on my finger and rubbed it along the joint of the flap, merging the dirt to disguise it. Then I reached up to put the token into the dark little space. ‘Push it well in,’ Jack added, ‘we want it to be adequately hard to find.’

  I did as he said.

  My questing fingers found a little shelf along the top of one of the wood beams going horizontally across the wall, hidden away behind the daub. I couldn’t see it but I could feel it, and was able to rest the token on it.

  Then my fingers brushed against something else; something that was already there. It was soft to the touch – cloth, I guessed – but the softness covered something small and hard. A little bag with something inside?

  Very carefully I pulled it out, and I was just about to remark on it when there came the sound of footsteps, slowly pacing along the cloisters. Quickly I shoved the object inside my satchel, just as Jack grabbed my free hand.

  He opened the door a crack and looked out. Walking slowly along the cloister on the opposite side of the quadrangle was an elderly priest, bent over, mumbling to himself, and happily oblivious to anything but his own stumbling progress. He opened one of the row of doors and went in. Jack and I took our chance and ran.

  We didn’t run far. We emerged from the priests’ lodgings and jumped the low wall into St Bene’t’s churchyard, from which we could watch the quadrangle through a gap between two of the rows of cells.

  ‘What if they don’t come tonight?’ I hissed after quite a long time.

  ‘Then we’ll watch again tomorrow,’ he hissed back.

  I was almost sure we were wasting our time. But, round about the middle of the night, when the moon was riding high and the clouds had melted away – it had grown very cold – two men materialized out of the shadows and ran light-footed across the churchyard and into the quadrangle. One was thick-set and brawny, and wore a dark hood pulled up over his head, concealing his face. The other was small, slight and light on his feet; he moved like a dancer. Jack and I moved out of our hiding place so that we got a better view of the door to Osmund’s cell, and watched as the smaller man went inside. A light flickered briefly, then disappeared as the door was closed. The big one stood guard, arms folded across his impressive chest.

  The small man was in the cell for a long time. At one point he put his head out and whispered something to his companion, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. The big man cuffed him quite hard across the head, and the little man went back into the cell.

  He emerged again quite soon after that. He held up a small object, and both he and the big man ran off. It looked as if Jack’s ruse had worked.

  We gave them enough time to get well away, then left the churchyard. ‘I hope,’ I said as we strode along, ‘we’re not now going to the room at the end of the passage to watch for them there, too?’

  Jack grinned. ‘It’s tempting, but I don’t think so. Those two will have to report back to their master, since the token alone doesn’t tell them anything. I shouldn’t think we need keep a watch on Osmund’s workroom till tomorrow night. And,’ he added after a pause, ‘it won’t just be you and me doing it.’

  Something about the way he said it made me very anxious.

  We crossed the Great Bridge and turned off the road towards the deserted village. I was already tense with nervous excitement. There wasn’t much left of the night, and I was beyond tired, but very soon Jack and I would be in bed together. At that thought, my exhaustion vanished.

  We reached the house and went inside. I turned hungrily to him, and, as if he couldn’t wait any longer either, he took me in his arms and kissed me, long and hard.

  But then, gently, he disengaged himself and pushed me away.

  ‘I have to go out again,’ he said, his voice low and full of regret. ‘Dearest Lassair, don’t look at me like that!’

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ I muttered. It was quite an understatement.

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ he said quickly. ‘The geese will set up a noise to wake the dead if anyone comes near, the door is stout and nobody knows you are here.’

  ‘I am not,’ I said pointedly, ‘afraid.’

  He smiled delightedly. ‘Ah. I see.’ Then, quickly, he went on, ‘Luke – you remember Luke? The one I sent to find out what was happening with the official investigation into the killings?’ I nodded. ‘I had a message that he wanted to see me, and it has to be tonight. I think something’s happened, and if it’s what I hope it is, then it will affect how we plan for tomorrow night.’

  ‘But what—’

  He didn’t let me finish. He kissed me again, groaned softly then turned, picked up his sword and ran.

  The former workmen’s village was not totally deserted. In the ruins of a small lean-to a little way down the path from Jack’s house, at the far end of the row, someone had made a rudimentary camp. Some old and half-rotten bundles of straw had been used to shore up the missing wall, and a length of fabric impregnated with animal fat was spread over the gaping hole in the roof. A bedroll stood on end in one corner, a stone jar of water, a small cup and half a loaf of bread beside it.

  In the darkness, Rollo stood in the doorless entrance, watching the house at the end of the row.

  He saw the powerfully built man in the leather jerkin leave and run off down the track. He was carrying a sword. There was no sign of Lassair. She must still be in the house.

  Rollo didn’t know what to do.

  He had now been observing her for four days. After his meeting with the king at Windsor, he had
made good speed up into the fens. He had never anticipated simply jumping out in front of her, to announce he was back and expect her instantly to drop whatever she was doing and rejoice at being with him again. He was only too aware of how long he’d been away; of the many months that had elapsed without his having sent her any loving, encouraging message. For all she knew, he had thought gloomily as he covered the miles, he could be dead.

  He felt increasingly guilty. He could have sent word. His net of spies was spread wide, and it would not have been that hard to send a message from the shores of the Mediterranean to the fens. It wouldn’t even have taken all that long. He knew, because he had done it. Well, the message hadn’t been destined for Aelf Fen but for Winchester, although the distance would not have been very different.

  He admitted honestly to himself that he hadn’t wanted to contact her. He had thought about her often – he remembered one or two moments when he’d been sure she was in danger, and his corresponding feelings of anguished helplessness – but, in truth, the appeal of his mission was greater than any idea of hurrying back before its completion to seek her out.

  He was good at what he did – it did not seem immodest to admit it within the privacy of his own thoughts – and he enjoyed it. The work was often perilous, exhausting and lonely, the missions long and sometimes with scant chance of success. But he did succeed; no wonder he enjoyed it.

  Arriving in the fens, he had gone first to Cambridge, finding his way through the maze of alleyways to the house of the old magician. There had been nobody there. The town had been in a ferment, and it hadn’t taken him long to understand why. Deciding that Lassair and Gurdyman must have fled to seek sanctuary well away from the violence, he then set off for her village. He went on foot, as she must have done; if he intended to disguise his presence until he had found out whether or not she would truly welcome him back, it would be that much more difficult if he had his horse with him. He found stables outside the town, leaving his horse there for a well-deserved rest.

  He knew roughly where her village was and it proved quite easy to find. He chose a vantage point in a stand of hazel and alder close to a lone oak tree that stood on the higher ground above the village, and settled down to watch.

  He spent a reasonably comfortable night under the trees. He was used to sleeping under the stars, and the weather was mild. The following day, he saw her. She seemed to be living in a small house set a little apart from the rest of the village, and he surmised that it belonged to her healer aunt. He almost went down to her and declared himself, but something held him back.

  Then, early the next morning, concealed by the alder and hazel trees of his vantage point, he heard her.

  She was standing under the oak tree, and she was talking to a slim young man with fair hair bleached almost white by the sun. She was smiling at him, talking easily, but he sensed a deep, underlying tension in her. The young man asked her something, but she shook her head and he heard her say she wasn’t staying in the village. Then she lowered her voice and spoke urgently to him; Rollo had the impression she was telling him something of grave significance.

  The young man didn’t seem to like what she was saying. He made some sort of a protest, then, in a louder voice, Lassair said, I’ll be quite safe because the person looking for me thinks I’m in the village, and once I get to Cambridge, I’ll be safer than anywhere else, because I’ll go straight to Jack Chevestrier.

  There had been more – she appeared to be asking the young man to do something for her, and with obvious reluctance he agreed – and Rollo heard him offer to go back to the town with her, only to have her kindly but very firmly turn him down.

  Rollo had observed and noted the latter part of the exchange only with some automatic part of his well-trained mind. The majority of his attention had turned inwards, because when she said what she did about being safe with this Jack Chevestrier, he was watching the young man’s face. He, too, must have picked up what Rollo did, for his expression changed. He had been looking at her with a faint, fond smile, his feelings for her clear to read, and then the softness was abruptly wiped away.

  He hears it too, Rollo thought as dismay overcame him. He hears that note of excited tension in her voice as she speaks of a man she can’t wait to get back to. A man she loves, even if she doesn’t know it?

  He prayed that it wasn’t so.

  He had almost turned and walked away. He had been away too long, she had given up on him returning and, in her busy life in the town, had met and allowed herself to be attracted to somebody else. It was only to be expected, he told himself. She was young, she’d have been lonely, she was beautiful – in his eyes she was – and also intelligent, capable, brave and, as far as he was concerned, exceptionally good at her job.

  And I will not let her go without a fight.

  Thinking was over. So was imagining he was going to step back and let this other man – this Jack Chevestrier, whoever he might be – have her all to himself.

  Allowing Lassair a short while to get ahead of him, Rollo set out behind her on the road that curved round the south of the fens on its way to Cambridge. She seemed to be in danger; somebody, it appeared, had come to Aelf Fen to hunt her down. Well, that person might not be as easily fooled as she seemed to believe; if they had realized what she was up to and were even now shadowing her footsteps, planning some sort of assault, then she wouldn’t have to face them alone. Rollo would be there.

  He tailed her all the way back to the town.

  He watched as she went into Gurdyman’s house. He didn’t think the old man was there, for although he listened intently, standing close to the partly open door, he didn’t hear voices.

  Then he heard the heavy thump of booted footsteps coming along the alley and slipped into a gap between two houses to hide and watch.

  He saw a big, strongly built man with light-brown close-cropped hair and very clear green eyes in an intelligent face come hurrying round the corner. He was dressed in a simple wool tunic over hose tucked into good boots, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of thick, scarred leather. He was armed; Rollo saw a sword in a scabbard and at least one knife stuck through the broad belt.

  Now that, Rollo thought, is a lawman, if ever I saw one.

  Could he be Jack Chevestrier?

  He waited. He heard voices inside the house – Lassair’s and the big man’s – and presently they emerged. With some difficulty, Rollo trailed them as they took a very convoluted route through the hidden areas of the town, over a wide bridge across the river and down a narrow track leading around the base of the castle and emerging in what seemed once to have been a village; perhaps for the workers who built the castle. Rollo had seen similar places before.

  The quiet was suddenly ripped apart by a violent cackling of geese. The big man quieted them, and he and Lassair went inside the house at the end of the track.

  Stunned, Rollo stood for some moments, trying to absorb and make sense of what he had just seen.

  She is in danger, he thought. He already knew something of what was happening in the town, and now the mention of this Jack person as someone with whom Lassair would be safe made more sense. Was that why she was with him? Because the peril from the killer at large was a particular threat to her?

  ‘I could protect her,’ he murmured aloud. Should he go and tell her he was there, right outside, and that she had no need of any other man’s strong sword arm?

  He almost did just that.

  But then he heard her voice again inside his head.

  I’ll be safer than anywhere else, because I’ll go straight to Jack Chevestrier.

  He stayed where he was.

  Presently, thinking Lassair and the man had settled down for the night, Rollo made his way back into the town. The streets were virtually deserted, and he had to dodge a couple of patrols that were enthusiastically and brutally enforcing the curfew. Going back over the bridge – he had some idea of making camp in one of the other empty houses in the village by the castl
e – he heard raised voices and, looking down, saw lights in several of the taverns along the quay. He went into the one that seemed the most crowded, ordered ale and food and sat listening.

  In the time it took to eat his meal and drink a couple of mugs of very good ale, he had found out what he needed to know. He discovered that the rumours he had picked up before, when he had briefly visited the town, concerned a vicious killer known as the Night Wanderer, who some said was a dark figure who came up from hell, out of the old legends, and whose weapon was his own arm, turned by witchcraft or deep magic into a vicious silver limb which ended in sharp claws with which he tore out his victims’ throats. Six people had died – so far, for the general opinion was that the Night Wanderer hadn’t finished yet – and they included men and women, young and old, and ranged from a beautiful young prostitute to the wealthy owner of a fleet of river craft and a mysterious recluse believed to be a wizard.

  Ignoring the wilder suppositions and ideas – all the more outlandish and unlikely as the ale was consumed – Rollo concentrated on what was being said about the efforts of the men of law to catch the killer. Here, opinion was united: Gaspard Picot was only in charge because his uncle was the sheriff, he was undoubtedly as corrupt as the sheriff, he didn’t know his arse from his elbow when it came to dealing with murderers and why hadn’t they left Jack Chevestrier in charge?

  Ah, Rollo thought. He’d been right.

  Was it encouraging to know that, though? Should he now conclude for certain that Lassair was only in the man’s company for her own safety?

  He couldn’t decide.

  He returned to the deserted village, where he made a rough and ready shelter in one of the houses close to the one at the end of the track. All was quiet in that house, although he caught the faint glint of a light through the high little window. He knew he should go on watching, but he was very tired. He made a makeshift bed in the least draughty corner, and, reasonably comfortable and adequately warm in his cloak and blanket, he was soon deeply asleep.